FLAGGED FOR REVISION
Elna Holst
It was pelting down. From what she could make out through the dizzying web of droplets that had turned her reading specs into a blindfold of sorts, the overcast sky showed no sign of letting up. Yes, she was wearing her glasses. Nothing but her glasses, in fact.
Edith shifted her weight to her left, in an attempt to give her right leg a rest. Pins and needles were all the thanks she got for this. She sighed and put her foot down in the mud again, rivulets of rain streaming down her sides, down her thighs, as if she were the centerpiece of an overflowing fountain. It was a nice image. Pity it was freaking freezing.
The slick flagpole to which she was strung up, arms hoisted high above her head, creaked in the wind. The cold was eating into the very core of her, her skin mottled with goose pimples, her short, usually spiky hair saturated, flattened to her skull. And then there was the other kind of exposure, though Edith doubted anyone else would be barmy enough to climb the steep path up the hill in this weather.
And that, right enough, was the reason she was standing out here in the first place. Turning her head, she tried to squint over the rim of her frames to where she had last seen her companion on this miserable quest, marked in their respective diaries as a “leisure activity.” In other words: their much-anticipated summer vacation, which Edith had energetically lobbied they should spend not on some tedious, everybody’s-doing-it Mediterranean cruise (who were these “everybody” anyway? There wasn’t a single soul among their acquaintance who was going on a cruise this year), but rather on a walking tour of their native soil, getting in touch with nature, roughing it, free as larks, lonely as clouds, setting up camp beneath the stars.
She ticked off her list of inane arguments to the steadfast rhythm of the driving rain. The rain. Of course it would bloody rain. This country was fucking famous for it.
As they locked up and left their car in the long-term parking lot this morning, some ten miles south of their current position, her wife’s face had been a blank slate of silent quiescence—a sure harbinger of a storm to come.
The weather gods had taken the hint. They’d been going for no more than an hour before the first drops fell, and Edith’s chest had tightened with foreboding. Selma had stopped to look up at the sky, her right eyelid twitching. Then she’d shrugged and asked Edith to take their waterproofs out of her rucksack.
Sel always came prepared. Even when Edith knew she’d much rather have brought a pile of light reading, and some even lighter swimwear.
A crack of lightning blotted her already blurry field of vision, followed by the rattling of thunder. She swayed with the surprise, slipped in the mud, but didn’t—couldn’t—fall. Selma knew how to tie a knot.
Oh, didn’t she just.
Heat flashed through her, momentarily, as she remembered how—after she herself had pitched their tent, and Selma had prepared their meal in the relative dryness of the campsite’s permanent shelter—Sel had asked her, very quietly, to get undressed after supper.
Edith never disobeyed a direct command. Once she had swallowed down the last of her broth and bread, she stood, rinsed and put their things away, and proceeded to zip off her rainwear and remove her jumper, jeans, socks, tank top, and underpants. The chill of the damp air made her nipples pucker, and it took all of her mental strength not to wrap her arms around herself.
Selma smiled faintly. Edith felt a trickle of moisture responding between her legs. She sat up straighter.
“I’m not happy with you, Ed.”
Edith’s head fell forward. There was a lump in her throat, tears burning at the corners of her eyes.
“Do you know why I’m not happy with you?”
“You wanted to go on a cruise.”
Selma shook her head. “Try again, Ed.”
“You said it would rain.”
“You’re getting closer. I had my suspicions. But more to the point: what did you say?”
“I said it wouldn’t rain.”
“Almost. What exactly did you say?”
“I promised. I swore to god it wouldn’t rain. I…” Edith’s voice broke off as she remembered precisely what she had said. “I said you could strip me down and put me out for the night if it did.”
Selma’s smile widened.
There was a glint of yellow on the outskirts of her impaired vision. Edith’s head was spinning; her considerable muscular stamina—always a source of pride and pleasure with her life partner—had turned to putty in the downpour. She made an effort to stand tall, but failed ignominiously.
The bright marigold raincoat drew closer. Warm hands touched her numb skin and pulled her slippery body into a tight embrace.
Edith made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob.
“Hush, baby, there’s a good girl. You’re on your last leg, aren’t you?”
Ed nodded. Her teeth chattered too much for intelligible speech.
“I’ve decided to revise your plans for the night. It is my prerogative, after all, even if you are the most adorable ornament this old pole ever had the honor of being bedecked with.”
Selma slid her hand up Edith’s flagging arms and released her bonds. Her arms fell free; her whole body would have fallen, except Selma was there, holding her, half-carrying, half-dragging her toward their tent. There was the unmistakable sound of the zipper opening the canvas door, and Edith tumbled onto soft, dry, slightly rough material. Towels. Terry-cloth towels spread over their joint sleeping bags. She heard the rustling of Selma removing her waterproofs and boots under the flysheet, then the zipping of the door closing up again.
“There we go,” Selma said softly. “Now we’d better get you dried off, or I’ll have no use for you tonight.”
Edith managed to roll over on her back, making a feeble gesture with her bloodless arm. Selma tutted her tongue and set to.
The hard, insistent rubbing of terry cloth against her flesh made sensation flood back into Edith’s hands and feet, arms and legs, in turn. She tingled all over, her toes and fingers curling with the sweet, minute ache of it.
As her tormentor worked over her torso, the material grating her swollen tits, a new kind of storm was brewing in Edith.
She wet her lips. The rubbing abruptly stopped. She groaned.
“You know, I think I know what will make us both hot enough.”
Selma finally removed Edith’s spectacles. Her adored face was prettily flushed as her finger trailed down to Ed’s half-open lips.
“You want me?”
“Yes.” Edith struggled to shape her mouth around the key phrase. “P…please.”
She was amply rewarded.