Celtic Mist Ch. 16

The late morning light was muted as Declan and Aoife stepped out of the shelter of the forest and found themselves in a grazing pasture. Turning north to keep their distance from Enniscorthy, they walked side by side through the grass and clover as sheep and lambs bleated and trotted from their path. Soon they climbed over a flower dappled stone wall and crossed the road to scale the wall on the other side.

In the next field, a small farmhouse was visible, and upon approaching they beheld the farmer carrying a shovel, his young son at his side. Exchanging pleasant greetings, Declan inquired where there might be a public house, and as the wee lad gaped at Declan's battered face, the man gave them directions to the village of Monageer.

'Twas almost an hour's walk through the countryside, during which they happened upon occasional farm tenants but mercifully no Yeomen or Redcoats. Monageer proved to be a small village with a church and a few shops among the homes. Here and there, people were about on the main street --- men and women engaged in conversation in front of the houses, children playing. A few curious glances were cast in their direction as they passed by.

There was one tavern in town, at the end of the lane, as the farmer had described. Entering the establishment, they discovered a pleasant room with a low fire in the grate and chatting customers at the bar and tables. Declan scanned the room before selecting barstools at the far end from whence he could observe the door and windows.

A middle-aged barkeeper was leaning on the counter, conversing with a man at the opposite end, but as they seated themselves, he straightened and crossed to wait upon them. "What'll it be, lads?"

"Tea." Declan looked at Aoife; she nodded. "For both of us. What have ye to eat?"

The man raised a finger and stepped through a doorway behind the bar. Upon his return he announced, "Colcannon or black pudding and eggs."

Declan and Aoife burst out giggling at the words 'black pudding', Aoife ducking her pink face. As the puzzled proprietor continued to look at them, they spoke nigh in unison, "Black pudding and eggs."

Aoife's face alight with mirth was so comely, Declan could scarce restrain his adoring stare...but she was a lad, he reminded himself...they mustn't draw unwanted attention.

The man soon returned with the tea. "What happened to yer face, lad? Looks like ye've been worked over right well."

Declan shook his head, one corner of his lips quirking up. "A misguided wager at the tavern last night, so it was. But you should see the other lad." He winked his good eye.

The hot, strong tea was a welcome restorative, doing wonders for his sore throat. They drank in wordless appreciation, Aoife wrapping her fingers about her cup and inhaling the steam. The food when it arrived was excellent as well, and Declan was by and by feeling freshly fortified.

But as equal as he now felt to confronting his dilemma, he was having no better luck finding a solution. Intermittently he glanced at the now red-haired 'lad' next to him.

'Twas whilst they were eating that Aoife's hand froze upon her teacup and she sat up straight, her eyes widening. Declan took in her distressed expression, and his eyes flew to the door and windows. Finding nothing amiss, he murmured. "Are ye ill?"

Her eyes were fixed ahead. Declan followed her gaze to the other end of the bar and beheld the barkeeper --- occupied with nothing at all extraordinary. Mystified, he looked back at her. Now she was staring at her plate, poking at the eggs with her fork as her cheeks reddened. She shifted upon her stool awkwardly. Declan's eyes dropped, and he at once perceived the cause of her discomposure: there upon the blue wool in the crotch of her breeches was a darker wet spot about the size of a gold crown.

His spunk was running out of her cunny!

Declan's own cheeks swiftly flushed as he imagined the vision between her legs. They both sat with their hot faces tilted down towards their food. All he could see, however, was her wee pink slit with a trickle of his pearly seed emerging. The sensations from earlier in the morning overwhelmed him: the sight of her wide-stretched aperture skewered on his glistening cock...the feel of the hot flesh of her vagina gripping him...the sounds of her moans and breathing. He was powerless to halt the unfurling of his machine inside his breeches, and he soon had to tug his coat forward to hide the obvious, bulging protrusion under the wool.

He took a draught of the tea, then coughed and cleared his throat. When he glanced towards Aoife, he saw her lowered gaze fixed upon his lap. A moment later, her big eyes fastened upon his. Her pale irises were glowing even as they received the burning, silent message in his own eyes. With his heartbeat quickening, Declan signaled the barkeeper and reached for his knapsack to grab his coin pouch.

As he paid, he said in a nonchalant tone, "Do you let rooms?" To the negative reply, he asked if there was an inn in the village. Aoife had dismounted the stool and was fussing with her knapsack straps, hiding her blushing face.

Again, the man shook his head. "Sorry, lads, there's no inn, but ye might try Cavanaugh, the butcher down the lane. They sometimes have a room to let."

Declan thanked him and they headed out, he holding his knapsack in front of the indecent display in his breeches. They hastened from town, by mutual, unspoken understanding bypassing the butcher's shop --- 'twas far too personal a setting for what they were contemplating. They strode side by side along the road from town, their wits possessed only of the desperate search for a secluded place to indulge in Love's sweet commission.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats ahead of them recalled them to their circumstances, and they leapt over a stone wall to hide in a field. Two men on horseback trotted by wearing civilian garb; they were not soldiers.

But the scare kept them off the road as they roved on...the pressure of wanting waxing more and more insistent. They passed cottages, haybales, and trees...but everywhere they saw people at work in the fields. Nowhere could they find sure solitude, and Declan was nigh ready to throw caution to the wind and tumble her down behind the next shrub. Nigh an hour had passed --- at this rate they should have simply headed back to the waterfall when they had left the tavern. Now, that haven was some two hours in the opposite direction.

They were presently following a stream that separated two fields, lured by the cover of trees that grew upon its banks, but the potential opportunity was thwarted by the sighting a pair of men some hundred paces distant, walking through the young barley with hoes upon their shoulders. Declan waved friendly-like even as he shared an expression of frustration with Aoife.

Onward they proceeded, leaving the farmers behind as they crossed a stone wall into the neighboring pasture. The terrain was growing slightly hillier as they continued along the stream, passing grazing sheep and nursing lambs.

Declan's attention perked as he beheld what appeared to be a ruined structure at the crest of the hill, next to the stream and attended by scattered white-flowering blackthorn trees. With the exchange of a hopeful look, they redoubled their pace, soon reaching a jumbled array of large stones. It appeared to be a fallen cromleach, so it did --- indeed, quite similar to the ancient stone structure in which they had taken shelter that night in September...the night when Aoife had fled him.

In the present case, the standing stones on one side, along with the massive cap stone had collapsed, but several large stones remained upright on the other side. The smooth granite boulders were spotted with lichen and surrounded by a riot of shamrock and varied colored flowers.

They scrambled to scout round the stones and vicinity, miraculously discovering themselves at last alone, with nary a soul in sight in the fields on all sides. Declan did not long ponder the irony of this gift after Fate's capriciousness.

As they rounded the boulders from opposite directions, they faced each other for a second --- hearts pounding and eyes fervid, then Declan leapt towards Aoife to seize her in his arms, lifting her off her feet as he bent her to his ravenous kisses. Her arms flung about his neck and her slim, warm body molded to his as their tongues and lips melded in slippery rapture. Between the push of his hips and the tightening of his arm round her waist, he pressed his aching cock hard against her belly. "Oh lass, I'm rare famished for ye!" he muttered between kisses.

He released her from his embrace only to frantically tug open the buttons of her coat, pulling it from her and tossing it aside. She likewise pushed his coat over his shoulders and stripped it off. Then their hands bumped together as they worked at each other's breeches --- she with his straining buttoned flap, he struggling to undo the knot of her rope belt. She won the race and next grabbed the fastening of his drawers. Simultaneously, he at last freed her rope belt and fumbled with her buttons. With his drawers undone, his raging cockstand sprang free.

A whimpering sigh accompanied her renewed embrace, her small body nigh climbing up him to grind her mound against his upright iron. "Aye, love! Aye! I want ye something fierce! Let's get these confounded breeches off ye!" Declan growled, trying to yank the loosened garment down over her writhing hips. But some force was inexplicably opposing him, and he realized that even as he was pulling downwards, she was dropping to her knees before him with an impatient squeal, her arms yet wrapped round him and sliding down over his back and buttocks.

Declan stared in shock as Aoife, clutching the back of his thighs, lavished his privates...cock, ballocks and all...with kisses. One of her hands shifted to grasp his rigid organ and angle it down from his belly, and she at once tried to cover it with her open mouth.

"Oh God!" Declan whispered; she was clearly attempting to mimic what they had witnessed from the wardrobe: the oral exertions of the maid Charlotte upon the Yeoman officer! But the friction between his bulbous knob and her small mouth stymied her first, brave foray.

Not to be denied, Aoife hastily regrouped and began again with her lips, kissing his crown as she held the shaft in her fist. The kiss was deeper and more pointed than the first shower and incorporated the soft stroking of her wet tongue. Declan was reeling at the glorious, novel sensation of a lass's lingual caresses upon his tool...he sighed and leant back against the tall stone behind him, his thighs braced apart as Aoife knelt in the flowers between his feet. His face tilted down to watch agog as her lovely face explored his groin.

Ardent and agile, her tongue was all over him, painting his overheated musket with velvety swabs, coating the hot skin with spittle...her wee pink muscle traveling up and down the length of his shaft and breadth of his ruddy helmet. In evident awe, the tip of her tongue poked at the tiny hole in his cockhead. Now her eyelashes and hair were tickling his belly as she wetted the sturdy root...even lapping at his tautly wrinkled bandoliers. Declan stroked her hair as her head shifted about, freeing the fiery locks from its tie.

Soon his entire affair was festooned with slobber from stem to stones and tingling in the breeze.

Aoife paused, her eager fingers struggling to regrip as much of his girth as she could, then her mouth...open, soft, and glossy slick...sealed to the top of his knob. She pushed down on him, her lips stretching and stretching into a wide 'O' over his cock.

"Jaysis!" he gasped. Groaning at the exquisite sensation of her hot, wet, determined mouth covering him, Declan's fingers hovered above Aoife's head, feared that the stunning spell would break if he moved.

Now the flange of his crown disappeared through the laboring ring of her lips...and she pressed on. More and more of the shaft buried itself in her mouth, sliding over the slippery muscle of her tongue as her widening eyes above evidenced her growing excitement and apprehension. A muffled sound escaped her stuffed mouth.

In earnest now did Aoife endeavor to approximate the maid's motions, drawing back and pushing down upon his throbbing column. Oh sweet Heaven! This superb bawdy act...an act of which he had long dreamed...this darling, wee lass was doing it to him! And, by God, despite her awkward inexperience, the sensations were even more extraordinary than he had imagined!

Declan stared transfixed, moaning and panting as his cock slid in and out of her sweet mouth, the engorged mast most strikingly impaling her astonishingly stretched lips...rosy and glistening in contrast with her lovely, pale face. Her heavy lashes lifted, and her luminous aqua gaze met his. The next moment, she let him slip inch by inch from her mouth's heavenly clasp, and his overexcited steed reared its ruddy head to the sky.

"You're in a right lather for a fearless fighter, so ye are," she teased. "Am I doing it proper, then?" Her tongue swabbed the junction of his shaft and crown.

"Oh, love! This fighter is set to come undone!"

A grin lit her face and her mouth plunged back down upon his imploring cockstand. "Oh, God!" Declan's agitated fingers grazed her head as it once more nodded up and down in the widespread flap of his breeches. The muscles in his belly, arse, and legs began to tense with the approaching crisis. Her hand upon his thigh gripped harder, and the wondrous excursions of her voluptuous, sucking lips and squirming tongue grew more and more exuberant.

Again copying the maid's ribald demonstration, Aoife's other hand now joined in the sublime venture, squeezing and pumping the pulsing shaft as the ribbons of spittle slid down from her happily overburdened mouth.

Declan ken not what was the 'proper' way to practice larking, but her fumbling, enthusiastic, spittle-slurping...oh so greedy addresses were fast catapulting him to the agony of bliss! His fingers twined in her hair, and his breaths came fast and harsh as his cock swelled yet fiercer and harder --- singing like a fresh-forged bolt of iron from his arsehole to the tip. Oh God!!

The jumbled thoughts flared incoherently...her little cunny...he wanted her cunny and to kiss her mouth...should he get over her quick and fuck her straight and true?

But the up-and-down, back-and-forth motions of her stroking mouth and hand --- the synchronous striving suction of her palate, tongue, and lips --- irretrievably fuddled any rational thinking. The tempest gathered fast. "Mmmm...mnmnn...mmhh," moaned she, her head bobbing under his quaking hands, her wavy, red locks bouncing on her shoulders. Declan's thighs and belly clenched with the excruciating pleasure, and all thoughts, rational or otherwise, vanished: the rhapsody burst outwards.

"Oh, Jaysis! I'm spending! Aoife! I'M SPENDING!!" His fingers clamped upon her scalp, and his hips and cock jerked and spasmed as one, thrusting into her avid mouth as the hot balm of Eros spurted wildly forth.

Her eyes were saucers as his spunk flooded her mouth...she sucked and sucked upon his shuddering organ...sucked till his shaking body at last stilled to a panting, joyful ease against the stone behind him.

Only then did she let him slip from her warm mouth.

Declan gaped down at her, his heart in his throat. She was smiling up at him, her blue eyes aglow. Letting go her hand's grip upon his cock, she protruded her tongue, revealing a pearly glob of his spunk as well as shimmering strings stretching from the pink surface to the roof of her mouth and lips. Her fingertip reached to scoop up a dollop, rubbing it between her finger and thumb as her fascinated eyes studied it. A moment later she licked it off her fingers and swallowed it with the rest of his tribute.

Standing with his tackle hanging out, Declan came over self-conscious at her curiosity. "Does it...taste disagreeable?" he mumbled.

Aoife shook her head and leant forward to kiss the head of his heavy, softening tool, then licked her lips. "It tastes like you, Declan Muldowney...manly and sweet both, so it does."

In a rush of emotion, Declan grabbed her hand and pulled her up, continuing the momentum to scoop her petite figure off the ground, one arm round her shoulders and one under her knees. "Oh, love," he sighed, leaning his brow against hers.

With his cock swinging, he carried her from the cool shadow of the standing stones to the south side of the cromleach, where the sun shone on the fallen boulders. Here in the green scent of the overgrown shamrock and flowers he fell to his knees and tumbled to the soft ground with her, wrapping his arms round her and drawing her close against his side as he lay back in dazed wonder.

For several minutes, Declan's breath slowly eased till it matched the languid drift of the wooly clouds above. The swell of joy was impossible --- his arms tightened to draw Aoife's upper torso over his so that her cheek rested upon his chest. He squeezed her shoulder. "Ah Michael, that was a rare, precious treat, so it was!" said he with a deep, happy sigh.

Aoife raised her head, propping her chin upon her fist on his breastbone to eye him narrowly. "Good sir, you do ken that I'm a lass, do ye not?"

Declan's mouth fell open and he gaped at her. "What the Devil?! Now ye tell me?! Faith, you find me utterly flabbergasted!" He clapped his palm to his forehead and shook his head. "Gadzookers! That accounts for a few things!"

Her expression was quizzical, and Declan soon could no longer keep a straight face. "I must say, I have several times in me life been called a cork-brain...perhaps deservedly so," he chuckled. "But I'm not such a bumpkin that I canna tell arse from quim."

Aoife's eyes sparkled with humor.

"Nevertheless, after falling hard for the lad Michael, I must say I was indeed shocked to discover the truth when I mounted ye last night." He sighed dramatically. "Despite that...erm...disappointment, I daresay I could face it again, if put to it."

A whoof burst from his mouth as she punched him in his relaxed belly --- surprisingly hard --- then with a laugh, he seized her hands, his shoulders heaving up from the ground as they wrestled.

"You're right strong for such a wee thing, aren't ye?" he said, grinning. He twisted and rolled so that she was now lying with her back on the ground and he was on his side next to her. Propping his head upon his hand, as he looked down at her.

She was still laughing, and Declan's heart ached at the possibility that only this day remained for him to tease her and see her laugh...indeed, to commit all the expressions of her face to his memory: her smile, her anger, her tears...her erotic transports. His eyes slowly moved over her. Her small body was clad in the mended white shirt and the oversized blue wool breeches. Tumbled about her head, her red hair was aflame in the sunlight. Shamrock and flowers --- purple, pale pink, and white --- surrounded her, as befitted a faery maiden.

Plucking a purple flower, Declan traced the tiny, trembling bloom over her nose, then over the freckles upon her cheek that outlined the constellation Corvus...the Crow. It could not be simply by chance that she was marked with this telltale sign, could it? The goddess Morrigan in her guise of a crow had pointed him towards this maiden. Did she intend for them to be together? Please let it be so and not another cruel joke!

Aoife's laughter had stopped --- she was gazing up at him, her irises luminous like raindrops on a robin's egg, but imbued with an infinite sadness, the sight of which stirred the torment in Declan's breast. He inhaled deeply and lay back upon the verdant ground next to her, his large, solid shoulder touching her slim one through their shirts.