Bayham

Traipsing your way home across the open fields, you begin playfully passing the time, arranging thoughts and memories into fantasies most delectable.

Recalling the quiet strength behind my eyes, their energy magnetic, burning all the brighter and unable to conceal my crush. Your knees weaken with rude thoughts of fornication, imagining the sensation of seeing me, the floor of your kitchen seeming to fall away from under you. "What are you doing here?" you ask, bewildered and excited.

"I want you" I tell you, my voice deep, firm and sincere, the tone in my throat confident and relaxed yet strict with expectation, commanding and demanding. My hunting eyes fixing with yours, committed and unflinching, their hazel heat igniting, so intense your heart blushes and rushes with panic.

"He'll be home soon" you protest, pleading with defiance, the epitome of innocence, and yet I sense a quivering in the delivery, apologetic and helpless, an adulterer's confession, knowing full well your disobedience is far from negotiable.

"I don't care" I defy you, stepping forward, my eyes breaking over you like ocean waves crashing onto a body of softened sand, my hands slow in their motion, unbuckling my jeans.

Your thoughts muddle, words failing to form as you tug your bottom lip between your teeth and step toward me, drawn by the gravity of my physical demands, your hands coming alive, fumbling with mine, mirroring my intent, eager to unfasten my belt, our eyes intimately tied by chords of light.

Relieved of their undertaking, my hands slip around you and pull you to me, your body softening, melting into my arms, our kiss, breathless, full and deep, our tongues and mouths wet with wild wanting.

Eyes closing, fusing from within, your hands busily pushing down inside my jeans, easily finding my hardness, unencumbered, naked and firm.

Your thighs soften, seduced by the curling touch of your fingers closing around my girth, gripping against my manhood and taking the firm weight of me in your hands.

My hand reaches into the full head of your hair and grips tight, a begging, burning bright light of white ignites behind your eyes as they flash open, finding mine, our kiss breaking, our full lips wet with breathlessness.

Our minds tumble. A flash of fantasies, one hidden within another, and then another. Losing your strength to mine, your insides flushing, rushing and softening, your knees trembling as they soft buckle, your thigh bones melting with the thought of my hands, rough and firm, turning you, pushing you over the island counter of your kitchen.

My palms spreading, possessive, pushing your dress up onto your hips, my fingers grabbing at the sodden gusset of your spoiled, sex soiled knickers, tugging them aside, pressing my cock to the split of your tightness, then fucking you roughly against these cabinets.

In your fevered mind your flattened breasts press through your dress, pushed down into the countertop, your grip reaching for the farthest edge, my fist firmly in your hair, clutching tight and from behind.

You're begging me to rush, to fuck hard and not risk the front door flying open, for your husband to come stumbling into the hallway with his far away eyes frozen to the horror of your fantasy.

But I don't. Instead I hold the pause between us, savoring the dilemma, my eyes fixing with yours, defiant and demanding, patiently reading the scripts of your imagination before slowly sharing a smile that only you could ever know, one that comes with guilty knowledge.

Aware of the time slipping away your expression begins to twist with mock pain, appealing for me to hurry. But cruelly I won't give in, and interpreting your appeal I reassert my demand: "I want you, fox"

"I know" is all you can manage to counter, your hands stroking slowly, cupped around my cock and milking me, feeling my girth throb against your fingers, the hard truth of my assertion.

Lowering my hands, I work to slip my belt from the loops of my jeans, then pass the leather noose around your wrists. "You're mine now, fox" I tell you. And you sense the honesty of my claim, seeing the truth of it burning brightly within my eyes and hearing the sound so firmly sworn beneath the layers of my guiding voice, grounding you to the foundations of my form, as resilient as Bayham's Abbey.

"But he'll be home soon" you offer crestfallen.

"I told you. I don't care." I reaffirm, reaching my arm up into the air, clutching the noose of my leather belt in my fist and hoisting your wrists high above your head. I lean in, pressing my kiss to your mouth, our eyes closing with relief and pleasure.

My cock flexing hard against your thighs, you take my weight against the countertop, feeling my body pressing into the hollow of you. My free hand reaching around your hip, pulling you tighter to me.

In the frenzy of our kiss your imagination spirals anew, flooding with the thought of your wrists bound high above your head, my free hand ripping at your dress, pawing and clawing, finding a way to reach the firm meat of your breasts.

My mouth ravenous, my free hand reaching down, finding the split in your skirt and savaging the seam, my fingers dragging up inside your knickers, stretching them tight, finding you wet, your hips squirming to help me find more of you.

But I refuse to conform to your fantasy, breaking our kiss and reasserting my authority. My eyes flaring with unbridled passion and unspoken promises. My free hand rising, palm open, to stroke against your face, my fingers splaying as they reach behind your ear and grip a full fist of your hair.

You hiss as you inhale through your teeth, loving the bright burn of my firm grip, unapologetic and possessive. You read the need in my eyes and sense the covetous smile half curling in the corner of my mouth, remembering the long thick mane of my prime and how my hair would curl around my broad shoulders. The look in my eyes unchanged, the light as bright as you have ever seen.

We hold each other with our gaze and share a Bayham moment, your thighs softening, your knees beginning to crumple, I feel the weight of you pulling down through the noose of my leather belt, the binding tightening around your wrists as your body begins to give in to gravity.

Easing down onto your haunches, thighs spreading wide, your eyes break away from mine, called to consider the familiar form of my naked phallus, my cock, hung hard and heavy from your handling.

You ease your jaw open with a sensual yawn, our eyes closing together as you press your lips to the velvet sheen of my head, feeling the smooth thick throb of my loving cock pushing over your tongue and slowly filing your mouth.

Gently stroking your head forward and back, feeling the rub of my cock stretching your lips. Hearing my pleasure groaning above you, my one handheld high, hoisting your wrists, my other clenching to a fist, gripping and releasing your thick hair as you dare to draw more of me inside you.

"Fuck!" I groan with gratified approval, and the sound of my arousal turns you on far beyond the rub and throb of my slow-moving sex sliding inside your mouth.

With devious intention I let my grip slip from your hair and dropping my shoulder I stoop, my arm reaching low, pushing my hand down inside the open neckline of your dress, my fingers spreading out to smother your chest, cupping and squeezing the firm of your breast, your nipple rolling under my palm, hardening, getting trapped between my knuckles and aching for the playful pull of my pinch and grip.

My hips gently begin to sway, my thighs, glutes and abdominal muscles flexing and contracting, gaining a slow and easy rhythm, a rolling motion of soft fucking, as my cock rubs full inside your mouth. Until you sense a tightening in my stroke and a shortening in my breath, my cock flexing, hardened, rigid, aching to cum. I'm so close.

Low on your haunches, thighs spread, you feel the weight of your sex, pressing wet into the stretch of your knickers. Your mind spiraling again, summoning thoughts of my fingers pawing and clawing at your aching cunt, peeling your panties away to finger-fuck you with horny demand.

I feel your wrists snagging at the leather noose of my belt and I know you're close, your clit tingling with a desperate need for attention, wanting to feel her hood feathered and stroked. My thighs and buttocks clenching tight, my balls gripped with fighting to hold on, but I know I'm at the edge.

Another fantasy flashes through you. The front door bursting open and your husband in the hallway, his listless eyes now igniting with fury and indignation, finding his wife, crouching on her haunches, sucking passionately on her lover's big fat cock.

You imagine his expression slowly twisting, a black look of wide-eyed shock, his naivety slain, a thunderous storm of ferocity and outrage rolling over him, robbing him of his usual smug apathy, realizing the depth of his underestimation, his focus fixing on the stretch of your mouth and the muffled movement of my cock slowly sliding and rubbing inside.

"Fuck!" I cry out, shattering your fantasy, my vertebrae flexing, tendons tightening, musculature in spasm, my lungs gasping for air as my orgasm bursts through my lower spine, a splintering of shrapnel shattering my senses, my eyes rolling, head tipping backward until I'm close to toppling, my cock throbbing with cum.

You swallow the thick cream of my sweet spunk, oyster rich, decadent and dirty. My body crumpling above you, exhausted. My one hand slipping from the bruise of your gripped breast, the other lowering, leaving the leather belt noose tied around your wrists to slacken.

I offer my hand and help you to your feet and you use my arm to steady yourself against the giddiness and light-headedness that follows while trying to straighten your disheveled dress.

My eyes fix with yours, your lips bruised with rouge kissing, their desire undampened. "Let's get upstairs" I insist, knowing full well you're close and in need of finishing.

"I can't" you complain, "he'll be home any minute"

~ ~

Reaching the edge of the final field you drift back into the present, departing from your casual daydreaming to look up into the sky and catch the last of the light fading.

With your hands hidden in their respective pockets, you squeeze the smooth pebble and think of me, while curiously wondering what you might find written on that tiny scroll of paper, buried deep and rolled so tight inside that little silver-chained glass vial?

~VII

Reaching your front door, your legs begin to weaken with relief, your calf and thigh muscles giving in; they're making meek, childlike complaints, churlishly claiming to have grown leaden from the long walk.

Relieved you step inside and feel the welcome quiet, a blanket of calm that wraps around you as the front door closes and squeezes the space to silence, sealing you inside.

Pausing, you consider the weight of an invisible, anxious armor, the vigilant defenses you carry with you whenever you leave the house, even just to walk alone, and the relief you feel on returning, reunited with your own protected space, a place where you can shed these outer layers.

A moment of melancholy pulls at your emotions, reminding you of the sanctuary you seek. A yearning, to be this vulnerable and not be alone. Recalling a fleeting moment, the soft strength revealed in the unspoken quiet of your lover's presence as he shared the silence, secure enough to just let it be.

That was then, stood beneath those defiant buttresses, their commitment and ambition unrelenting, seeming to shoulder the weight of the open sky, an audacious mass of weathered masonry, serving to provide strength wherever weakness seeks shelter, finding refuge within the ruins of Bayham's Abbey.

Unlacing your heavy boots, you pull them off and let them drop down with a thump-thump, landing heavily on the hardwood floor of your hallway. And where finally free of their weight you turn to climb the stairs, your hand on the rail, your mind keen with running a bath and soaking your aching limbs.

In your bedroom, you stand before your dresser and empty your pockets, seemingly lost in long ago thoughts, admiring the smooth pebble gemstone, as you lift her from your pocket and return her to nestle with her companion stones, a handpicked collection of treasured rarities, each one gifted to you over time by your Bayham lover.

Your eyes rest on this accumulation of little surprises, a collection of Birthday, Christmas and other spontaneous presents, each parcel arriving from overseas, containing wrappings of colored tissue, hand tied with ribbon or string.

You recall fondly the excitement of each occasion, cherishing the opportunities to slip out of sight, taking your time to intimately peel away each layer, recalling precious moments of shared solitude.

Eventually uncovering the luxuriant lace of some fine silk knickers, discovering the delicate intimate feel of their exotic fabric, so seductive against your fingertips, his final touch wrapped around your chosen gemstone.

Glancing in the direction of your dresser mirror, you catch sight of the crushed jade and emerald amethyst buried in the iris of your eyes, and you see the glint of their light brightening from within, the animated embers of their amber fleck igniting, whetted and awoken by the opening of this private trove.

Your subconscious aroused, a séance of your own design begins unfolding, one practiced and perfected over time, your awareness slipping inside and ritually disappearing from the waking world, descending into a daydream, saturated with nostalgia.

Your pocketed hand grips around the little glass vial, this unearthed curiosity found buried on your woodland walk now teasing you with wondering what promises and pledges you might find hidden within. A mystery of words inked and waiting, handwritten, else typed onto this tiny scroll of paper and rolled so tightly inside this silver threaded pendant.

Awoken, you startle, your own reflection caught napping in the dresser mirror, you listen vigilantly reaching for the flowing sound of bathwater, the taps left running. Hastily you place the pendant on the dresser and sweep through into the bathroom.

The window, mirrors and tiles are wet with condensation and steam as quickly you close off the taps and stir the water, piping hot, the bath now filled within an inch or two of the over-flow.

You scurry back into your bedroom to retrieve some matches and a soft scented candle. You place the candle on the tile ledge fitted at the foot of the bath then light the wick before pulling off your clothes, leaving them discarded in an ungainly heap on the cold tile floor and turning out the sharp overhead light.

The small room immediately mellows, warm and soothing. And as you raise your leg to step over, you take a moment, hovering your foot over the surface, readying yourself for the blanching, hissing as the heat grips your skin, dipping your toes into the steaming water, your blood vessels blooming.

Climbing in, easing yourself down, feeling the tension readily escaping from the confinement of your over-stretched muscles. You sense the pores of your skin opening, softening pink, as you breathe in the heat and allow it to heal you.

Sinking down until submerged, the water reaching over your shoulders and closing around your neck, your head resting gently against the curved edge, your eyes closing, letting go of the present, slowly slipping away, the soothing heat and the flickering candlelight summoning you to another place.

A gothic archway. Weathered brick and stone. Mottled with lichen and worn away by so many seasons of wind and rain, now bleaching in the sunlight. A heavy, wooden door framed within the arch, held by iron hinges, roughened and wrought with long ago mongering. An iron ring handle and latch.

You grip the wrought-iron ring and twist; the heavy latch lifting as you press your palm to the door's warm oak and push, the hinges giving way to your insistence, the weight of the door easing open, revealing a wide corridor of continuous arches.

A vaulted ceiling, gothic ribs of quarried stone, masoned by so many hands, doubtless built with blood and sweat, broken skin and bone. Your eyes drawn along the spine, beneath the vertebrae of each archway to the farthest end of this cathedral's cloister and the bright light that fills its farthest point.

Curious you begin to walk toward the light. Bare feet on smooth stone. You move between the shade and light of these archways, breaking their shadows and casting your own.

On your right, a colonnade opens out onto an abandoned quadrangle. A mature tree grows astride a fallen standing stone. It's roots sprawling and exposed, their tendril grip reaching down over the stone to find the soil and bind it to the ground.

Between the roots, you see where ancient runes and glyphs remain, visible symbols carved into the stone, revealing clues, a codex from our pagan past. You wonder, playfully, imagining their meaning, feeling your love bloom within this bygone place, with its hallowed ground of earth and stone.

As you approach the final reach of these cloistered archways, the light beyond the open doorway seems bright with summer sunshine and you feel the warmth in the stone beneath your feet.

Reaching the open doorway, you pause to take in the beauty that greets you. Smooth stone steps, scooped hollow and foot worn descend, flanked with herbaceous borders of wildflowers, fox glove dahlia's and delphiniums, they coil down to a lake of cobalt blue.

The water draws you, possessed of its own allure, you feel the energy of the lake calling you and you slowly descend the many stone steps, breathing in the wild scents, honey suckle and lavender.

Butterflies and dragonflies, with their iridescent petal wings, as beautiful as painted silk and as delicate as rice paper, flit and flurry between the borders and the blooms, untroubled by your arrival. Your mind finding a frequency calmer and more intense with floral beauty than anything you've ever known.

The lake draws nearer, it's beckoning unabating. The sunlight, chrome yellow, its rays pushing through your white dress and soothing your skin from underneath, reassuring you the water is welcoming and equally warm.

The smooth stone beneath your bare feet dissolves, disappearing into softened sand, a powder of refined sugar cane granules indenting with the press of each fresh footstep.

Reaching the shallow edge of the water you feel the warmth bathe your feet. The sunlight beckons, seducing you to slip naked from your white dress, and no matter how self-conscious, somehow you concede, stepping further into the water and feeling it rise, climbing your calves, knees and thighs.

You let go, allowing the body of water to take your slender weight, falling backwards, feeling your naked torso and limbs held, floating, buoyed beneath the surface.

Looking back, you see the steep climb of the many stone steps, coiling their way up to the now tiny archway from where you'd descended. And beyond the archway, the looming, silhouette outline of the Abbey stands. Those sculpted stone columns reaching up, ruined, shouldering the weight of the sky on what remains of those broken buttresses.

Bayham. Your thoughts meander through the Abbey's ruins while your body floats with ease and acquiesce, the welcome warm water enveloping you in a sapphire lake of azure blue. Imagining your fingertips tracing between those exposed tree roots, finding the chiseled indentations of ancient glyphs and runes, those long-forgotten symbols carved into that now fallen standing stone.

You imagine the rings within that tree, each new ring a year in the making. Each ring reminiscent of the cartography of my open hand. My palm raised, held in yours, as slowly you trace the lines of my life with your fingertips, mapping out their meaning. Finding truth in how we feel, our energies revealed in our touch and unique to our union.