This is a tale I heard from a man in bed, late at night, after an evening of energetic and imaginative sex. At the time, his wife was asleep on his other side, curled against his shoulder. She was a slender, lovely creature with elfin features and the most extraordinary passions - sometimes powerful, sometimes tender - that I had experienced to the full earlier.

I lay in a state of dreamy semi-consciousness, both exhausted and satisfied. I had thought that the man at my side was already asleep, but he surprised me by speaking, softly but clearly, in a tone which suggested he was talking to himself in some kind of stream-of-consciousness fashion.

I have tidied up his words, inserted punctuation and grammar as I saw fit, but otherwise this is exactly the story I heard that night.

The Faerie Sex Book Cover One summer a few years ago, I took a house in the country. Far out in the country; in fact, another, warmer country. The house was really a stone-built cottage dating back several centuries and had few amenities, so I was living the simple life for a while.

The cottage was set in a wide clearing in a wooded valley; only trees and thick undergrowth for miles in any direction. I had carefully selected it for its splendid isolation; I was in some considerable need of a little solitude. I had just broken up with my girlfriend; it had been a long-term relationship although we had drifted apart over the years and I guess the end was inevitable. A close friend - really my fuck buddy - had been sent overseas by her company unexpectedly; her desire to pursue a promotion opportunity far outweighed any interest in occasional casual sex with me.

So, I found myself alone, quite deliberately so, with time on my hands: time to write and cook and exercise, and to contemplate the future direction of my life. My days soon fell into a pattern. I would rise early, take a run in the cool of the morning, write for a couple of hours before lunch, sunbathe and then siesta during the afternoon, various domestic tasks and the preparation of dinner, and finally another session of writing. I was living entirely alone, barely speaking to another living soul except for my occasional trips to the market for groceries.

There was a secluded glade at the back of the cottage, where a low bank and the line of trees formed a natural sun-trap. A comfortable lounger sat in the perfect spot for sunbathing, carefully placed by some thoughtful previous tenant. Each afternoon, I would make my way here, clutching towel and sunglasses and suntan lotion.

The spot was warm and quiet with never any sign of anybody. I would, of course, sunbathe naked, making sure the paleness of my skin was everywhere protected from the unaccustomedly strong sunshine. I would luxuriate in the sensation of the oil massaged over the shaved smoothness between my legs, my balls and, inevitably, my cock. With no other form of release available to me, I re-learned the old ways, my dick stiffening and growing under my own fingers and always swiftly culminating in a climax spurting over my own oiled belly.

Regular masturbation too soon became a habit, one I indulged and encouraged with images from an old magazine to provide a focus, or perhaps just my own memories and imagination. Later, I would sleep very deeply, entirely relaxed by the release of sexual tension I had managed for myself.

It was on the fourth or fifth day of my isolated vacation, as I lay in my accustomed place, touching myself in the accustomed way, that I became aware of an unusual sound. It was a whisper - almost as if it was a soft susurration in the breeze - that formed a voice, a voice which said seductively: "Let me look after that for you."

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