I went out on a borrowed bicycle yesterday.
It was a bit big for me and I could only stop by toppling sideways off
it, so mostly I didn’t stop. But after a couple of hours I had to admit
to myself that I was hopelessly lost (Suffolk all looks the same) and I
had a numb bum from sitting on the saddle for too long. I wobbled to a
stop and toppled off sideways into a grassy ditch where I lay for a
while staring at Suffolk’s big sky and considering becoming a
survivalist and living off berries. Unfortunately, all my ideas about
sleeping rough come from Disney cartoons and I suspect in real life I
could be waiting a long time for a small group of helpful bluebirds to
drape a blanket of woven leaves and flowers over my sleeping body.
After
a lot more random cycling in drizzle I stumbled on Rendlesham Forest,
site of the Rendelsham Forest Incident, which is a kind of English
Roswell Incident. Some soldiers from a nearby military base claimed
that a spaceship landed here in 1980 and there is, naturally, a healthy
body of conspiracy theories, mostly centred round the fact that the
Ministry of Defence denied they’d ever investigated the reports and
then it subsequently turned out they had a thick file on the subject.
Conspiracy theorists being what they are, they find it impossible to
interpret ‘we never investigated’ as ‘oh do piss off and leave us alone
you dreary people’. Still, I’m glad to see the Forestry Commission,
which owns the land, getting into the spirit of things. They’ve set up
a series of signposts with maps marking the ‘Rendlesham Forest UFO
Trail’. I expect somewhere they’ve got a teashop that sells ‘We saw the
UFO at Rendlesham (but the MoD made us sign the Official Secrets Act)’
bumper stickers.
Got home very wet and tired and sat in the
hot tub in the garden with D, up to our necks in hot water while fine
rain splashed the surface. D doesn’t consider local soldiers to be
reliable witnesses to a UFO sighting. He tells me stories about
soldiers, bored witless from months posted to a county that hasn’t
entirely left the 1950s behind, getting off their heads on magic
mushrooms and having their dicks sucked by underage girls in return for
bottles of vodka in the churchyard – “like something from The Wicker
Man”. Sometimes I’m a mistress of the inessential detail. Given that
D’s story contained the following elements – magic mushrooms, vodka,
blow jobs – what do you think my next question was?
“How do you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well
either you’re repeating something someone else told you – in which case
you’re not in any position to complain about unreliable witnesses – or
you were an eye-witness – in which case what were you doing in the
churchyard while all the drunken-teen-sex was going on, hmmm?”
“Well
obviously I was having my cock sucked by (ex-girlfriend). Honestly, how
many times do I have to explain this to you, there’s nothing else to do
here.”
Well if that isn’t my cue I don’t know what is. The rain
was falling quite hard now so we dashed inside for our blow job,
pausing only to grab a bottle of vodka from the larder, for that
authentic local touch. D sprawled in an armchair in his bedroom,
swigging from the bottle, while I knelt at his feet, sucking his cock
hungrily. Every so often he’d tug on my hair, jerking my head back so
that his cock slipped from my mouth and he could trickle some more
vodka down my throat before shoving my mouth back down onto his cock.
I
got very drunk very quickly – and I suspect I got the lion’s share of
the vodka because D’s cock stayed hard as a rock. I got giggly and
sloppy, with saliva dripping from my chin as I stretched my tongue
right out of my mouth to try to lap at his balls while I deep-throated
his cock. I woke this morning with a pounding headache, a throat raw
from fucking and a trickle of dried spunk between my buttocks. I have
no memory of being fucked in the arse last night and I tentatively ask
D about it.
“Yes, of course you’d mostly passed out by then.”
“Mostly?”
“Well you grunted a little bit when I prodded you.”
“So you thought you’d take advantage of my drunken stupor to fuck me up the arse.”
“Well
we were having a nostalgia night and it’s been years since I’ve had to
get a girl incapably drunk before I could do rude things to her…”
“You’re a very bad man.”
