A Different Piece

Firstly there was "Little Piece," then "Another Little Piece," and now there's a "Different Piece." The third short piece from the "Hampstead Pieces."

A Different Piece

I heard the tale of a wood nymph called Little Piece from an Alcoholic I met in a pub called the Garden Gate, not far from Hampstead Heath, in North London. When he first told me of his erotic tales with a blue wood nymph, I took it as ramblings of a drunk. But six weeks ago I happened on a hand-written journal in a junk shop in Kilburn. North London. It was dated 1971, written by a man called Reginald Groat. Although the written hand wasn't the best of clarity, I read a paragraph about Hampstead Heath and a wood nymph called Little Piece and the Hampstead Pieces. I was so intrigued that I had the journal appraised by a chronologist. It turns out that the journal was original and could have been written in 1971.

When I found the journal and read about Little Piece, I thought it was an elaborate hoax, but maybe a little too elaborate. So I had it appraised by an expert and I'm now looking for the drunk who first told me of Little Piece, but had no luck finding him yet. I also spent time in a library in Swiss cottage, not far from either Hampstead Heath or Kilburn. I found nothing about Little Piece or the so-called Hampstead Pieces. I found a record of a man called Reginald Groat, 27 years' old, who lived on Cuthbert's Road, Kilburn, in 1971. This added more mystery to my investigations and the greater need to find the drunk.

I checked all the pubs local to Hampstead Heath: The Garden Gate; The Freemasons Arms; The Cork and Bottle; The Roebuck, there was no sign of the drunk. I had a pint in each pub, asked a few questions, but nothing. I was feeling a bit tipsy when I left the Roebuck. I wandered down Pond Street and into a Starbucks where I ordered a large Americano. I took my coffee outside and sat on a bench in a sitting area with a lovely old stone drinking fountain in the middle.

I lit a cigarette and smoked whilst deep in my thoughts. A blonde lady sat beside me and asked for a smoke. I left my thoughts and offered her one. I gave her a light, she puffed the cigarette and she thanked me through a cloud of white smoke. 'My name's Gina,' she said.

'Oh sorry,' I said. 'I'm Terry.' She offered me her hand and I took it in mine; it was soft and warm. I shook it gently and we took our hands back. 'Sorry,' I said again. 'I was lost in my thoughts.'

'Yes,' she said. 'What about?' She took a small bottle of brandy from her bag and took a swig.

'What about what?' I said. She offered me a a swig of brandy and I offered he my cup; she tipped a swig in.

'Your thoughts. What were you thinking about?' She answered.

'I'm looking for someone. But had no luck finding him. I think he lives around here somewhere.'

'I'm local, been around here a long time,' said Gina. ' Maybe I can help. What's his name?'

'I don't know his name.' I said.

'Well that's helpful,' she replied sarcastically.

'I know,' I admitted and told her what I knew. We finished the brandy as I told her about the drunk, the journal and Little Piece.

'Wow,' she said. 'I know the guy you're looking for.

Gina told me about a guy called Paul, local to her. How he'd hit the booze like a madman, ranting on about Hampstead Heath and a blue fairy that sucked him off.

'Enough about blue fuckin' fairies!' Said Gina. 'Why don't you take me for a drink Terry?' There was something straight forward and honest about Gina. We went to the Garden Gate.

I ordered a pint of lager for me and a glass of white wine for Gina. We chatted as we drank. I ordered another round, time passed quickly and I felt drunk. Gina turned and kissed me on the lips and asked if I wanted to come back to her place. Straight away I felt my cock tighten in my jeans. I agreed to going back and kissed her back.

On the way back to hers we called at an off licence and I bought a bottle of brandy, a mixer and a bottle of water. We headed toward the Heath; I didn't realise she lived so close to Hampstead Heath. I told her as much and she smiled.

We stopped at a house on the edge of the Heath. It was a beautiful location, all grass and trees, lots of green. 'Here we are,' said Gina. 'I'm top floor.'

'So where does Paul live from here?' I asked.

'Not far,' she replied as she opened the front door and walked through. 'Come on,' she urged me. 'I need a drink.'

Gina walked up the stairs ahead of me. She had a lovely arse in her blue jeans. It moved erotically as she walked, her jean-clad arse-cheeks pumped like slow pistons and my crotch tightened. I smiled to myself as I knew I would be doing a bit of my own pumping at some point this evening.

'Almost there,' said Gina. The last flight of stairs looked like logs all cobbled together. There was tufts of grass growing between the treads and rises. Everywhere was green and leafy, I seemed to notice it suddenly, all at once. 'Gina,' I said.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' She replied.

'Yes,' I said.

'Where home,' said Gina. She pushed open a green leafy door and walked across the threshold into a leafy wood, then Gina wasn't Gina any more.

'Come in,' said a soft voice. I stood at the threshold wondering what the fuck was going on.

'Come in Terry,' said the voice again. I crossed the threshold.

I crossed onto grass and there was trees and bushes; I was outside, but it felt private and safe. There was a small fire burning and the flames were green. I put down the bag of booze and called out. 'Gina. Where are you?'

'Gina's gone,' said a voice. 'Although she's beautiful, is she really what you want?'

'What the hell does that mean.' I asked the voice.

'She's beautiful and blonde and has a lovely jean-clad arse which made you hard. But is that really what you want?'

'What the fuck....! Who are you?'

'I'm what you're looking for.'

'No you're not,' I said. 'I'm looking for Paul.'

'You're not looking for him. You're looking for Little Piece.'

'Yes I am, but you're not her either.'

'No. I'm Wilt-Sheen. A different piece.'

'What the fuck is Wilt-Sheen?'

'Don't be rude Terry. That's my name. I'm a tree sprite; one of the Hampstead Pieces, but a different piece.'

'What the fuck,' I mumbled. I turned to leave, but there was no door.

'Come sit beside me Terry,' said the voice. I turned and looked at the small green flames. 'Come on Terry. You've come this far. You want to know, don't you? Come sit beside me. You know I won't hurt you.'

All around me appeared a thin green ether, a breathable gas that filled me euphorically. I felt great, not like drunk, but safe and warm; loved.

'Come sit,' said the voice again. I walked toward the small green flames; I became erect which pressed against my jeans, it felt good and natural. I sat beside the green flames.

'Why are you green?' I asked the flames. 'Aren't you meant to be blue?'

'Little Piece has a blue aura, she's a wood nymph; I'm green, sometimes yellow. I'm a tree sprite. Little Piece is a Madame; I'm a Sire.'

'What! You're a fuckin' man?'

'Yes Terry, I'm a man; a Sire. Please don't cuss so much Terry. It damages my aura. Make me yellow Terry.'

'Yellow,' I asked.

'Yes. Make me yellow.'

'What do you mean?'

'Touch me Terry.'

'Touch you.'

'Yes Terry. Touch me. Make me yellow.'

'I don't know how to make you yellow.'

'I just told you. Touch me.'

'I can't see you.'

'Yes you can, I'm all around you. The trees; the leaves; the flames.'

'You want me to touch the trees and leaves.'

'If you want. But I'd rather you touched me. I'm in the flames. I am the fire. I'm within the flame, touch me Terry.'

I looked into the green flames. I felt attracted to them, to the green flickers with yellow tinges and the warm soft voice. It felt like warm honey and thinned out new age pan pipe music, folded and soft. Reaching to touch, to feel, I reached into the flames without fear of being burnt. The green flame spread up my arm, over my shoulder and down through my body. I felt I was covered in warm candyfloss, diaphanous and green, with growing tinges of yellow.

'Take me Terry.' said the voice.

A yellow elongation grew in the flames. I watched it grow, taking form, taking shape of a yellow cock.

'Take me Terry.'

I reached my hand around the flame cock and the shape defined by definition to a perfectly formed erect yellow penis.

'Wank me Terry. Make me yellow,' said the voice.

I took the yellow cock and began to masturbate. It felt warm and solid, like I was holding my own cock; it felt like my cock. I felt the movement of his excited phallus skin as if I was wanking my own hard on. I gripped it tighter and pumped it faster and Wilt-Sheen gasped and moaned; the green flames began to turn yellow.

'Terry,' Wilt-Sheen crooned. 'Faster. Harder. Make me yellow.'

I pumped the horney tree sprite as his flames turned yellow. I felt excited in the throat of my cock as Wilt felt in his. I felt his bubbles of climax rumbling within my self. Wilt-Sheen sparkled like the 5th of November as he shot cum into the air. I felt the sparkles drip all over me and my candyfloss shell shattered into a million pieces as my coffee splashed my jeans and a brown stain spread across the paving stones. I opened my eyes and looked at the stone fountain in Pond Street. My cigarette burnt my finger and I dropped it on the ground.

I sat staring at the stone fountain. 'What the fuck!' I thought to myself. 'Wilt-fucking-Sheen. Horny fucking tree sprites. I'm not fucking gay. Am I?'