Chapter Two

The Eyes of the Night

‘BELLE,’ THE SLEEPER murmured. ‘Arabelle, my love … Where are you?’ he asked softly, as in his still chest his heart began to beat.

It had been so long, so very long, but suddenly and inexplicably she was alive again, her pleasure like a brightly-burning flame.

How could this happen? he thought as his ribcage rose once, then fell, then rose again, and in his veins the sluggish blood began its flow. It seemed an ocean of time since he had last felt this power, and never, in all the many years of his existence, had he felt it from his sweet Arabelle.

‘Oh, Belle, how can this be?’ whispered André, sitting up with caution in his ancient, draped bed and gazing across the room through the filter of a dozen silken veils. He couldn’t see its outline clearly, but he knew that on the marble top of an antique sideboard stood the intricately-carved rosewood casket that was the repository of all that he had ever loved. He reached his hand out weakly towards it, then gasped and slumped back on the pillows. His energy was dim, and already drained after only the slightest exertion.

Hardly able to keep his eyelids open, André stared across the room through the veils. There, in the shifting darkness, he saw a thin, blue radiance that surrounded the rectangular box. It seemed to be seeping out through the very veining of the wood and forming a faint aura, an inch-wide cerulean halo.

But if you are still in there, my beloved, thought André in confusion, who is it that I am sensing outside? He turned his head on the soft lawn pillow-case, and looked now towards the window and its heavy velvet drapery. The thick, silk-lined curtains presented no barrier to his acute, inner vision, and he gazed out across the rain-lashed parkland and fixed his attention on the round white folly.

Immediately, he felt life in his lifelessness; the primal force of sex that never failed to revive him. Beyond the pale, columned walls of the little white building, there was someone on the point of making love, and against reason that someone was his Belle.

Fighting disbelief, hope and confusion, he struggled to focus and see her. In his mind there formed the image of how she had looked all those years ago, her lovely face at a very special moment. He saw her fine, harmonious beauty, the soft smile, and the delicate, almost tremulous sensuality of the first time she had permitted him a liberty.

Embarrassed, yet somehow eager, she had unfastened the lacings of her gown and her chemise, then opened them to show him her bosom. Lying in his bed now, a thousand miles and two hundred years away, André could still remember his euphoria, his delight, his instant rousing at the sublime young beauty of her breasts. How perfect her shape had been: how dainty, how pointed, how fresh. He could still hear her sigh as she allowed him to touch her, and his own groan as his passion overcame him.

He had loved her so much, and so much wanted to express that love with his body. He had been angry with himself for the brutishness of his lust, but had been unable to suppress or ignore it. Night after night, he had kissed her gently and decorously, his loins racked with craving. Night after night, he had retired to his bed and jerked his flesh to a long, solitary release with her sweet name and the word ‘love’ on his lips. They had been close, so close, to the night of their joining, when a dark, seductive evil had claimed him.

‘No!’ he cried, straining ineffectually and stretching out with his living mind towards the unexplained cause of his revival. Concentrating with difficulty, he retuned his vision on the interior of the folly, then gasped at the sight that assailed him.

Belle, but not Belle. His lost betrothed, his precious flower, on the point of being possessed by another.

Against his will, the image aroused him. Beneath his narrow, resting hand, his flesh stirred as it had not done in a long time. Like the miracle of life itself, his member stiffened and rose, far more vital than the rest of his body.

Arabelle had changed over the centuries, he saw now. Her body was boldly naked and more fully formed, and where once her burnished hair had tumbled in a wave to her hips, it was now shorn to a close, roughly-cut cap that hugged the graceful contours of her scalp. In the very centre of the circular, velvet-covered divan, she was crouched like a bitch before her master, her sex offered to a slim, dark-haired youth.

‘Arabelle?’ André whispered, his doubts growing stronger. He sent his mind circling the divan, and looked down into the young woman’s face.

Yes, the features were the same, but seemed more defiant and a little less fine. The woman who was about to be taken looked much as his beloved might have done a few years after he had last physically seen her, when she had grown and tasted love’s invigorating pleasures. This woman had experienced the richness and ecstasy of the flesh that Belle had never savoured, the consummation that Isidora had denied her.

‘Witch! Foul devil! She-demon!’ he hissed, his anger spurring him as sex had done. That black-haired monster had taken away two lives and condemned two souls to two separate kinds of torment. ‘Get back to hell. I will not think of you,’ he said coldly to his nemesis, and resumed his observation of the lovers. ‘Who are you?’ he said, as the young woman thrust out her hindquarters and the man behind her took advantage. The slim youth was rough as he thrust into his paramour’s lush haven, but even so, André still sensed a mood of great tenderness. This was a joyous consensual act, just as it would have been if it were really Arabelle on the bed, and he himself were the lusty naked lover. The affection between the distant pair seemed to goad him like a new spark of dynamism. Strength returned fully to his hands and his fingers just as stiffness returned to his penis.

Clasping himself, he cried out, ‘Yes!’ And as if hearing him, the lovers convulsed, their meshed bodies lunging in the so-familiar throes.

‘Oh dear God … Dear God,’ André moaned, joining them in their pleasure, his own spasm so intense it felt like pain. After years spent in the half-life, his sudden release was much too much for him, and with a stifled sigh, he sank back to oblivion. His last awareness was cool fluid on his fingers.

Belinda woke to soft golden light. She smiled at a pleasant warmth on her naked body, and began to stretch and curl her toes and generally wake up slowly and luxuriantly, when suddenly awareness poured into her. With a gasp, she sat up and looked around her, panicked. Where the devil was she, and why was she naked?

Calm down, calm down, she told herself, drawing in deep breaths and trying to work out what had happened. Jonathan’s presence beside her and the reassuring familiarity of his body quickly settled her, and as she touched his bare back, he grunted sleepily and stirred a little.

‘Trust you,’ she whispered, leaning over to kiss the nape of his neck. ‘Here we are, stranded in the back of beyond, probably camping out illegally on somebody’s property, and are you worried?’ She watched him as he mumbled, licked his lips and then buried his face in the grey velour of the couch they had bedded down on. ‘No. You just sleep like a baby. As usual …’

Yet somehow she couldn’t find it in her to be cross with him. For one thing they must have trudged miles through the rain-soaked countryside last night, and that was enough to exhaust anyone. And on top of that, when they had found this, their haven, he had made love to her with all the power of a stallion, and given her a pleasure she hadn’t felt for some time. Quite some time …

‘It’s OK, Mr Sleepy,’ she whispered, ruffling his dark hair and knowing that nothing short of slapping or kicking him would wake him yet. Then, rising carefully from his side, she stood up and looked around again, hardly recognising the white folly in the morning sun. She couldn’t remember whether it was she or Jonathan who had opened the shutters, but whoever had done it had changed the place entirely.

The small circular building was filled with light, and its design, with windows all the way around and going right up to the ceiling, seemed to capture and amplify the sun’s radiance. It was like being trapped inside the golden, idyllic essence of summer, and it was easy to imagine the picnics and parties that might have been centred around this charming little structure.

But why have what was so patently a pleasure pavilion in the grounds of a priory? An ecclesiastical establishment? It seemed incongruous.

‘Weird,’ muttered Belinda, running her fingers through her hair in lieu of a comb and beginning to wonder what had happened to her clothes. Jonathan’s shorts, trainers, T-shirt and briefs were strewn across the floor, clearly exactly where each item had been removed, but of her own clothing there was no sign at all.

‘Uh oh,’ she said to herself, as more memories of last night began to surface. Despite their solitude and Jonathan’s complete insensibility, she felt the blood rise into her face in a vivid blush.

Last night, right in the middle of the storm, she had stripped naked in a woodland clearing, then peed herself and masturbated. She could still almost hear her shriek of pleasure.

Good Lord, what got into me? she thought, her fingertips brushing her throat nervously as if trying to twitch up a non-existent collar and hide the pinkness that was rising across her chest and up her neck into her face. She remembered feeling wild and exhibitionistic, and being filled with a strange sensation of being watched. And then, when she had returned to the folly and to Jonathan, she had offered him her body and they had rutted like a pair of animals.

But animals that care about each other, she thought, looking down at him fondly as he turned over in his sleep and began to scratch and fondle at the very member that had so pleasured her last night.

‘That’s right, get it ready for me,’ she whispered to him, feeling naughty, then tip-toed away from him towards the door of the folly.

Outside, the beauty of the day took her breath away. Everything that had been harsh and turbulent last night was pacific and gently sun-kissed now. The grass was vigorously, almost preternaturally, green, and hung with drops of moisture like tiny diamonds. The sky was a delicate eggshell blue tinged with pink, and thin streamers of gauze-like mist were slowly dissipating. Even the grey priory across the park looked quite benign, and not a bit like the derelict hulk of the previous night. Belinda decided to make her way there as soon as she found her clothes.

Retracing her former steps into the woods, looking this way and that and on alert for possible company despite the apparent desertedness of the priory’s spacious park, Belinda soon found the little clearing she had encountered last night. Her clothes were there, just where she had abandoned them, the pattern of their falling not dissimilar to that of Jonathan’s. She could feel her blood stir again at the thought of how she had shed them and at her own crude and strangely pagan behaviour. And when she had to squat again, she was almost too embarrassed to perform.

Having been taken off in the shade, and sopping wet, her clothes were still in that condition. She shuddered at the touch of the clammy, ice-cold fabric against her skin, but consoled herself that they were at least clean again. She had never liked putting on once-worn clothes for a second time, especially after she had indulged in hectic sex. The vision of a steaming bath full of scented water suddenly presented itself, and Belinda wondered if there was a stream or something nearby so she could have a quick wash before she set off on her exploration.

Better not get lost though, she told herself, turning in a circle on the spot and squelching in her trainers. On all sides the trees were numerous and the woods deep and thick; it was only in the direction of the folly that she caught sight of bright light and open ground.

Back in their circular white refuge, Jonathan was still fast asleep, and much as she would have liked to discuss their situation, Belinda didn’t have the heart to wake him. During her absence, he had turned again on the couch, and now lay in a foetal position with his two hands folded so sweetly beneath his sleeping face that he looked a perfect innocent. She decided to walk to the priory and back and give him time to come to wakefulness naturally.

As she set off across the grass, sheer pleasure to be alive made her less aware of her wet clothes and the fact that she and Jonathan were lost. The sun was surprisingly high now, and a light breeze made the bejewelled grass ripple. There were birds singing cheerfully in the woods and she caught sight of a rabbit, or a hare perhaps, sprinting ecstatically along the edge of the treeline. And now, closer up, the priory looked even less like its midnight incarnation.

The building appeared both larger and somehow smaller than it had done last night, spreading out far further than had previously been apparent, with numerous wings, buttresses and even a crenellated turret. But it no longer seemed to claw the sky and loom.

It was still not an ‘easy’-looking residence however, and its tall leaded windows with their rounded Gothic arches and tiny lozenge-like panes had a curious and watchful air of latency, as if a presence beyond them lay waiting.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Belinda told herself, still studying the priory and frowning. It took her just a few seconds more to realise what it was about the house that had really changed, or seemed different. Last night the priory had seemed deserted, desolate, a blasted ruin; but now, in the brilliant day, although it still wasn’t a well-kept building by any means, it certainly looked sound enough to live in.

Pausing to slip off her squelchy trainers, which were taking the edge off her appreciation of the view, Belinda continued to study the priory, her eyes zeroing in on an upper window, where for a moment she thought she saw movement. What if there was actually someone in residence there; someone with a phone, who could help them in their predicament? Barefoot, she began to stride faster.

As she neared the house, Belinda soon found herself in a jungle of flowers and greenery which must have once been a garden. If there were inhabitants at the priory, they evidently weren’t keen horticulturists, as both wild and cultivated plants and flowers were growing in a tangled but strangely pleasing jumble. She saw and smelt roses, as well as delphiniums and hollyhocks, but among them were deadly weeds like belladonna.

Reaching a gravel path, she slipped her trainers back on and made her way towards what seemed to be the priory’s front door; a massive, weather-beaten oaken affair which stood beneath its own entrance porch. Just as she reached a set of shallow steps, the heavy studded door swung open and a handsome man greeted Belinda with a smile.

‘Er … hello,’ she said, suddenly at a loss and able to do nothing but simply stand and stare. The man standing in the doorway was remarkable; a towering, bronzed giant dressed in blue jeans and skimpy white vest. ‘My friend and I are lost,’ she managed to say at last. ‘We spent the night in your folly.’ She glanced over her shoulder towards the distant white building. ‘I hope you don’t mind. We haven’t made any mess.’ The tall man just smiled. ‘I … I … um … I wonder if you have a telephone I could use? Our car’s broken down. We need to call a garage and the battery in our mobile phone is flat … We’re supposed to be meeting up with someone soon and we’ve got to let her know that we’ve fallen behind schedule.’

The tall man continued to smile, nodding his close-cropped head encouragingly.

Belinda felt uneasy. Why didn’t the man answer instead of just standing there like a silent, living statue?

‘We can pay for the call,’ she offered doubtfully, remembering her shoulder bag was back at the folly.

The handsome giant continued to smile, his large white teeth almost twinkling in the sunlight, his muscled arms gleaming, his eyes –

His eyes. Fighting her growing bemusement, Belinda looked the stranger directly in the eye.

Was this the man she had sensed last night? The watching male presence? There was certainly a mythic quality about him. With his ultra-short blond hair he looked like a Teutonic god just returned from Valhalla in modern dress.

After a few seconds Belinda knew that this wasn’t her night watcher. His eyes were a soft brown, and mild, and his expression was gentle and welcoming, despite the fact that he still wouldn’t speak to her. The eyes she had seemed to see last night had been blue, a piercing electric blue, and while they had not seemed particularly malevolent, they had possessed a power that could frighten and inspire awe.

Still the man continued to smile, but after a moment, however, he stepped back into the house behind him, waving Belinda through with a gesture of welcome. Feeling she might be making a big mistake, Belinda ventured inside.

The hall in which she found herself was cool, quiet, and rather dark, and looking around she was surprised by its opulence. From outside, the priory looked rundown, even after this morning’s improvement, but inside it was well maintained, almost sumptuous. All around her was panelling, in oak or some other rich wood, the carved patterns forming tall arches with curvaceous mouldings. A few pieces of heavyish but gleaming furniture were placed against the walls, and in inset niches hung a number of sombre paintings.

Unfortunately there wasn’t a telephone in sight.

‘Do you have a telephone I could use?’ repeated Belinda as her golden giant closed the door behind them. As she turned round to face him he made his first recognisable response: a slow shake of his head and another smile, this time regretful. He shrugged his huge shoulders, making his taut muscles bunch and surge.

Belinda tried desperately to contain her irritation. How on earth did people survive out here in the back end of nowhere with no telephone? It was almost unheard of.

‘We’re stuck then,’ she said glumly. They would have to see if they could start the car or get directions to the nearest village, then walk there and arrange a tow. And find a phone so they could get in touch with Paula, who wouldn’t be too pleased if they didn’t phone her soon.

‘Could you give me directions then, please?’ she asked. She was tempted to ask if the blond giant had a car and could drive them to the next village, but the request seemed a little premature.

The man shook his head again, still smiling the smile that was now getting on Belinda’s nerves. Under other circumstances, she would have found the silent blond very attractive – his golden body was as magnificently hewn and solid as the wooden furniture and panels around them – but his lack of co-operation was fast becoming irksome.

‘Oh, come on!’ she cried, exasperated. ‘Surely you can tell me which direction to set off in!’

The blond giant continued to smile but there was a strangely wistful expression in his eyes, and suddenly, as Belinda stared at him, hoping to elicit a response, he made a short chopping gesture, just beneath his chin and in front of his sinewy neck. He did it a second time and slowly shook his head.

Oh dear God, he’s dumb! thought Belinda as realisation dawned, and she felt an instant wave of sympathy. Poor man, how awful. What a handicap …

‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said quickly, ‘I didn’t realise you couldn’t speak.’

The blond man shrugged again, and his immense shoulders rippled.

What the hell do we do? thought Belinda, wishing again that she had brought her holdall, because in it was a biro and a notepad. Presumably her blighted Adonis could write?

As she thought this, her silent companion made a swift gesture that seemed to indicate ‘hang on a minute’ and strode over to an elaborately-carved table. From a drawer in it, he took a thick sheaf of creamy white paper and a pencil, and grinned at Belinda as if to say he had read her mind. As she moved towards him, he leant over the table and began writing quickly.

My name is Oren, she read, when he handed over the top sheet of paper. His letters were spare and rounded but his writing was beautifully clear. I am sorry that we have no telephone, he went on, but we have little need of one. If you would like something to eat, a bath, and a place to rest a while, my master offers you the hospitality of his home.

How can he offer hospitality if he doesn’t even know we’re here? was Belinda’s first thought. Unless the movement she had seen earlier at the upper window actually had been somebody watching her?

Her next thoughts were more basic, as she looked up and found Oren watching her expectantly. She had slept well last night, but the prospect of a bath – preferably a long, long soak in flower-scented water – seemed like a mirage in the desert. And she suddenly realised she was ravenous. The last thing she had eaten had been a bag of crisps at about seven o’clock yesterday evening. The vision of a completely wicked and calorie-laden plate of croissants, curls of butter and strawberry preserve became a second mirage, just as vivid and equally as tantalising.

‘That’s very kind, Oren,’ she said, smiling up at him, still feeling a little uneasy, and surprised at such a generous offer made so soon. She wanted to refuse as graciously as she could, but heard herself say instead, ‘I’d love a bath, and I’m absolutely starving! I just need to go back to the folly and fetch Jonathan –’

Oren turned to the table and wrote again on a fresh sheet of paper.

Please do not worry. Someone will bring your friend to you. Let me show you to a place where you can bathe.

As soon as Belinda had read the few short sentences, Oren gestured towards the imposing staircase at the far end of the hall, indicating that she should follow him.

Belinda hesitated. This was crazy … She didn’t know this man from Adam, and she hadn’t even met his mysterious master. The pair of them could be serial killers for all she knew. Yet still she found herself walking beside Oren towards the stairs.

‘My name’s Belinda, by the way. Belinda Seward,’ she said as they reached the first step.

Oren nodded and smiled again, and Belinda suddenly felt herself goose-bumping, in spite of the morning’s sultry warmth.

It was impossible – but she suddenly had the queerest feeling that Oren had already known her name before she told him. Swallowing nervously, she followed him up the stairs.

Jonathan stretched, then turned over, patting the velour beside him in a blind sleepy search for Belinda.

‘Lindi?’ he muttered, opening his eyes when his fingers didn’t find her. ‘Lindi, love, where are you?’ Sitting up, he glanced worriedly around the folly.

There was no sign of her, except her bag, a few feet away from the couch, and that reassured him. She was around somewhere; probably slipped away for the same reason she had left the folly last night. Shoving his hand through his tousled hair, he grinned to himself, remembering her return.

Even now, in retrospect, her passion astounded him. And not only hers. Not for a long time had he felt so full of desire, so strong. His own forcefulness had increased his physical pleasure, and it had seemed to have had the same effect on Belinda. Never before had she responded with such wantonness, so wildly and with so few inhibitions.

‘We ought to get caught in thunderstorms more often,’ he said aloud to himself, reaching down to touch what memory had stirred. But as he handled himself lazily and felt his flesh swell and harden, he was suddenly surprised by the sound of a female laugh.

Snatching his fingers away from his penis, Jonathan looked around again. The soft laughter had definitely been female and for a moment had seemed to sound quite close, but it hadn’t been Belinda’s throaty chuckle. As he was pulling on his shorts and underpants, it rang out again, and this time he was able to discern that it came from outside, among the trees, and that it had a curious tone to it – an odd muffled quality, as if the amused person were trying to suppress her own giggling.

Jonathan wriggled into his T-shirt, stepped into his trainers, then made his way quickly to the door of the folly, bent on finding the unknown laughter’s source.

Outside, he could see no one, but he heard the laugh again, and it seemed to be coming from the woodlands to the rear of the folly. Following what looked like a faint and overgrown path, he set off along it as stealthily as he could. The air among the trees was moist and fresh, and the atmosphere pleasantly cool for what seemed already to be a scorchingly hot day. Jonathan breathed deeply as he walked, enjoying the green, mossy scent of the woods.

After about a minute, he caught sight of something pale flashing among the sturdy trunks of the mature trees around him, and guessing it was the origin of the laughter he speeded up, while still taking care to proceed quietly.

All of a sudden, he found himself almost on top of the woman he sought. As he crouched behind a tree, hidden by the tall grass and weeds that grew around it, he saw that what he had thought was one woman was really two.

They were hardly more than girls, actually: two slender blondes – a little alike, cousins possibly – who appeared to be a few years younger than he was, possibly about eighteen, or perhaps nineteen or twenty.

Both were clad in thin white dresses and they were sitting on a patch of soft turf at the side of a slowly-flowing stream, kicking their bare feet playfully in the water. They were each as beautiful as wood nymphs, both in their faces and in their lightly-covered bodies, and Jonathan’s penis rose again to salute them. And though their actions and their naturalness made it seem as if they weren’t aware of his presence, Jonathan’s sixth sense seemed to tell him a different story. Why else would they suddenly abandon their innocent splashing and lean towards each other for a kiss? A prolonged and very sensuous one on the lips …

Jonathan clapped his left hand across his mouth to keep in his exclamation, and with the other he reached down and touched his groin. He had often dreamed about watching two women making love, but never before had he really seen it happen. His cock stiffened and strained until it ached beneath his fingers, while on the riverbank a magical tableau was enacted.

Although in many ways the two blondes looked alike, as they kissed, distinctions became apparent. One was clearly a little older and more confident, and she controlled both the kiss and her companion. The younger girl – who wore her hair loose as opposed to her friend who wore hers in a soft ponytail – was more acquiescent, and the way she used her hands and her lips was more tentative. Her touch was cautious, almost subservient, and she allowed her mouth to be forced open by her friend’s bold tongue.

To his surprise, Jonathan found himself wishing that it was he who was being kissed so forcefully. He suddenly felt a profound need to surrender somehow. He wanted to be taken, made to accept caresses rather than give them, and to perform solely for another person’s pleasure. He wanted to be rolled on to his back, on the turf, as the younger blonde was being made to, and he wanted to lie there and be kissed and touched and stripped. Then be ridden until he cried out in wild release.

At the thought of that, his penis leapt and almost unmanned him, but by an effort of will he staved off ejaculation. He bit his lip, clenched his fists at his sides and tensed every muscle in his suddenly burning body. He closed his eyes as if to banish temptation, but behind his eyelids he still saw the two blonde beauties.

I’m sorry, Lindi, he thought to his absent lover. She had only left him for a little while. She might only be a matter of yards away, exploring. Yet already he was as good as being unfaithful.

But wasn’t it almost Belinda’s fault? he reflected suddenly. He hadn’t felt this hungry for sex in ages, and thinking back to last night, and the storm, he hadn’t really felt amorous then until Belinda had suddenly sidled up close and pressed her body against his. It was she who had changed the parameters, she who had set his mind to thoughts of lust.

An indistinct cry brought him back from the storm-tossed night.

The two blondes were gazing at each other intently now, as if passing messages with their eyes, the older one looming over the younger. As Jonathan watched them, hardly breathing, the older girl unbuttoned the front of her lover’s cotton dress and drew apart the bodice like a pair of white wings.

The younger, more submissive girl’s breasts were exquisite. Not large, but firm and unsagging, even when lying down. They seemed to challenge the very air with their fresh and perfect curves and the twin cherry-coloured peaks that delicately crowned them. And the older girl did exactly what Jonathan wanted to do. She leant over her partner and began to suck hard on one nipple while plaguing the other with her swiftly moving fingers.

Jonathan had sensitive nipples himself, and his own tiny teats seemed to stiffen and tingle in sympathy. Still clutching one hand to his groin, he used the other to tweak his small, brown crest.

As the blonde woman rolled her friend’s nipple between her finger and thumb, Jonathan aped her action. Delicious darts of feeling shot down to his belly as he pinched himself, and seemed to increase the building pressure in his groin. He found himself shifting his bottom slightly where he crouched, and he prayed that his two love-nymphs wouldn’t hear him. He felt his penis jerking dangerously in the cage of his underpants, and he knew that at any moment he would have to set it free.

And still he could do nothing but watch the show.

The girl beneath was writhing now, her slender legs scissoring, her hands travelling rabidly over the hair, the back and the shoulders of her busy companion. The two were completely intimate but – Jonathan realised with surprise – quite unspeaking. They both made odd little muffled groans and gasps, but there were no endearments, no questions, no words of praise. Not even when the older woman sat up, lifted the other’s skirt, and without pause or warning jammed her hand between her squirming lover’s legs.

The assaulted one gasped as if someone had knocked all the wind out of her, and it was no wonder, Jonathan realised. Not one, not two, but three fingers had been pushed inside her vagina; very quickly, in one untempered thrust. He could see the penetration perfectly from his hidden point of vantage; the young woman’s smooth legs were as widely spread as she could get them, and her body arranged as if especially for him to see.

Unable to help himself, Jonathan pushed his hand inside his shorts and underpants and began rubbing at his stiff and aching penis. The sight before him on the riverside was so raw, so real and so erotic that he knew now he would experience agony without release.

What the two blonde girls were doing before him was not a bit like his preconceptions of lesbian pleasure. What he had imagined was a slow, ritualistic build up. Love-making that was stately and gracious; prolonged; almost dream-like. But instead the older one was … well, she was fucking her friend – there was no other word that could adequately describe it. She was using her whole arm and hand in a powerful sawing motion, working her wedged fingers inside her partner and crudely stretching her.

And her partner was loving it. She didn’t say so, but her movements spoke for her. Jonathan watched, rapt, and with his fingers tightly clamped around his member, as the younger girl lifted herself on her hands and feet, and began to swing her body to and fro, almost forcing herself on to her lover’s stiffened hand. She was strong and limber, and she reciprocated the action of the other woman’s shoves as if trying to take the entire marauding limb inside her. She seemed intent on immolation; on being entirely and comprehensively possessed.

Although neither woman spoke or even cried out, other than the most formless of grunts, it was obvious when the younger of them climaxed. Her body went rigid and her beautiful face contorted as she lurched forward in one final frantic jerk. As Jonathan watched her, almost hypnotised, her smooth belly rippled and her bare toes gouged the earth.

It was too much. He had already seen far more than he should have. Slumping to the ground, he began working his own hips back and forth in a motion that echoed the blonde girl’s thrustings. His cock was a rod of iron now and he had to give it easement; swivelling awkwardly, he revealed it to the air, then groaned as a vagrant breeze caressed his glans.

His need to climax was urgent, more pressing than he could remember in a long time, and as he pumped himself, he almost forgot his wanton wood-nymphs. Jerking his hips in ungainly circles, he pushed his penis through his fingers, focusing solely on the sensations he created.

It wasn’t until the perfect moment, when his rushing semen jetted out in long white strings, that he thought again of his two companions in the forest. And opening his eyes, he looked up and suddenly saw them.

Like two mysterious blonde phantasms, they were standing over him and watching, their slender bodies naked, their pretty faces wreathed in smiles.