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‘White tipped with salty foam’

Last weekend we were the headline act at Neue Liebe, a cabaret night in Edinburgh. Little did we know that Neue Liebe’s co-host, Penny Pornstar, had penned a special tribute to us, in the form of an erotic short story that she read out on the night. For those who missed it, and for those who want a souvenir of the evening, here it is in all its glory, along with a written introduction from Penny…

Dear Boys,

It was lovely to rub up against you on Sunday evening and bask in the sheer love of the Swimmer One experience in a live setting. Oh, how I do love the swelling groove as it comes busting out of an organ.

Here, for your delight and delectation is the wee story I wrote for the occasion. As you realise, it was created for the evening’s pleasure and out-loud reading. Please do share it with the readers of your website, but be aware that it is in a raw, naive state.

Your disobedient Mistress
Penny Pornstar
It is my pleasure to give you pleasure

Island Hopping

The sun was up, but had not yet burned through the mist that lay draped over the small bays and little islands surrounding the rocky coast where Andrew and Hamish were walking.

The low hum of bees on the heather rose over the sighing of the sea as a slight swell murmured up and down the shore.

Across the narrow bay, a small island seemed to breathe under the white mist wreathing its soft, undulating form.

Copper ringlets of old bracken framed the head of the island. Smooth, gently rounded mounds, topped with the hard nub of a whin, were revealed as the sun drew the silk-draped mist away. As the smooth curves of the island were revealed, falling away towards an inlet splayed out toward the the open sea, the boys could make out small gullies and ravines. Here, again, copper fringed the island’s dark secret places, where the glistening of streams and the hint of sea pink indicated a way they could enter onto the island, soft and moist.

As the softy sleeping form became revealed, Hamish and Andrew knew they had to go there. Hamish noted a small boat with an oar to scull it by that lay hard at hand. He would, he said, circle the island and come up behind. Andrew preferred the direct route and would swim across, entering between the two promontories that pushed out into the sea. He would mount the cliffs through the copper-fringed ravine between.

So Hamish stripped down for the exertions ahead. He took the oar in hand, stiff and firm under his grasp. He pushed it down, into the hole. As the boat thrust out across the water, he pushed and pulled the sun-warmed length back and forth, in and out, thrusting himself towards the island. The sun gleamed from his muscles. The sweat poured from him as he leaned into his task, careful as the end of his pole caught in the soft brown sediment - pushing down into it but being careful not to get it sucked right in, as he drew forward, pulling the long, glistening length from the dark place, lifted it clear, looked up to where his friend stood, and plunged it in, once again.

Andrew, watching his friend go round the back of the island, drew himself up until he was tall and straight. The blood rose in him as he basked in the island’s charms, the ruddy copper colouration, the pale white peaks, full and soft, tipped by the hard, sun-browned nub of a whin bush; the deep secret places, moist and glistening. He could wait no longer and plunged into the sea himself.

His body, ramrod erect, burst through the surface, as he pumped his legs back and forth, thrusting against the waves, never tiring as his lean muscles rippled under his exertions.

Hamish had almost come up to the island. He could feel the ripples of the small waves where they made salty conflict with its shore, the foaming white glistening across the shingle. He paused, gripping tight around the long pole, now dark and wet from his exertions. He could see his friend, now doing the breast stroke, his head going down into the rolling swell, bursting up for air, as he thrust ever further, deeper into the small inlet, where he would come upon the island himself.

As Andrew’s head burst up through the surface, for one, final push, he could see Hamish holding onto his rod, its end white-tipped with salty foam. The thick salt taste of the sea was in his mouth, the copper fronds, fringing the moist inlet where he was about to come, the dew-lapped florets, pink and glistening within, the soft white tumescence of the island’s peaks above with the dark brown buds of the whin bushes upon them. He could hold back no more and with one final thrust he came upon the beach, where the salty white spume splattered across the smooth pebbles.

And as Hamish thrust his rod down through the hole one last time, pushing deep into the dark sea bed, he realised that although his boat had thrust up onto the beach itself, Andrew was already there.

In their race to be crowned with the laurels of victory for who came first upon the island, it was the swimmer, won.

Permalink • Save in De.li.cious

i love island hopping :_D

http://www.artofapproaching.com/

Posted by Pickup on 05/31 at 02:00 PM

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