Count No Man Lucky

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Younger hitchhikers change a nomad's life.
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It is quite amazing how little you really need to live comfortably. I only discovered that by force.

Not force of arms - I was not robbed or subject to hostile invasion. Nor force of nature - no hurricane or earthquake. It was simple economics. My business went bust, my spouse despised and despoused me, and I was left, by fortune and a little forward planning, with a twenty year old camper van and a tiny partial pension.

I had enough to eat, if I was careful, and to put fuel in to do two hundred miles a week, and pay camp-site charges if I had to, and still enjoy fifty pounds a month of fun money.

Like I said, it is quite amazing how little you need to live comfortably, and how much fun you can have with £1.66 a day, especially if the weather is good. And I could drive to the good weather.

So I travelled around Europe. Every gallery and museum, ruin and cathedral, château and Schloss, beach and gorge and pass and plain.

I sometimes worked, for the fun as much as the cash - a canoe hire place on a French river, a surf shack in Spain, a vineyard in Germany, Italy, France, Greece, Spain or Portugal (I like vineyards) fishing boats and building sites. When possible I got a gig as a volunteer on archaeological digs. Bad for the knees but good for the soul.

I was on the road from Bordeaux heading south when I picked up Marcus and Celestine. They were hitching, and just hitched - honeymooning youngsters with no cash and strong Appalachian accents. He was a geologist, just graduated, just got a job with a mining company that was to start in six weeks time. She was a musician and artist and one of the most stunning looking young women it has ever been my pleasure to meet.

Her hair was dark and long and slightly waved. Her eyes were hazel. Not merely brown but bright and light and sparkling, a hint of gold and passion in them. She had a light tan, from two weeks of travel, the last few days on the beach at Arcachon. And her figure - in the thin gypsy cotton dress - was simply perfect. Curves and lithe limbs, a swell of the hips and a roundness of the buttock, a softness of shoulder and the form of a firm bosom. And she smelled of sunshine and pine trees and salt and something that was just herself. Sweet, sexy, femininity in molecular vapour. I was charmed, enchanted, delighted. Jealous in an avuncular way. Oh I admit, from the second I saw her I lusted in a way no uncle should. But in the last few years I have learned that I can take joy in beauty without needing to satisfy that lust, or even acknowledge it. Utterly gorgeous young women do not see me as a potential lover, and I would look ridiculous trying to put myself forward in that role. But I can be a father figure, a kindly uncle, and flirt a tiny bit, in a safe and funny way, and admire them without being creepy, without finding myself pathetic. So I allowed myself to be just a tiny bit jealous of the young man she had married. Jealous of a youth I would never have again, a physique I had never had at all, a handsome face that was the only thing she had eyes for, and the privilege he enjoyed of lying beside her in bed every night. Things that I could never have, that could eat my soul if I let them. But there was no point in letting them. I had been young and not bad looking and slept beside beautiful women in my time. Hating him was pointless. And impossible.

Marcus, it must be said, was a lovely, handsome guy. I don't lean that way myself, but I can appreciate the attractiveness of a muscular frame and easy smile and sun bleached streaks in luxuriant hair. It had been a long time since my hair was that thick, or dark enough for the sun to bleach it. Although I had not lost too much muscle or gained to much fat. And Marcus was a good bloke. He was funny and generous and clever and grateful and in every way the sort of person you would just like as a friend. In ten minutes of their company I was happy to judge that while no-one (especially not me) deserved Celestine, Marcus was as good as I could wish for her.

They had been carrying a sign that said simply "South" and it did not take long to establish that they were as lacking in plans as I was. They had ideas - a list of things they would like to do and see, but were simply going with the flow. So I took them for a ride.

Each day we decided on a new destination. Sometimes I hung out with them when we got to the place appointed, but usually we split up. I had been to several of the places they wanted to visit, and used my time to explore the parts I had not seen before, or to write, or to play guitar, or to do maintenance on the van.

So we saw Biarritz and Hendaye, Cahors and Toulouse, Alba and Avignon, Arles and the Font de Vacleuse, Nice and Cannes and Monaco, Carcassone and then decided to head into Spain. We camped in Jaca after a day in Andorra, and at half past one in the morning the heavens opened.

Hailstones, high winds, pink lightning forks and thunder that was loud enough to be heard over constant rattle of the ice against the roof. It was deafening.

I woke in confusion and as I came to I thought immediately of the couple in their tiny tent that was pitched next to the van. It was a clever, high tech, lightweight thing, but I doubted it was designed for this weather.

I was right. Just as I switched on the lights in the van the door was flung open, dragged by the wind, and Celestine stumbled in. She was soaked to the skin, and half blind and half frozen. Their tent had split under the impact of a golf ball sized lump of razor sharp ice, and in the minute or two it took to untangle themselves and get to my door she had been battered and cut as well as chilled by the wind.

I helped her in and sat her down. I could see Marcus outside, bundling the tent up with everything in it, stuffing it under my van.

I decided not to go out to help. He had it under control. So I turned to Celestine and quickly appraised her state. Shocked. Drenched in cold rain. Hair plastered to her face. Tee shirt plastered to her body. See through. Dark nipples hardened and pointing straight out. Tiny red briefs visible through the thin cloth that stuck to her thighs and stomach.

A pitiful, ravishable sight.

I grabbed a towel and threw it to her, and said "You had better get dry. I have a tee shirt here you can change into, but I think my boxers might be a bit big."

I turned to the clothes drawer to grab some dry things and kept talking. "I think your tent is trashed, so you had better get into that bed and warm up. I'll put the kettle on. Marcus will need warming up too."

She had started to dry her hair as I turned back, but she looked pale and overwhelmed. I handed her the tee shirt and said "Come on, hurry up and get out of those wet things. You are shocked, and frozen, and we need to get you warm and dry as soon as possible."

She began to dry her hair, again coming round a little, and I put the kettle on.

Marcus opened the door. He climbed in, filling the available space, dripping and with blood on his hand. I had got another towel and he gratefully started rubbing the ice lumps out of his hair. "You need to get out of those wet clothes. There is a spare tee-shirt on the bed. If you get dried and get in quick with Celestine I'll make a cup of tea to warm you both up"

Celestine had recovered a bit. I had not seen her strip off her tee-shirt, and I forced myself to look away as soon as I saw she was drying herself. I glanced at her again as I got the mugs out if the cupboard, and saw she was slipping my old and treasured Led Zep tour shirt on. I confess my breath caught as I saw her. Arms raised above her head, the cloth falling over her face and shoulders, shrugging her way into the shirt, her breasts so perfect as they jiggled slightly, and suddenly they were covered. I caught her eye. She had seen me looking. She had a wicked smile. Marcus had his back to me, and had also stripped. She reached out to towel his hair, kneeling up in front of him. She gently massaged his head, almost pulling his face to touch the soft material that covered her perfect flesh. But she kept her eyes on me.

I was afraid I had offended her. Revealed my inappropriate lust. Broken the trust we had developed over the last few weeks. We had been living so closely, and I had seen her in a small bikini of the beach, and in her underwear, changing or just longing in the heat. She had walked past me in her bedclothes in the morning. I had heard her cries when they made love in the tent beside my van the night before. But all that time I had tried so hard to not peek, not to leer, not to embarrass her.

But there was something other than offence in her gaze. Amusement, I thought. It was a relief. At least she thought it was funny. And so she should. A ridiculous old man getting a flash of her beautiful body, being embarrassed by it but fascinated. I would laugh if I was her, twenty one and on honeymoon with a handsome man, stunning old men with a glimpse of my body.

"If we are in your bed, where will you sleep?" she asked.

A reasonable question. It could have been flirtatious, if said in the right husky tone, and if the idea that we might all share the bed was less ridiculous. But with the noise of the storm outside, and the utter implausibility of her having any flirtatious intention, it was clearly a practical enquiry.

"I can recline the front seat and I have a spare sleeping bag." I replied. I almost had to shout. The hail sweeping across us again was beating harder than Bonham.

By the time tea was made and drunk the hail had given way to rain. It was still heavy, the wind was still blustering, but the sound was now a constant rumbling rather than the former snare drum rattle. I put out the lights, squirmed into my sleeping bag, with the seat reclined and tried to sleep.

The rain had moderated, and might have been soothing if it had not been randomly driven in sudden squalls that shook the van. I lay awake, willing my feet to warm up. And then I realised that the van was gently rocking in a rhythm that was natural but not wind driven.

A force of nature as strong as the storm had crept into the van, and the atmosphere was definitely warming.

It was dark, the only light a faint glow from the light on the path to the camp-site shower block, filtered through the rain and the gaps in the curtains on the van windows. But my eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, so even that tiny illumination was enough.

She rose from the bed, throwing back the quilt, pulling off my tee-shirt, languidly throwing it to one side. She was kneeling astride Marcus, naked now, his hand reaching to trace the line of light across her breasts, her hand reaching down to take his cock.

The vision of her slipping on my shirt earlier had been stunning. A picture burned into my memory. But these moments, as she revealed herself to her lover, and gave herself to him, accepting him and displaying her desire... Those images were written in fire on my soul. It was a tableaux of power, of beauty, of tension and freedom. I had never seen a woman like that before. I forgot to breathe as I saw her flex upwards with her hand in darkness between her legs.

She brought both hands up to her breasts and slid them up over her neck and face and into her her hair as she arched her back and slowly lowered herself.

I breathed again as she shook her head and reached down with both hand to grasp Marcus's arms, and pull herself down onto him even further, firmly forcing her body against his.

Of course I could not see the point of contact. I could not see her soft and curly bush split by his cock, her hair meshing with his as her clit pressed against his flesh. I could not see her soft buttocks moulded against his hard thighs. I could not hear the cry she gave as she felt herself filled full, fulfilled, in possession of her lover's cock, possessed by him, joined in body and soul. I didn't need to see to know. I didn't need to imagine it. At that moment it was all just obvious, and so utterly right.

It was beautiful. A still and sacred moment. If the world had ended at that second it would have made perfect sense. And then it was wild.

She had held herself still for an aeon, and seemed entranced. But suddenly her face crumpled, her body flexed, and she opened her eyes and looked down on her lover and he became prey.

Her face was transformed, from quiet deepest ecstasy to fiercest unchained desire. She fell on him and grabbed his hair, her mouth on his, a hard and abandoned kiss, while her body writhed and then her bottom rose and fell and suddenly she was pounding herself on top of him.

It was like a frenetic machine, pumping up and down, hard and fast, making the man beneath her grunt and groan loudly enough for me to hear above the rain on the metal roof. The van shook. My seat vibrated with her body, and the smell of her sex, her sweet sweat, his cock and his musk filled the air. It was an assault on the senses.

All except touch and taste. And I ached for that.

Her wildness took him over. His hands pressed into her flesh, his hips thrust upwards, he pulled her forward to kiss her nipple, and I could see he was sucking hard, his jaw moving, biting that perfect breast.

She clutched his head to her bosom, and grunted, in pleasure and animal desire. And then in a flurry of limbs and cries and sighs and moans they spun around, arms and legs in frantic tangles until she was on her back, legs spread wide and lifted up, him on top, body thrusting down, all his weight and power and desire and love concentrated in the tip if his cock, spearing into her body.

It was primal. They were in another world, together, one of utter trust and love and pure desire.

If it had been filmed and posted to a porn site I imagine it would have been titled "beautiful amateur gets screwed deeply". Or perhaps "Railed". Or more than likely "brutally fucked". But the title would have been wrong. It was intense, they did slam against each other with force. Hips and backs and legs pumped fast and long and deep and hard. But it was not screwing or fucking, and it was not brutal. It was love. It was making love, being love, sharing the most physical expression of the most incredible desire, the most intimate and deepest of wants and needs. They wanted each other, to be inside each other, to wrapped in each other, to loose themselves and be one, together, complete.

They came. Grunting, howling, making inchoate noises that the storm echoed back, and falling, rolling, curling around each other, kissing with sudden gentleness, caressing with utter tenderness, reaching for the quilt and covering each other with care and words of love too soft for me to hear. Sleeping in each other's arms and legs. Oblivious.

Marcus woke me the next day with a cup of tea. We drive down to Figueras, to the Dali Museum, and found a camping shop where they bought a new tent. Then Barcelona, via the ruins of Ampurias, and on to Valencia, where mosquitoes feasted on us all, and even Celestine's beautiful face was temporarily marred by swollen itchy bumps.

The swelling went away by the time we had seen the Alhambra and travelled to Toledo, the Escorial and the Prado. She was always beautiful, but never more gorgeous than that day as she bent to look at the tiny figures in Garden of Earthly Delights, and laughed at their salacious antics.

They had a flight from Paris three days later. We shared the driving.

At the airport for the first and last time, she kissed me. On the cheek. The warmth of her body as she pressed against me, the softness of he curves, her graceful, lithe form, overwhelmed me.

As I drove away I had to shake myself to bring my concentration back on the road. Parisian drivers don't tolerate day dreamers.

It is quite amazing how little you really need to live comfortably. But how much more you need to live fully.

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Zach_lost_in_AusZach_lost_in_Ausabout 10 years ago
Beautiful..

...simply beautiful.

walkerlongwalkerlongabout 10 years ago

Very poetic. I enjoyed the lyrical quality of the language and the Zen of the narrator

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