Deep Blue

by Aishling Morgan

  The girl undressed with a minimal show of modesty, pushing down her trousers to briefly display small white drawers before her top fell back in place. Shoes, socks and trousers were kicked off, the drawers tugged down in the shelter of the top and replaced with a pair of brilliantyellow swimsuit bottoms. The top went next, revealing an ample white bra. This was unclipped and let fall, exposing big, dark breasts topped by yet darker nipples. Thomazina watched for a while, fascinated by the colour of the girl’s skin and the size of her nipples, then began to paddle in towards the river mouth.

  The girl was intent on swimming, walking down the beach with a single, self-conscious glance towards the other people in view. She had chosen a good place, a piece of calm water sheltered by the sand bank that curved out from Ness Head. Thomazina knew it would be shallow and warm, the perfect place to bask, and was sure the girl would take her time swimming.

  Pushing hard against the current of the river, she swam to the level of the Head and pulled herself out among the rocks. Boulders sheltered her from view as she approached the place where the girl had undressed to find the rug spread out as she had first seen it, the clothes scattered carelessly across it. Peering from the shadows of a great tumble of sandstone, she watched the girl swim, waiting until she was hidden from view. With her lips set in a mischievous smile she darted out, snatching up the black trousers and top, the drawers and bra, the socks and shoes. Nipping quickly back into the shelter of the rocks, she ran to the water’s edge and slipped in.

  Violet stirred lazily, wondering if by sucking Nich’s cock she would be able to tease him back into life. He was asleep, as he had been for the hour since she had woken up, and so far she had been reluctant to wake him. Yasmin had been gone when Violet woke, leaving a note to say she was swimming at their favourite spot on Ness Beach. Violet knew the note had been left in the hope that she and Nich would follow, but had lacked the energy to comply. Now, with two cups of strong coffee inside her, she was beginning to feel herself once more, also a pleasant, lazy arousal.

  Nich had been great, coaxing her to orgasm three times with considerable skill and care. He had also been a lot less selfish than most men, concentrating on her pleasure as much as his own, if not more. True, when the time had come for his second orgasm she had knelt for him and allowed him to enter her from behind. Even then he had used the head of his cock to excite her clitoris in between periods inside her, and she had come before him. Now, with his body naked beneath a thin covering, she was tempted to pay back some of his consideration, allowing him to wake to the feel of her mouth around his penis.

  The temptation was too strong. Gently she lifted his cover, revealing his slight frame with his good-sized penis lolling against his thigh. She licked her lips in anticipation but reached for the matches that lay on a nearby table, striking one to light a scented candle. She was already pantiless, and the act of peeling her T-shirt over her head left her nude. She curled herself beside his body, a position that meant he could reach under her belly for her pussy if he wanted to. As the rich scent of orange began to drift through the air she took him in her mouth, taking the whole of his cock and sucking lovingly.

  He groaned, stirring as the blood started to swell out his penis. Violet began to suck harder as his hand found her hair, stroking with a gentle, sleepy motion. As his cock began to stiffen she found her own excitement rising and cocked her leg up, making what she knew was an open display of her sex to him. He touched her thigh, his long fingernails moving on her flesh, scratching gently down the sensitive skin. Her thighs came further apart, wide, offering herself like a cat hoping for a tickled stomach. A knuckle found her sex, brushing the lips, nudging her vagina, the finger uncurling to allow a nail to tickle the wrinkled bud of her anus.

  Violet moaned around her mouthful of cock, taking him in her hands, one to cup and squeeze his balls, the other to circle his shaft and masturbate him into her mouth. He continued to tickle her anus and stroke her hair, the ball of his thumb finding the damp flesh of her vulva and starting a rubbing motion, firm against her clitoris. She tugged harder, knowing what he was doing would soon bring her to orgasm and eager to take his sperm in her mouth at that instant. His nails found her vagina, tickling the mouth, a finger slipping inside. Her anus had begun to contract, her buttocks tightening to the ecstatic, agonising feel of having the tight hole of her bottom teased as she was masturbated. He moaned softly and her tugging became frantic, a desperate jerking as the muscles of her vagina began to squeeze on the intruding finger.

  His cock jerked and she found herself mewling deep in her throat as sperm erupted into her mouth. She swallowed, gulping it eagerly down, revelling in the sensation of having him ejaculate in her mouth as her own climax broke in a wave of ecstasy, her thighs clamping tight on his hand as his finger slipped inside her anus at the very peak of her pleasure. It was slow, her thighs and bottom squeezing over and over as the orgasm ran through her head. All the while she sucked on his erection, draining the sperm and at last pulling it from her mouth, giving the head a parting kiss and rolling on to her back.

  They lay still for a while, Nich’s hand still clamped between Violet’s thighs, a finger in each hole. She was purring, a contented, catlike sound, torpid and happy. Only when the door slammed did they move, coming apart to stretch and shake themselves.

  ‘Bastards!’ Yasmin’s voice sounded from beyond the door.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Violet demanded, moving quickly around and pulling the coverlet over both Nich and herself.

  ‘Some bastard stole my clothes!’ Yasmin exclaimed as she pushed the door open. ‘Hi, Nich.’

  Violet suppressed a giggle. Her friend was wrapped in a blanket, clasped firmly to the front to keep her big breasts hidden but open lower to show the yellow triangle of her bikini pants.

  ‘On the beach?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Yes, I had to walk through town like this!’ Yasmin answered. ‘That old git who runs the ferry was really leering at me.’

  ‘Didn’t you see who it was?’

  ‘No. There was nobody else there, not near me. I reckon it was this old bloke I saw, but he didn’t have them on him and he swore blind he hadn’t nicked them. I’m sure he had, the old perv. My other stuff wasn’t taken, not even any money. Just everything to make sure I had to go back topless, so it must have been some pervert.’

  ‘At least you had the rug.’

  ‘Probably kids playing a practical joke,’ Nich suggested.

  ‘Maybe,’ Yasmin answered, ‘but they might have left my stuff where I could find it. I searched everywhere.’

  She left, walking into her room, still reviling the thief. Nich stretched and yawned, indifferent to his nudity as he climbed to his feet. Violet followed suit, padding quickly into the tiny bathroom before Yasmin could take it. She showered, feeling pleased with herself and wondering what she should wear to make a good impression on Nich. Ready, she gave up the bathroom to Yasmin and returned to her room to find Nich, still naked, sprawled on the mattress with one of her books open in front of him.

  ‘Last night,’ she said, voicing a question that had been niggling at the back of her mind, ‘you said I must know. Must know what?’

  Nich turned, frowning slightly.

  ‘What?’ Violet demanded.

  ‘Sigodin-Yth,’ Nich answered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you been getting unusual dreams recently?’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  ‘Then you don’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’ Violet demanded. Nich went quiet, his frown deepening. ‘Come on,’ she urged.

  ‘What is your attitude to Christianity?’

  ‘Paternalistic rubbish. Why?’

  ‘I shall tell you,’ Nich answered. ‘Will you walk up to the Wythman with me?’

  Violet nodded eagerly, fascinated and impressed by the absolute seriousness of Nich’s tone. She began to dress, choosing purple underwear and a long, simple black dress that could easil
y be pulled up if the occasion demanded. Nich gave an approving grin at the sight and made for the bathroom as Yasmin left it.

  On learning that they intended to visit the barrow Yasmin insisted on coming, and Nich, after asking a few questions, agreed. They set off, through Tawmouth and across the river by ferry, then up the steep path that led to the crest of Aldon Hill. The conversation remained neutral until they found themselves alone, Violet only then demanding Nich’s explanation.

  ‘You mentioned that you came down to attend the solstice festival,’ he began, ‘and as a devotee of Ianthe, I imagined it meant more to you than to most.’

  ‘It does. Most of the people who come now are just there to party.’

  ‘You’ve been before?’

  ‘Yeah, most years since it started.’

  ‘It started earlier than you might think,’ Nich answered,

  ‘but certainly it has been growing with the resurgence of paganism. What do you know of the barrow?’

  ‘It’s a Bronze Age burial mound, the biggest in England, for some great king, I suppose.’

  ‘No king, a god.’

  ‘The name you said earlier?’

  ‘The name is Sigodin-Yth, yet I doubt that is the original. It has a Celtic feel, even Norse, while Wythman is a corruption across at least three languages. Still, gods may be named by believers, in the very nature of gods, so Sigodin-Yth will serve.’

  ‘I thought the name of a god was really important, sacred maybe,’ Violet answered.

  ‘In essence a god is the product of human thought,’ Nich explained. ‘Real, be assured of that, but dependent on the belief of worshippers. The name may well be regarded by the worshippers as a sacred thing in its own right, being created by them, along with the god, as part of their belief system.’

  ‘So what’s he a god of?’

  ‘Protection, life from the sea, abundance, fertility, possibly. I am uncertain. The only extant legends are Celtic but the barrow is pre-Celtic. The origins of the belief are completely lost; all we have is an eight-armed symbol representing Sigodin-Yth, possibly an octopus.’

  ‘Chaos?’ Violet queried.

  ‘Not at that date.’ Nich laughed. ‘Although — who knows? — the symbols may be related. No, the Celtic image was of an octopus-headed man, which has inspired artwork across the centuries, including Lovecraft’s Cthulu, which you may have read.’

  Both girls nodded.

  ‘Also a great deal of erotic art,’ Nich went on. ‘I picked up a treatise on the subject before I left London, but some ignorant jerk in customs confiscated it.’

  ‘A Bronze Age god, cool,’ Violet whispered. ‘So you thought I knew and had come to dedicate myself to him?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he answered. ‘Most gods of the time are forgotten by man and so no longer exist. Sigodin-Yth is not forgotten. Quiescent yes, insensate I suspect not.’

  ‘Great Cthulu dreams,’ Yasmin recited.

  ‘It must be remembered that the Cthulu mythos is a work of fiction, nothing more,’ Nich answered. ‘Still, it seems certain that Lovecraft must have known of Sigodin-Yth. The calling dreams, the representation in the ritual of summoning, both present parallels too close to be mere coincidence.’

  ‘Calling dreams? Like the nightmares in The Call of Cthulu?’ Yasmin queried.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Nich answered. ‘Lovecraft, for reasons of his own, imbued what is essentially a beneficial deity with horrific characteristics. The Celtic legends talk more of compelling, urgent dreams with a strong erotic element. This is why I am down here.’

  ‘Explain,’ Violet demanded.

  ‘Certainly,’ Nich answered, ‘on your word that it will go no further, at least not until after the solstice.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Violet assured him, Yasmin nodding acquiescence.

  ‘A paper was drawn to my attention recently,’ Nich began. ‘It was an indictment of pagan beliefs by a Christian psychiatrist, a quack in my opinion, using science as a tool to justify his prejudices, but no matter. He was endeavouring to prove that paganism can be damaging to mental health. In support of his theory he cited Tawmouth, linking the growing popularity of the Wythman solstice parties with a rise in reports of disturbing dreams in the town.

  ‘The fool attempted to link this to drug taking, ignoring the facts that only females had the dreams and that no such phenomenon has been reported at the much larger pagan gatherings at Stonehenge and Glastonbury. Knowing the Sigodin-Yth legend, it occurred to me that the Wythman barrow might not be a burial mound at all, but the remains of a temple much like the one in Brittany I visited recently. Sure enough, I discovered that the barrow had been opened towards the middle of the nineteenth century, and, sure enough, carvings had been found of the eight-armed symbol. Yet I could find no evidence of strange dreams in Brittany. Could it be that Sigodin-Yth sleeps beneath the Wythman?’

  ‘Wow,’ Violet said.

  ‘The psychiatrist also failed to do his research properly,’ Nich went on, ‘or he would have discovered that odd dreams at Tawmouth are not a modern phenomenon. I have found references to supposed possession, to women drawn to walk up to the barrow in the night. I’m hoping to find further examples among local records, but it would seem that Sigodin-Yth has maintained himself across the centuries by the projection of dreams, generating sufficient belief to remain extant if not active.’

  ‘And now, with all the people going up for the festival, he’ll be growing stronger?’

  ‘No. As you said, those who attend the festival are not necessarily pagans, still less believers. They may be drawn by the god, but they do not know of him. The first festival was in ’89, a rave organised by three men. Only women are drawn to Sigodin-Yth, besides which I have spoken to them and they know nothing of the god. No, this year there may be over a thousand people at the festival, but they know nothing of Sigodin-Yth.’

  ‘You’re planning to enlighten them?’ Violet queried.

  ‘Exactly,’ Nich responded.

  The shop door clicked shut as Mr Hobbers pushed the till drawer back into place. His podgy face had been set in a friendly smile as he wrapped the set of medals he had sold and took the money, but the smile became smug with the customer gone and the not inconsiderable profit safely his. Turning to his back room, he gave the shop door a last, nervous glance and settled into his armchair, out of sight of the shopfront but in easy hearing of the doorbell.

  Reaching down beneath the chair with one short, plump arm, he drew out a magazine, his perpetual smile taking on a new and lewd quality as he viewed the cover. It showed a girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, well fleshed, her pretty face set in an angry, sulky pout. The reason for this was clear. She was bent across a tennis net, racket in hand, looking back over her shoulder as a tall, steel-haired man pulled up her short white skirt. Her panties were showing, pure, fresh white and taut over a chubby bottom.

  His tongue flicked out, moistening his lips in an automatic response to the picture. Opening the magazine, he quickly found the central spread, a two-page colour picture of the same girl, but now in a seriously awkward position. She was across the man’s knee, on a chair by the edge of the court, her skirt now all the way up on to her back and her big white sports pants pulled down into a tangle around her thighs. Her buttocks were red from spanking, her face set in an expression of consternation and misery, his hand raised to deliver the next slap. Everything was showing, the full spread of her naked bottom, the lips of her fleshy teenage fanny, even her anus, visible as a dark-brown dimple between the curves of her ample cheeks.

  Mr Hobbers swallowed, wishing that it was he giving the pretty young tennis player her punishment, panties down across his lap, kicking and squealing as her naked bottom was slapped to a glowing red. His cock was beginning to stiffen, threatening embarrassment should another customer come in. Reluctantly, he closed the magazine and put it down, trying to think of anything except reddened female bottoms but failing until the chime of the door brought him back to reali
ty with a start. He rose and shuffled quickly into the shop, finding a young woman admiring a picture of an English man o’ war.

  ‘The Redoubtable, Captain Warrender’s ship, painted in Tawmouth harbour, 1842,’ he said. ‘They don’t make them like her any more.’

  ‘No, she was beautiful,’ the girl answered.

  ‘So what can I do for you, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘I was wondering, sir, if you would like to buy a coin, an old coin,’ she replied.

  Hobbers paused, rubbing his chin before making an answer. Her accent was Devon, strong Devon, her words polite, far more formal than he would have expected to look at her. She was buxom, in overtight black jeans stretched around broad hips and a fleshy bottom, a black T-shirt, also a little small across more than ample breasts made to look larger still by her tight waist. Only then, as his eyes ran down her figure, did he realise that her clothes were wet.

  ‘You’re soaking,’ he said in surprise. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ she answered. ‘I slipped when I found the coin. It was in the water.’

  ‘I’d be happy to look at it,’ he said, ‘but wouldn’t you rather get into some dry clothes first?’

  ‘Might I?’ she answered. ‘Here?’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I would be no trouble, I assure you. Perhaps in your back room?’

  Mr Hobbers found himself swallowing, imagining her undressing in the back of his shop, stripping all the way. Once she was in a towel or a dressing gown he would make her tea, talk to her while her clothes dried. Maybe he could risk a peep, catching a glimpse of her beautiful bottom or the huge breasts her top did so little to hide.

  ‘If… if you’re sure,’ he stammered. ‘I…I’ll close the door.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ she answered. ‘You are most kind.’

  She stepped around the desk and into the back room. As he leaned in to pull the door closed she had already started to undress, unbuttoning her jeans and pushing them down, giving him a hint of wet white panties that set his heart fluttering. He shook himself as the door latch clicked into place, wondering if he was the victim of a trick. If so he was not sure it wouldn’t be worth it, and with a guilty glance at the shopfront he dropped to his knees, putting his eye to the large keyhole in the rear door.