Celtic Mist Ch. 16

Her long russet lashes flicked up and spots of color appeared on her cheeks. "I mean to mend your stockings. I noticed the holes last night when I washed them."

"Ta."

As Aoife retreated with the stockings, Declan rolled to his feet and fastened the flap of his breeches. He marked the position of the sun and the lengthening shadows of the standing stones and trees. With a heavy heart he fetched his canteen and crossed to the stream. 'Twould soon be time to make their way to Fleetwood's farm...this wondrous dream would end.

He drank from the canteen and refilled it, his agitation compelling him to imprint in his mind all the details of the moment: the curl of clear water round stones in the stream bed, the cool, soft clover and grass under his bare feet, the mellow cooing of a bird...and Aoife.

Now dressed in her shirt and breeches, she stood alongside one of the fallen boulders whose surface was level with her waist, using it as a worktable of sorts. One of his wool stockings was laid out on top of it next to her open knapsack; the other was covering her hand with her fingers inside maneuvering the fabric as she deftly darned the holes in the toe end.

She had divided her unruly hair into two short, thick braids that ended just below her shoulders, tied with thin strips of fabric...a most becoming arrangement that exposed the graceful shape of her head and all the subtly provocative contours of her neck, ears, cheekbones, and jaw. Declan inhaled deeply. Nature had indeed been inspired in fashioning this rare maiden.

Her faery eyes were attending her task as he leant against the stone near her, drinking from the canteen. She accepted a draught of the water and continued her sewing, presently glancing up at Declan's unwavering regard. The disquiet of encroaching reality pressed upon him, and with the meeting of their gazes, he cleared his throat and straightened. Restlessly he walked round the silent stones, absorbing the fair prospect that stretched below the hill --- the green pastures and fields, the flower veiled stone walls, the grazing sheep.

When Declan completed the circuit round the cromleach, he stepped up behind Aoife where she stood by the boulder, loosely encircling her waist with his arms. Above her head, he looked downslope at the newly erected straw skep on its wooden table. A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "Faith, I don't know if I'll ever again manage to see a beehive without sprouting a cockstand."

Aoife giggled.

Declan tilted his face to kiss the top of her head, his lips lingering then muttering, "The scent of you stirs me heart something fierce."

"What scent?"

"If ye put it so, then every blessed scent --- your hair, your armpits, your cunny...your elbow."

She playfully jabbed said elbow back into his belly.

"But I was specifically thinking on this...this Aoife scent. I dinna ken how to describe it...'tis like the countryside in spring, but even finer...more magic...more female." He rubbed his nose in her hair. "The trace was on me clothes that you borrowed when we fled Kilmaedan Castle...I've been cherishing it all these months we were apart."

Her needle hand paused momentarily. He bent lower and rested his chin upon her head. "If you were but a couple of inches taller, your head would be the perfect height for me to rest mine on," he observed.

"Aye, with a head as big as yours, 'tis no wonder your neck needs a respite."

"Me big head seemed to please ye right well earlier." Declan's arms tightened and his body pointedly pressed against her backside.

Aoife shook with laughter as she worked the needle, then she gasped, "Owww!" A tiny bead of blood appeared on the tip of her finger, and she put it in her mouth.

"I'm sorry," Declan murmured, easing the force of his embrace. "I'm distracting you. And here I was so thankful for your kindness in mending me clothes."

"How can you go about with such holes in your stockings?" she mumbled round her finger, shaking her head with feigned seriousness.

"I've never had someone willing to mend them. Anyway, it never mattered to me...no one ever sees the toes of me stockings."

"In that case, I suppose I have no cause for jealousy," she teased.

He shrugged. "Well, take it as you will, but in truth I always keep me shoes on when I shag the lasses."

Aoife made a scoffing noise. "That, sir, is your own affair. I was referring to the mending: if any other lass were to lay her needle upon your stockings, I would scratch her eyes out, so I would."

Declan chuckled. "At least you have strong feelings on my behalf in some regard."

Aoife checked her pricked finger, then resumed sewing.

Notwithstanding his earlier jest, he was in fact right refurbished, and soon the scent and closeness of her female form was once again working its bewitching spell upon him. More gently this time did his arms pull her closer back against him, as he bent his head lower and nibbled about her nape, ears, and shoulders. "Am I distracting you?" he whispered.

She tossed her head. "Ha! No one can turn my attention from me needle when I'm bent on a task."

He drew her earlobe between his lips. "Think ye so, lass? Would ye care to lay money on that?"

Aoife shivered, then twisted her head to meet his eyes, her expression sportive. "Aye! I'll wager a shilling that I'll finish the darning without you interrupting me."

"Wager accepted." Declan grinned and his eyes shone as she raised a challenging brow and faced forward again.

Standing behind her, he watched over her shoulder as her quick fingers knotted the thread and cut it with her teeth. He did not dally either --- from her waist his hands traveled upwards --- over her shirt to her breasts, unfettered under the shirt. Breathing close by her ear, his fingers traced eagerly over the high, firm hillocks whilst she, seemingly unaffected, measured out a new length of thread and rethreaded the needle. Through the thin linen, Declan felt the telltale peaks subtly rise under his fingertips.

His hands dropped to the waistband of her breeches and pulled the shirt free. The next moment his palms were under the garment and adoring her naked breasts. Had her breath caught for but a moment? His eyes glinted. They both looked down --- he over her shoulder --- at the shifting contours of his large hands under the white cloth, the knuckles making intermittent bumps as he played with her bosom.

Oh, what tender baubles were her plump little bubbies...so warm, so pert, so resilient! Declan reveled in the enticing flesh...cupping, compressing, and bouncing them in his happy hands. Next to her ear, his breath was quickening, and he felt her body likewise stirring. With his attentive play, her nipples hardened, betraying the distracted lass's increasing arousal...and yet she determinedly plied her needle.

Now Declan's fingertips caressed the rising buds, circling and circling, stroking and drawing upon them. "How stiff your little nipples are growing, Aoife!" he whispered hoarsely in her ear. "As stiff as me cock, raging in want for ye!" He nudged her backside with said member to illustrate his words, sliding as he did so the tip of his tongue into her ear.

Her body tensed, her teats quivered in his hands, and her stitching hand faltered momentarily --- then she collected herself and with a forced placid mien, adjusted the stocking over her hand to start upon the next hole.

Declan regrouped, panting in her ear as he released her breasts and lowered his hands to covertly unfasten his own breeches and drawers, freeing his turgid beast as he gazed down over her shoulder at her tempting, now erect nips lifting the shirt fabric.

His hands sought out the front of Aoife's breeches where she had retied the rope belt. As before, his fingers fumbled with the knot, relying on touch alone as he stood behind her, and she took advantage of the pause to redouble the pace of her flying needle.

At last Declan freed the rope, and he made short work of the buttons on the flap. With a harsh exhalation of breath, he yanked the breeches down to her ankles.

"Oh, you!" she gasped. Between the crumpled wool and the lower edge of the shirt, her lovely legs were bared. Tugging up her shirt, he crouched and pressed his cockstand against her naked arse. A smothered squeak sounded from her lips. Despite her resolute sewing, she could not disguise the response of her body to his touch, rubbing herself against the rigid pole that was making its hot imprint all over her buttocks.

Declan leant close, his chest against her back, his panting mouth by her ear, and his big hands in unmitigated lust roving over her small, supple body, memorizing the curves from her waist to her hips, sliding down over her round smooth thighs, clasping her little mound. Here he lingered with sly purpose...petting the dab of silky curls...mapping the dainty contours of the gentle rise...caressing the notch wherein her wee playpip nestled. She wriggled and audibly sighed, but still her darning continued.

Declan endeavored to lift her foot out of the restraining, sagging breeches, but in apparent zeal to win the wager, Aoife resisted him, clenching the muscles in her legs to keep her feet firmly on the ground, stitching on with a taunting "Ha!"

Once more she broke the thread with her teeth and, having finished the first stocking, whipped it off her hand. She grabbed the second one, curled her hand into a ball, and thrust it inside. Most strangely, this mundane act attending the darning of a stocking was impossibly stimulating...the sight of the woolen tube stretching over her demure fist made his cock thrum in salacious glee. And when her fingers uncurled to spread open the holes in the toes, Declan abandoned all restraint. In one motion, he stepped on the crotch of her fallen breeches and, with his hands on her waist, lifted her free of the garment.

Scarce had her gasp subsided and her feet returned to the ground, when Declan dropped his hands to seize her by the thighs. Now she yelped in earnest and grasped the stone as he boldly raised her legs, holding them like the handles of a wheelbarrow and pressing up at their juncture. Up and down in the moist groove between her cunny lips did his cock slide as her buttocks and thighs writhed most piquantly. "I'm going to fill ye hard and proper, lass!" he promised in a low mutter.

A whimper escaped her lips, but Aoife controlled herself ere capitulating to his foray --- doggedly she stitched on as her body was bridged between her elbows on the boulder and his grip on her legs.

This time when Declan set her feet to the ground, he planted them nigh a yard apart, tossed her shirt over her back, and promptly fell to his knees behind her --- his arms wrapped round her thighs to forestall her embarrassed attempts to close them.

His lips in a frenzy strewed kisses over her squirming bottom, maddened by the feel of her satiny skin, juicy flesh, and the faint, wild nettle scent of the homemade soap. Then his palms each claimed a firm, round cheek...ardently stroking and squeezing them --- his large hands with their calloused, abraded knuckles strikingly contrasting with her unmarked, milky skin. He sighed. Jaysis! How immodestly protuberant her little arse was below her willowy waist! 'Twas as plump and toothsome as a perfectly ripened apple, so it was!

No longer did the excited lass protest the unseemly stance in which he had placed her, but despite her giggling and uneven breaths, her needle still faltered not. It occurred to Declan that perhaps she was intending to distract him with the bawdy play...whilst she finished the mending, but so happy and swollen was he with Love's commission that he cared not.

Here before him this darling lass stood with her lovely legs akimbo, her toes braced in the clover, and her splendid bum in his face!

His play grew more purposeful, kneading her flesh and angling his thumbs into the beckoning cleft at the lower end where her thighs met her cheeks. How deliciously rude was their taut bounce each time he separated and released her buttocks! With each fleeting glimpse of the pink between, Declan became more and more enflamed. At last, with her firm orbs in his wide-splayed palms and fingers, his thumbs delved pointedly into the silky crevice, and he unabashedly spread her bottom wide open to indulge his lecherous gaze.

"Declan!" Aoife whispered, her buttocks wiggling in apparent protest...but she maintained the widespread stance as she leant forward upon the stone...and almost imperceptibly did she arch her back, abetting his prurient inspection of her privates.

A glance up showed him her needle hand still industriously working, and again he wondered if she was diverting his attention to win the wager. Or 'twas just as likely that she was equally aroused by the play AND wanted to win the wager --- have her cake and eat it too.

He grinned at the thrilling game. But in this case, he meant to dispute her for the having and the eating of her cake!

Every view of her charms with which he had so far been blessed had been a panoply of lustful delights, and Declan gaped agog at the new stunning prospect before him. What an extraordinary sight --- a lass's charms from behind! Her succulent bottom framed the fully displayed treasures between her legs. The insides of her strong thighs curved in a soft hollow just before joining her outer lips, with her vulva a sweet bridge across the narrow gap.

Her cunny was a vision from this angle --- wee, rosy, and bulging impertinently back at him. Above that, Declan's fevered eyes fixed in wonder upon Aoife's postern aperture...so ruthlessly exposed by the ribald position. So pink and shy it was, her tiny vent between her bottom cheeks...the alluring corona of dainty pleats befitting a faery princess's crown...its fine beauty so discordant from its utilitarian purpose.

With his heart racing, Declan adjusted his grip to open her yet further. Whatever sang-froid Aoife was simulating with her sewing above, was betrayed by the state of her little sex organ below. Her blushing nymphae and clitoris, awake with tumescence, were standing entreatingly. Upon the lips on either side of the delicate butterfly, the scant red hairs by the slanting afternoon sunlight glowed like embers sparking from a fire. Her recent ablutions had cleansed away the clinging festoons of his earlier love tributes, but between her parted lips, Declan could see the chink already re-moistened with her glistening dew.

And there too, under the burgeoning droplets, did he observe the puffy, reddened remnants of her ravished hymen. Reverently he bent forward and pressed his lips to the courageous little orifice, breathing her fresh lass scent, and softly collecting the nectar therein with the tip of his tongue.

"Ooooh..." Aoife whimpered.

Declan moaned as the blood throbbed between his legs --- by God, he was sore too! His prepuce was tender from the vigorous exertions in Venus's battlefield, but his bedeviled cock ken not when to quit!

He dragged his tongue through her wet slit, then proceeded to tickle and lave the swollen bud and lips, the helplessly mounting tension in her legs and buttocks detectable under his hands...and then he heard her moan. Aye, now they would see who would win the wager! Lifting his face, he blew against her hot blooming flower, in fascination watching the squeeze of her cunny opening and bottom hole.

Jaysis! Why was that forbidden, 'unnatural' orifice so damned enchanting? In a paroxysm of lust, Declan leant forward and kissed it, feeling the fluttery flinch of the fine skin under his lips.

Aoife gasped.

Instinct drove him. He licked it --- one soft, unhurried swab. Her little squeak and quiver were so provocative that he repeated the caress...lingering in the very center with the subtlest wiggle.

"I thought...you...knew arse from quim," her quavering voice challenged.

Declan chuckled. "Aye, so I do." His thumbs on either side of her cleft applied a gentle force that spread the charming dimple open to reveal a dense ring of muscle and a darker pink center. His cock surged. "But, your wee arsehole is so fetching that I canna help meself." He brushed his thumb over the dainty aperture, marveling at the skittish little contraction, then dropped his hand to squeeze his aching stiffstander.

Once more he glued his lips to her little pucker and tickled the quivering orifice. One large hand held her tensing buttock aside whilst his middle finger of the other found her erect clitoris and stroked it in synchrony with his circling tongue.

"Oh! Declan!" she squealed.

He paused, grinning. "Aye?"

"You devil!" she gasped.

His finger continued its coy fondling of her firm kernel. "Am I offending you, sweet lass? Do ye want me to stop?" Declan smiled to note that she had at last ceased sewing...her chest was now pressed to the stone and her hands were splayed over the hard surface on either side of her head, one still encased in his stocking. Her bright red cheek gave her wordless reply, and he nuzzled back between her buttocks.

Oh so faintly did he hear her moan and feel her press back onto his face --- all reason fled him --- he fused his lips to the parted cleft and lapped ravenously at her secret hole. Soft and gentle...fast and fluttery...swirling over the tiny folds, probing the tight center. Intoxicated was he as he worshiped her nether parts...lost in the taste of her freshly bathed skin and lass cream mixed with the rawer, maddening hint of her little bottom hole.

Anyone venturing up the hill and happening upon the young couple disporting themselves on the fair May afternoon would no doubt have been shocked and stimulated by the libidinous scene. Bent over an ancient boulder was a comely little lass wearing naught but a shirt that was bunched up to her shoulder blades, exposing below her slim, curving form. She was standing with her legs spread wide apart, and behind her, kneeling among the flowers between her feet was a strapping lad, his eager face buried between her cheeks as he pleasured her arsehole with his lips and tongue, and her cunny with his finger. In his open breeches, the young man's splendid, engorged organ stood upright and uncapped for engagement --- all whilst the fair lass's body shook, her flushed cheek pressed upon the stone, and her open mouth spilled forth soft sighs and moans. 'Twas a tableau of Eros for the ages.

Declan had never forgotten the stunning sight over a year ago of Mr. Burke's cold-creamed finger sliding into his wife's bottom hole...and the pleasure it had so obviously afforded her. Indeed, ever since, whilst frigging, Declan had oft imagined performing a like exercise. Moreover, every now and then he had heard a comrade relate a tale or joke in which a lass was fucked in this so-called unnatural passage...and he had been skeptical...and intrigued.

Now Declan was beside himself at this most happy discovery that his lingual attentions to Aoife's taboo little opening were most thrillingly, most sensually rousing her...despite her seeming shame. Hang shame! Everything Aoife and he had done together since last night would be considered a sin...starting with not being married. But young Declan cared not for such strictures. Why was her anus so impossibly pretty...like her natural passage...if not for Love's diversions? Gazing at it with his eyes aglow, all the lad knew was that it was another glistening, wee pink female orifice for him to toy with and penetrate!

More insistently did he tongue her trembling little dimple, his velvety muscle forming a tenacious point that wriggled at the center, opening the tight sphincter. He burrowed partway in, gloating at the glorious, resisting squeeze. Rapturously...slowly did he thrust his tongue in and out of her bottom as she whimpered and writhed...his finger rolling her clitoris...a glossy string of nectar stretching from her vagina down to his wrist.