Now it was real. It happened. This was climax. This was climax. I fell back. Lay back on the bench. Hot, happy, exhausted. If anyone had appeared in those last moments there's no way I could have stopped. God, how had I dared risk it? The answer I knew was that nature had done this, not me.I looked along the small platform There was still no-one even approaching the station. All was almost uncannily still, except for something glinting across the tracks a couple of fields away—maybe a bird-scarer, something metal glinting in a bush.The train arrived. I looked again across the field. The glint had disappeared, but in the fraction of a moment I was sure I'd glimpsed a quick movement, as though someone had been there and was just leaving.It wasn't till several weeks later that a girl friend sent me a steamy poetry magazine she subscribes to. "I know," she wrote, "you've been to Honeyfold. There's a poem here I thought might amuse you. I bet you didn't know things like this went on. Clasping his balls in her hand she leant backwards, silently begging him to tease her nipples again. He needed no encouragement, with both finger and thumb of each hand ideally placed he repeated the action of moments ago that had caused such a response before. In one swift movement he turned her once more to face him, she looked longingly into his eyes, sultry, breathless, yearning, lips apart, inviting him to take her, inviting him to allow her to use her womanly ways to pleasure him. He once more wrapped his fingers in her hair, twisting hard to claim a firm grip, using this grip he lowered her to her knees. The rocks upon which she now knelt cut into her knees but she felt nothing, the sea spray from the incoming tide splashed over her speckling her flesh with spots of salty water. He allowed her the privilege of looking at him, seeing it in all its magnificent glory. She could see how swollen it was; she could see it throbbing with the force of its engorgement. He held her about.
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