Celtic Mist Ch. 07

"Answers, I suppose," he said with a rueful laugh.

She laughed too. "Sure, who isn't?"

There was a pause in which laughter from the caravan floated across the field, then the girl asked, "What is your name?"

"Declan. What is yours?"

"Phoebe."

"Phoebe, 'tis a pretty name."

"Ta." She adjusted the blanket round her. "Do ye live here, Declan?"

"No. I've been hired to repair a bridge on the turnpike. The work crew is staying here. We've been here a few days."

From the direction of the firepit, a woman's voice rose in a haunting ballad. Phoebe's eyes, shining in the moonlight, seemed to be studying him. At length, she looked over her shoulder towards the caravan, then back at him. "Might I walk with you on your search for answers?"

Declan hesitated briefly, then smiled. "Aye, sure."

Phoebe hitched the blanket higher, sat upon the wall, and swung her legs over to the other side, joining him. They began slowly walking side by side.

"How long have you been in the village?" Declan asked.

"We arrived yesterday. I expect we shan't stay long...we'll probably go to Athy next."

They turned onto a small alley that led from the field back into the village. "Do you ever grow fond of a town and regret the leaving?"

She laughed bitterly. "We've never been made to feel welcome enough to grow fond of a place. Such is the life of an lucht siúil." Her last words he recognized as Irish but could not understand them.

"What is that --- what ye said?"

"An lucht siúil...it means the walking people."

"Is that what you call yourselves?"

"Aye."

They had reached the main street and now paused under a street lantern and regarded each other. In the dim light, Declan saw that she was a lass near his own age, comely with long, wavy, reddish-blond hair hanging unbound and disappearing under the blanket. He felt a distant stirring as if his body were stepping forward to make a decision that his heart was unwilling to make. 'Twas not the red of Aoife's hair...

Stop! Let her go! Let her go from your heart!

Pheobe was studying him in turn, her eyes moving over his chest, shoulders, and face. "How did you get the scars on your handsome face?" she asked, her lips curving in a little smile.

"Fighting."

"Fighting for what?"

With irony he echoed Blaylock's words from the past, "Oh...sport, prize money, glory --- turkey legs."

Phoebe giggled. They resumed walking. A subtle shift in mood had occurred --- their footsteps, previously aimless, now had a purposeful cadence.

"Erm...is it fine by your family for ye to be gone this long?"

She tossed her head. "'Tis time me father learnt he cannot control me forever."

Declan gave her an inquiring look.

"Since I was a wee bairn he's dictated every detail of my existence --- what I do, what I say, whom I talk to. I'm old enough now to make me own choices, so I am!"

They continued on, walking down the main street. 'Twas not long ere they were abreast of the inn where he was lodging. Phoebe stopped and nodded towards the building. "Be this where you're staying?"

"Aye."

"So I guessed. 'Tis the only inn in the village." She scanned the windows.

Declan cleared his throat. "There are seven other men sharing me room."

"Mmmm...sounds jolly." She glanced up at him, and they picked up their pace. For some time, they walked, propelled on by some unspoken, mutual inclination. Declan asked her about her family and her travels, and in response to her like query, told her the version of his life ere he remembered his family.

They made their way up and down all the lanes in the little village, inevitably finding themselves back at the inn...now standing behind the building in an alley, awkwardly looking at each other. Phoebe's expression was plaintive as she shivered.

"You're cold," Declan observed.

She nodded her head, casting her eyes about the dark alley. "Think ye that we can warm up in there?" she murmured, her long lashes coyly lowering as she glanced aside.

Declan followed her gaze to the inn's small stable, then looked again at her moonlit face. 'Twas a moment of decision...aye...he swallowed and drew his hands from his coat pockets.

Stepping to the stable door, he tested the handle and found it unbolted --- they slipped inside, and he latched it behind them. When his eyes adjusted to the dim light coming through the window, he made out a modest four stall stable, unoccupied save for one horse in the nearest stall. Although the village was small, it was on the turnpike and presumably had enough custom to maintain the service. There was no hayloft, but bales of hay and straw were stacked along the wall opposite the stalls.

Declan peered into the stall at the further end, confirming it empty and, by scent, laid with clean straw. "Shall we sit in here?" he suggested.

Phoebe opened the stall door and stepped in. Declan grabbed a large armful of additional straw and followed, arranging a thick nest of straw next to one sidewall. They both sank down.

For several moments they sat in silence, looking at each other in the scant light. "Erm...'tis warmer in here," he ventured. Phoebe shivered again, prompting his question, "Are ye still cold?"

"Aye." She scooted closer and leant against him.

Declan put an arm over her shoulders and rubbed her back briskly for several moments.

"May I sit on your lap?" she whispered.

He nodded, unbuttoning his cloak and shifting to lean against the sidewall. "Sure, come here."

In a trice she was sitting across his lap with her arm round his neck. Declan adjusted his cloak and her blanket to make a cocoon about them, and inside it, put his arms about her, resuming his rubbing of her back.

'Twas pleasant...a lass's warm weight upon his thighs, snuggling close to him, her hair brushing his cheek. "Better?" he asked by and by.

Phoebe lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at him, their faces just inches apart. It seemed only natural when they leant closer and pressed their mouths together...her lips were soft and eager and tasted of honey and spices...then their tongues deliberately entwined. Both her arms were about him now and she wiggled pointedly on his lap --- his body knew the game was on.

In the close embrace with their hot breaths and fumbling hands, the chill was soon forgotten. The blanket and cloak fell away as their mouths fed upon each other. She pulled his muffler off, and he her neckerchief. She unbuttoned his waistcoat and under the loosened garment ran her hands over his chest on top of his shirt. He found the fastenings of her bodice and chemise and undid them...in wonder feeling the small, firm cones of her teats and the lovely, libidinously stiff, thimble-sized nipples crowning them.

Most strangely, even as his body was responding to the bawdy exercise --- his lips and hands moving, his cock standing --- his mind seemed to be most perplexingly hovering above the scene, making calm observations, distracting him from his pleasure. Christ! Here he was most delightfully, lecherously ensconced with a fine lass and his mind was drifting afield!

Now she was astride him...she had undone his breeches and drawers and was freeing his stiffstander from the fabric, whilst his hands were under her skirts...his palms clasping her bare buttocks, one curling round the taut, smooth flesh to stroke Venus's prize from behind...silky curls, hot furrow, and...ah...she was deliciously wet! What heaven 'twould be if Aoife sat upon him so!

"Mmmmm..." Phoebe sighed. Phoebe...aye...the lass was Phoebe. He should find her clitoris. Phoebe's small, nimble hand was all over his organ now...squeezing, rubbing, tugging. Aoife, he thought. Damn it all! He was assailed by thoughts of Aoife --- most aggravatingly both driving his body in the instinctive response of desire and drawing his mind away from the actual girl in his arms. Phoebe was kneeling up, preparing to sit upon his cock. Stop thinking on Aoife! Stop thinking on Aoife!

"Stop!"

Phoebe froze on her knees, her hand wrapped round his shaft. "What's wrong?"

Declan realized he had spoken the word aloud. He sighed and withdrew his hands from under her skirts, resting them on her waist as he gazed at her face. "Phoebe, 'tis sorry I be....you're a fine, bonnie lass, so ye are...I'm most eager to lie with ye, as you can tell by me body...ah!" His breath caught as she squeezed his swollen cock. "But my heart is under a spell-like, of a lass whom I lost. 'Twould not be fair...to favor you with only a part of my regard."

Phoebe's expression was that of child from whom a toy had been confiscated. Declan tried to pull together his open drawers, but she would not relinquish her hold upon him, indeed her hand moved up and down with yet more determination. "Please...oh...please!" she pouted. "I've never seen such a fine battering piece...at least let me see ye spend!"

He could not think clearly with her hand tugging upon him so. "But...I dinna have the...wherewithal to...'twould be no pleasure for you," he said between breaths.

"To see this beast spurt will be pleasure enough---" she tickled the flange of his crown and cajoled, "--- and it might break the spell of that other lass."

Declan groaned. Aye, such was the very remedy he had prescribed for himself. Although his heart was reluctant to abandon its dream, his body capitulated to the sweet torment --- he let go his drawers and leant back against the stall wall with a helpless expression.

Phoebe grinned, spat in her palm, and set to in glee. Quickly she augmented the spittle till the excursions of her gripping fist proceeded in glorious lubriciousness. With the shifting of her position, the moonlight coming through the window illuminated his tackle in faint silvery light. His sturdy pillar shone pale and full glistening from tip to ballocks, the engorged veins and broad crown standing out against the stark shadows. Phoebe's eyes fixed agog upon the magnificent tribute to Eros as her ardent hand stroked up and down.

Declan now appreciated that she had positioned herself astride his right leg...her skirts were bunched round her hips revealing her creamy thighs. Upon his knee, through the fabric of his breeches, he sensed heat of her naked cunny, and his hand clasped her thigh to feel in awe its lascivious flexing as she rubbed and rubbed herself against his kneecap. "Ah, Phoebe...!" he whispered hoarsely, his body throbbing at her wanton improvisation. He tensed the muscles in his thigh to abet the friction against her yearning tid-bit.

The physical sensations soon overwhelmed the long-entrenched cacophony of his thoughts. Up and down...up and down went her squeezing hand accompanied by the splendid lewd sounds of his foreskin again and again sliding over his slippery, spittle covered knob. Thlip, thlap, thlip, thlap. Every plaguing thought --- Blaylock, the press gangers, Burrows and Fitzgibbons, his family, Ireland's plight, the United Irishmen, Aoife --- joyfully fled his mind as the inexorable ascent to orgasm took possession.

Phoebe rode his knee harder and her stroking fist flew. Declan groaned as his body tensed...one hand gripped her thigh and the other a handful of straw...his hips rose into her strokes.

"Ohhh! Aye...aye!" she babbled as the preparatory fluid christened her fingers.

In the happy blankness of Declan's mind, the pleasure coalesced throughout his body and raced headlong to his groin, drawing his stones up and surging into his shaft. "Oh God, oh God!!!" he rasped between his gritted teeth, his head straining back against the stall wall. Phoebe bounced rapidly upon his kneecap panting, then with a squeaking intake of breath, her body began to jerk...a sudden wetness expanded on his knee.

"Ah-aah-aaahhh!" he gasped --- his cock jolted in her hand and the sperm torrent erupted. Phoebe squealed --- her shining eyes watching the geyser shoot several feet up...a shower of pearls in the moonlight...

Declan walked Phoebe back to the dark field where the caravan was encamped. By the stone wall where they had first met earlier that night, he squeezed her hand. "Thank ye, sweet Phoebe," he murmured. "I hope ye be right about breaking the spell."

She squeezed back. "I as well."

In the room at the inn, he lay on the floor under his blanket --- he had volunteered to be one of the four men on the floor. He sighed as he felt the faint stirring of his cogent mind too soon begin to intrude into his eased state...for some time he gazed up at the moon visible through the window, struggling to blot out any recognizable thoughts. In this endeavor he at last exhausted himself and fell into deep slumber.

.

He was striding across the moor, stepping over rocks and small flowering plants. Behind him on horseback were Captain Blaylock, Mr. Bruckton, and the Duke of P---, holding their reins in one hand, and their hunting muskets in the other. He himself was carrying a shillelagh, swatting at the shrubs and tangled braes, flushing out small birds as he passed...birds too small for the three hunters behind him.

At last, he came to an old hawthorn tree...a faery tree...the leaves of which were scraps of newspaper and pamphlets that made a strange vibrating noise in the wind. Upon his approach, a magnificent black crow upon the highest bough took to flight, the iridescent fan of its wings stirring the air upon his face even where he stood far below on the ground.

"She's the one!" Blaylock shouted.

Declan ran after the beautiful bird as it flew towards a copse of trees, the three horses cantering behind. Through the shimmering canopy of leaves in the forest, he intermittently sighted the dark shape of the splendid creature. Breaking free of the woods, he found himself on the bank of a long, ghostly blue lake, nestled in a green valley. The three men drew rein alongside him. Above the lake circled the ebon bird.

"We've got her now!" Blaylock proclaimed, raising his weapon to his shoulder.

BOOM!!!

With a cry, the bird plummeted into the middle of the lake. "Go fetch it, Quickfist," Blaylock ordered.

Declan dived into the still waters, hearing the faraway heartbeat of the wounded creature through the cold water. When he reached the motionless figure, he discovered 'twas not a bird, but a red-haired maiden in a white nightgown --- Aoife! He must save her from the hunters! With an arm about her, he swam to the further bank, climbing out where the overgrown foliage disguised their exit from the water. Lifting the unconscious lass in his arms, he ran through the woods. Behind him he heard shouts and gunshots. Faster and faster he ran, leaping over stones and dodging tree trunks. As the sound of the pursuers grew fainter, the terrain grew rockier.

All at once he beheld the ruins of an ancient castle...a castle from the days when their Celtic ancestors ruled their own country. Into the castle he carried Aoife...'twas mostly rubble, but when he pushed open a heavy oaken door in a stone archway, he discovered behind it a magic room untouched by time: a fire blazed in a huge stone fireplace...next to it was a large bed strewn with cushions and fur pelts.

He laid her unmoving body upon the bed and stripped off their soaked garments --- first his, then hers...peeling the film of clinging linen from her lovely naked body. Her delicate pink nipples were taut from the cold, and the red hue of the velvet upon her mound was muted by the water. His longing eyes drank in her charms as his hands remained solicitous. No injury did he find from a gunshot...she must be in shock from the cold. Under the covers he then slid, lying on his back, and putting her cold, bare body atop his...her cheek upon his chest, her small breasts against his torso, her legs limply astride his hips. Covered by the fur pelts, he wrapped his arms round her.

The gradually livening breath against his neck told him she was warming. She moved slowly upon him as her breath grew stronger...'twas subtle but his cock felt the faint sinuous motion of her body...and swelled with the full force of desire. He could not help himself...reaching down over her round bottom, he felt between her open legs...felt the warmth and the tender lips and the slippery fluid that was not lake water. With a groan he pried his cockstand from his belly and positioned the head in her wee notch. His body moved in communion with hers, arching his hips up as hers arched down...insinuating his knob more and more firmly between her clasping lips. He felt the resistance of her innocence and his hands held her hips fast as he pushed against it.

Aoife's eyes flew open as his cock ruptured her flesh. No ice was in those aqua eyes as they met his...only the heat of amorous desire. Together they strained to work his organ into her cunny, straining till the entirety of his throbbing staff was full buried inside her body. Then they began to move, undulating together...slowly at first, then with increasing fervor as their enjoined organs swelled tenser and tenser with the escalating pleasure...

.

Declan awoke to the dawn lightening the windowpane. Behind him came the sounds of the other men rising --- someone pissing into the chamber pot, the creak of the bed frame, low muttering. He then realized that under the blanket his drawers were a sticky mess with spunk...the dream! He had spent in his sleep...it had been several years since that had last happened!

From his knapsack he drew out his extra pair of drawers and discreetly exchanged them. He thought on the rousing encounter last night with Phoebe in the stable...never before had he experienced a lass frigging him to the balmy crisis. What a stirring diversion! The feel of a girl's soft, eager palm stroking up and down...aye, even the very sight of the small, white hand gripping his stretcher had been a pleasure!

Likewise, he had never before experienced a lass spending on his knee...indeed, thinking back on myriad of bawdy tales he had heard over the years, he might be the only lad to his knowledge who had experienced the novel exercise. It had been a most delightful answer to his question --- outstanding since his night with the Burkes --- as to whether a lass could spend from stimulation of the clitoris alone...without being mounted. Declan grinned to himself as he fastened the buttons on the knees of his breeches, rubbing his hand across the wool over his right kneecap where she had ridden.

His heart had been conflicted, but his body had accepted the restorative. In view of the happy denouement of Phoebe's treatment, 'twas strange to have had later that same night a nocturnal release whilst he dreamt. The corner of Declan's mouth lifted with a wry thought --- perhaps the lass had only primed the pump, as it were! Or perhaps he should credit it to the power of the dream...what had those intense images signified? Had the spell of Aoife been broken...or fortified? Was it a sign from the Morrigan?

That day at the work site, the men secured the temporary bridge to the bank and stream bed. They were constructing plank ramps to access it when the carriage with the builder and engineer arrived. The two men, together with the foreman Potts, walked from one side of the stream to the other, evidently delineating the course for the diversion of the road. At length they appeared to reach some conclusion and marked the proposed route with sticks in the field before the two men departed in their conveyance.

When the ramps were complete, Potts summoned Declan to the field on the south bank. "Yer the strongest of the lot. Chop down that tree --- the road needs to run there." The man held out an axe to him.

Declan turned to look at the indicated tree: the faery tree. "That tree?"