Foreign Affairs

by Jacqueline George

  Her face passed only millimetres from his sex each time, and he felt the warmth of her breath on him. Her hair lapped about it now, languid circles around the excited, bounding pole. Her breath felt hotter and stronger as her mouth came nearer and nearer. Her lips brushed the tip, and it bucked out of reach before falling back. Her tongue reached out, and a wet flick brought the same spasm. She held the stem in her hand and began to lick the swollen head. Fluttering, the tip of her tongue roamed over and around it. She explored the curves, probed the closed slit, lapped at the edges and the sensitive web underneath.

  It was too much, and he dragged her up to lie beside him, ignoring her protests. Now he had to see her secret, whatever it was. He laid her down and started to roll her panties from her hips.

  Her hands flew down to her belly to stop him withdrawing the last veil, but he silenced her protests with a kiss. “Don't worry, Joan. I love you anyway. I want to see all of you.” Slowly her hands came back up to his shoulders and she watched his face as he drew the black lace down. She lifted her hips a little to help.

  The flimsy panties moved slowly down over her flat tummy and a small patch of curls, neatly trimmed, came into view. His question was being answered, and for a moment he thought she’d had the operation. Then, as the lacy garment reached her thighs, a penis sprang into view. Unwanted, it had been held in forced confinement between her legs. As he watched, it reasserted itself and uncoiled rapidly. It stiffened, stood up and, fully extended, fell back onto her belly. Without taking his eyes from it, he pulled the panties down and off her feet.

  As with the rest of her body, her penis, too, looked perfect. Perfect, but miniature. It was circumcised—Indonesia was a Muslim country. Straight and slim, it reached halfway up to her navel. Below, at its roots, the wrinkled pouch looked as small as a child's. Fascinated, he slipped his fingers under her stem and let it rest on his hand. It twitched as he held it gently. Still holding it, he moved to kneel between her legs, her open thighs over his. He leaned forward and supported his weight on his hands. His manhood lay beside hers on her stomach. It looked massively heavy in comparison. His own hairy pouch pressed against hers, engulfing it. Together, they stared at the companions.

  The sight was exciting, and Joan began to mutter, eyes opening and closing as her head turned from side to side. He felt her knees close against his ribs. With her hands behind her knees, she suddenly pulled her thighs up to her chest, raising her hips from the mattress. His stem was displaced, and her legs against his shoulders forced him further back. His tip rested between the hard stretched muscles of her bottom. Her purple knot pulsed against him, mouthing its urgent invitation.

  “Please, Mr. Tim, please...,” she begged.

  * * * *

  This time, Priscilla thought the silence in the hearing room held a hint of uncomfortable embarrassment. She looked at the Board. Valerie had an expression of distaste on her face, but Susan looked hot and bothered. She may even have been blushing. The Major was miles away, day-dreaming about what, Priscilla wondered.

  Priscilla coughed to silence the whispering that had begun to fill the room. “Chairperson, I still propose to pass over that story. It's thoroughly disgusting of course, but it does not really concern women at all.”

  Before Valerie could agree, Trehearne jumped to his feet again. “Madam Chairperson, the Investigator has just been very rude about my book. She called it disgusting but does not propose to support that statement. Could I ask her exactly why she finds it disgusting?”

  “I would have thought that was quite obvious, Trehearne. However for the benefit of the cameras, I suppose we had better hear the Investigator state it. Priscilla?”

  Priscilla decided the time had come for a professional foul. She had to make people understand just what sort of person Trehearne really was. “Chairperson, the major point is that any right-thinking person would object to what Trehearne did to the woman—er, man in question.”

  “Miss Investigator, are you equating me with the hero of the story?”

  “Wasn't it you? No? I withdraw the question. And the implication.”

  “Thank you. Now, I still feel that your criticism of the story discriminates against people with a sexual preference that differs from your own. People that you and the Authority are here to defend.”

  That really got Priscilla's temper up, the very idea of Trehearne explaining her duty to her. “Tell me, Trehearne, did you actually enjoy what you did?” The room erupted in an uproar with everyone talking and calling out. The cameras panned wildly trying to catch the expressions on everyone's face at once.

  Valerie rapped her knuckles on the coffee table and called for silence. “Priscilla, I shall ignore that question. Let us move on to the next story before the proceedings become undignified.”

  Priscilla looked at Trehearne, hoping for some sign of the damage that she knew she had done. He was inscrutable. Feeling her eyes on him, he looked up. As their eyes met, his handsome face broke into a cheerful smile, and then he winked at her.

  She could not believe Trehearne's temerity in winking at her, and she hoped the cameras had not caught it. He seemed unable to take the proceedings seriously and still thought he had a chance to win. She hurried on to the next part of the book.

  “The next story is too stupid for comment. A fairy story about witches and wild animals. The only point of interest is Trehearne's compulsion to bring sex into everything, even fantasies about witches. We are only hearing it for the sake of completeness.”

  Hunting the Red Fox

  One sweet English mid-summer's morning, just before dawn in the estate woods, Kevin had a bone to pick with an old fox. He had known him for some time, winter and summer, and they always got on well enough. The fox had managed to avoid the Hunt, which pleased Kevin because he was a handsome beast and his death would have been such a waste. He kept to where he should be, in the woods and the fields, so no one looked to shoot him. But lately, he had started to overstep the line and get into the pheasant run.

  Kevin always put the young birds out into a run as early as possible. It got them used to the woods while keeping them safe and well-fed. Kevin would visit them daily with some barley and pellets until they grew big enough to go free. Mr. Fox had other plans, however, and somehow he was getting over or under the wire and helping himself to one or two. Kevin would rather have foxes around than pheasants. He despised the stupid chattering birds, but pheasant shooting brought the money in and every estate had to pay its way these days. So this would be Mr. Fox's last day on earth, and Kevin felt truly sorry for it.

  Time was when it would have been a game-keeper who tumbled out of bed before the summer sun, but in modern times the manager has to do everything himself. So there he sat, cushioned only by his hat, half behind a hazel clump and cuddling his 12-bore in his lap, watching the path he expected the fox to take.

  A lot goes on in the woods of a morning. The birds were getting restless, stretching their wings in the grey of the dawn and clearing their throats. Through the dry leaves animals hurried home before sun-up. Kevin heard the ripple of mice and once the slow snuffling passage of a badger. It was a busy place and far from peaceful. Perhaps that was why he did not hear the fox when he came. Suddenly, there he was, sitting at a bend in the path, looking straight at his executioner. For a moment, Kevin did not lift his gun. The fox was royalty, casting a gentle eye over his kingdom.

  Then his attention, and Kevin's, was taken by a noise on the path and into view came the strangest sight. She was a tall girl with bare feet and long red hair. A loose moss-green robe reached nearly to her ankles, and a silvery head-band held a small star in the centre of her forehead. She strode purposefully towards the fox.

  Damn! thought Kevin. I should have taken him while I had the chance. He's gone now. Except the fox did not go. He whimpered a greeting, even lowering his head and stretching a tentative paw out near the ground to her. She bent right down and held out her hand for him to sniff, just as if she wa
s greeting a dog. Then she crouched down, took his head in her hand and spoke to him.

  “What are you about, Master Reynard? You're after those pheasants again, aren't you?” She brought a school-teacher's sharp finger up in front of his nose and with her other hand forced his head up so he had to look her straight in the eyes. The finger wagged. “You leave them alone, do you hear? They're not for the likes of you, and they'll be your death if you touch them. Now get off home!” She rapped his nose sharply with her finger. The fox turned and scuttled away, brush trailing low.

  Kevin was stunned. If he had not been sitting already, he could have been blown over by the slightest puff of wind. He had seen some strange things in the woods over the years, but nothing to match that. Or what followed.

  With a contented air, job well done, she came on towards him, humming a snatch of a folk-song or something like it. She got within three or four metres of his hiding place when she saw something she was searching for. She stopped and looked around for a handy branch. Then she quickly pulled her robe over her head and hung it up.

  The girl was a lily. Long legged, slim, purest white with small, round breasts. Her rosy nipples had tightened in the cool morning air and peeped out proudly. From the focus of her flat belly and milky thighs sprang a generous tuft of red hair, much the same colour as her foxy friend, mantling but not completely hiding the pink ripples beneath.

  Muttering under her breath, she crouched down, and he saw she had a short curved knife in her hand. Fascinated, he watched her saw at a plant stem (the knife was obviously blunt), her breasts swinging with her efforts. When he judged she had almost cut it through, he stood out from behind his shelter.

  She leapt to her feet, and her hands flew to her face. She was mouthing something, but no sound came out until she managed, “Please don't hurt me!” Nothing could have been further from Kevin's thoughts. In her abject terror she had more need of comfort and a good cuddle than anything else. He tore his gaze away from her body and met her frightened hazel eyes.

  “Why don't you put your dress back on, and we'll talk about this civilised-like?”

  She backed away, feeling behind her for her robe.

  Being dressed seemed to make her a little more comfortable. “I'm sorry. I didn't think there was anyone there.” He had to laugh at that. He doubted very much that she would have taken off her clothes if she had realised she had an audience. “I'll go home now,” she said tentatively and came forward for her knife, still lying on the ground where she had dropped it.

  But Kevin would not let her off so easily and put his foot next to the miniature sickle. “I'll tell you what I think, my dear,” he said slowly. “I believe you're a witch.”

  That really seemed to upset her. Wringing her hands and nearly weeping she cried, “No, no! It isn't like that at all. I'm from the cottage down the hill. I just gather them for medicine.”

  Now people who live in the country, who live close to the ground as they say, see many things that do not touch that part of the population who are tied to their cities. Kevin had known a couple of old girls who were good with herbs. One of them knew a great deal about horses, more than the average vet with his college degree. She had helped with a couple of his, and Kevin could swear that she had magic mixed in with her herbs, admit it or not. No matter what people thought of witches, wart charmers and water diviners, Kevin could not believe they had any more harm in them than other folks and a good deal less than in some he could mention. He could not see much harm in this one either.

  So he just laughed at her. “You've seen off my fox, my dear, so you'd better make amends and take me home for a cup of tea.” He bent towards the knife. Etched on the shiny half-circle of the blade, a star glinted. Silver writing covered the short wooden handle. “Can I touch it?” he asked.

  She looked at him with surprise, realising that perhaps this stranger knew a little about these things. “Yes, but don't use it.”

  He handed it back to her together with the plant that he still did not recognise. In silence they filed back down the path. What she thought of him he could not imagine, but he knew what he was thinking about her. He was enjoying the beautiful contrast the green robe made with her red hair and the delightful roll of her naked bottom beneath its loose folds.

  She had taken the old game-keeper's cottage, which sat back from the road at the edge of the woods. She kept it pretty well too. As they entered the garden, he could see something troubled her. “Do you mind leaving your gun outside?” she asked shyly. “I try not to have things like that in my house.” Anybody who had the nerve to ask something like that of Kevin would likely get a dusty answer, but for pretty girls he could make an exception. He stood his gun in the woodshed and followed her inside.

  As she sat him down at the kitchen table, he decided it was time to introduce himself. “I'm Kevin. What do I call you?”

  She frowned. “Call me Debbie.”

  “Debbie. Well, Debbie, that wasn't the name I saw on your knife, was it?”

  Once more the embarrassment. “That was—another name.”

  He laughed outright at her. “Come on, my dear, that was your witch's name. Don't you be afraid of me. I know when to keep my mouth shut. Don't tell me no tales, neither.”

  “Excuse me, but you seem to know something about the Craft...” Her voice trailed away because witches did not talk about such things outside their own circle.

  “Not much really, but enough not to be afraid of taking tea with you. Why were you going round naked?”

  “It's better for the herbs if you say a few words first and dress how Mother Nature made you.” She smiled. “You didn't mind, did you?”

  Now it was his turn for embarrassment. “As for that, I believe it was the prettiest thing I ever came across in the woods.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully then seemed to make up her mind. “That's all right then. At least I didn't frighten you as much as you frightened me. Now, there's no tea, no ordinary tea anyway, so we'll have to drink wine.” Giving him no time to protest, she went to the cupboard under the stairs and came out with a dusty bottle. “Last year's elderberry, the best yet. And if you like it enough, perhaps you'll help me with a couple of things before you go.”

  Fair enough, he thought as she poured the deep ruby wine into earthenware mugs. He sipped cautiously. “Hey, my girl, you've put some magic into this!”

  She smiled at him over her mug. “Not so anyone would notice. Anyone else, that is. Were you really going to shoot that fox? Something must have sent me just in time. He won't trouble you anymore, you know.”

  He believed her. You had to believe anyone who could handle a fox like that.

  So they sat, drinking their wine and talking of this and that around the woods until, with the bottle nearly finished, Kevin thought he had better start earning his keep. “Now, my dear, what did you want help with?”

  She waved him back down. “Tell me, were you ever involved in the Craft? No? That's a shame. What do you know about it?”

  The truth was he knew very little. More than most, but still not much. Of course he knew that witches did not worship the Devil, and that they did not stick pins into dolls or turn children into frogs. They just seemed to be people who lived hand-in-hand with nature and knew a lot of things that most others had forgotten.

  His attitude seemed to please her. “Do you really want to help me?” (Who could refuse eyes like that?) “I badly need someone sympathetic to help me, just for half an hour.”

  “Come on, my dear. As long as it don't involve me dancing round the woods mother-naked picking flowers, I'll do what I can.”

  She was still shy, staring at the table. “I want to cast a spell, a good spell, to help me get something. It's a love spell and…,” She brought her eyes up to meet his and continued in a rush. “I need a man to make love to me while I do it. Please.”

  Kevin choked on his wine. “You want what?”

  “I'm going to cast a spell, and it's really importa
nt to me. I can build up the energy by dancing, but I'm afraid it won't be enough. The most energy comes out when you make love, if you do it right, as part of the spell.” It all seemed quite logical with her saying it, and Kevin must have agreed because she warned him, “You'll have to start right from the beginning.”

  Apparently that meant being clean to start with. In a moment, her robe was over the back of her chair and she was helping him off with his clothes. He felt a bit of a fool, half-naked with a strange woman neatly folding his trousers for him, so he reached for her to give her a kiss. She allowed a peck on the cheek and then pushed him away. “Not now. Later. First, come with me.” Mother-naked, as he had refused to be only minutes before, he followed her into the garden to the stream that split her lawn in two. “Come on. It'll do you good.”

  The deepest water reached only to their calves, but with a jug she kept under a bush, she doused him from the top of his head down. The water felt freezing. She rubbed him everywhere, front and back, probing into every corner. She even cleaned his frozen instrument before dropping to her knees and trying to blow some life back into it.

  “Now me,” she commanded, turning her back and holding her hair up. He washed from the nape of her lovely neck, over soft shoulders, down to the bouncy curves of her bottom and beyond. When he reached her knees, she bent over and smiled at him upside down between her legs. He sluiced more water over her and gently rubbed her bottom.