The image of the girl was burned on his mind as he stepped outside the hall. The band was taking its final bow, and fit though he was, his muscles were well-used from the dancing. His friends had gone home early in a taxi, very drunk, but he'd stayed on, caught in the whirl of the ceilidh. The girl had been in a couple of sets he'd danced, and something in her eyes as she'd wheeched by had arrested him. He just wanted her, deep primal need. Knew it wasn't appropriate, she'd been the schoolpal of his friends' daughter. Her name was Sheila, he'd met her a few times over the years when he'd been up for weekends. She must be eighteen or nineteen by now. But he'd never seen her as a sexual young woman before, she was just Ailie's pal. She'd certainly looked at him as a sexual young woman tonight when she slid up to bum a joint off him. Her tits and thighs were on display like a tart's under her skimpy clothes. She was sex incarnate. He was so distracted he'd even brushed off friendly passes from a couple of presentable older women, fishermen's wives, who'd looked like certs. Of course Sheila had been with one of the young fishermen, had ignored him after she got the joint.
Sounds of the band packing up came through the door as he rolled a fag. Sighed. Sheila, and the older women, had gone. End of night out, nothing for it but to walk back to the house, assuage himself with Willie's whisky. His feet stumbled up the back path, instead of the lighted track round the harbour. It was pitch black, low cloud lingered from the day's storm and of moon or stars there was nothing. His legs found the steep track without looking and his kilt and stockings soon soaked from bracken and gorse brushing them. The silence was only broken by the throb of trawler diesels in the yellow-lit harbour below, boats readying to leave.
Then as he climbed through the birks he stopped, listened. Set off again, silent now. The bench overlooking the daytime view was just above him. Someone was there, someone distressed. Someone female. Before he reached it he stopped and rolled a fag so she could be aware of him, the rasp and flash of the lighter. As he came through the saplings he could just distinguish the whiteness of her face as she raised it to look; distinguish too the whiteness of her legs, splayed from her short skirt. Fuck, it was Sheila, alone. His cock twitched, but that was doubly inappropriate: she was obviously upset.
Hi Sheila, remember me, Mike? Willie's pal from Glasgow.
Uh, hi Mike. Snuffles.
Hey, what's up lass, as he sat beside her, can I help? Her legs were still splayed wide, he'd glimpsed the shadow of panties drawn into her fold as he sat. His thigh was against hers and she didn't move. He couldn't stop his cock throbbing.
Oh, no, not really, nothing anyone can do. Just, I'm pissed, and my boyfriend's just dumped me. Well he wasn't really my boyfriend, just a shag really, but he's dumped me. And her tears flowed again.
He put his arm round her, felt her shivers. She was barely dressed, skimpy lacy sleeveless top. He shrugged his Goretex off, pulled it round her shoulders. Her head fell against his breast and she snuggled. She was very drunk. He kissed her hair without thinking. Doesn't sound too dreadful, he whispered into her scent, aware of her breast pressing as she nuzzled for warmth. I mean, if he's nobody special?
He's a bastard, is who he is. Tonight I was gagging for it, had to shag him behind the hall. After he dumped his spunk in me, he told me he was going back to Banff on the boat. Tonight. To get married. Fucking evil bastard. I mean, I don't care if he's getting married or not, just I didn't know, and the rest of the village did! Oh fuck, what'm I going to do?
She put her arm behind his back now to draw closer into his warmth: their bodies moved together tightly. She leaned back to look at him, pained eyes deep pools. Her mouth hung slack and he kissed it gently. She pushed him away, but not before her lips had responded to his.
I don't know what you're going to do Sheila, but I need a blow. Wanna share? He took his arm from her shoulders, took out his tin, started fussing a joint.
Aye. Please, Mike.
He prepared a three-skinner, sprinkled the tobacco, rolled and lit up. She was holding him again, resting her head on his shoulder. He passed the joint and she inhaled deep: Ahhhh fuck, that's good! Her face was still tear-streaked, but her eyes were smiling shyly now. Imagine you sharing a joint with me Mike: I wouldn't have dreamed you were into it? She drew it down hard into her, finally passed him the roach.
Sheila, you've no idea what I'm into, it's not anything I ever thought to discuss with you and Ailie. His arm around her, fingers stroking under her breast now. He needed to fuck her.
She squirmed his fingers off her breast, You dirty old man Mike! But it was said half-affectionately: You're trying to feel me up!
She smiled up at him and this time she didn't back off when he kissed her mouth.
She'd been drinking dark rum and he tasted it, but he relished the pure sensuality of her response, fingered her tits gently now as she moved in his arms. She was panting as the kiss broke and he buried his mouth in the soft corner of her jaw, licking and kissing into her ear, nibbling her lobe,
Oh fuck Mike you're turning me on, and her mouth was on his again. His fingers moved to her leg and she shivered as he stroked up gently, teasing the softness of her inner thigh, running down the other side so his fingers didn't touch her panties. She moaned as they kissed and her wee fingers slid along his kilt, fuck Mike, am I doing that to you?
