Chrissie Bentley's What I Did On My Summer Vacation is one of those novellas that you could probably read in a couple of hours... assuming you don't want to savor every syllable. Weird thing, though. There's so much packed in there that, no matter how long ago you happened to read it, scenes will still pop up in your mind unbidden... as I found as I watched the old David Lean movie version of Great Expectations the other night, and found myself instead thirsting for... well, let's just say that if anyone ever decides to make a XXX rated version of the Charles Dickens classic, I want to play Stella. And I want Chrissie Bentley to write the screenplay.
Here's an excerpt from the book... Chrissie's book, that is, not Dickens'. But maybe you should buy them both... you know how Amazon always annoys you with those "customers who bought this also bought that" tags? Let's really give people something to think about.
I have been in England a week, and I’ve finally escaped the stifling capital, to the country town of Rochester where I am staying at a postcard perfect hotel in the shadow of the castle. After the mess of modernity, I discovered scarring London, this place looked practically prehistoric to me.
Why Rochester? Because I love Charles Dickens.
He lived much of his life here, wrote a lot of his books here, and set even more of them in the surrounding countryside. Besides, with my trusty guidebook “Visiting Dickens-Land,” of course and a rented car, I’m going to visit every stop on the map! Just as soon as I get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road that is.
Although most of the roads I’m intending to take are apparently so narrow it probably won’t make much difference.
I checked in at two this afternoon. It was raining then, and it was still coming down at five when, emboldened by an early
dinner, I set out for a village called Cooling.What I discovered there was another castle, a tiny church and, if you’ve read Great Expectations, the cemetery where Pip goes to visit the graves of his family. What a perfect moment this is. The rain begins to let up as I get there, to be replaced by a billowing fog. All I need now is for the escaped convict to rise up from behind one of the other tombstones.
I almost shrieked in fright! Instead, clutching my purse tightly to my chest, I turned around to see a man standing three or four feet away from me, in a mist so thick I hadn’t even heard his footsteps on the gravel path. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry, but the graveyard is closed.”
“Really?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a graveyard actually closing “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“You’re American.” It was a statement, not a question, and I nodded. Then, remembering he wouldn’t be able to see me any better than I could see him, I answered “Yes. I wanted to come out to see Pip’s folk.”
“Well, there they are.” He gestured towards the row of stone lozenges lying at my feet. “Or rather, they’re not, but,” he stepped forward and saw my guidebook. “You probably know that already.”
“Yes. It’s just such a thrill to know I’m standing in the same place Dickens stood when he was writing….” I shut up. I was beginning to feel like a giddy schoolgirl, tracking the footsteps of some pop music idol. I’d be asking if I could take home some of the grass next, in case the Great One once stepped on it.
“Are you staying locally?”
“Rochester. Maybe I should come back in the daylight.”
“No, it’s okay. If you want to look around you can, although the church is already locked for the night.”
A sad sign of the times, I thought. “Do you work here?”
“No, but my father’s in the choir. I was just heading down to the pub” The way he said it suggested it was the only one for miles. “If you want me to wait while you look around, maybe you’d like a drink?”
Again, I had to bite my tongue, and suppress an excited squeal. After a week in London, my long-held visions of an English pub had been rudely shattered by a succession of characterless plastic bars, festooned with Budweiser posters and jukeboxes filled with Spice Girls and rap. Nevertheless, the countryside would surely be different. “Actually, it’s getting a little damp and chilly out here. Is it far? My car’s over there.”
“It’s just around the corner. This way..” He motioned with his head.
He took my hand to guide me round gravestones already lost in the fog, caught my arm as I tripped on the decorative white chain strung ankle-high on the edge of the path, then released me once we were on the open road where I couldn’t blunder into any more obstacles. The ideal gentleman.
The pub was small, noisy, smoky – and perfect. When he offered me a drink, I let him recommend me an ale I’d never heard of. When he found us a table, it was beneath a pair of local prints which looked as though they’d hung there forever. I checked the index in my guidebook. Yes, the pub was listed. I folded over the corner of the page, to read when I got back to my hotel. There was so much more to look at here, after all, beginning with my host, no, my escaped convict.
“I’m Chrissie,” I introduced myself. He was Martin and, when he said it, I had to smirk. When he ordered our drinks, I discovered the barmaid’s name was Nancy. Within moments he’d already said “hi” to his friends, David and Jacob. No Ebenezer, though. “Is everybody round here named for characters out of Dickens?”
“Oh you know, it’s good for the tourist trade.” He slipped into what I imagined was some kind of local accent. “An’ oi be your guide ‘ere in Dickens country,” he laughed. “Chuzzlewit boi name, but not boi nature..”
“I’m sorry, you must get it all the time.” I patted his arm, and he placed his other hand on mine. “It’s okay. If I didn’t like it, I’d move. Or change my name to Magwitch. Sorry if I startled you back there.”
“You did a little.” Magwitch was the convict who appeared to Pip in the graveyard, escaping from one of the old prison ships that used to be moored on the river. “I don’t suppose the ships are still there?”
I asked hopefully. He shook his head. “No. But I was serious, if you do need a guide this weekend...”
“I’d love one,” I said, “but I’d better be getting back. One beer is more than enough for someone who’s still not used to driving in this country.” We arranged to meet up the following lunchtime at the pub, and I headed back into Rochester, up to my room
to sleep like the dead.
The following morning, a Sunday, dawned brilliantly bright and sunny. It were as though the last evening’s rain never happened. My drive out to Cooling was the same as before, but this time I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the Kentish countryside. At the same time, I was flinching in horror from the signs of “progress” littering the roads and lanes. It was a relief to pull up at the pub, to find myself surrounded by a landscape that probably had not changed in a couple of centuries.
Martin was waiting for me with his own handful of maps and guides. “There’s a few interesting things around here. They don’t get onto the usual routes,” he explained.
I found myself thinking I was standing in front of one of them right now. A good head taller than me, he was at least six foot three inches tall. He had a head of blonde hair that mashed curls with flyaway straggles. A build hanging on the skinny side of muscular, a face which placed him somewhere around his mid-twenties, and of course, an accent to die for.
The afternoon flew past.
My head was spinning with forts and churches, islets and mud flats. The iron carcasses of wartime submarines left to rot in the inlets, the island where victims of one plague or another were buried, places even Martin had not visited in years.
Now we sat on a deserted towpath, the scent of the River Medway heavy in our nostrils, the hum of passing insects loud in our ears, the sun beating down. It was the most natural thing in the world when Martin’s arm folded around my waist, and I leaned into his chest.
“Thanks for a wonderful afternoon,” I told him, and his other arm came up to hold me to him.
“Pleased you enjoyed it.” I lifted my head to graze his lips with mine. “I’d never have seen any of this without you.” I kissed him again, and his lips parted a little, his tongue flicking out to tease the tip of mine.
“Do you have to be getting back any time soon?” he asked.
“Not…” I paused and raised my head, looked around. “Not if this place really is as deserted as it looks.”
He pressed his weight against me, pushing me back onto the carpet of clover. I lay back, parting my legs so his body fell between them, the weight of his loins pressing against mine, as his kisses grew more urgent. He raised himself slightly, leaned on one arm so his other hand could take possession of my breast, squeezing it through my T-shirt, edging the nipple over the half-cup of my bra, brushing it with the base of his palm.
My hands, far up inside his own T, massaged their way across his broad back, paused to scrape the sides of his abdomen, scratched harder as a flick of his thumb gave my nipple an extra tingle, and he began tugging at my shirt, raising it over my chest and lowering his head to touch his tongue to my flesh.
“Hold on, let me get out of this thing,” I murmured, sitting up and unhooking my bra. It fell away and his mouth fastened firmly over my tit, sucking both the nipple and a good proportion of the surrounding flesh into his mouth.
I wriggled, trying to pull my shirt off altogether, but succeeded only in raising it further, but it was enough to remind him I had two breasts, and the other one was getting jealous. He transferred his attentions, compensating the abandoned orb with his firm hands. I pressed my palms to the back of his head, encouraging him to suck harder, and wondered just how much further we could go. It was broad daylight, a public place and, though there wasn’t a soul in sight, I could hear the light chug of a barge coming down the river.
He felt me tense.
“It’s okay, they won’t see us,” he whispered, as his hand began scraping across my stomach, nudging the waistband of my skirt, then bypassing it completely, to clamp around my thigh. I wriggled a little, nudged my crotch closer to his fingers, wondered if he could feel the wetness sopping into my tights. He could. Raising his hand while his eyes fixed onto mine, he ran his thumb beneath his nose, then licked it slowly. I replied with my own hand, laying it over the front of his jeans, my fingers squeezing the width of the wedge they discovered there.
His hand was down the front of my tights, one finger burrowing firmly into my vagina. It felt good, but I wanted more. I wanted to feel my lips stretch around something thicker than a single finger. Moving his hand, I squirmed out of my underwear. Then, unbuttoning his trousers and tugging them down just enough, I guided his cock inside me. I bucked against the hard ground to draw him in all the way, then bolted my legs around his waist, my pussy spread wide against his spiky pubes, his balls heavy against me.
He moved slowly, his grinding hips doing more work than his penis, as though he was content simply burying himself deep inside me. I had no complaints. The lush pressure was sending the most heavenly shudders through my body, while his very weight, pushing me into the unyielding earth, so restricted my own movements I could do little more than lie there, feeling his thickness pushing deeper as those drawn-out grinding motions perceptibly slowed.
He spoke. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going to cum any minute now.”
“What are you sorry for? I thought that was the idea.” I held him tight, waiting.Then, whispering deep into his ear, I said, “come on, let it go.”
He replied with a grunt, a swift withdrawal, an almost violent plunge forward, and exploded, a superheated slap of wet against my vagina walls.
I flexed my muscles, wringing the last drops out of him as he shuddered to a halt, and bit his ear gently. “That was fantastic.”
“Sorry it didn’t last any longer.”
“It lasted as long as it needed to,” I reassured him. Why do men always think every time has to go on for hours and be accompanied by fireworks? Some times it’s the mood, not the motion that matters the most. Flat on my back beneath a blue English sky, hearing the waves on the river and the birds overhead–the mood was perfect. Besides, with luck, there would be plenty of time later.
We lay silently for a while. Then I asked, “are you hungry?”
He nodded. “Getting there.”
“Well, if you’ve not got plans for this evening, I’d like to buy you dinner as a thank you for driving me round all day.”
Which kind of brings me back to where I came in. I dropped him back at his place. He had a few things he needed to do. I drove back to the hotel to change and bathe before he came to pick me up. And, back here, after we’d eaten, it was time for afters, or as he, very Englishly, might have put it, “pudding”.
Hmmm, no, I think this is one occasion when I prefer the American term.
Now, I was lying with my head propped on the pillows, the last flecks of his ejaculation drying on my cheek while he hung drained above me, his sweat dripping into my face. His thighs still clamped tight around my chest, his softening cock–he called it his pecker--relaxing into its foreskin just a few inches from my face. “Hey up there?”
He breathed an exhausted “yeah?”
“Look, I know I promised not to get all touristy, and start quoting Charles Dickens at you, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it.”
He groaned aloud. “Go on, then.”
I pulled a line from Oliver Twist of course. “Please sir, can I have some more?”
He flopped onto the mattress beside me. “Sorry, Chrissie, but that isn’t going to work. After all, I’m hardly going to say no, am I?”
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