The cemetery spills its overgrown green disorder down the hill slopes and into the shallow glen where the river burbles among its stones. Some are bedrock, some are discarded marble marked up with the half-names of the long dead. It is a low, grey, cool and drizzly day and she moves among it primly, bright as any flame. The graveyard is full of little clearings among the tree-and-weed-choked plots and avenues and, a minute or two early for their meeting on this greasy Monday, she reaches their chosen spot. It is a small amphitheatre under a circle of grey sky, surrounded by deeply sepulchral cedars and funereal cypress. The memorials of long forgotten Victorians crowd the understorey and bear witness. Bear witness to their illicit, blasphemous, habitual union.
In the centre of the small clearing is a pale marble sepulchre, solid and magnificent, each corner of its broad table supported by caryatids, gauzy-dressed and lushly curved, their frank stone gazes as inviting as they are cool. As she does almost every time, she greets them all in turn, and runs her own pale fingers over their upturned faces. He will be there soon and so she takes her position. Her long tweed skirt provides both a warm seat and, once carefully folded up and out of the way, an elaborate frame for her spread thighs. She is wearing stockings in a deep burgundy which pick up a fine red check in the tweed and finds echoes in her tight red sweater. These accents accentuate her pinkness in the cold air. For these assignations she wears no underthings and she settles comfortably, her crux and it’s soft curled covers open to the woods and to the sky.
He is much younger than she, by perhaps ten years or twenty and with a touch of the Tom Hardy’s in his insolence and the wide sensuality of his mouth. He steps out of the trees and takes off his cap, moving into the clearing like a coiled jungle cat. His hair is short, but thick and curly and, as he unbuckles his jeans and let’s them sag, she sees similar curls springing at the bottom of his bladed stomach and, nestling within them, his terrific eager cock. Pale pink and lavender, already full and twitching, he brings it with suitable reverence to her folds, spread open by the v of her eager fingers, her bright pink orchid and her trembling bud. For an exquisite moment he rests the head of it in the cup of her cunt and then with long and steady pressure he glides, stretching her and squeezing himself deep within.
And then all ceremony is discarded and all is grunts and gasping, thrash and grasping. Teeth and hot breath and muttered imprecations. She rakes her fingers through his hair and bites hard down on the triangle of muscle between his neck and shoulder. She can taste the beeswax and woodshavings, the glue in the weft of his workshirt. Imagining him fucking her over a half-undressed chesterfield, she rakes her other hand across his thrusting, lovely arse. He too bites and growls and she can feel the bruises form across her back and ribs and backside as he slams her into the stone table, until he comes with a frantic guttural cry and fills her completely with his heat.
They lie close-coupled for a moment and then slowly untangle, straighten, preen. She takes fresh knickers from her pocket and puts them on, dusts down her skirt and then, both glowing inwardly, they make their separate way to work.