Tom realised he was lost. Hopelessly and utterly lost. And with the light fading fast, he probably had less than an hour to find shelter for the night. He knew exactly where he'd gone wrong; taken the wrong track at that three-pronged junction a mile back. But there wasn't time to back-track at this hour. Press on and hope to find a field barn in which to spend the night.
After coming down from university, Tom had rashly elected to tackle a solo 60-mile wilderness walk across south Wales, starting at Builth Wells and finishing in the city of Swansea. The hardest section was across the notoriously unfriendly Brecon Beacons. A terrain so harsh that even the British Army's crack SAS unit regularly had fatal hypothermia casualties on its training exercises.
As he reached a mini-summit, Tom had a last opportunity in the fast-fading twilight to look ahead for any helpful signs of human habitation. A single flickering light directly ahead seemed promising. He pressed on in hope.
As the light grew larger, he was just able to make out the silhouette of a tiny cottage, perched on sloping ground. He edged closer. Surely they wouldn't turn him away at this hour?
The light was coming from an upstairs window. There was no sign of a parked car at the bottom of the slope, although a directional sign announced: 'Lantern Holiday Cottages. Follow way-mark arrows on trees for quarter of a mile.' He followed the arrows as instructed.
It was a truly classic gingerbread cottage, with its slated roof sweeping down almost to ground level. The welcoming light he'd seen was coming from a leaded casement directly above the front entrance porch. He rehearsed a tale of woe, to deliver to the gnarled old crofter who would eventually appear in a nightshirt, wearing a night cap and holding a candle. He rapped on the front door. After a second attempt, the casement above was swung open and a female voice called out: "Who is it? What do you want?"
"Sorry to trouble you at this hour. I seem to be lost. I'm hiking down to Swansea and, well, I was wondering if perhaps you had an outbuilding I could shelter in for the night? It looks as if it's coming on to rain."
The abrupt reply was: "Hold on. I'll come down," followed by the slamming of the window. A couple of minutes later the front door was opened by an extremely glamorous 30-something woman: tall, slim, auburn-haired - and wearing next to nothing. Her floral print cotton dressing gown hung open and unbelted, revealing that she was bra-less. She wore the tiniest of cotton briefs, which barely disguised her large black bush. She had long elegant legs and was bare-footed.
"You say your lost? You'd better come in." She led the way into a tiny front parlour-kitchen and switched on a small side light on the Welsh dresser. "Have a seat."
"Thanks. I'm so terribly sorry to disturb you."
"That's OK. We thought you might be local kids trick-or-treating, as it's Haloween tonight." She moved to the dresser and took down two wine glasses. There was a half-empty bottle of red wine on the table. "Can I offer you a glass of wine?"
"May I offer you something stronger?"
Tom reached behind him and fished out a bottle of brandy from his backpack. "I never drink when I'm walking, but I love a tot or two of this stuff at the end of the day to unwind." He held it up in offer to the woman, who beamed and slid her glass across the table.
"Yes please!" As she leaned forward, her gown spread open, revealing her large breasts with huge dark brown areolas.
Tom poured them both generous trebles. He was about to re-open the conversation when the boarded door behind the woman was pushed open tentatively, to reveal a gamine 20-something blonde, wearing a revealing baby doll nightie. The bare-footed apparition slipped up behind the seated woman and placed a hand on her shoulder. The older woman looked up. She stroked the palm of one hand across the younger woman's breast. "This is my 'other half', Fleur. I'm Fiona, by the way."
Tom couldn't help noticing Fleur's nipples harden beneath the thin fabric. "I'm Tom. Pleased to meet you both. Sorry if I disturbed you. Were you asleep?
They giggled in unison. "Err, no we weren't asleep, were we petal?"
Fleur spoke for the first time. "We were tribbing, actually." She bent forwards and kissed Fiona's head.
"Not heard of tribbing?" Fiona asked. "Scissoring?"
"Can't say I have."
"My, my, young man, your sexual education is lacking!"
Fleur whispered in Fiona's ear and the older woman smiled. "What a good idea, darling! After Tom's topped up my glass." She slid her empty glass across the table to be replenished. "Fleur here thinks we should give you a scissoring demonstration. Upstairs?"
After all of Tom's brandy had been consumed, he cautiously followed the two women up a narrow winding staircase, which ended in a cosy double bedroom, complete with an antique four-poster bed. The bedclothes were crumpled and the overpowering aroma in the room was on unbridled sex, imbued with a musk-like fragrance. Fiona quickly discarded her cotton robe, to reveal her dark pubic bush, while Fleur's nightie seemed to have shrunk on the journey upstairs, revealing a tiny shaved pussy which she shameslessly exposed to the visitor. The two women clearly delighted in exposing themselves to the stranger, revelling in their wantoness.
"Why not slip out of your jeans, Tom? Take a seat in the corner and then we'll begin the demonstration."
Tom sat on an old armchair, clad only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, which already showed the bulge of his growing erection. Fiona and Fleur stood before him, kissing tenderly while fingering each others cunts. Fleur's pink labia lips glistened with her moisture, which Fiona gently brushed with her middle finger. Looking mischeviously down at Tom's erection as she licked her finger she said: "Stroke away, Tom, but don't cum whatever you do. Save all that lovely spunk for us to taste later!" Tom gratefully took out his cock.
Naked, Fiona and Fleur took up opposing positions on the bed, each with one leg laid flat and the other crooked. Then using the palms of their hands, they inched ever closer towards each other, until their two pussies were locked together, clitorises softly touching. Fiona grasped Fleur's knee to create stability.
Tom had never witnessed such an amazing display of woman-on-woman fucking. Their sensuous lovemaking. accompanied by moans and sighs, was hugely erotic to him and it was all he could do to stop himself from ejaculating. His balls ached and pre-cum was oozing down his shaft. "Fuck me, babe! Fuck me real hard!" Fiona called out, as she approached a huge orgasm.
As the two women reached their climaxes, they leant forward to kiss passionately, each stroking the other's face tenderly. Both their bodies were covered with beads of perspiration and the sweet smell of moist pussy filled the room.
After a long pause, Fiona snapped at Tom. "Now take off those stupid boxer shorts and get yourself up here! Fleur's going to do some 'queening'. My baby is the High Priestess of Queening. I'm sure she'd just love to sit on your face, wouldn't you babe?" She patted the bedding as a sign for Tom to join them on the bed. Fleur grinned impishly, squatting on her knees and eagerly fingering herself.
With exquisite grace the younger woman lowered her tiny frame onto Tom's face and began rocking backwards and forwards, bringing her sopping wet pussy over his mouth, her clitoris hovering tantalisingly above his tongue.
"Lick her clitty nice and slow, Tom. Round and round in circles. Then she'll dribble oodles of her lovely sweet cum into your mouth. My baby's cum is sooooooo tasty!" So saying, she slid her hand next to Fleur's weeping snatch, so that she sould take some of her partner's cunt juice, licking it hungrily from her fingers.
Tom was concentrating so intently on pleasuring Fleur that he forgot all about his own needs. Until, that is, he felt the young woman's tongue running down his shaft, licking up his pre-cum like a contented kitten. Then he felt her succulent lips slowly envelop his manhood. She took his cock right into her mouth until his knobhead was touching her larynx.
Just when he thought he could hold back no longer, Fiona purred into his ear. "Fuck my lovely baby's face, Tom. Fill her beautiful mouth with your spunk, so that I can taste it too!" This was to trigger a monumental orgasm for Tom and he felt wave after wave of semen shooting into the young woman's expectant mouth.
Finally, the women lovers kissed open-mouthed in front of him, exchanging Tom's cum and letting it slowly seep out of the sides of their mouths so they could each lick it off the other's face. They smiled their gratitude.
Tom awoke at dawn, alone on the bed. The room seemed somehow different. The women were gone, as was all their apparel. There were no cosmetics on the dressing table; no lingering aroma of musk; no discarded panties on the floor. In fact it was a totally deserted bedroom. Even the aroma of sex had vanished.
Before he could work out why his two sleeping companions had deserted him, Tom heard swishing noises - accompanied by humming - coming from downstairs. Perhaps Fiona and Fleur were busily preparing their breakfasts, he thought optimistically.
After slipping into his walking gear, he carefully negotiated the staircase and swung open the door to the parlour. With her ample rump pointed towards him, a matronly old biddy was on her hands and knees scrubbing the parlour's stone-flagged floor while humming to herself. Tom coughed to announce his arrival. She swung round in alarm, almost knocking her bucket over. "Lawks, your fair startled me, young man! And what with it being Haloween last night!" There was no trace whatsoever of the two women.
"I'm most terribly sorry. You see I was was walking on the Beacons yesterday and got completely lost. Just as it was getting dark. So I took the liberty of taking shelter here. I do hope you don't mind?"
"Of course not, dearie. I'd probably have done the same if I'd been in your shoes. I'm rushing to get the place ready for the next visitors: they're regulars. Two women from Oxford. Always come down this time of year."
"Oxford, you say? I was at Oxford. What do these women look like?"
"One's tall and gangly with brown hair. The other's smaller and younger, with blonde hair. My Gareth reckons they're lessers."
Tom idly lifted one of the empty wine glasses from the table and detected the smell of brandy.
"So where was it you were heading for when you got lost last night?"
"Swansea. Then I've got to catch a train back home to Worcester."
"Oh you'll be in Swansea by lunchtime, no touble." She clambered to her feet. "Right, I'll put the kettle on."
On departing, Tom gave the cleaning lady a £10 note for her trouble and struck out on the last leg of his charity marathon. As he walked down the track, he mused on the mystery of how two women had got to this isolated cottage without a car; had departed in the middle of the night; and were now expected to arrive back later in the day. He could think of no logical explanation.
A week later, Tom had quite adjusted to urban living. Even the blisters on his feet had almost disappeared. Sitting in the periodicals section of the new Worcester Library, his eye was caught by the headline: 'Crash Victims Named' on a daily tabloid he'd been casually scanning. The short and poignant story beneath it read: 'Oxfordshire Police have named the two women killed in a major road traffic accident on the M40 motorway on the evening of Haloween Night, as university lecturer Fiona Middleton (37) and undergraduate Fleur Lawrence (24)".
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