We had eyed each other several times across the classroom but hadn’t spoken. We were both on a poetry appreciation weekend, which was being held in a large Victorian mansion in the Shropshire countryside.
She was a tall, slim redhead, aged around thirty-five, I’d guessed, although my guesstimate turned out to be seven years adrift! She had a lovely array of freckles which arced across the bridge of her nose.
“Before we stop for lunch, ladies and gents, I’d like you to form up into pairs after the break. We’ll be tackling the topic of stanzas this afternoon, concluding with this creative writing exercise.” On the blackboard, the lecturer chalked the words ‘The Stream’.
Out in the big entrance hall, we found neat packed lunches with our names on. I picked mine up, headed for the gardens and settled myself down in the shade on an old wooden bench.
“Would there be room for two?” The statuesque redhead stood before me in a pool of sunlight, smiling.
“But of course.” There was the hint of an accent in her lilting delivery. “I’m Tom.”
“Rebecca.”
“And where are you from, Rebecca?”
“County Sligo in southern Ireland. Birthplace of William Butler Yeats. You?”
“Essex. Birthplace of Jamie Oliver. Rebecca has wonderful literary connotations.”
“As does your name.”
“You mean Tom Jones?”
“Actually, I was thinking of the late Tom Wolfe, father of gonzo journalism. A dog-eared copy of his Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby is one of my most treasured possessions.”
After this short literary exchange, we tucked into our salad lunches. I offered her a glass of the rosé wine I’d brought along, which she readily accepted.
“Fancy a stroll?” she inquired, standing up, after we’d finished the bottle. “To tell you the truth, I’m not awfully looking forward to grappling with stanzas this afternoon. Not in my present mood.”
“And what is that?”
She gave a mischievous grin. “Frisky, bordering on horny, I’d say!”
We headed down a woodland path that led away from the mansion. As we entered a small circular glade ringed by bluebells, I felt her arm slip through mine. “Tom?”
“Yes, Rebecca.”
“Shall we make love?”
“Here?”
“Why not!”
I decided to follow her example and throw caution to the wind. “What a simply delicious idea.”
“Look – over there: see that fallen tree trunk? Why don’t you sit on it and I’ll sit on your cock. I’m not wearing panties, so it’ll be easy! And if any of our fellow students happen by, why it’ll look as if I’m just sitting on your lap!” Her matter-of-fact explanation was utterly beguiling.
I unzipped my slacks, let them drop below my knees and dutifully took up a sitting position on the log.
She stood with her back towards me, leant forwards and lifted up the hem of her blue gingham dress to reveal beautifully tanned buttocks. She held the hemline at waist height. “Ready?” she asked rather urgently.
“Err… not quite.” Though I now had a lovely erection I was concerned about my cock’s ‘dryness’. Reading my mind, Rebecca rasped impatiently: “Spit on it!” Simultaneously, she moistened her slit with some of her own juices. The scene was set for our woodland coitus.
She bent her opened legs and slowly lowered herself onto my shaft as her quim gave out an expectant fart. Then there came a delicious squishing sound as I entered her for the first time. I moved my hands off the log to grasp her waist. She threw her head back, giving a soft groan of satisfaction. “Oh Tom, that’s SO fucking lovely!”
Our woodland love-making was unhurried and tender, with its inevitable climax slow and pulsating. She rocked back into my lap, placing her hands over mine in a gesture of gratification. Neither of us spoke.
Several minutes elapsed before Rebecca broke the silence. It was preceded by a mischievous giggle. “Not bad for our first time, was it?”
“On a scale of one to ten… oh, I’d say about seventeen.”
She rocked forward into a fit of convulsive giggles, which resulted in serious ‘leakage’. With her dress still bunched around her waist, she turned around to let me see the sight of my fresh semen oozing from her cunnie and running down her leg. She scooped some up and licked it from her fingers. “Oh my, but don’t you taste nice?” I heard the full Irish accent in that exclamation.
Always the leader and never the lead, Rebecca stood in front of me, legs akimbo, hands on hips, her skirt still around her waist. “Of course, you know what the subject of boring old Professor Johnson’s stanza afternoon session is, don’t you?”
“Remind me?”
“The stream.” She raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Any ideas?”
I looked around our woodland glade, but couldn’t hear the sound of water. I shook my head.
“Like some inspiration?”
“I’d love it.”
Sliding her bare feet wider on the leafy floor, she lowered her head and went into a sort of meditative trance. I began to hear the sound of trickling water and realised that its source was Rebecca’s quim, as floods of her glistening amber fluid cascaded onto the ground.
They face each other in the woodland glade
She lifts her skirt, his unspoken desire obeyed
With the fallen leaves now glistening golden-brown
He smiles at the sight of the stream she’s just made.
