The Runner Ch. 01

Sylvia sat on an old church pew on the back verandah and tied her laces. The early morning air was clean and cool against her skin. The pre-dawn was grey and still. Her vineyard lay spread before her, the grapes hanging beneath their leaves, swelling day by day to meet the approaching harvest. This was her time. Before the sun rose, and the summer heat made physical exertion uncomfortable. She stood up and leaned against the doorframe, carefully stretching first her Achilles tendons and then her hamstrings. Then she skipped down the steps. Her shoes crunched on the gravel path and her brisk walk turned into a jog after she closed the garden gate and set off through the chest-high rows of cool, green vines.

Her morning jog was Sylvia's best thinking time, as essential as sleeping and waking. Only the most extreme weather ever persuaded her to forgo it. Not even the warmest bed kept her from her daily task. Besides, she could usually be back and showered before the staff who helped her manage the vineyard had arrived.

The long rows of vines rose before her as she found her stride, her breath and heart beat rising to meet the slope, the familiar rhythms of foot fall and breath —the engine of her body— confidently ticking over .

The track through the vineyard rose higher, then dipped into a wide valley, clad with the same walls of green. Sylvia paused on the ridge, her thin frame caught in the first ray of sun, her short brown hair glistening with sweat. A ribbon of white mist hung in the valley. A rabbit raced for cover. Hands on hips, she breathed in the warmer air. For a moment, the beauty of it made her feel like bursting as she turned, then continued down the slope.

Sylvia loved this place. She had grown up here and managed the vineyard ever since her father died. Her hard work had turned the business around and she had converted the rundown homestead into a stylish and comfortable home. After a busy life in Paris, where she had studied at the Sorbonne, her days here were a complete contrast. She had good friends in the town nearby, employed an excellent manager and started a small restaurant, specialising in dinners for local wine connoisseurs. But although her days were comfortably busy, she spent most of her evenings alone and often recalled nostalgically the friends she made in Paris nightclubs and the parties that lasted till dawn.

With all her energy directed towards the business, she normally didn't feel the lack of a partner. She told herself that someday soon she would get around to looking but at present she just had too much to do and so far none of the local eligible bachelors had taken her fancy. Last winter when the work slowed down she had tried an online dating agency but none of the respondents had inspired her imagination.

Yes, Sylvia was nearly always busy. When she wasn't busy jogging the long lanes between the vines, she was busy working in the winery, instructing the cellar door staff or coaxing her customers to increase their orders.

Even when she came home at the end of the day and uncorked a bottle from her private cellar, her mind was still at work, with a torrent of thoughts and plans that had her tapping her feet and nibbling her fingernails. She had always found it impossible to persuade her mind to be still, even for a moment, and her body was equally uncooperative when it came to relaxing.

At bedtime she went from wide awake to fast asleep in a few seconds, and woke just as quickly when the birds announced the approach of daybreak.

As a child, her mother had called her hyperactive but she had to admit, her daughter had always worked hard and the energy and passion she put into the vineyard since her parents passed away had seen it steadily grow and prosper.

Her run continued beyond the boundary of the vineyard, up to the steep slope where the forest edge began. She ran on up through the bush, with the crisp crackle of dead leaves beneath her tread and the air heavy with the scents of the trees. As the slope grew steeper her pace slowed and her breathing quickened. She felt the muscles in her calves and thighs rhythmically tighten and release, as she put more effort into each step, driving on, rising higher, carefully watching the rough ground in front for loose, ankle-twisting stones.

The road flattened out at last and the forest opened into a clearing. She came upon the ruins of a timber cottage surrounded by a bed of long grass, overshadowed by trees. For as long as she could remember the ruined cottage had been in the same state. A rusting tin roof still clad the front room and part of the verandah while the rest of the cottage had long ago collapsed.

The well in the backyard was still functional, with the bucket attached to its rope, upturned on the ground beside it.

Sylvia always rested here, sitting on the veranda to let her pounding pulse slow before the return journey. If she was thirsty she let the bucket down and drew up some of the cold, clear water to drink.

But today, the cottage looked different, so different from yesterday, that she did a double take. But it wasn't the cottage that had changed since yesterday. It stood there in its tumbledown state just as she always remembered it. The cottage hadn't changed. What had changed was Sylvia.

Earlier in the week she'd had an email from a Singapore wine buyer, Perry Moncrieff, owner of Moncrieff Wines International. He'd heard about her boutique wines and was interested in placing an order. He was flying in the following day and wanted to know if he could come down to see the winery and taste the latest vintages. Most buyers went through her wholesaler in the city but there were always a few who preferred to buy direct, and Sylvia was happy to give them the tour.

Perry roared up to the winery the next afternoon, not in a rental car as she expected but in a cute little European drop top sports car, his short cropped fair hair unsullied by the wind and his long legs not too stiffened by the relatively close quarters of the car. He had a huge smile in an otherwise well proportioned face and surprisingly dark eyes brightened by the occasional cheeky twinkle.

After the tour and tasting Sylvia realised that Perry Moncrieff was a man who really knew his wine. She always went to a lot of trouble with buyers to give them a thorough understanding of the idea behind each wine, but she found that Perry only needed one sip to get the whole picture — it was as though the wine spoke for itself — and his quiet nod was all the acknowledgement she needed to feel that this man knew exactly what her wine was about.

Sylvia was aware that she tended to talk too much about the wines, partly from nervousness, and partly because it was her passion. With Perry she found herself stopping in mid-sentence because his glance seemed to say, "Ok, just let me feel this for myself."

By the time the business of wine was eventually done, the night was drawing in and Sylvia was delighted. She had sold him a good chunk of her annual produce. To celebrate she invited him up to the homestead and decanted a bottle of one of her father's old favourite cabernet sauvignons, one of a few remaining she had been saving for a special occasion.

While the wine breathed, Sylvia tossed together a simple steak and salad dinner to go with it. They talked wine some more, although Sylvia did most of the talking, Perry listening quietly and adding just enough to the conversation to keep her bubbling along.

Perry told her he planned to drive back to the city after dinner for a morning meeting, but Sylvia insisted on preparing a guest room for him with the promise of an early wake up call so he could still make his meeting. She wasn't going to risk her valuable new customer running into a late night breathalyser.

Next morning she woke as usual with the birds and remembered she had a guest. She tiptoed down the stairs so as not to wake him, inched the squeaky back door open and sat on the verandah to tie her laces for her morning run. She was leaning against the doorframe in the semi-darkness, stretching her hamstrings when she smelt it. The unmistakable scent of a French cigarette.

Without turning, she spoke. "I didn't know you smoked."

"Mostly only first thing in the morning", he replied. "And when I can't sleep."

He stood up from where he had been sitting on the steps.

"You didn't sleep? I hope it wasn't the wine."

"No, I think its because I'm still on Singapore time."

"I'm going for my run", Sylvia explained. "I'd invite you to join me but I don't have any shoes for you."

"Hey, its not a problem. If you wouldn't mind me joining you, I have some shoes in the car."

"Um, good, OK then."

As they set off, Sylvia realised this was the very first time anyone had joined in her run. She could have felt that her special time was being invaded, but she didn't. Perry Moncrieff was very welcome, just as long as he could keep up the pace.

They ran side by side down through the vineyard and over the hill. On the far slope Perry began to drop behind. The unstable ground was a challenge for someone who wasn't familiar with it. Sylvia slowed her pace to rejoin him. They spoke in panting bursts about the state of the vines and how the hot summer was going to produce a smaller but higher quality harvest.

At last they reached the ridge and Sylvia led him to the old cottage for a rest. She showed him the well and asked if he'd like a drink.

Perry lowered the bucket into the well and Sylvia helped him wind it back up.

"Mmm", he proclaimed, cupping his hands into the chilled fresh water and taking a drink. "This is worth bottling. If not bottling, its certainly worth bucketing don't you think?"....Sylvia looked up puzzled.

Just then she saw a twinkle appear in Perry's eye as he playfully picked up the bucket and poured the rest of the water over them both. Sylvia was taken aback by the coldness of the water and let out a screech of delight until she realised that the drenching had turned her shirt and shorts embarrassingly transparent.

"Oh my God, look what you've done!"

"Yes, look what I've done...and now look what I've done", He said, as his hands reached towards her arms and he drew her towards him.

Slightly at a loss for words at the rapid turn events had taken, Sylvia said, "Are you playing with me?"

She saw his eyes darken and his face looked grim and set. He pinned her arms to her sides with a surprisingly firm grip. She felt the strength in his hands as he drew her towards him. She smelled his cologne mingled with fresh sweat and French cigarettes. She was surprised to feel his body trembling as he bent to kiss her. Then, as his hard cock pressed up against her, the realisation dawned that he was not going to stop with a kiss.

"No", he whispered, "I'm not playing with you."

She shivered from the combination of wet clothes, fear and anticipation. He released her arms and with one deft movement, pulled her drenched shorts and briefs down onto her calves. "Gosh", she thought, "He doesn't muck around." His hand slid quickly between her thighs and she gave a soft grunt as his fingers found her sex.

Just then, a swarm of white cockatoos swooped through the clearing, their piercing screeches breaking the spell. For a second he paused at the unfamiliar sound, but then scooped her up, her shorts still clamped around her calves, carried her over and laid her on the edge of the verandah with her legs hanging down, shoes just reaching the ground.

The old boards were dry and rough and splintery against her bare bottom but her shirt protected her back. He tugged her shorts down to tangle with her running shoes and rubbed her clitoris with deft strokes. The sudden power of her desire took her by surprise. She pushed her hips towards him as her passion mounted. He spread her legs wide apart opening her private parts to him and to the wilderness around. The tangle of clothes around her feet kept her ankles together. For a few minutes he sat back on his haunches, stroking her thighs and looking intently her exposed lower body. Her face reddened with embarrassment.

He watched her expression as he took two fingers and slid them knuckle deep into her body. With his thumb he firmly rubbed her slippery clit. She closed her eyes and was surprised to feel herself already getting ready to come. Just as the first wave of orgasm hit he stopped stroking and looked at her intently. "Please!" she begged. He stroked her again and she bucked with the next wave. Then he paused again, watching her closely. She was entirely at his mercy now and she could see that he enjoyed controlling her pleasure as he made her wait once again. She begged once more to be allowed to come and finally he granted her wish, stroking her clit and forcing a third finger inside her, stretching her wider as the third wave of orgasm thundered down.

As soon as her body relaxed, he gripped her hips and pulled her towards him. With one hand he lifted her entangled feet up and folded her legs back towards her chest. She breathed in sharply as she felt his cock sink deftly into her. He was kneeling on the ground holding her legs up as though they were as light as a feather. His eyes were closed, his cock thick and strong as it plunged into her. She felt like a toy, being played with for his pleasure.

Then he paused, withdrew and carried her over to the clearing. He laid her down in the long grass, tore her remaining clothes off and resumed, plunging into her with deep penetrating strokes.

The ground was hard against her back so she pushed her hips up to meet him. His cock was now filling her, pounding against her cervix, making her groan with a deep satisfying ache. She closed her eyes. She could feel his rhythm slow as he started to come, grunting softly once and squeezing her bottom with a powerful grip as he spilled inside her, then lowered his weight on top of her, forcing the breath from her body.

"I've been waiting to do that since the moment I saw you," he whispered.

After kissing her tenderly he rolled away. She turned towards him to say something in reply but he was already standing, taking his cigarettes from his pocket and walking away from her to light up.

"So", she thought. "There's one other time when he smokes."

She lay back, resting an arm across her eyes to shield them from the light. The experience must have had a stilling effect on her hyperactive mind and body because in an instant it seemed, she had dozed off.

She could only have been asleep for a few minutes but she sat up with a start. She was still wearing only her shoes and she shivered as a breeze chilled her still-damp skin.

"Perry?" She called. Where was he? She stood up and walked around, feeling suddenly awkward to be wandering around naked in the bush. "Perry?" Maybe he'd wandered off to answer a call of nature. Meanwhile she looked for her clothes near where she'd lain but realised that they were nowhere to be found.

"This is weird", she thought. "I'll just have to wait for him." Feeling a little sheepish now she sat gingerly on the edge of the verandah, her arms crossed around her breasts.

After ten minutes of waiting and calling he still failed to appear. So she realised she only had one option. She stood up and set off back down the track to the homestead. It was lucky she still had her shoes on, even if her socks were soaking wet. Walking naked through the bush was a new experience for Sylvia and perhaps it would have been a pleasant one but for the perplexing circumstances. Maybe he was watching and enjoying her discomfort. The thought of him watching from behind a tree made her feel both vulnerable and excited. He would have a few questions to answer when she caught up with him, even allowing for the fact that he was a good customer, and not a half bad lover.

Fortunately she didn't come across anyone on the walk home and she slipped quietly through the back door and into her laundry, hoping to find something to wear before confronting him. There she noticed her wet clothes, piled in the laundry tub. Sitting on top of them was a note on a piece of paper torn out of a notebook.

The note read: "You make great wine, great food and great love. I was keen to see if you would be better served chilled. But sadly I couldn't wait to taste the results. Maybe another time, thanks for your exquisite hospitality. Perry.

No sooner had she read the note than she heard the sound of his car engine revving. She ran down the hall and saw it raising a cloud of dust as it tore off down the drive.

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After Perry drove off that morning without saying goodbye, Sylvia showered and dressed. As she sat down rather gingerly at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, she was briefly stunned to stillness and introspection by the morning's events.

She took a pen and paper with the intention of redesigning the label for a varietal wine she was hoping to market soon. Instead she found herself staring vacantly out across the vines at a flock of ducks that were feeding on the pond.

Damn that man! Did he realise what he had done? In one swoop he had swept away the veil of everyday routine and responsibility she was used to living behind. He showed Sylvia what could happen when she let go of it all and embraced the unpredictable. She realised that being with him would be scary, a bit like walking in the dark, but maybe that's what she needed.

She washed her cup and made a decision to snap out of it. She was running behind now and needed to catch up on her day's tasks. As she stood up she felt tenderness in her groin muscles This, coupled with a slight slipperiness between her legs as she walked, made her realise that she was still aroused.