“Mmm, you’ll be wantin’ to stay the night,” the old man says to me and I can smell the blend of fried fish and sour beer on his breath. I give him my most withering look, but he must be too pickled to read my body language.
“Nah, moving on to Stonehaven,” I reply icily as I drop a few crumpled notes on the bar. “That should cover it,” I say, then leave the Reedgrave Inn, I hope for the last time. I step back into the white, almost choking fog that never seems to leave the town of Fenkirk.
Four hours later, the sun has long set and somehow I’m still walking along the county road between Fenkirk and Stonehaven. I was sure I’d be there by now, it shouldn’t have been more than a three-hour walk, even taking my time, but somehow I’m still out here; the sun is down and the Beaver Moon is high in the sky. At least I’m far enough away from Fenkirk to be free of that fog.
I haven’t even seen a single vehicle this whole time. That sets me on edge a little, but it isn’t the first empty road I’ve walked at night, probably won’t be the last. “Not like any of you offered me a ride,” I grumbled to the memories of Fenkirk, but I also couldn’t remember seeing all that many cars when I was there.
And I suppose I wasn’t exactly the friendliest drifter they’d ever met when I was there.
Cresting a hill I come to a stop so quickly I nearly fall over. On the shoulder of the road is a woman, looking right at me, as if she’s been waiting. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up and my world suddenly feels a little less solid.
She’s tall, taller than me — almost six feet, I’m guessing — but that’s in no way her most striking feature. She has long, straight, silver-black hair that shines under the full moon. Her skin is the colour of heavy cream and, somehow she’s close enough for me to tell in the moonlight, her eyes are large, reddish-brown pools. She’s wearing nothing but a heavy red cardigan that exposes her shoulders but covers down past her hips and in spite of myself I catch myself staring.
“You’ve come late,” she said softly, taking a step toward me, her bare feet heedless of the frost already covering the heather that blankets the ground. She offers her hands, and I take them, bringing her fingers to my lips and kissing them like some courtier eager to marry into her favour.
The whole world has taken on a dreamlike haze as I see her approving smile. “Follow,” she commands, and I do.
We are in a clearing not far from the road, but well hidden from it. She is lying on her back on a soft, mossy patch of ground. Her legs are spread wide causing her cardigan to ride up over her hips, exposing herself before me; inviting rather than commanding now.
I accept. Eagerly.
I kneel between her milk-pale thighs and breathe deep. The air is full of frost and heather, fresh earth and moss, blood and salt and sex and I hear myself moaning as my fingers press into the tender flesh of her thighs.
“As you will,” she says to me, both hands on my cheeks now. I can’t place her accent and somehow it feels important but also irrelevant.
I kiss her in the most intimate way possible and I feel her nails scrape against the back of my head. That’s all the encouragement I need.
I lick, first all around, playing with her folds, further down to the musky bridge between her vagina and her anus and I’m gratified by the startled moan of pleasure this draws from her. Butterflies fill my stomach as I look up at her over her mons pubis. She is looking fixedly at me and then my tongue is on her clitoris and her eyes close as her head rolls back. I lick, lapping shamelessly at her, then suck, as if I could draw her nectar from her nubbin, then bite gently. The way her thighs tremble against my cheeks I know I’m doing well.
I want to do well. I want to please her so much.
My finger enters from below, the tiny grove is filled with the wet, tender sounds of our lovemaking as I probe her with my tongue and my finger and as I suckle her clit like it is the source of all life. Time slips. I have no idea how long I stay like that, kneeling between her legs, worshipping at her altar, but when she orgasms I am flooded with a sense of fulfilment I’ve never felt in my life.
Time passes. The moon moves. The woman whispers softly in my ear, “Time for what’s mine.” I’m filled with nervous lust as she begins removing my pants.
Morning arrives far too early. I don’t remember falling asleep but I awake naked, covered only by her red cardigan. I roll over slowly to find my clothes folded neatly not far away. They’re damp with morning frost, but otherwise perfect. They smell faintly of heather I have the sense that they’re cleaner than they were yesterday. I dress gingerly. My inner thighs bear many bruises and other parts of me have been very well enjoyed.
Once clothed, I look around the mossy clearing that had been last night’s bedroom and smile. I pull the red cardigan on over my shoulders then heft my rucksack.
“I’ll try to not be late next time,” I say softly before I return to the road.
