Storm on the moor She looked up as the first drops of rain were hurled against the windowpane. Shivering slightly, she pulled her cardigan tightly round herself and returned to the letter she was writing, retreating into the pool of light around the desk lamp. Immersed in her writing she did not hear the first knock at her door and it took a much louder second one to rouse her. Stretching her back as she got up she went to the door and opened it suspiciously. ``Yes?'' A man stood in the doorway. He wore a waterproof jacket and trousers and carried a rucksack. His head was bare, and his hair lay flat on his forehead channelling water down in six streamlets over his eyes and nose. ``I wonder if you can help me, I seem to have lost my way in the storm. I'm making for the youth hostel at Jamestown. Which is the best way to go?'' ``You look a bit old for youth hostelling, I'd have thought,'' she laughed. ``Come in and get dry. It's no night to be out on the moor this weather.'' ``Thanks, but if I get dry I'll only have to get wet again, and besides, if I'm not at the hostel by nine I won't get in.'' ``Then you'd best come in. It's another five miles to Jamestown and you'll not do that by nine.'' He eased himself in through the front door and stood, dripping water in a circle round his feet. Briskly she busied herself in taking off his rucksack and helping him out of his waterproofs. Despite their name, these had let a great deal of water through and his clothes underneath were soaked. ``What you need is a hot bath. There's plenty of hot water. Have you got a change of clothes?'' He had. ``The bathroom's through there. Leave the wet things outside and I'll put them to dry. I'll bring you a cup of tea as well. Warm you up from inside and out!'' A few minutes later he was luxuriating in the warmth of his bath when the door opened a crack and a tray bearing tea, milk and sugar was pushed through. All he saw of his hostess were the shy fingertips at the very edge of the tray. Neat, hardworking, dextrous fingers, he thought; she could be an artist or a needlewoman, someone whose skill was channelled through her hands. He lay back in his bath and tried to imagine her life out here on the desolate moorland farm. When he emerged from the bathroom the first thing he noticed was that she had changed out of the jeans and sweater she had been wearing when he arrived and into a cotton dress across which bold flowers marched gaily. The second was that her hair, which had been tied back in a practical ponytail when he had first seen it had been liberated and brushed until it shone with the colour of polished oak. She smiled at his own dry clothes, jogging trousers and a cotton pullover. He grinned back sheepishly. ``Sorry, I didn't pack the dinner jacket. Cufflinks are a bit heavy in a rucksack.'' ``Then that will have to do.'' She put on a gracious smile. ``I think the butler is well trained enough not to comment until he gets back below stairs. Come into the kitchen, there's bread and cheese for supper. Not very exciting, I'm afraid, but I wasn't expecting company. When I get it, though, it's nice to make the effort.'' She was wrong. Although it was indeed bread and cheese the bread was homemade, fresh and delicious with seeds scattered through the dough, and the cheese was mature with a sharpness which caught at the roof of his mouth while the full flavour flooded round his tongue. Celery and tomatoes lubricated the food and a strong, dry, slightly cloudy cider washed his palate clean. The storm had subsided to a steady but quiet rain of that sort which, when once it starts on the moor, can last for days. The rain gave the only sound from outside; there were no roads nearby and even the owls knew that hunting was pointless in such weather, so they sat in their trees and tried to keep as dry as they could. In the kitchen the two humans did much the same. Not being obliged to catch their food fresh, however, they were able to eat while they did so. While they ate they talked. He told her of his day's walking. He told her of the family of buzzards he had seen circling one of the tors: three of them, mother, father and a young bird being taught to hunt. He told her of the stream he had sat beside to eat his lunch as it ran, giggling, down through a wooded valley, stopping here and there to form rock pools or chase off down some blind sidearm like a newly liberated puppy. She told him of her day, the morning checking her sheep as they grazed the moor and the afternoon carding wool, which tomorrow she would spin and later dye and weave into rugs, throws and capes. She told him too, of her family. How her father had farmed here until he had died, a large, silent man as steadfast and mysterious as the moor, and how she had taken over from him. Of her sister who had left as soon as she could and gone to live in Canada and to whom she had been writing when he had knocked. ``I wanted to be an artist. I was halfway through my degree when Dad died, and I had to come back and take over. For Dad the sheep were raised for meat and the wool was a bonus. I decided that if I was going to farm here it would have to be on my terms, and the only creative thing I could find to do with a sheep was weaving.'' ``That's good.'' he said. ``That's very good. I admire what you've done. It's like Judo, the way you have to use your opponent's momentum to deflect them into the direction you want them to go. You've managed that with the farm. You didn't want to have to farm it, but if you had to, it would be turned to go in your direction. The trick is to know which way you want them to go or you don't stand a chance. That's the problem I've got at the moment. I'm out on the moor trying to sort my feelings about something, decide which way I want it to go.'' ``A woman?'' ``No, Anything but.'' ``A man?'' ``No, I mean work. I've been offered a promotion which means all the usual things, more money, more responsibility, but it does mean stopping doing some of the bits of the job I think I enjoy most.'' ``So what are you going to do?'' ``I don't know. I haven't reached the end of the walk yet. I'll probably decide that what I really enjoy is just walking the hills and jack the whole thing in.'' They had finished eating by this time and had moved to the living room. Topping up his glass with cider she smiled and said ``Sometimes you just have to reach out and take what you want.'' ``And if what I want is not allowed?'' ``You won't know unless you try.'' He reached out a hand and ran it along the line of her hair from the temple down past her ear to her neck. She inclined her head slightly pressing it against the hesitant touch, then took a half step closer and repeated his gesture, finishing by twisting her weaver's fingers in the dark curls at his collar. He completed the step she had begun and they stood, almost touching at toe, hip and shoulder, her hand at his collar, his at hers. Together they each drew the other's head to theirs and touched lips, gently, exploring the boundaries of their space. She dropped her hand from his neck and insinuated both arms round his waist, running them under the welt of his pullover and stroking the firm muscles of his back beneath the knitted cotton. Moving her hands upwards she lifted the garment over his chest, past his armpits and finally over his head. Outside the rain started to fall heavily, and the wind blew across the moor, bending the isolated hawthorn trees and forcing sheep and ponies to scurry for shelter under dry stone walls. Inside she wrapped her arms around him once more and felt his warm solidity as she ran her cheek over the wisp of curls which formed a T-shape on his chest, the bar connecting each nipple, the upright flaring round his navel. With one forefinger under the chin he drew her face up to his and they kissed again, more passionately this time, with a hunger their supper had not assuaged, but inflamed. He reached out as they kissed and began undoing the buttons which held together the front of her dress until it could fall away and lie in a circle about her feet, flowing from her body as the rain had flowed from his cape in those first few seconds in this house. She wore no bra and stood before him in just her briefs, her breasts full but not large, dark brown nipples tightly puckered and standing proud from the smooth, taut flesh surrounding them. He dipped his head and took the left one gently in his mouth, caressing it with his tongue as her hand on the back of his neck gently increased his pressure. His hands moved down to her hips and hooked into the sides of her briefs, but she stopped them from proceeding further and withdrew her breast from the suckling. Worried that he had gone too far, too fast, he cleared his throat to apologise but stopped when she took his nipple in her mouth and started to mirror his attentions. She did not wait for long but followed the line of hair down across his stomach, flicked her tongue momentarily in his navel and pulled on the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, kneeling before him as she pulled the legs over his ankles. Now they were both clad only in underpants she did not hesitate but re-broke the symmetry by tugging at his to release his swollen penis which waved just beneath her nose as the pants went the way of the tracksuit. She began at the tip and first kissed, then mouthed her way down one side to the base, burying her nose in the thick pubic hair which surrounded his shaft. The care with which she used her lips and avoided touching the soft, sensitive skin with her teeth reminded him of a pony taking a sugarlump from the hand of a small child, and he had to force back a laugh at the image. She passed underneath, giving each of his balls a slow, lingering kiss en passant, then reversed the action along the other side. Reaching the glans, she opened her mouth wide and took him inside, not deeply but gently, and allowing her tongue access, such sweet access, to work miracles. Feeling his orgasm build he stepped back but she clasped herself to him and drank deep, when he came, of the sweet saltiness. The storm had increased in its intensity, and the wind was starting to bend fences and bang gates. Far away, over the moor, small limbs were being torn from trees and sheep were gathering still closer in what little shelter they could find. Even the hard granite tors were not immune as wind and water allied to abrade the weaker strata, softening the contours of the stones. As his spasms subsided he drew her up from her knees and clasped her to his chest, squeezing the breath from her. ``Your turn now,'' he said, leading her out of the living room and into the bedroom. He took her over to the bed and gently lowered her onto it as if she were made of wafer-thin porcelain. Tenderly he removed her pants, kissing her knees, her ankles and her toes as he drew the thin cotton over each in turn. Then he returned, kissing toes, ankles, knees as he moved up her legs, following by light pecks at each inner thigh in turn, inching towards the light triangle of hair which swirled around her cunt. He noticed with delight the way that her hair lightened from oak to sunlight as it grew away from his target, so that the top edge feathered indistinctly into the colour of her skin. Bending low he kissed his way down to the apex of her triangle, his chin moistening with her juices, and ran his tongue up and down her outer lips, delighting in the metallic sharpness of her taste before darting his tongue deeper into her, searching for her clitoris. As he probed his hands moved up her body to play with her breasts and she tucked her foot under his thigh to hook her toes around his now limp prick. Her fingers entwined themselves once more in his hair and pulled his mouth into her groin as she rose to orgasm under his ministrations. Feeling his cock stirring again he pulled himself up her body, tonguing her navel, then moving up to kiss her firmly on the mouth, his tongue and lips coated in her fluids, her tongue and lips still tasting of his semen. Slowly he inched his prick into her, teasing his way into her well lubricated cunt. She was still high from her orgasm and the muscles of her vaginal wall fluttered as he began to stroke her breasts with one hand and her buttocks with the other, and to match the rhythm of his thrusts, pausing briefly at the deepest to savour the warmth of her welcome. Kissing her mouth, their tongues battling over possession of lips and teeth he pulled gently so that she rose over him, her hair a tent for their kisses, her breasts spilling over his chest, her nipples hard against him, her pelvis grinding as they both came again, his orgasm intensified by the passive role she let him assume. As they descended they clasped each other, squeezing hands, arms, breasts and cock, and slowly drifted into sleep. Waking at three o'clock, he went out to relieve the pressure of his bladder and noticed that the wind had subsided. All that remained was a light rain which dripped noisily from outbuilding roofs, while far off he heard an owl hoot in preparation for its delayed night's hunting. As he slipped back between the sheets she rolled towards him and they made slow, gentle love, lying on their sides, arms and legs entwined. Neither came, and neither cared; it was an act of comfort and togetherness. Before they once more returned to sleep he murmured ``I've decided. I'm going to sidestep their promotion and throw it right back at them,'' and felt her cheeks lift in a dozy smile beneath his lips. When she woke the next morning sunshine filled every corner of the room, the light was lucid and vital, proclaiming the cleanness that followed the storm. She stretched her back and looked around for her clothes, which were piled neatly folded on the chair by the bed. Then her nose brought the sensation of coffee to her as the door opened. ``Good morning,'' he said, ``I've taken the liberty of preparing you some breakfast. Coffee and toast, and I can do you an egg if you'd like?'' She dressed hurriedly and went through to eat breakfast with him. They ate in silence, neither mentioning the events of the night beyond the strictly meteorological. When they were through and washed up he packed his rucksack and shouldered it, saying ``Well, thanks for your hospitality, I'd best be on my way. I've a long walk ahead of me today.'' ``It's been good to have the company for a change. Enjoy the rest of your walk, and do call again if you're in the area,'' she said. ``Thanks, I think I might take you up on that,'' he grinned as he went out through the door. She watched it close then went over to the window and looked down until she saw her husband emerge from the urinous, needle-littered, graffiti-covered concrete stairwell, turn and wave at her tower block balcony and walk off into the city's dust-dry streets.