A Double Storm

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A searing sun caressed ripe and ready cornfields. Rich yellow heated to a dusted tawny. Tall stalks flaunted their swelling seed to the sun’s power. Silence enveloped the land. Nothing moved—

Except Peter Grover, and he loved it all. Loved the heat, the scorching fecund fields, the dry aroma of sun-toasted corn, the quiet, the solitude. No people. Ideal for a solitary man. An official track lay two fields to the south, on his left. That was the joy of this walk along the boundary of corn. It was his alone. No one ever came this way

The lone piping of a curlew was an intrusion. Too hot for birdsong.

Gazing over the corn, Peter saw, to the south, the tawny shades merge with hazy blue on the far horizon. He would write about this when he got home. Sometimes he wished he could paint, to capture the essence of everything natural. Still, he was pleased he could put it into writing, use his own sense of imagery. Get yourself a notebook, he had told himself so many times. Inspiration was fleeting. Interpreting nature with his own words was his way, his ambition

At that moment, a lone, playful breeze rose from the west to set the corn gently swaying. ‘Sensuous undulations of an aroused woman.’ The imagery was in his head almost automatically. Would he remember it?

Just as quickly the breeze was gone. ‘A fickle lover to another field.’ Peter liked that one. But it needed writing down before he forgot.

Negotiating a jutting embankment, he found himself smiling ruefully at his choice of image. What did he know about an aroused woman? Maybe something seen on TV or at the cinema. But in reality? A tight- lipped kiss with Brenda Bowles, or a tentative hand over Betty Shields left breast while it was covered with a thick winter coat. Might as well have stroked a turnip in a sack. That summed up his experience. And they never came back for an extension of a relationship.

In other words, minimal contact, which is what he had with most of his school peers. He knew they found him different. Different tastes, different interests. Peter’s deep interest in the way nature looked or acted was often far away from the more down to earth interests of others his age. Viewing this cornfield in sunlight was something close to perfection.

Being different had never been easy to take. He recalled a time, when he was eleven years. It was some celebration or other, and the house was full of relatives and friends, all merry, all well into their cups. An uncle had asked Peter, “Which do you prefer, Peter? Rugby or Soccer?” Before he could frame his own response his mother had blurted out.

“He plays neither, but he’s very fond of nature study.”

Even now, seven years later, Peter could remember the way eyes had looked at him pityingly, before turning away to continue their pleasures. His mother had spoken from a sense of pride, but that wasn’t the way it came across.

He learned to live with the contempt of others when it came to active interests. Consequently he had few friends. Maybe Richie Harker, the real egg-head of his final school year. Richie could talk about any subject, and Peter had some good conversations with him about the environment or animal welfare.

His choice of subjects when he applied for university had even been questioned. Biology, English Literature, with a subsidiary Environmental Studies, had many jeering ‘Biology and English Literature? That’s a weird mixture.’ Peter knew that they matched perfectly for his intentions, but having made their comments, school colleagues would turn away muttering, “Suppose it sums you up.”

However, the ridicule of years had taught him to accept the situation, to follow his own desired path. When university started in September he would be taking those subjects, to follow his goal. To use the natural world to stimulate his writing, whether it be poems or some descriptive longer work. At home he had reams of his early attempts.

Peter knew that he would never be happier than viewing the world on a day like today. Away to the southern horizon, where all afternoon there had been that hazy mix, there now appeared a clear charcoal dividing line. Interesting, thought Peter, keeping his eyes to the left so that he did not have to look at the one blot on the scene. That was a black, rusting corrugated roof, which Peter had found covered a storage for bales of hay in the upper field, open on three sides with more corrugated iron blocking the west wall, presumably against the prevailing wind. It was always an unwelcome intrusion on his pastoral strolls.

Suddenly, shockingly, up ahead there came the suggestion of another intrusion. A flash of pale blue beyond a slight bend. Someone else on his patch? That wasn’t allowed.

Within seconds he saw that the blue was a summer dress on the slender figure of a young woman—coming in his direction!

Annoyed at having his solitude invaded, Peter’s first reaction was to turn back quickly. But, when the woman was about twenty metres away something held him bahis firmaları to the spot. Long dark hair, ‘the colour of autumn’ flowed down to her shoulders. His imagery had him looking closer. Only one person had ever provoked the self-same image. The swaying walk was so familiar. Was it? Could it be? Peter’s breath caught in his throat. It was her. It was Gina Marlow. His big crush from early High School days, where she had been two years ahead of him.

At fourteen he had suddenly become aware of the vision that walked the school corridor, with shy, downcast eyes. So delectable, even in the dowdy school uniform. Peter had marked the times she would pass a particular point on the corridor, and had been there just to drink in the wonder of her. The green eyes, the high cheek bones, the smile, which was never directed at him. She didn’t know that he existed.

In her final year something had happened though. Some older boys, so the story went, had cornered her in the gym store cupboard and had their way with her on a mattress. Peter was furious at the very thought of it. Wanted to lash out at whoever was involved, while knowing that he’d never have the bravado.

It was all the worse when she never appeared at school again in the latter weeks of her final year. Sometimes Peter was sure he had been unhappy since that time. He could delude himself that she was the reason he never had girl friends.

Now, as he stood desperately thinking of what to do or say, she was almost alongside him, looking at him blandly. In the two years since he had last seen her she had become even more beautiful, he was sure. In the thin cotton dress she was wearing, her bosom, waist and hips were targets for his eyes.

“Had a good look?” Her first words, accompanied by a teasing smile, had him trying hard to breath.

At last he managed to stammer, “You—you’re Gina Marlow.”

She looked surprised, “My God, has my reputation returned here?”

“You were at Addison High—so was I—two years behind,” Peter said. He told her his name, although there was no reason why she should have known it. Then, without thought, without a conscious wish, he added, “I had a crush on you.” And immediately wanted the ground to swallow him.

What had made him make that admission? He was mortified, and even more so as a knowing smile lit up her face, “And did nothing about it? That puts you into a special category.” Her voice took on a more teasing tone, “And now you have me at your mercy.”

“No! No, I always walk here—I didn’t know you’d be here.” Inside his desperate mind some alien imp was goading him to consider what he might do if she was at his mercy. You wouldn’t have a clue, would you? But already he felt something strange about this. How could this challenging—no, daring woman be the same Gina Marlow?

She shook her head as though trying to clear her own mind, her lustrous hair brushed over her face, as she said, “Why are you walking here, anyway?”

“I always walk here.”

“I’ve never seen you,” she shrugged. “Then I’ve only been here a few days. Visiting grandparents. Go home tonight.” She looked away across the fields before her eyes settled back on him with an almost piercing intensity. “Well, why do you walk here?”

Peter told her of his enjoyment in recording natural things in writing.

“A poet? You don’t look like a poet.”

“What should a poet look like?”

She shrugged,” More geeky looking, I suppose. Are you going to university?”

Peter nodded, and risked her response to his chosen subjects.

“So you’re eighteen. That’s an interesting mix–and a bit of a coincidence.”

“How?” Peter asked, grateful that there had been none of the ridicule that he was so used to.

“Because at university I’ll be going into my third year of environmental work—if I complete it.”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

Her stare was fixed, and a couple of lines of uncertainty creased her brow, before she smiled ruefully, “There may be complications.”

Peter felt it wise not to pursue the matter. Anyway, he was enjoying this chance to stand with her, admiring the flow of that hair, the wide green eyes, the high cheekbones, and that mouth, so warm and inviting. She was so much more confident and outgoing than he remembered. But then he had hardly known her at all. Now, he was hard pressed to keep his eyes from coasting down over the curve of breast, and waist.

At that moment a second breeze from the west lightly lifted her hair, and she said, her eyes directed towards the cornfield, “How would your poet’s eye record that?”

Peter looked, and observed the corn swaying as it had earlier, and almost smiling, he dared himself to use the imagery he had already committed to memory, “Under a wayward breeze the corn moved with the sensuous undulations of an aroused woman.” he said

Gina’s lips pouted and she nodded appreciatively, “Mmm, yes what do—-?”

But as the breeze immediately dropped Peter was anxious to show off to this unexpected kaçak iddaa companion, “And moved on—a fickle lover to another field.” Looking south, he noticed the charcoal line had widened.

As he turned back he discovered that Gina had moved much closer. Close enough for him to notice the light perspiration above her lips, dampness along the shoulders of her thin dress, the unexpected clouding of her eyes.

“You seem very experienced when it comes to what a woman feels,” she said. Did her voice sound huskier? Hell, she was so close. “How would your poetic skills define me?”

Peter wondered if his face had reddened. She was so beautiful. Could he ever do her appearance justice? How much of a give-away of what he was feeling would it be?

“Well?” she urged him, standing only inches from him. Behind her, above the trees to the west, the sky had blackened. Approaching rain?

Peter took the chance, “A frame of autumn hair around the face of an angel.” He held his breath, watching her face frowning as she absorbed his words.

“Like the hair idea, but—the rest –bit of a cliché.”

“First draft only,” Peter said quickly.

She laughed, a lovely sound. Then her frown was back, “But I’m no angel.”

Peter was finding an unexpected boldness now that she was so close, “Could have fooled me.”

She nodded, “And probably have.” Her eyes were very firmly on him now, “Do you still have a crush on me?”

He could only nod weakly like the lonely young man he was. Why would she ask a question like that? An aroma of lavender came from her.

“Would you like to kiss me?”

How could she be making such an offer? Would she hear the thudding of his heart? What kind of answer could he make that wouldn’t reveal his inexperience? But the questions were taken out of his hands, as she stepped in close, put her hands on his shoulders, and her warm, parted lips pressed against his mouth.

Quaking, Peter felt the tip of her tongue search along his closed lips, before she drew back, and regarded him with a stern look. “All this ‘sensuous undulations’ business—pure fantasy, wasn’t it?”

Ashamed, he nodded, wildly aware of the thrusting hardness her closeness had invoked inside his jeans.

“Don’t worry—it was good imagination—but wouldn’t you like a little more intimate knowledge.” And her lower body shuffled against his hardness. “Aah! What images you might come up with then.”

Her smile was genuine, her eyelids lowered. At that moment a much stronger breeze lifted her hair high and wide, like a peacock’s tail. Looking out over the fields, Gina said, “What would you say about that now? What kind of lover is that.?”

Breathless and trembling at this unexpected circumstance, Peter followed her gaze. Corn heads were tossing angrily. Stalks were bent way back, then released, only to be struck again. In spite of his current discomfort, the words came easily, “Under the thrust of a harsher, more rampant lover the corn’s resistance weakened, close to submission.”

“Very good—you seem to like sensuous imagery,” Gina said, her eyes firmly on his face. Peter’s breathing was strangely ragged. This was not the shy girl he remembered. Yet still mightily attractive.

Over the trees to the west the blackness was pushing in faster, threatening the sun. The wind rose. Like the corn, Gina’s hair tossed wildly, as she turned to him and offered her mouth. Excited, yet unsure, Peter parted his lips as they met hers, and her tongue immediately probed at his. An electric current travelled inside his cheeks as he allowed their tongues to mesh.

His mind lost in the immediate sensation was still able to rejoice in the fact that this was Gina Marlow—the Gina Marlow, that, as a schoolboy, he had watched with aesthetic wonder. Now she was here in his arms and any aesthetic considerations were being overtaken by more lustful sensations, which she was provoking.

Eyes closed in the joy of her kiss, he was terribly aware of her grinding herself against his hardness. Could she really be urging him on? Why was she being so forward, so pressing? He didn’t dare think about it. But her promise of more intimate knowledge, what had she meant by that? Lost in this dark rapture, he suddenly became aware, behind his eyelids, that a light had been turned off.

Parting from her kiss he saw that the sun was gone, “The cloud has eaten the sun,” he said fancifully. With shrouded eyes, she smiled at him.

“Are we going to get wet—together?” she said, and Peter wasn’t sure how provocative her intentions had been.

“Shelter over there,” he said, nodding towards the corrugated roofing.

“We’d better get there.”

Side by side they raced through a gap in the hedging. The first drops of rain fell and made little craters in the dry, dusty earth under their feet. Then they were under the roof, standing, ankle deep in loose hay.

Gina took his hand, “This way. Sheltered from the wind.” And she led him towards the one corrugated wall. Before kaçak bahis they reached it, the rain which had been giving scattered drums on the roof, now came with a rush, producing a steady low pitched roar above them, while outside the wind howled through shrubs and grasses.

Having stopped with the sudden sound, Gina, came in close to Peter and they kissed again. A wilder kiss, in tune with the elements outside.

“You want further experience?” Gina asked, as she pulled away, and before Peter could respond she added, “Still got that crush on me?”

He hardly hesitated, “More so.”

“Back in school—when you had that crush—did you dream about screwing me?”

Peter knew his face had reddened, “No, never. You were the unobtainable.”

“But if I had been obtainable—would you have?”

He shook his head, “I had you on a pedestal.”

Her face saddened, “People can fall off pedestals, you know.”

Peter was utterly confused. Here they were in mounds of hay, a storm raging around them, and he could not fathom her line of questioning. Her next question threw all those considerations into a new perspective.

“Would you like to screw me now?”

What to say? Too eager would be wrong, yet refusal could be insulting. Besides, he just didn’t have the experience to make a decent approach to it. “I haven’t —I don’t get–” he stammered.

“I know you haven’t. If I say I want you to screw me, would you? You should at least try, you know. I don’t think your biology lessons have taken you far enough so far,” she murmured as she turned away, and moved toward the sheltering wall. Her hands were out of sight seeming to fumble in front of her, and Peter only learned why when she was close to the wall and flung herself back on a sloping pile of hay.

The front of her dress had been completely unbuttoned, and as she fell backwards it opened to reveal firmly proud, brown tipped breasts, a flat stomach and the briefest of pink panties.

Peter could only stand there and gape at the sight before him. Uncertainty and desire tangled in his brain.

“Are you just wanting to watch?” Gina asked, not unkindly.”Or do you want to learn?”

Hesitantly he knelt down alongside her, his hands clutching at the hay. “Touch me, kiss me. It’s all right, I take the pill, but for God’s sake do something—I’m like the corn, ripe and ready. Feel me.”

Feel her? Did she mean—everywhere? He lay and kissed her and felt her hands clawing at his T-shirt pushing it up so that her hands ran over the skin of his back. Her tongue chased his around his mouth.

They parted as she dragged the shirt over his head, “Don’t you want to touch my breasts?”

Nervously, uncertainly Peter placed his right hand over her left breast, marvelling at the smoothness, at the roundness at the magic of the touch. Then she was struggling with his belt buckle. “Get out of those goddam pants,” her voice was getting more desperate. “God, I need it. Three whole days.” At that point he wasn’t sure what she meant or even if if she was talking to him.

Raising himself he struggled out of his pants. And here he was, naked, with a near naked woman. And that woman was his beloved Gina Marlow. His head could not take it all in. Why was she being so generous to him?

Suddenly, under the cacophony of rain and wind, she sat up and reached for his erect penis. As she looked down at it she exclaimed, “Wow, that’s a real courgette of a cock. Better than some of the little chilli peppers I’ve had.”

No woman had looked at his penis, certainly not when it was erect, and the touch of her fingers grasping at it was almost too much. He felt fit to burst. Then when she leaned and kissed the tip of it a laser bolt shot through him.

“I’ve got to have that in me,” Gina cried, and her eagerness, her wantonness overwhelmed him. She released her hold and pushed at the pink panties and kicked them away. Peter had a quick, surprising glimpse of her hairless lower body and the beginnings of a crevice there, before she reached for his erection again and pulled him over her. “In me. Now.”

There was little he needed to do since she placed his penis in what felt like a warm pool, and he was able to obey her next words, “Push!”

And he was in the very moist grasping tunnel of her womanhood. So surprisingly open and welcoming. He was actually doing it. He was inside a woman. He gasped as his hard penis rode smoothly to its full length inside her, dazzled by the way she gurgled, squealed and hissed, “So big. Just lie still a moment. Don’t move. It’s your first time. Don’t come.”

Peter knew that he was very close, but obeying her instruction held him off for a few seconds. He raised his head to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her mouth gaped as though in some kind of ecstasy already She appeared to be savouring something of which he had no part. Hell, he’d hardly done anything. But here he was inside the grasping vagina of the woman he thought the most beautiful in the world. Never in a million years could he have imagined it would be this easy.

He knew only too well that any further movement was going to push him over the edge. So, as her vaginal walls began twitching he gasped, “Gina, I have to—“

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