Karen_SubBiFem
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 1, 2006
- Posts
- 194
Lovecraftian style roleplay (a story idea and beginning)
Hi,
Here's a roleplay I began with a friend via email a few months back, unfortunately he dropped out just as things were getting interesting. So that it doesn't go to waste I thought I'd post it here for everyone to read.
Thanks,
Karen
Evelyn Poynter is 23 years old and from a moderately wealthy English family with historic ties to the British Empire. She has just graduated from one of the lesser known Cambridge colleges with a upper second class honours degree in Anthropology and Biology. While at college she a had a number of boyfriends but formed no long lasting relationships and frankly is somewhat mystified about the importance people seem to put on sex, having never really enjoyed it that much.
Despite objections from her family who would prefer that she settle down as a wife and mother in the tradition of the family, she has chosen to pursue post-graduate work in some of the wilder parts of the globe. She's skilled and intelligent, but somewhat naive and out of her depth.
Evelyn is slender and athletic, She stands at 5'4 with red shoulder length hair and dark green eyes.
-----------------------
It had been six months since she had gotten her new assignment from the professor, a man too busy playing politics to do any research himself. She had had to cross the Atlantic from Cambridge to Massachusetts by way of boat through Plymouth. 12 days had been spent on the intercontinental steamer, idling, regretting her latest outburst at the man she dreaded, Professor Tinbald, who through no small exercise of clout had picked up this god forsaken assignment in the Americas as punishment. She spent no less than three of the twelve days imagining how she would kill him if he had taken this trip with her. She settled on tying a rope around his able and pushing him overboard as her preferred method and afterward spent the time staring into the churning wake of the ship.
Now she sits in her rented room, exiled from the University, studying her notes over tea before heading back into the field. The heat from outside is already pressing in from the walls as the thick Boston air begins to warm with the morning; stale and moist. It makes her red hair sick to the back of her neck and her blouse hug her in a most uncomfortable fashion. The city breaths down her neck, predatory and mysterious.
Her assignment is vague, it's sole purpose to get her as far away as officiously as possible: a Pocomtuc tribe grounds, a sculpted altar in a cave nearby, and piles of bone fragments whose origins are so mixed as to make identifying any one species impossible. She is to find the answers for her college. Who? How? Why? When?
The natives she had hired before, alcoholic men who whispered legends of sacrifices to old gods and totems, had brought her to the woods of western Massachusetts. Twice they had gotten lost, brought her to a clearing and claimed it to be the tribe grounds and their job complete. The last one had even, upon accusations of fraudulence, pulled a gun and robbed her. Leaving her naked and alone in the woods.
She doesn't know why she takes this assignment so seriously with the motive so transparent, but the very knowledge of the altar pulls her onward. She dreams of its discovery every night. The cold dampness of the stone beneath her bare feet. The smoothness of the walls as her hands reach out and her fingertips graze. The feel of the stone warm and sighing against her naked back as she slowly reclines upon it. She chases after it with desperation, it's mystery becoming an obsession.
-----------------------
The ground was soaked with rain and blood under my feet. Impossibly tall Oak and Birch trees crammed together of the crest of a shallow hill with the skies above boiling with a summer storm. Water sheets down my naked body as try to climb the hill. I slip once, then twice, falling in the slick mud and growing colder still, but I pull myself back to my feet. When I reach the top of the hill the sounds I can hear, muskets and war cries, screams and the silence of death almost deafen me. The Pocomtuc are attacking, French Canadian colonials by their side. As I watch a tall skeletal warrior cuts down two of the British colonists before falling under a hail of musket fire. The images are dark almost abstract under the heavy dark sky and the occasional flash of lightning throws shadows against the wall of trees behind. I raise my head a little over the brow of the hill, but as I do my foot slips and I fall, fall far and long.
Before I feel myself hitting the bottom of the gulley, the scene before me changes. I'm back in the cave, the stone rough against my back. I look down at myself, naked but clean and dry. A light up ahead calls me. The rough stone cut into my feet as I turned another shallow corner in the cave, the red flickering light ahead growing stronger, the sounds growing louder with each step. At first it sounds like a wail, a cry of pain or of loss. As I become closer it changes, or perhaps I change. I turn the final corner and find the small grotto. There is a smell here, a coppery bitter scent like blood, but with a rich tang of growing things. The scent is like that of many plants in an enclosed environment, chlorophyll filling the air. But it is unpleasant, the growth less that of a healthy verdant forest than that of a swamp, a cancer of uncontrolled growth and fecundity.
My eyes adjust slowly to the light a guttering torch casts over the scene. I realise I am high up, a natural stone staircase snaking away to my right down in to a pit. Some twenty meters below me the floor of the cavern is unnaturally flat, it almost looks machine made though it certainly cannot be that. I don't think this through until much later though as the figures catch my eye.
A dais in the centre of the cavern is covered with sheets of fabric of reds and greens over animal skins and wool. A woman lies atop the sheets, her thighs apart her head thrown back. She is pregnant, massive, inhumanly, impossibly pregnant. As she strains her moans echo around the chamber, but they are not echoes of pain, but echoes of orgasmic pleasure. Above her stands the altar I've been searching for, carved in relief into the stone walls. Around the dais and sit the Pocomtuc, at least those few that have survived. They sit motionless but for their lips moving, chanting some strange and inhuman tongue, guttural and harsh, pauses and inflections that sound alien as they watch the woman give birth. Above her , above the altar there is something else, something in shadow.
I awake suddenly, sat up in bed, my hands tearing at the crisp white sheets of the university accommodation. I gasp and look around me, unsure for a moment where I am or for that matter who I am. Slowly memory returns. The neat little room at Harvard College that I have spent the last week in is coming back into focus. I push the sheets back and sit on the edge of the bad, letting the cool pre-dawn air flow through the open window and across my naked body. Slowly the perspiration evaporates and my heart and breathing stop hammering in my chest and return somewhat to normal. I realise immediately that I will not sleep again this night move to the window. The neat little college quad outside is still bathed in moonlight and nothing stirs, but the faint edge of dawn can been seen to the east. I remember the dream, the first part is confusing, but the second part mystifying.
"Deerfield" I shock myself by saying out loud. "Deerfield" the word repeats.
It was my own voice but I had no intention of speaking. Where on earth is Deerfield? I wondered.
Three hours later I am sat with Dr Arthur Jermyn of the anthropology and history faculties. He was the foremost expert on local Indian history, when I said as much he corrected me with a smile and pat on my hand "Native American my dear. We've done quite enough to these people without insulting them anymore." I smiled and apologised. I asked him about local battles between Pocomtuc and British settlers and he confirmed that yes there had been several. I asked about French involvement which as a British girl with very limited knowledge of American history sounded unlikely but again he agreed there had been several such cases. When I described my dream to him (taking care not tell him that it had been a dream) he answered with one word.
"Deerfield."
I hired a car less than an hour later and having booked a room at the Frary House Hotel and with a small overnight bag packed I began the two hour drive to Deerfield. I chose not to remember that when housekeeping changed the sheets in my small neat Harvard room, that they would find the sheets and the state they were in.
--------------------------------
The Frary House Hotel was little more than the name implied: a continental style home with six or seven rooms prepared for guests, a dining hall, a living room, and a kitchen. The rooms themselves were small and womb-like to protect against the winter chill, but even barring the heat, her own body heat made the room near unbearable.
Doctor Jermyn (or Arthur, as he had requested in the car drive over) had booked the room across from hers and had helped her with her equipment up the narrow staircase. She was at least grateful for the assistance since the proprietor, an enfeabled old woman who appeared as ancient as the trees though perhaps not nearly so sturdy, had seemed in no condition to help her.
The steamer trunk contained everything she would need for an expedition and had been her companion all the way from Cambridge. Now it lay at the foot of her low bed, leaving so little room so as she had to clamber over the need to reach her night stand.
With the carriage ride of a few hours after her her sleepless morning, every muscle in her body aches. It's only afternoon by an inch but she is exhausted. Despite this she is electrified with excitement and anticipation. She can't remember being so excited for an assignment before, and still can't place why this one is gripping her so.
Perhaps some air and wind would calm her nerves some. She hates being confined in the way these northeastern style homes tended to. As she exits the room, she can hear Arthur in his, whistling a hollow melody that she can't put lyrics to. As familiar as it sounds, she can't place it, though she had never been one for music. She feels more and more claustrophobic walking down the stairs and through the entryway. Her elbows graze the walls the entire way.
Outside was better. She could taste the moss on the trees and the wildflowers encroaching from the forest onto the once manicured lawn gone to fey. In the shade of a tall elm just far enough from the woods so that the undergrowth was sparse, she rests. The quietness of the place is something she would have to get used to. No other rooms in the hotel are booked, but this isn't contrary to her preferences. Her own company is the best after all. In the shade of the tree she opens the top and bottom clasps on her blouse and stares as the trees, waving in the wind, welcome her to sleep.
She is in the cave again. The walls reach almost infinitely up into the dark and below her the altar dances in the flickering of the torches. The mouth of the stairs is to her right, gaping snd begging her to fill it.
The mouth of the stairs is behind her, reaching upwards into the dark heavens. The Dark heavens that rejected her. The alter is before her. From down here she can see the floor is carved in a sweeping circle, wide as a footstep and filed with symbols she didn't care to try to read. She had a purpose to fulfill.
The symbols didn't matter because she was fulfilling her purpose. She is on the alter, a naked milky white calf on hands and knees. Her soul to be freed to fall up to the infinite darkness that even now reached down, hungry.
The altar hisses as from the her right, (from the base of the altar? Or perhaps the carved circle? ) it crawls across the back of her hand, covering from wrist to knuckle. She stares forward, terrified and overjoyed, with tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. She won't look but she feels its smooth dry skin coiling around her arm. As it ascends, it constricts, leaving a numbing sensation in its wake. It slides over her shoulder, down her back and side, and then around thr underside of her breast.
"Don't move." She thinks. "Don't move, don't look. " It repeats in her head like a mantra as the appendage workes its way up to her neck. "Don't move." She heard it again, but this time in Arthur's voice.
She awoke, face to face with Doctor Jermyn in the cooling twilight of a Deerfield evening. His hands outstretched, reaching for the snake wrapping itself around her throat.
-----------------------------------------
She screamed, pulling away from the Doctors outstretched hands, not understanding what was happening. His hands close around the snake and pull it loose, leaving the room and returning after only a few minutes.
“Arthur, what’s going on, where did that come from.” She’s a little calmer, but an edge of hysteria still crowds her.
---------------------------------------------
"My dear, you fell asleep in the woods. I found you completely unresponsive so I carried you back here to the hotel."
"And the snake? " She asks with trepidation.
"A hitchhiker apparently. It had probably slithered into your blouse at dusk, looking for something warm."
"I was unconcious?"
"I wouldn't say that. You were unresponsive to me but you were mumbling in your sleep as I carried you. I couldn't make out what you were saying though. What was your dream of? "
The fetid smell fills her nostrils once more. She can still feel the pressure of that strange boneless appendage on her arm and under her breast. The seat on her body is reminiscent of the dampness of the cave. "I...don't remember" escapes her lips before she can truthfully answer.
"Well try to get some more rest. We head for the cave on the 'morrow."
She considers the living altar of her dreams and finds her white panties beginning to moisten. "Yes doctor. I can't wait."
------------------------------------
Arthur left her bedroom and she quickly closed the door behind him. With one shaking hand she touched her neck, it felt warm and smooth. Quickly she found a mirror in her overnight bag and turning on the small reading light she examined her neck as best she could. There was a mark there, not a bite or cut or burn, this was a mark of absence. She had spent much of her life outdoors, usually with too little in way of protection against the sun and it showed. Her skin was young and beautiful, but perhaps not as young as it should be. Apart from the mark on her neck, a long stripe of skin disappearing beneath her blouse looked like the skin of a sixteen year old. She bit her lower lip as she remembered the elements of her dream and the pleasure the unknown creature had raised in her.
She decided to take a shower before bed and as she stripped off her clothes was shocked and embarrassed to discover that her panties were stuck to her and translucent with her own excitement. Her orgasm as she showered was the strongest she had ever experienced.
They intended to set out early the following morning, but a sudden rain shower at dawn made that unwise. They stayed and breakfasted before a roaring fire and talked in to the early afternoon before the weather cleared. Evelyn drove them both out after Arthur loaded their equipment into the rental car. The roads were slippery and treacherous on the tarmac and then thick and cloying on the mud trail up into the hills. It took them the better half of two hours to find the cave, the GPS location they were following leading them up one false trail after another.
When finally they pulled into a clearing showing only 50 meters to the cave they decided to walk the remaining distance and leave the equipment in the car for the moment. Evelyn stepped out into the clearing and breathed in deeply, the air was filled with the scent of the trees and the flowers all around them, the whole area lush with growth and dew. Yet somehow it was cloying, almost suffocating with too much life trying to crowd the small area and the air filtered through the thick forest canopy.
The light was dim now, late afternoon and in shadow but they pushed on up the steep forest trail. The earlier rain kept the dust down but when she reached the top Evelyn's bare legs were coated in a thin film of mud and her body was glowing with the exertion. She turned and helped Arthur up the final couple of boulders and sat for a moment to recover. She considered the cave, it's mouth was almost perfectly circular but was covered in so many vines and creepers from the vegetation above that they formed almost a curtain across the surface. When she pushed the vines to one side a cool breath of air seemed to emanate from deep underground and she shivered as her sweat dried on her skin. They had only one torch between them and she gave it to Arthur as she begin to carefully climb down through the opening.
--------------------------
Hi,
Here's a roleplay I began with a friend via email a few months back, unfortunately he dropped out just as things were getting interesting. So that it doesn't go to waste I thought I'd post it here for everyone to read.
Thanks,
Karen
Evelyn Poynter is 23 years old and from a moderately wealthy English family with historic ties to the British Empire. She has just graduated from one of the lesser known Cambridge colleges with a upper second class honours degree in Anthropology and Biology. While at college she a had a number of boyfriends but formed no long lasting relationships and frankly is somewhat mystified about the importance people seem to put on sex, having never really enjoyed it that much.
Despite objections from her family who would prefer that she settle down as a wife and mother in the tradition of the family, she has chosen to pursue post-graduate work in some of the wilder parts of the globe. She's skilled and intelligent, but somewhat naive and out of her depth.
Evelyn is slender and athletic, She stands at 5'4 with red shoulder length hair and dark green eyes.
-----------------------
It had been six months since she had gotten her new assignment from the professor, a man too busy playing politics to do any research himself. She had had to cross the Atlantic from Cambridge to Massachusetts by way of boat through Plymouth. 12 days had been spent on the intercontinental steamer, idling, regretting her latest outburst at the man she dreaded, Professor Tinbald, who through no small exercise of clout had picked up this god forsaken assignment in the Americas as punishment. She spent no less than three of the twelve days imagining how she would kill him if he had taken this trip with her. She settled on tying a rope around his able and pushing him overboard as her preferred method and afterward spent the time staring into the churning wake of the ship.
Now she sits in her rented room, exiled from the University, studying her notes over tea before heading back into the field. The heat from outside is already pressing in from the walls as the thick Boston air begins to warm with the morning; stale and moist. It makes her red hair sick to the back of her neck and her blouse hug her in a most uncomfortable fashion. The city breaths down her neck, predatory and mysterious.
Her assignment is vague, it's sole purpose to get her as far away as officiously as possible: a Pocomtuc tribe grounds, a sculpted altar in a cave nearby, and piles of bone fragments whose origins are so mixed as to make identifying any one species impossible. She is to find the answers for her college. Who? How? Why? When?
The natives she had hired before, alcoholic men who whispered legends of sacrifices to old gods and totems, had brought her to the woods of western Massachusetts. Twice they had gotten lost, brought her to a clearing and claimed it to be the tribe grounds and their job complete. The last one had even, upon accusations of fraudulence, pulled a gun and robbed her. Leaving her naked and alone in the woods.
She doesn't know why she takes this assignment so seriously with the motive so transparent, but the very knowledge of the altar pulls her onward. She dreams of its discovery every night. The cold dampness of the stone beneath her bare feet. The smoothness of the walls as her hands reach out and her fingertips graze. The feel of the stone warm and sighing against her naked back as she slowly reclines upon it. She chases after it with desperation, it's mystery becoming an obsession.
-----------------------
The ground was soaked with rain and blood under my feet. Impossibly tall Oak and Birch trees crammed together of the crest of a shallow hill with the skies above boiling with a summer storm. Water sheets down my naked body as try to climb the hill. I slip once, then twice, falling in the slick mud and growing colder still, but I pull myself back to my feet. When I reach the top of the hill the sounds I can hear, muskets and war cries, screams and the silence of death almost deafen me. The Pocomtuc are attacking, French Canadian colonials by their side. As I watch a tall skeletal warrior cuts down two of the British colonists before falling under a hail of musket fire. The images are dark almost abstract under the heavy dark sky and the occasional flash of lightning throws shadows against the wall of trees behind. I raise my head a little over the brow of the hill, but as I do my foot slips and I fall, fall far and long.
Before I feel myself hitting the bottom of the gulley, the scene before me changes. I'm back in the cave, the stone rough against my back. I look down at myself, naked but clean and dry. A light up ahead calls me. The rough stone cut into my feet as I turned another shallow corner in the cave, the red flickering light ahead growing stronger, the sounds growing louder with each step. At first it sounds like a wail, a cry of pain or of loss. As I become closer it changes, or perhaps I change. I turn the final corner and find the small grotto. There is a smell here, a coppery bitter scent like blood, but with a rich tang of growing things. The scent is like that of many plants in an enclosed environment, chlorophyll filling the air. But it is unpleasant, the growth less that of a healthy verdant forest than that of a swamp, a cancer of uncontrolled growth and fecundity.
My eyes adjust slowly to the light a guttering torch casts over the scene. I realise I am high up, a natural stone staircase snaking away to my right down in to a pit. Some twenty meters below me the floor of the cavern is unnaturally flat, it almost looks machine made though it certainly cannot be that. I don't think this through until much later though as the figures catch my eye.
A dais in the centre of the cavern is covered with sheets of fabric of reds and greens over animal skins and wool. A woman lies atop the sheets, her thighs apart her head thrown back. She is pregnant, massive, inhumanly, impossibly pregnant. As she strains her moans echo around the chamber, but they are not echoes of pain, but echoes of orgasmic pleasure. Above her stands the altar I've been searching for, carved in relief into the stone walls. Around the dais and sit the Pocomtuc, at least those few that have survived. They sit motionless but for their lips moving, chanting some strange and inhuman tongue, guttural and harsh, pauses and inflections that sound alien as they watch the woman give birth. Above her , above the altar there is something else, something in shadow.
I awake suddenly, sat up in bed, my hands tearing at the crisp white sheets of the university accommodation. I gasp and look around me, unsure for a moment where I am or for that matter who I am. Slowly memory returns. The neat little room at Harvard College that I have spent the last week in is coming back into focus. I push the sheets back and sit on the edge of the bad, letting the cool pre-dawn air flow through the open window and across my naked body. Slowly the perspiration evaporates and my heart and breathing stop hammering in my chest and return somewhat to normal. I realise immediately that I will not sleep again this night move to the window. The neat little college quad outside is still bathed in moonlight and nothing stirs, but the faint edge of dawn can been seen to the east. I remember the dream, the first part is confusing, but the second part mystifying.
"Deerfield" I shock myself by saying out loud. "Deerfield" the word repeats.
It was my own voice but I had no intention of speaking. Where on earth is Deerfield? I wondered.
Three hours later I am sat with Dr Arthur Jermyn of the anthropology and history faculties. He was the foremost expert on local Indian history, when I said as much he corrected me with a smile and pat on my hand "Native American my dear. We've done quite enough to these people without insulting them anymore." I smiled and apologised. I asked him about local battles between Pocomtuc and British settlers and he confirmed that yes there had been several. I asked about French involvement which as a British girl with very limited knowledge of American history sounded unlikely but again he agreed there had been several such cases. When I described my dream to him (taking care not tell him that it had been a dream) he answered with one word.
"Deerfield."
I hired a car less than an hour later and having booked a room at the Frary House Hotel and with a small overnight bag packed I began the two hour drive to Deerfield. I chose not to remember that when housekeeping changed the sheets in my small neat Harvard room, that they would find the sheets and the state they were in.
--------------------------------
The Frary House Hotel was little more than the name implied: a continental style home with six or seven rooms prepared for guests, a dining hall, a living room, and a kitchen. The rooms themselves were small and womb-like to protect against the winter chill, but even barring the heat, her own body heat made the room near unbearable.
Doctor Jermyn (or Arthur, as he had requested in the car drive over) had booked the room across from hers and had helped her with her equipment up the narrow staircase. She was at least grateful for the assistance since the proprietor, an enfeabled old woman who appeared as ancient as the trees though perhaps not nearly so sturdy, had seemed in no condition to help her.
The steamer trunk contained everything she would need for an expedition and had been her companion all the way from Cambridge. Now it lay at the foot of her low bed, leaving so little room so as she had to clamber over the need to reach her night stand.
With the carriage ride of a few hours after her her sleepless morning, every muscle in her body aches. It's only afternoon by an inch but she is exhausted. Despite this she is electrified with excitement and anticipation. She can't remember being so excited for an assignment before, and still can't place why this one is gripping her so.
Perhaps some air and wind would calm her nerves some. She hates being confined in the way these northeastern style homes tended to. As she exits the room, she can hear Arthur in his, whistling a hollow melody that she can't put lyrics to. As familiar as it sounds, she can't place it, though she had never been one for music. She feels more and more claustrophobic walking down the stairs and through the entryway. Her elbows graze the walls the entire way.
Outside was better. She could taste the moss on the trees and the wildflowers encroaching from the forest onto the once manicured lawn gone to fey. In the shade of a tall elm just far enough from the woods so that the undergrowth was sparse, she rests. The quietness of the place is something she would have to get used to. No other rooms in the hotel are booked, but this isn't contrary to her preferences. Her own company is the best after all. In the shade of the tree she opens the top and bottom clasps on her blouse and stares as the trees, waving in the wind, welcome her to sleep.
She is in the cave again. The walls reach almost infinitely up into the dark and below her the altar dances in the flickering of the torches. The mouth of the stairs is to her right, gaping snd begging her to fill it.
The mouth of the stairs is behind her, reaching upwards into the dark heavens. The Dark heavens that rejected her. The alter is before her. From down here she can see the floor is carved in a sweeping circle, wide as a footstep and filed with symbols she didn't care to try to read. She had a purpose to fulfill.
The symbols didn't matter because she was fulfilling her purpose. She is on the alter, a naked milky white calf on hands and knees. Her soul to be freed to fall up to the infinite darkness that even now reached down, hungry.
The altar hisses as from the her right, (from the base of the altar? Or perhaps the carved circle? ) it crawls across the back of her hand, covering from wrist to knuckle. She stares forward, terrified and overjoyed, with tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. She won't look but she feels its smooth dry skin coiling around her arm. As it ascends, it constricts, leaving a numbing sensation in its wake. It slides over her shoulder, down her back and side, and then around thr underside of her breast.
"Don't move." She thinks. "Don't move, don't look. " It repeats in her head like a mantra as the appendage workes its way up to her neck. "Don't move." She heard it again, but this time in Arthur's voice.
She awoke, face to face with Doctor Jermyn in the cooling twilight of a Deerfield evening. His hands outstretched, reaching for the snake wrapping itself around her throat.
-----------------------------------------
She screamed, pulling away from the Doctors outstretched hands, not understanding what was happening. His hands close around the snake and pull it loose, leaving the room and returning after only a few minutes.
“Arthur, what’s going on, where did that come from.” She’s a little calmer, but an edge of hysteria still crowds her.
---------------------------------------------
"My dear, you fell asleep in the woods. I found you completely unresponsive so I carried you back here to the hotel."
"And the snake? " She asks with trepidation.
"A hitchhiker apparently. It had probably slithered into your blouse at dusk, looking for something warm."
"I was unconcious?"
"I wouldn't say that. You were unresponsive to me but you were mumbling in your sleep as I carried you. I couldn't make out what you were saying though. What was your dream of? "
The fetid smell fills her nostrils once more. She can still feel the pressure of that strange boneless appendage on her arm and under her breast. The seat on her body is reminiscent of the dampness of the cave. "I...don't remember" escapes her lips before she can truthfully answer.
"Well try to get some more rest. We head for the cave on the 'morrow."
She considers the living altar of her dreams and finds her white panties beginning to moisten. "Yes doctor. I can't wait."
------------------------------------
Arthur left her bedroom and she quickly closed the door behind him. With one shaking hand she touched her neck, it felt warm and smooth. Quickly she found a mirror in her overnight bag and turning on the small reading light she examined her neck as best she could. There was a mark there, not a bite or cut or burn, this was a mark of absence. She had spent much of her life outdoors, usually with too little in way of protection against the sun and it showed. Her skin was young and beautiful, but perhaps not as young as it should be. Apart from the mark on her neck, a long stripe of skin disappearing beneath her blouse looked like the skin of a sixteen year old. She bit her lower lip as she remembered the elements of her dream and the pleasure the unknown creature had raised in her.
She decided to take a shower before bed and as she stripped off her clothes was shocked and embarrassed to discover that her panties were stuck to her and translucent with her own excitement. Her orgasm as she showered was the strongest she had ever experienced.
They intended to set out early the following morning, but a sudden rain shower at dawn made that unwise. They stayed and breakfasted before a roaring fire and talked in to the early afternoon before the weather cleared. Evelyn drove them both out after Arthur loaded their equipment into the rental car. The roads were slippery and treacherous on the tarmac and then thick and cloying on the mud trail up into the hills. It took them the better half of two hours to find the cave, the GPS location they were following leading them up one false trail after another.
When finally they pulled into a clearing showing only 50 meters to the cave they decided to walk the remaining distance and leave the equipment in the car for the moment. Evelyn stepped out into the clearing and breathed in deeply, the air was filled with the scent of the trees and the flowers all around them, the whole area lush with growth and dew. Yet somehow it was cloying, almost suffocating with too much life trying to crowd the small area and the air filtered through the thick forest canopy.
The light was dim now, late afternoon and in shadow but they pushed on up the steep forest trail. The earlier rain kept the dust down but when she reached the top Evelyn's bare legs were coated in a thin film of mud and her body was glowing with the exertion. She turned and helped Arthur up the final couple of boulders and sat for a moment to recover. She considered the cave, it's mouth was almost perfectly circular but was covered in so many vines and creepers from the vegetation above that they formed almost a curtain across the surface. When she pushed the vines to one side a cool breath of air seemed to emanate from deep underground and she shivered as her sweat dried on her skin. They had only one torch between them and she gave it to Arthur as she begin to carefully climb down through the opening.
--------------------------
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