The Organist Ch. 01

Chapter One

The morning sun sent shafts of warm light through the wooden slats and across my naked body as I lay on top of the twisted, rumpled sheets. We had both forgotten to close the blind properly before going to bed while comfortably drunk on the mead Christine had brought home. A bee knocked itself between the open window and the blind, then found its way into the room where it passed over our bodies and through the open door to the hallway. As its buzzing faded I heard Christine's breathing pause, then resume. I turned onto my side and saw her grey eyes open, the skin around them wrinkling as she smiled. I felt pleasantly drowsy and only slightly hungover. I leaned across and kissed her sunburned cheek.

"You really caught the sun yesterday," I noticed.

She raised her hand to her face and saw the red streak across her arm.

"Oh, great," she said, letting it fall back lazily. "Dr Lobster'll see you now."

I giggled and teased, "Always wear sun block, Doctor." I kissed her again, on the lips, then down to her neck.

"Hm, it's OK for you," she said, caressing my coffee-colored skin.

I pulled the sheet from her small breasts, licked her nipples until they were hard between my lips, then tongued my way over her round belly to her dark curls. She opened her legs while I licked the full lips of her pussy and tasted her sweetness, reminiscent of the golden liquid we had sipped from glasses the night before. With the point of my tongue I lifted the hood to expose the tip of her button. I blew on it gently and felt her squirm in anticipation. I pursed my lips and gently touched them to the small bump, sucked and felt it slowly begin to stiffen in my mouth. My hands reached up to squeeze her boobs and pinch the now completely engorged nips.

By now I was nicely aroused too. I raised myself, took her right leg, placed it against her body so that her instep rested against my cheek and pressed my hot pussy lips against hers for a few moments. Our quims kissed passionately and exchanged fluid and heat. I leaned back and made her wait for the next kiss. I saw the hole opening up like the mouth of a hungry baby waiting to suck on a mother's milky nipple, the soft skin around the hole parting to reveal the darkness of her love tunnel. Then I pushed into her again and began rubbing my hair against her clitty until every curl was glistening with love honey. She bit her lip, groaned, and I gazed lovingly down at her heart-shaped face. I rocked gently back and forth against her as we moaned a duet of mutual pleasure. I kissed the soft flesh at the side of her foot, then rubbed my cheek against it. I fingered her clitty and felt more juices trickle across my labia and into the opening of her vagina. Our bodies grew hotter and we panted in unison.

Hours seemed to pass and the movement of my tribbing was so easy I felt I could continue like this all day and would happily have done so, but then I felt her slacken against me a little. She looked me straight in the eye and shook her head.

"No?" I asked, saddened, while she closed her eyes and continued to shake her head. "What can I do?" I asked.

She raised herself to kiss my mouth and we embraced, fondling each other's backs and breasts.

She said, "Lie down, honey," and I obeyed.

She positioned herself over me, just as I had over her, splaying my legs really wide and joining our pussies together. She held onto my legs and began to brush herself back and forth across me, taking my breath out of me with each gentle stroke. Each brush caused my pussy to twitch, pulse and send little shock waves outwards across my whole body. She sucked hard on my breasts and drew the warm milk from them. She knew I enjoyed the little stabs of pain this gave when coupled with the pleasure of lovemaking. Then she resumed tribbing and I gazed up at the heavy-lidden look of longing in her eyes and the white line running down the side of her chin. More experienced than me, she expertly drew the sweetest orgasm from me, making me clutch at her hands and squeeze her slightly plump body between my legs. She smiled until I had finished cumming against her, then she bent down to give me a long, gentle snog. Mingled with her saliva, my milk tasted sweet.

"I'm sorry you couldn't cum, Chris," I said as we relaxed in each others arms.

"Doesn't matter, honey," she said, smiling sadly. "It was still good."

"Really?"

She nodded emphatically with her small lips pressed together and rose from the bed. I sadly watched her leave me for the shower and I lay for a while listening to her splash about before she returned to the bedroom to get dressed. As it was the height of summer, she wore, unusually for her, a short-sleeved white blouse and a skirt, dark and quite tight around her bulging midriff.

While combing her short bob in the mirror she asked, "So what'll you do today?"

I sat up and stuck a couple of fingers through the blind. It was another lovely, balmy summer day.

"Paint by the lake."

She nodded, put on her rimless glasses, clopped in her high heels across the wooden floor, bent down, cupped my face in her hand and planted an affectionate kiss on my cheek. A little make-up hid the worst of her sunburn.

"You smell nice," she said. It was an odd compliment, I thought, seeing as I hadn't worn any perfume. I hadn't even showered yet.

A couple of minutes later I heard the car start. Dressed in just my nightie I raised the blind and waved to her as she backed away from the house, returning my wave though the windscreen. As she drove up the narrow gravel path to the country road that passed our cottage she continued waving until the BMW had disappeared behind the hedge. Once, I would have ran to the road behind her, waving madly all the way, and the moment she had disappeared from sight I would have begun counting the hours down until her return in the evening. Sadly, it occurred to me that I now looked forward more to being alone during the day than being with her in the evenings. I showered, put on pink underwear, stepped into a pair of black shorts and a blue T-shirt, tied my dark, curly hair back, then stood at the window again, looking at the empty driveway.

The sun shone over the valley to the right and on the left the road curled away up the hill. What I could see of the garden was a beautiful, tangled mess of red roses and green bushes with hollyhocks sprouting up between them like frozen jets of multi-colored water spouted by happy whales. Before me, sitting in a row on the chest of drawers by the window, were my five dolls. I straightened each one, making them all sit up comfortably, then took a comb from the top draw and tidied their hair.

First, Amelia, the redhead with her freckles and green eyes; then Beatrice, vampiric with her jet-black hair and blood-red irises; the blonde Lorelei with her huge, grey anime eyes and tiny mouth; Suzuka, the Asian princess in her golden dress and flashy accessories; and lastly, Persephone, chocolate-skinned and plumply pretty in her jeans and Bardot top. I took Persephone in my arms, held her to my chest and shuffled off to the kitchen for breakfast.

Christine had stopped eating breakfast recently, save a bacon sandwich on the way to her surgery, and I was sure this was the reason she had gained a little weight recently. Her increasing workload, bad diet and drinking were making me more and more concerned for her health. I ate a little muesli and plenty of toast with Persephone in my lap. The doll helped stave off the feeling of loneliness that would sometimes creep up on me at this time. While rinsing my plate and bowl I noticed two damp stains on my T-shirt.

"Damn," I whispered and went back to the bedroom to wipe myself and change. The leak had already stopped but the aureolae were smeared with milk. I raised my full breasts to my mouth and licked it away, enjoying the beautiful, tingling sensation. Both nipples were incredibly sensitive but Chris never, ever hurt me too much when sucking them. She understood my body so well.

The phone in the hall rang and, still topless, I ran to answer it, thinking it might be her to say she'd forgotten something important, but it was my mother, and she was crying.

"Hi, Mummy," I sighed, knowing already why she was phoning.

"He's left me again," she sobbed. "Your father walked out on me again."

"He's not my father."

"You never gave him a chance."

"Look, Mummy, he'll be back like he always is because he has nowhere else to go. No one else wants him."

"I think he has someone else."

"Bullshit."

"Don't talk to your mother like that," she said pitifully.

"He's no good, Mummy. How many times do I have to say it?" I heard my mother snivel and cough.

"You've never liked any of them."

"No, I haven't," I asserted, glad that I had made the point clear to her over the years, "seeing as most of them had no time for me except the ones that were abusive."

"I don't believe you."

"And that's why I don't phone you as much as you'd like."

"Linda, don't be like this. I feel so sad."

I sighed, took the phone into the bedroom and sat down.

"I'm sorry, Mummy, but you've never understood. All I wanted was a decent father. He didn't have to be my real father, just someone I could look up to." I heard my mother wipe her nose. "Are you OK, Mummy? I mean, should I come over?"

I heard my mother sigh.

"No, it's alright, sweetie. I'll be OK. Are you OK?"

"Yeah, OK, I suppose." I looked around the room, at the still unmade bed, and smelled Christine's odour.

Just at that moment the cat, Honey, a fourteen year old brown tabby with white socks, came prowling in after a night out, looking up at me expectantly.

"When are you going to find a boyfriend?"

"Mummy! Don't start that again, please," I said hotly, and bent to stroke the cat, hoping that would calm me.

"You should give me some grandchildren. Why can't you find a nice boyfriend?"

"I'm hanging up now, Mummy. Thanks for calling."

"I see. No time for your poor old mother as usual."

"I love you, Mummy," I said, sincerely, and put the phone down. When my mum started like that I just could not face talking to her, least of all first thing in the morning.

I went back to the kitchen to feed Honey. I supposed the cat had not caught anything during her nocturnal hunt, judging by her apparent desperation for food. She rubbed herself hard against my legs and stood on my feet with her front paws on my knees making pitiful noises as if she were being neglected.

After making myself more decent I grabbed a new canvas, my easel and my box of paints and brushes and set off for the lake. I turned briefly to the house, worried a little about its lack of locks on the windows but, as the house caught so much sunlight being on top of a hill, and as it had no air conditioning, they had to be left open all summer. It was such a simple-looking, single-story cottage with a veranda wide enough for chairs and a table. Its chimney poked from the middle of the grey roof, casting a slanting shadow across the tiles. On this side, viewed from the valley, the windows were shadowed at this time, impenetrable eyes of black. Although it was hot in the summer, in the winter it could be cosy and Christmassy and our log fires would send a curling plume of smoke from the chimney and across to the other side of the valley. For me, fond of peace and quiet, it was the perfect little home. From the moment I had first seen it I had felt the rush of love you feel when you know you have found something absolutely perfect. Christine, I knew, had noticed my instant reaction and had caved in to my pleas, even though she would have preferred somewhere a little less isolated.

On the road I saw Ken, our neighbor, who lived by himself in a similar house not a hundred yards away, walking his German Shepherd, Leo. We waved to each other. The muscular, retired prison officer's house was not visible from where I now stood as it was set back a little from the road on the other side, at the end of a little, narrow lane. On my visits to him I had been able to see our house from his. Christine and I did take a little comfort from the fact that we had a man and a big dog around, albeit in a different house.

I followed the narrow footpath through the tall grass and weeds, down the valley to the large lake. On this languid, hot day the water rippled only because of the heat haze. I had painted here many times and had to follow the path for a good while before I arrived at a spot that appeared a little unfamiliar and interesting. In place of benches, big logs sporadically lined the path and it was on one of these I settled after setting up my easel and canvas. In the shade of an old oak and surrounded by bluebells I began with a sketch of the scene around me.

To my left, up the hill I had descended, I could still see the house perched at the top, a little brown box on the high horizon between green and blue. The glassy lake swept before me to the right, wiggled a little between overhanging willows until it curved left and became obscured by an old, abandoned, roofless, brick building. As I put down my sketch book and opened my large paint box a little rowing boat came into view around the corner, occupied by two young men I recognised from the village. They waved and I waved back, then quickly dropped my head again to my work. I didn't feel comfortable until they had completed their circuit of this part of the lake and vanished around the corner again, leaving behind them a few ripples and a rudimentary sketch of an unmanned boat at the corner of my canvas.

I thought about Christine and wondered if it was my own ineptitude in bed or if she might be growing frigid. Sometimes her orgasms had seemed a little faked to me, until she had admitted that she had not cum in quite a while. It was something I wanted to talk more about, but both of us were apparently too shy. I had become convinced that she no longer found me attractive. Despite our fifteen year age difference I still found her sexy with her heart-shaped face and her smiling eyes. She was short and slightly tubby, but her skin was a beautiful shade of cream and so smooth, and I loved the feeling of our bodies against each other. I loved her cynical sense of humor, her cleverness, her compassion for her patients or for me if ever I was sick. But in bed I seemed unable to completely satisfy her and it was driving a wall between us.

As my painting spread across the canvas I began to realise how uninspired this picture was. Too dark, I decided, and was about to transplant myself and my gear to another spot I could see to my right with fewer trees when something high up caught my eye, a flash of yellow and red against the sky, not far from the house. The tiny head and shoulders of a woman in a wide-brimmed hat glided across the hedgerow, her long, blonde hair flowing behind her. She stopped at a gate near the house and alighted from her little bicycle with its wickerwork basket, from which she took a bundle of white. The woman set this down on the ground and, as it began to move around on the end of a line, I realised it was a small dog. Leaving her bicycle beside the gate she passed down a little path which eventually joined the one I had descended, tripping lightly between the tall grass with her dog bounding before her, until she reached the edge of the lake. In the heat her figure wavered as she allowed the dog to drink. She seemed to me like an apparition. Then, with the dog off the lead, she started making her way around the lake towards where I sat in the shadows. Her walk was confident and, as she drew nearer, hopping across little ditches and mounds, I noticed to my astonishment that she was wearing a pair of very high heels, yet her gait was graceful and fluid and her face was raised.

She was wearing a dress as brightly yellow as her thick, curly long tresses, with a red belt around her slender waist. One little detail of her after another became clearer, such as her white, lacy gloves and her pearl necklace. By the time I could hear the swish of her legs against the grass I could see that she was young, but exactly what age I could not tell, anything between sixteen and my own age. It was such a pleasure to see one so young looking so utterly feminine.

It was only when she was just a few yards away that I realised I had been staring with my mouth open. I quickly resumed moving my brush across the paper to leave invisible strokes while I continued to glance at the newcomer furtively. If she doesn't say anything to me, I thought, I shall die. If she says anything to me, I also thought, I shall die. She didn't say anything, but stopped immediately opposite between the tree under which I sat and the lake. With her back presented, I was able to study her figure.

Her legs were beautifully shaped with the gentlest of curves at her calves and thighs. Her pale, almost white, smooth skin shone brightly in the sun and, despite the lightness of her complexion, she seemed to glow with health. She was slim and of very slight build, small boned and delicate. In fact, pictures I had seen of Brigitte Bardot in her prime came to my mind. When the girl turned she was too close for me to hide my fascination, so I smiled, suddenly feeling hot in my face, neck and upper chest. Her bosom was small, almost completely flat, but this only enhanced her delicacy and elfin beauty. Watching her stand there against the still water, I almost wondered if I was being visited by a mythical creature. The illusion was marred a little when her dog, a small, fluffy Pomeranian, jumped up and began pawing the girl's knee, just below the hem of her dress.

Picking the dog up and cradling him to her chest, she said in a low contralto, "What's the matter, Bailey? You hungry, darling?" She stroked the dog for a while, then lifted her face but, with her eyes obscured by purple, big-lensed sunglasses, I couldn't be sure if the girl was looking at me or not. Then she spoke and I found myself being addressed by the softest, most lilting voices I could recall hearing.

"It's a beautiful spot you've chosen to paint, if that's what you're doing," and she followed this with a deep, knowing laugh. Her bright red lips parted into a broad smile to reveal a row of perfect, pure white teeth. Everything about her was exquisite. Then she slowly raised her foot above the grass to take a step closer and my heart leaped into my throat. I decided that pretending to paint was useless and sat back, smiling up at the girl as she walked around the log to look at the unfinished painting.

"Yes," I said, finding my mouth a little dry, "it's very beautiful here, but I'm not sure if I'm doing it any justice today."

She studied the painting and only the scent of her perfume and the quiet panting of the dog told me she was still there. Then when I looked up I saw her smiling down at me. The sun, sending golden rays through the leaves, was immediately behind her head, encircling her with a halo of a myriad bright points of light. With such beauty in such close proximity, I felt a little ashamed of the painting.

"It's lovely," said the girl.

"Thank you," I replied. "That's kind of you."

"No, I mean it," she said, and placed the dog on the ground to let him scamper about amongst the trees behind us. "Am I intruding?" she asked, stepping lightly towards another log to the right that was placed at an angle to mine. She sat with her hands on each side of her, her arms straight and her legs stretched out before her.

"No, not at all," I answered and wondered if there was really any point in my continuing with the painting, or even pretending to continue. I decided to venture, "Do you live nearby?"

"In Grettonham."

I noticed she wore, alongside the pearl necklace, a gold chain around her neck but, if there was a pendant, it was hidden in the 'V' of her dress. Another gold chain, with two little hearts hanging from it, circled her shapely right ankle. A few bracelets, including a white, plastic one, decorated both wrists. Of course, she was intruding, and a part of me wanted to just leave and return to the house. I was surprised at the girl's easy confidence, her friendliness, the air of candidness. I realised I was staring, but could not bring myself to look away, despite my shyness. It occurred to me that, never at college, nor in all my years of painting, had I had the opportunity to paint such a beautiful, doll-like model. I drew out my sketchbook again and cleared my throat.