Love in a Limestone Landscape


A limestone ridge runs up the centre of northern England from the Derbyshire Peak District to North Yorkshire. Anyone who knows England is aware of the immense variety of landscapes which occur in a small area. The ridge is mainly given over to fields of cereal crops interspersed with cattle pasture and broad-leaved woodland. To the west the ridge falls away steeply to a lower tract of arable which then rises to the millstone grit outliers of the Pennines with the high moors and the remains of Neolithic man and the many streams falling through dark gills, which drove the mill wheels of the Industrial Revolution. That is the country of ‘Wuthering Heights’ and ‘Jane Eyre’.

To the east of the ridge the land is different again. About twenty miles from its southern end the limestone slopes gently downwards into a flat landscape of fens and meres, which provided royal hunting and wildfowling grounds in the middle ages. In 1357 the young Geoffrey Chaucer was here for Christmas as a page in the Royal Household. This too is a literary landscape.

This wild tract of reedbeds, interspersed with reclaimed farms and small-holdings, is always eerie and indeterminate as though at any minute it may revert to water and man will be eliminated in favour of geese and swans. Further north good farming land runs into the Vale of York and the North Yorkshire dales, reaching, like fingers of cultivation, into the bleak uplands of the moors.

I was born on the ridge. Our back-garden gate opened onto a cart track. Even as a child I recognised that it was no ordinary track. To me it was a special place, a place of mystery and enchantment. It was no more than fifteen feet wide but it ran in an absolutely straight line for four miles before it disappeared under a modern road. It had a pronounced camber and ditches ran along each side in which hedges had grown. I knew to count the species of plants in a given length of hedge to estimate its age and my count suggested the hedge was over a thousand years old. Later, in my childhood, an archaeological dig showed that twelve feet below the current surface of the track still runs the original Roman road, linking Lincoln and York (the Lindum and Eboracum of the Romans). It is almost two thousand years old.

The ridge is largely a place of small villages, each with its manor house or a few farms and a Norman or Medieval church, often with Saxon roots. In the early 20th century deep coal mining was introduced and on each side of the ridge mines were sunk. They have since been closed and their spoil tips levelled and landscaped. The mining villages remain, a forlorn reminder of generations of hard work, but of the mines themselves there is less evidence than there is of the Romans.

This is the landscape which formed me and the man I love. This is where we absorbed the deep past with the hard water which bubbles up through the limestone, filtered and fortified by this rock, which is tough and fine-grained but, over many centuries, dissolves in water, to be drunk by us, the children of the limestone.

My name is Anthony. I do not know when John and I fell in love. Of course, I remember when we first made love. I was eighteen years old and John was nineteen. I was five feet eight inches tall and John was six feet three. I was slightly built and he was superbly muscular. I was so fair you would hardly have noticed if I didn’t shave; John had black hair which he kept cut short but which proliferated on his chest and, in a tantalising stream, ran down to his groin.

John’s father had leant John his car for us to go out for the day. We were both interested in architecture and we had said we were going to visit the great minster at Beverley, one of the most elegant of all European medieval churches, but first we should go for a picnic. We had often explored the great sweeps of arable land, the woods and deep meadows between our homes and Beverley. We had a Bostancı Esmer Escort favourite picnic place, a secluded spot in a meadow by the river, where the tall grasses and shrubs gave privacy.

We carried a rug and a picnic with us but we both knew that we were going for a different kind of feast. It was August and the following month we should both be going away to different colleges. We had not been apart for more than a few weeks for eight years, since we had started secondary school, and we felt an aching need to give ourselves to each other as the seal of our love.

We had met on our first day at our new school. I was ten, John eleven. I was intellectually precocious but physically slight and one of the other boys decided to bully me. John already gave promise of the magnificently built man he would become and he told the boy to stop, or else. The boy persisted and John gave him a bloody nose. From that moment John and I became inseparable and no one attempted to harm me again. It became accepted that where Anthony was John would also be.

It is impossible for either of us really to define when we came to love each other. John maintains that, for him, it was love at first sight, but I doubt if an eleven- year- old boy can know what such love is. And we were very innocent, far more innocent than a modern boy or girl can imagine. And, of course, when we actually realised that we loved each other and wanted to consummate our love, the country was in the grip of persecuting gay men. We knew that what we felt for each other made us criminals in the eyes of almost everyone, including our own parents and friends. This may seem to you so long ago as to be history. To us it is as yesterday.

We spread our rug over the ground and knelt facing each other. Of course, we had seen each other naked in the showers after games at school and I had admired John’s developing muscles, his shoulders, his expanding pecs, his hairy thighs and what lay between but, now, here, just the two of us, clothed or unclothed took on a new meaning. We felt very serious as though we were preparing to take part in a sacrament, a declaration and enactment of love both physical and spiritual.

Very tentatively John put out his hands towards me and started to unbutton my shirt. As he slipped it off my shoulders I leant in and kissed him on the lips. It was little more than a peck but it was our first kiss and it set something off in both of us which was unstoppable. John kissed me back and his tongue found its way into my mouth. I felt, for the first time in my life, that someone had taken ownership of me and I loved the feeling, because it was John.

I fumbled to unbutton his shirt and pull it off as he undid my belt and pushed down my trousers and underpants.

‘Stand,’ he said. I did so. He raised one of my legs and tugged off my shoe and sock, then did the same for the other leg, then he pulled off my trousers and ran his hands up my thighs to cup my four- inch cock and my little furry balls in his hand.

‘You pretty, pretty things,’ he said and he kissed them.

He now stood and allowed me to remove his pants. I sank to my knees again and worshipped the ten inches of his magnificent cock and his hairy balls the size of twin goose eggs. I ran my hands over the column, with its fiery veins and gently drew my fingers around the magnificent helmet shape of his glans. I stroked his piss slit, ran my tongue along it and finally took as much of his head as I could into my mouth. I held reverently in my hands those balls which, I knew, would make the baby batter my darling man would give to me as his girl.

John pulled away for a moment and said in a choked voice, ‘I have brought something,’

He pulled from a paper bag a small tube of KY jelly.

‘What’s that for?’ I asked. (You can tell how ignorant I was.)

‘I think we need it for me to push Bostancı Eve Gelen Escort my cock in here,’ he said, touching my pucker.

I took the jar, opened it, stuck my fingers deep in the jell and, as John spread lube around and into my hole, I smeared the jelly along the thick pole of his cock, but before covering the helmet head I kissed it again and flickered my tongue into his piss slit. John let out a great moan. He pushed me face down on the rug, and, forgetting all about lube or anything else, he rammed his cock into my pucker. I yelled and he covered my mouth with his hand as he thrust over and over again, transforming my arse hole into my cunt. The pain was astonishing and I wept into his enclosing fist, but a warmth started to spread from my cunt through my entire body; I began to push back, around his thrusting cock, in the rhythm he had built up, and which made the two of us a single entity, devoted to my lover’s making me his woman.

He took his hand from my mouth and used both his arms to support himself as he pounded me, his great thighs and tight buttocks slamming his rod into me until I thought it would never stop. Indeed, I prayed that it would go on forever. Then a change came over him. A shudder ran through his frame and he blasted four, five, six waves of sperm into my receiving womb.

We lay panting; John turned onto his back and his great frame continued to shake with his almost tortured breaths. I lay, my arms wrapped around his torso, my head resting on his chest. I felt something infinitely delicate quiver near my face. Slowly I raised my head and saw a butterfly had settled on the mat of hair on my lover’s breast to drink the nectar of his sweat.

I looked up to John’s eyes which were turned down towards me. I saw my love for him reflected in his love for me which shone from his eyes. I copied the butterfly by licking the sweat from the hair around John’s right nipple. I took the nub into my mouth and sucked contentedly until we snoozed in the warmth of the day and the heat of our love. When we awoke John took me again. John decided that from now on, because of my big eyes full of wonder, I should cease to be Anthony and should now be his Alice. We didn’t get to Beverley that day.

In October I went to college to study catering and John went to study horticulture. We had decided we should try to make a living running a plant nursery, perhaps with a café. I also signed up for evening cookery classes at a college of further education. I was the only man in a class of middle-aged ladies, who rather mothered me. What they did not know was that I was learning the skills needed to look after my husband. I thought I should find freedom from my manhood and immersion in my femininity by taking on the wifely duties many biological women were now trying to escape. Our intention was that John would be the principal breadwinner and I, as his wife, should keep house, perhaps serving in, and making cakes for, the café.

For three years we saw each other whenever possible but it left us both longing for more. At last came the day when we had graduated and real life could begin. We had no money to establish our own place yet so John took a job in a nursery and I found a job with a firm of caterers nearby. We lived together ostensibly as former school friends. We spent four years learning the ropes of what would be our way of earning a living.

When we first moved in together after college John had asked me if I should feel more comfortable in myself if I dressed as a woman in the evenings at home. I was delighted to agree. I loved shaving and constraining my little cock and balls into lace panties and making them into a clitie, pulling really fine denier nylons up my shaved legs and securing them to my suspender belt, making up my face, doing my hair and all the other womanly activities which I had longed for. John loved to Bostancı Evi Olan Escort undress me, stroking and kissing my clitie as he rescued her from my panty’s grasp, licking my pussy lips and inserting his tongue into my cunt until I moaned my desperate need for him to take me, when he would ram his cock into my cunt at the same time his tongue took control of my mouth.

We bought our first home together and a week after we moved in I dressed very carefully for John had told me he wanted to make this evening special. I was not sure what to expect but I put on my prettiest white lace lingerie and a cocktail dress of white and navy silk I had found in a charity shop. Money was tight but John loved to see me dressed well.

When John came home from work he showered and changed into a formal suit. He looked wonderful. His broad shoulders and deep chest and the mighty thighs, which stretched the material of his trousers, just about made me come on the spot. I had prepared a cold meal because it was a hot night. John brought home a bottle of Moet et Chandon and we put it in a bucket of ice.

John took me in his arms.

‘You are the most ravishing woman in the world,’ he said. He kissed me and I responded. I could feel his cock growing as he crushed me against it.

‘I need to fuck you so bad, sweetheart,’ he murmured into my ear, ‘but first…’

He took a small box from his pocket, knelt, opened the box to display a ring with a fire opal, my birth stone, and said, ‘My darling girl, will you do me the honour of formally becoming my wife?’

You can imagine my answer and the fact that we didn’t get around to eating our meal for another three hours. After he had climaxed inside me for a second time and we had caught our breath he said, ‘Now I know it’s real. You are my wife as long as we live.’

I replied, ‘Darling husband (I love using that word) I have known that ever since you fucked me in our meadow.’

The following day we bought wedding rings for each other.

Then we had a stroke of luck in that a nursery came up for sale at exactly the same time John inherited a small but significant bequest from his grandmother. The nursery was forty miles away along the ridge, and no one there knew us. We intended that I should now live entirely as a woman and John’s wife, and we hoped that our new neighbours would not guess that I had ever been anything other than a girl.

I was overjoyed at last to became the full-time wife of my beloved husband, caring for him in every way a conventional wife would. John also bought me a lot of lovely new clothes. He was ecstatic as I paraded in front of him. I have no idea how even a stallion like him could fuck me as often and as comprehensively as he did during those months.

One day I was working in our kitchen making lunch. The window was open and I could hear customers nearby in the nursery. I heard two male voices. One asked, ‘Have you ever seen this chap’s wife?’

I listened, suspecting that someone had realised that I was not entirely what I purported to be.

‘No,’ replied the other voice. ‘Why?’

‘I saw her once. She is the prettiest, sexiest little thing you ever saw. I think he keeps her away from the customers and I don’t blame him. I should if she were mine.’

My spirits rose and when I told John, at lunch, he said, ‘I shall have to have words with him if he comes again. You’re not pretty. You’re beautiful, but I agree about sexy.’ And he kissed my nose.

All this was many years ago. In the years since we have had our ups and downs, like any other married couple, but my heavenly man has given me such joy throughout these years. His sexual appetite is still remarkable and I am an entirely fulfilled, adoring wife. My husband can still come inside my pussy and an hour later feed me his delicious cum as I suckle on his magnificent pole. In return he relishes my little clitie and the milk I produce from her. He has put on weight but I say to him, when he worries about it, ‘You can’t have too much of a good thing and I want all of you.’

And, I’m glad to say, all of him is exactly what he gives me.

(I am planning other tales of love in the limestone landscape. Giandomenico.)