Preamble:
There is teasing exhibitionism, voyeurism and incest tension, frisson, amid countryside serenity, in this story. There is some sex, rendered lightly.
If you are aching for moaning and groaning, howling and growling sex, this is not for you. Move on to avoid disappointment.
Although this story is Chapter 2, it is crafted so that it can be read on its own. Readers who have read Chapter 1, please bear with some repeated contextual details, which I have endeavoured to minimise.
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Picture a country cottage perched on a picturesque towering sea cliff, on edge, somewhere inconsequential in southwest England. There are no homes within a two kilometer radius. Far from the madding crowd.
The cottage commands a breathtaking ocean view. A dizzy winding hacked-through cliff trail connects its oceanfront quintessential English garden to a secluded virgin cove beach. The beach is accessible by this trail only. The entrance to this trail is through a nondescript hollowed lair in the bush, right out of a mystery novel.
A small coral island bobs in pristine waters a hundred metres offshore from the cove. The coral island has an ocean-facing beach which offers yet another level of privacy.
The cottage is a private heaven unto itself. No part of it, including its open patio, is within sight of anyone anywhere. The closest to heaven without the inconvenience of dying.
In a word, Cliffedge.
A couple, John and Sophie, or Soph in charming Britspeak, lives in Cliffedge. They have just returned from a holiday in a faraway locale. An indulgent treat, where they celebrated their 50th birthdays and 30th wedding anniversary.
The couple have three grown children, scattered over three continents. The baby of the family, early twenties Sebastian, or Seb, is in Europe. Philippa or Pipa in Asia. Eldest, Philip or Pip in Latin America. Grandparents three times over with installments in the pipeline.
John runs a small engineering business in the nearby village five kilometres away. Soph was a ballerina in her youth. She teaches freelance at a nearby dance academy during the school term in the autumn and winter months. Dance, specifically ballet, has been an influential part of her life. She weaves that into the fabric of her life regimen.
Brown haired Soph is the quintessential English rose. Soph is pretty in a plain sort of engaging way. Although she had stopped active dancing a long time ago, she maintains the upright graceful mien of a ballerina in bloom.
Life is good.
Soph is most aptly described as, confoundingly, buxomly and nubile, in the same hiss of breath.
Imagine a mature woman, five feet four inches, just degrees shy of buxom. She has her obligatory share of flabs and sags, and bodily signature lines of her age. A dusting of freckles on her upper chest. Softly contoured rump, prominent, but sensibly restrained, just short of provocative. Soft rise of tummy. An artful delicate caesarean section cut filament line just above her mound. Well-turned legs flare into wide hips. Lite Rubenesque.
Now, imagine a fresh faced nubile adolescent, also five feet four inches tall, on the cusp of womanhood. Her budding breasts are contoured in a soft wide arc. A gentle rise that promises lush in the fullness of time.
Her silken mons pubis is a minimalist dainty incidental gash. An impish schoolgirly cleft sans lurid assertive inner lips, that peeks out nondescriptly from low beneath her mound. If you gaze at this adolescent from a distance, you are apt to wonder where her vagina slit is.
Now, copy-and-paste the budding breasts, and pubescent bottom, to the mature woman. Voila! There you have it, Soph! A curious confluence abstraction of buxom and nubile, of pubescent and mature. A surreally implausible woman child. An aberrant go-go dancer ballerina. Easy to identify, but elusive to define precisely.
Soph has mixed feelings about her body. Self-evidently, she likes her lush bits. But, she is acutely conscious of her modest top. To John, her buxomness heightens her pubescent allure to conjure a comely feminine whole. Whereas Soph feels that it accentuates her topside deficit. Soph is shy. But, she is no prude.
John is five feet eight inches tall. He has his rightful legacy allocation of mellowed contours. John is an average bloke.
His penis is above average in length, but by not much. If he is in a porn movie orgy, he will be a faceless extra to make up the rippling sea of flesh. His decent-sized endowment does not grow very much more when in full exuberance. Kind of what you see is what you get. It thus has an apparent perpetual semi hard-on meaty succulent appearance. A kind of silent soft power. Soph calls it statuesque.
Soph has never seen another adult penis in the flesh other than her husband's. John's is her defining ideal of the epicentre of all manhood.
John's scrupulously shaved groin complements Soph's virginal pubescence.
DAY ONE
Youngest child, Seb, lives and works in Nice, in the publishing business. He has immersed in the local teeming biodiversity, loving the French Latin lifestyle in all its Mediterranean sea of colourful nuances. Seb is a photography buff, having earned a minor in the subject in uni. His keen photographic eye captured many subtle images of French life, which he is keen to share with his parents.
Seb has a French professional dancer girlfriend. A budding ballerina. They have been an item for a year. Life is on song for Seb, and the song hums itself on.
Seb looks the part of a strapping young man. Or, lad in English patois. Plays the part too. He tops six feet. Lean. Mean. Fresh faced. Suffice to say, Seb is what a young Englishman named Sebastian would classically look like. The archetype of his species. A 'lovely' young man by archetypal English terms of reference.
Seb has not visited his parents for awhile because of a deluge of work and other commitments. His girlfriend is currently on a performing tour for a month.
Seb is on his way from Nice to Cliffedge. A week's holiday. Time off for good corporate behaviour. Or, more aptly, exemplary corporate servitude. This is a good time to visit as his parents have just celebrated their significant 50th birthdays, and 30th wedding anniversary. Three milestones in one. And he is keen to hear all about their travel experiences and exotica. The farthest that they have ventured from home. There is much to catch-up.
His parents moved to Cliffedge two years ago. Seb's past visits have been frantic carousel spins. He has never stepped beyond the cottage garden.
It is the high noon of summer. Seb can soak rays in the patio, garden and beach. Swim. Snorkel amongst the corals, grazing darting sea life. Maybe even some nude sunbathing if circumstances permit, to refresh his coat of complexion. Chill. Life is good. And it gets better.
Seb flippantly abandons his laptop-PC at home so that he is conveniently uncontactable. Not that it matters much because continental Europeans, particularly the French, hold vacation time sacrosanct, in contrast to the Anglo machine psyche. But, then again, he is working for a UK company in their Nice office.
Seb arrives at Cliffedge at 11pm. A long day's epic journey into night. Soph and John waits up for him. After a round of warm hugs and kisses, reconnecting in earnest, Seb wolfs down a snack of soup and rolls. John tells Seb that he will be away for work by the time he wakes up tomorrow morning. He will catch-up with him in the evening.
Seb totters to his room. He crashes out dramatically to deep transcendental slumber.
DAY TWO
Seb wakes as if an epiphany has zapped him. He feels renewed and sharp after the six hour deep state coma sleep. He feels repurposed, although he does not quite know for what. His cellphone reads 6am. Not his custom uptime. But this morning, it feels so right. For once in a long time, time is on his side.
He freshens up. Changes into a breezy t-shirt and boxers.
