Big Surprises

The rain had been pouring down well before we started walking just after 8 this morning so at our mid-afternoon break no one bothered to seek shelter; wet is wet.

She was off to the side studying the fast-flowing waters of a swollen stream, as anti-social as always (and as anti-social as I usually am). I went over and used my friendliest voice. "I'm betting you don't dislike us all, it's that you're an introvert, am I right? You like people but in small doses." She had been constantly alone over the first three days of our five day walk; others had tried to engage her but with no success.

She looked at me a bit confused, then smiled shyly and turned away.

She usually trailed behind on the walk so now I did too, not wanting to talk, just wanting to send her a message that I was there. I have a lot of sympathy for people like her. The world is filled with extroverts who trample over us intros. Some of us manage to fight back a little; she doesn't seem to be one of them.

This was going to be the only night on the walk when we'd be staying in a village large enough for more than one pub so when we reached our destination I asked her if she would have dinner with me. She hesitated but half-smiled, what I took for a yes. I pointed to the pub across from where we would be staying. "How about there at 6:30."

She nodded and followed the group into our accommodations for the night. It was still raining.

In fact, it had been raining constantly during our guided walk through a small section of northern England so what should have been a stroll through a very pretty countryside turned into a bit of a slog with all eight of us recognizable only by our approximate body shape and the colour of our rain gear.

In dry sportswear her body appeared femininely athletic — lithe; she must be a runner.

"I never run. I walk. I go on these little walks for the exercise ... and they take me away from my world, they energize me."

I learned over our halting, almost painful conversation that her world is in finance: she is an accountant for a large investment firm which, in return for a fat paycheque, takes all her available time. "It's not their fault, it's mine. I let them ... I have nothing else to do."

You can't expect scintillating conversations from two introverts who just met but even so, getting anything out of her was harder than the worst parts of the walk. When the dinner was finally done I extricated myself cheerfully, "I'll let you get back to yourself — I'll go to my room, lie down, read my map for tomorrow and pray for us all for sunshine."

I did. I stretched this into an hour before I started thinking about her, just a few rooms down the hall. It was only 8:30, what was she doing? I pictured her sitting on her bed hugging her knees to her chest looking out the rain splattered window into the dark English night.

I'm usually pretty good with needy people. I'm a good questioner, a good listener and my empathy is usually genuine. Still, my 'conversation' with her at dinner had been a complete failure. I knew little about her; I had no idea what her problem was, only that she certainly seemed to have one. It bothered me.

I would have gone out for a stroll if it wasn't raining so, instead, I decided on a couple of beers downstairs in the bar. But I didn't make it. As I passed her room I impulsively knocked and waited thinking she could use a little human contact. And I hated that I had failed before.

She opened the door an inch. "I was going down for a beer and wondered it you might like to join me."

She opened the door a little further; she was in pyjamas, she seemed to blush. "Thank you, but no."

I stood stupidly as if this rejection needed time to sink in then I said, "OK," and turned to depart. I made it a few paces down the hall when I thought I heard her say something. I stopped and looked back. She was part way into the hall looking at me.

"Excuse me," I said.

"I have a bottle of fruit juice."

"Oh."

"Would you like it?"

She looked pathetically sad, or was I imagining it? "Sure." I walked back and followed her into her room which was no bigger than mine, meaning that, along with a single-size bed and night table, there was one wooden chair, a tiny TV mounted high in a corner and a radiator on which, like in probably every other room in the pub, a variety of clothes were draped. When I sat in the chair she handed me a dark red-coloured drink in a plastic bottle with a wide mouth. I said 'cheers' and took a sip as she sat on the bed facing me; looking at me expectantly, as if there was something important I had to impart.

I had nothing. "I knocked on your door because I thought you might like some company," I said after a long and embarrassing silence. And then I realized the implication and blushed. She was dressed in thin pyjamas; her underwear was in full display on the radiator; she was obviously uncomfortable.

I hadn't noticed before how truly sad her eyes are. "Do YOU want company?" She asked. "I never think of company as an option."

The truth always serves. "I wasn't happy with our conversation at dinner. I'm usually more ... affable than I was. I guess I'm looking for a second chance."

"No, it wasn't you, it was me. I'm a lousy conversationalist."

"Why?"

"Lack of practise ... lack of interest. I'm never going to see you again after this trip so why should I take an interest in you?"

"I'm going to be in London for two days, three nights. I hoped I could take you out to dinner or to a play or something." I made this up to cover my embarrassment; I found her words really cutting.

This confused her. "Why would you want to do that? Then you'd be going back to America ..."

"Canada."

"And I'd never see you again."

When I stood up I jammed my head on the edge of the TV stand above me and buckled over in pain. She jumped up to help. I had a little blood on my hand which she noticed and quickly got some toilet paper. I dabbed the wound. The major pain subsided in a few minutes.

I was still rubbing the spot when I looked at her. I was a little pissed. "I knocked on your door to offer some company," I said, anxious to get out of there. "If you don't want any, good, fine, I'll go downstairs and have a beer."

"People don't knock on my door to offer me company."

"I did."

"I know, I didn't ... don't know how to handle it."

I was still a bit pissed; it was the pain. "Handle it honestly. If you don't want my company, say so, if you do, try to be sociable ... I believe that's the way it's supposed work. I'm no expert."

"OK, I'm sorry I was so ... lousy at dinner: I'm just not a talker. I was going to apologize tomorrow."

I sat down now dabbing at my still bleeding wound. "So apologize now."

She sat cross-legged on the bed facing me. "I don't have a hard time apologizing, if that's what you're suggesting."

"It isn't." This woman really didn't seem to be worth the effort. "I was just trying to get to know you a little. You're an introvert, that's my guess, I'm an introvert, the rest of them seemed to be heavy into extrovert-ishness. I was trying to throw you a bit of a life-line. You didn't and you don't have to grab it. Just tell me to bugger off. I'm good with that."

"Where do you live in Canada?"

I told her and I talked about the place a little; she was interested enough to ask a few questions. When the subject ran its course I tried to make a point: "Now, how hard was that? You learned a little about me, a little about where I live, a little about Canada and it took what? maybe five minutes. That's conversation. Most people like it; it can even prove useful. And you might even get to like some of the people you converse with."

Her smile seemed mischievous, it changed her appearance entirely.

"What?" I didn't know what was behind the smile.

"Are you a school teacher? You sound like one."

"No, I'm a 'functionaire' as the French call it, which I much prefer to the awful term bureaucrat."

"A process guy."

"Alas."

Talk seemed a whole lot easier now. I stretched out comfortably on the chair, she lay back against the headboard and we chatted like actual human beings for an hour. It was fun, I was glad I came and she seemed OK with it.

When I stood up I was very careful not to bang my head again — the goose egg still hurt.

"You don't have to go." Her eyes were more penetrating now, even concerned.

"We've got 15 miles tomorrow."

"Do you really want to meet me in London?"

"Sure ... if you want to."

"Where are you staying?"

I told her the name of my hotel.

"I'm not that far away." She reached for her phone on the dresser, leaned forward and threw it to me — when she did I could see a heavy breast swaying beneath her pyjama top. "I have an extra room. Stay with me. I can show you around. It'll save you a bundle."

This was so out of the blue I didn't know how to react. "Really?"

She smiled her mischievous look. "I could use the company ... you know, so I can practice my sociability."

"Are you sure ... you're right, you're never going to see me again." The very thought of spending $250 a night on a hotel room had me losing sleep.

She shrugged. "I have a spare bedroom. Phone your hotel. Cancel. Save your money."

I looked at her sternly. "You do realize this is one of the attributes of conversation. It can result in some really surprising offers."

She half-sneered. "And long awkward pauses, and dreadfully boring stories and puerile advances."

I had Googled the hotel and was punching in its number when I thought I understood what she said. "Sure, but getting a puerile advance isn't that hard to take if you're saving big bucks on a hotel room. Thanks."

I heard a snort. When I looked up a flying pillow hit me full in the face; it made my head snap back and I jammed my scalp into the TV stand again and again doubled over, the pain flooding through me again. I could feel her pulling the phone from my hand. "What's your name?"

It took me a moment to figure out why she wanted it. I waited for the first prolonged rush of pain to subside and told her then I fished around for the old, blood-stained wad of toilet paper. Before I could press it to the wound she handed me a fresh strip which I held against the new goose egg, about an inch away from the other one and I slowly straightened up. When I did she was standing in front of me finishing her call.

"Sorry," she said, solemnly. "That wasn't meant to happen."

"Ya, well, pillows tend to fly when you throw them."

She was slightly taken aback. "But it was a pillow. Pillows aren't supposed to knock over tall strapping men. Can I help?"

I turned away from her as if in defence and kept dabbing at my lump, happy that it was no bigger than the other one and not bleeding as much.

She went back to her bed. "I don't want you to go. I want you to stay ... I don't want you to do anything to me but I want you to stay."

She is pretty in a sensible way with penetrating grey eyes that were now looking away from, slightly embarrassed. This invitation shocked me more than the last one. What's happening here? I tried to make light of it. "Jesus, if I'm this battered and bloody in one hour in this room what might happen to me if I stayed?"

"Not much, but please stay anyway. I'm just asking."

She made me feel I'd be cruel to leave. I tried to lighten her up again."Do you snore?"

She looked up, surprised by the question. "I have no idea. I hope not."

"No complaints, then?" I chuckled.

"There has never been anyone to complain. You tell me."

The sadness was palpable, I had no idea what the cause was but her sadness hung in the air. "I'll go to my room and brush my teeth ... be right back."

I looked at my face as I brushed. I saw a good guy, a relatively happy guy, a caring guy but a guy who had never taken charge of his life. He is a guy who just rolls with the punches, never really asserting himself; never setting a goal and working hard to achieve it. I just saw a nice guy staring back at me and I knew where these types of guys always finish. It didn't surprise me in the slightest that in my two days in London, one of the world's most exciting cities, I would be spending it with the unhappiest woman I have ever met. That's me, that kind of thing happens to me.

"Can I get down to my boxers?" I whispered in the dark room, not knowing if she was already sleep.

"Yes." She whispered back.

I did, quickly then lifted the covers. I had resigned myself to fulfilling a role I didn't want but for which I was, apparently, needed. Fine, but at the first hint of any anger from her I'd be out of there and out of her life. I'm not that good a guy.

The bed was a single so some touching was unavoidable but I planned to be as discreet as possible. If she wanted more than my mere presence, and she made it clear she didn't, she would have to be the originator.

After a long five minutes when the only thing that moved under the covers were my lungs, she did by sitting up. "Will you hold me?" It was a painfully timid request

I thought it might get to this, and only to this. It has happened to me before: holding but no touching. Hard to get to sleep. I moved onto my side and gently moved in and spooned her from the back placing my left arm over her waist, my right arm scrunched between us. When I felt him grow at the touch of her bum I backed off a bit but then thought, fuck it, it's suppose to grow under these circumstances, even she must know that; I settled back in.

There's something literally magnetic about two bodies pressing together, even two bodies with specific orders to behave ... it's like it's a natural state of being: it's been happen between the sexes since before the cavemen and its just kept on happening — like a band-aid on the open wound of the human condition.

She was so tense her body was almost rigid. I whispered. "We're only going to do what you want, Beda, so relax."

She didn't, she was quiet for a couple of minutes then said, "I've wanted this to happen to me for as long as I can remember, a big strong man to hold me." She pulled away from me and lay on her back, her arms folded across her chest. I could nearly make out her face in the grey light coming from the window. I took a chance and leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.

She looked up at me, for my reaction I guessed, then her hand went down and found mine and she slowly guided my fingers down across her stomach between her legs.

At the slightest touch I could see her eyes close, her chest swell, I could feel her sink further into the bed. I slipped my other hand under her neck and I leaned into her and placed my lips on her's as I took my hand from her crotch and slipped my fingers under her pyjamas. She let out a long sigh as my fingers combed through her thin hair and then a long mournful groan as I slipped a finger into her very wet opening.

My erection was straining against her hip as I wrapped my hand around her shoulder meaning to pull her in but at my first touch she pushed back at me with the hand guarding her chest. "Don't touch me above the waist, OK? Don't." She barked the words so emphatically I shrunk away from her ... and I might have kept on going but her hand clamped down on mine, forcing my finger to stay where they were.

I don't like being shouted at but everything about this was so off I relaxed, respected her wishes and gently (and inexpertly) played in her pussy as I listened to her remarkable sounds ... sounds that drove me into wanting more. She didn't object when I removed my hand; she didn't object when I pushed down her pyjamas, she even helped, and she didn't object when I pulled away, sat up, got off the bed, knelt on the floor and leaned in between her legs. Her eyes were large, but she didn't object. And she didn't object when I kissed along her thigh, when I pressed my face to her thick, damp muff — she far from objected: her hands went instantly to my hair, her fingers tugged deep as my tongue poked through her pubes into her wet, slick centre. And then all hell broke loose. She was making the most extraordinary sounds as I grabbed her thighs, pulled her hard into me as a buried my face between her legs and my tongue deep inside her. It was frantic, she was bucking at my face, pushing as hard at me as my hands were pulling at her, each of us wanting more ... until the moans turned to cries ... and a long stream of cum gushed into my mouth and my face, a steady gush at first then it kind of pulsed out of her as she whimpered and moaned — the intimacy was so over-powering I clamped my mouth hard on her, grabbed my cock and in a few seconds was groaning and grunting out my own relief on the rumpled sheets on the bed.

I stayed there a full minute just kissing and licking, tasting and smelling then I edged up beyond her pubic hair, wiping my face along her taunt belly. Her fingers were still in my hair but now not holding me down but pushing me back. I wanted her tits, her lips ... I wanted more, but she wasn't letting me up. "What's wrong?"

"I'm wrong."

"About what? About me?"

"No. About me. Could you leave now?"

It was the way she said it. Cold, determined. Fuck her. I bundled up what clothes I could find in the dark and left without a word.

She didn't acknowledge me at any time during the next day so I didn't pay any attention to her. Sure, something was going on that I didn't know about but that didn't excuse her for kicking me out. It bothered me. But not much. I was in a great mood: I finally had sex in an embarrassingly long time.

It was one of the walker's 40th birthdays. I never got the story straight but it was clear that Alice had hooked up with another walker, Bob, on the first day of the hike and they were constantly partying when they weren't walking. I didn't know if it really was her birthday but everyone was looking for a reason to get pissed on our last night together so a birthday, real or imaginary, seemed reason enough. The drinking started right after we finished walking and it carried on through a group dinner and afterwards in the pub. Beda, of course, was a no-show ... and not missed.

But she was at my door the moment I staggered to it. "Where have you been?" She was in her pyjamas.

I hadn't even got the key in the lock. "Downstairs, where else?" There was only the one pub in this tiny village.

When I opened the door she followed me in and sat in the only chair, hunched forward, looking up at me. "I'm sorry about last night ... "

"You're always sorry, but I'm not. I had a great time and a lot of fun downstairs tonight and I'm about ready for bed."

"I want to talk," she said, solemnly.

"I've had too much to drink," I protested.

"So what? You can't listen?"

"I'll fall asleep. I'll need to keep drinking to stay interested and I don't have anything ."

She stood up. "I've got a bottle of wine."

"Really?" I said with genuine interest — I do this, I go on little toots from time to time, this seemed like a good time for another.

She took me by the wrist and pulled. "Come on."

We passed a couple of the partiers as she guided me down the hall; they were clearly startled to see us together. I offered a cheery good night as I was pulled through Beda's doorway.

I sat in her only chair. As she rummaged through her bag for the bottle, I admired her nicely muscular ass — really, the woman has a terrific body; it was a shame she was so loath to use it. I didn't know how old she is, probably about my age, 28, but she looked to have the type of body that would age well, not that I knew a whole lot about the subject; even so I mentally put twenty years on her and she still looked fantastic. Nice older face, too although her pout became a little more poutier with all the aggravation, as if she didn't think life had been kind enough to her.