In the North West corner of Somerset, between the Quantock Hills and Exmoor you will find the tiny, busy port of Watchet from where the eponymous Ancient Mariner embarked. Go inland a few miles through rising, twisting lanes and undulating hills towards the Brendon Hills and you will come to the hamlet of Dordon: a cluster of houses nestling in a quiet, sheltered spot. As you leave the cottages behind there is a sharp bend in the road. Here you meet the solid, low arched gateway to Dordon Manor. It is impressive. The Manor rambles after a fifteenth century fashion, its soft pink honeyed walls and stone roof are almost part of the landscape, as are the trees that wrap round it.
We drive in under the gateway and crunch our way over the gravel in front of the main house. The car park is tucked behind a high bank of rhododendron bushes, directed by discreet white signs with black lettering and arrows. It is good to get out and restore the circulation to our legs after the long drive down the M4 and M5, coming off at Bridgewater. After stretching we hold each other briefly. This is our privacy, our time, we are leaving the world behind. We can be ourselves. Grabbing our few bags, we set off smilingly, arm-in-arm, for the carved, sandstone porch.
The porch was built with weather in mind. A great iron boot scraper is set into the ground by the outer door. Inside there is a place to sit and divest sopping clothing. Go through the heavy oak door and you enter a building of great age and witness. Inside there is a sense of history. It smells of stone and wax. Heavy furniture sits on the flag floors in positions they may have held for a hundred years. Throws and rugs chart the change in decoration. There is a slight mustiness in the air that changes slowly here. Time seems to almost stand still. But, a grandfather clock ticking heavily in the stillness, reminds us of its passing. The windows are not large and let little light through their casements.
A polished brass bell sits on a heavy oak chest. You look at me and wrap your slim fingers around the handle. Picking it up you gave a brief shake and its sound echoes around the building making us feel like trespassers, breaking the silence. We hear a door scrape and footsteps on the flags. Round the corner appears a man in his fifties; generous heavy cords and belt, check shirt and tie, a great white moustache and whiskers. He wears a welcoming smile.
“Can I help you?” he enquires.
“We have a room booked for the weekend, in the name of Tasker, Mr and Mrs tasker,” you reply.
“Ah, yes! Come with me. Have you had a good journey?”
Instantly we were made to feel at home. His name is Peter, Peter Wainthrop. Major. Retired. He talks about the weather; how Spring seems earlier than ever; about the floods down on the Levels, and how he is pleased to live in the hills. The house is a private home that offers accommodation, not an actual hotel and there are few guests here this weekend- none other then ourselves tonight You shoot me a glance that tells me you are pleased that we will have a peaceful time to ourselves and you are feeling comfortable.
“If you put your names in the guest book I will show you to your room. I have put you in the master bedroom. The notorious hanging Judge Jeffrey’s stayed here once. History says that the famous judge stayed here while he was putting the fear of God, the king and the law into local people after Monmoth’s rebellion.” After signing our names we follow Peter along the flags, back out into the entrance hall. A door opens opposite to a reception room with fire burning slowly in a huge grate. I hope we will get a chance to spend some time in here. We continue up an impressive set of wooden stairs that creak slightly under our footfall and along a narrow hallway that leads to a wide step in front of a dark, ribbed door with heavy iron furnishings.
Peter opens the door and leads us in. “The fire is laid,” he says. “You only have to light it. There are logs in the basket enough for the evening. Dinner is at 8.00. I’ll leave you to make yourselves at home and to freshen up. I hope you will enjoy your stay.” With that he leaves the room and closes the door behind him. At last we are alone.
We explore the room. The bed in the middle is a huge four-poster with heavy wine red, velvet drapes. A quick test shows it is comfortable and firm. The walls are completely panelled and the ceiling low with long beams, marked by an adze, the fingerprints of craftsmen from centuries ago. The grate is laid and a hazel basket is stacked with split oak logs. A dark oak dresser with mirror, massive wardrobe and two brown leather armchairs either side of the fire complete the furniture. The window looks out over a wooded valley, the edge of a lake and across in the distance to higher moorland. In the corner of the room there is a door, difficult to see at first because it seemed to be part of the panelling. This door leads to the most sumptuous bathroom, the centrepiece of which is a huge scroll back bath on a raised dais. At the end of the bath is a series bahis firmaları of semi–circular brass pipes one above the other, connected by more piping and topped by a huge showerhead. This old fashioned device is an all-round shower; water comes at you from the side as well as from above. The bath itself is king-sized and has an enormous brass pipe as a plug; the overflow is literally over the top of the pipe. You could swim in a bath this big!.
From the window in the bedroom we can see the setting sun, painting rich pink, red, and orange across the western sky. The light is fading fast. As we still had our coats on we decide to go for a short walk. Leaving our bags at the end of the bed, you grab your hat and gloves and we set off to find our way through the narrow hallway, down the stairs and out into the clear, clean Somerset air. As we step into the softening light, the blackbirds are calling their intention to go to bed; otherwise, the silence here is palpable. I can hear a brook chattering through the undergrowth nearby.
We climb quickly up the hill behind the manor house to beat the failing light. Leaving the lane where the celandines have already closed yet the primroses still show bright in the half-light, we head across a steeply rising field towards the crest and a five-bar gate in the hedge. The steepness of the climb makes us both breathe faster. We haul each other up the last few feet and collapse against the gate. Looking out across fields below we can see the Bristol Channel and Wales in the distance. Steep Holm and Flat Holm rise from the darkening waters. To the East the rising moon lights the Quantock Hills. To the West on Exmoor, the last light from the Sun makes expanses of heather glow an emperor’s purple. Beneath us we can see the odd set of headlights appear and reappear silently in the lanes but we can hear nothing but the stirring of a breeze. A visual feast.
I hold you to me as we let our gaze survey the view. Slowly the view turns in on ourselves and I see the line of your face and hair lifting gently. I caress your cheek. You take off your hat and shake your hair loose so I can run my fingers through your hair. We are together and alone. We kiss lingeringly, tongues exploring, while our eyes bathe in each other. I slip my arm inside your warm black coat to feel closer to you. I gently pull you to me while you put your legs either side of mine. You are wearing the trousers that pleased you so much when you found them in Glastonbury and I can feel the pile under my fingers as I carefully cradle your bottom, holding you as close as possible. They indeed fit you perfectly. Your pelvis makes tiny pushing movements against me that let me know your desire. You can feel my response and smile. We are going to have a delicious Valentine’s weekend.
When we rejoin the world, the sun has set and the deepening night is brightly illuminated by a full moon that has an extensive halo. Our sign: our symbol: our beauty. Whenever we are apart I just have to look at it and know we share this. It lights our path back down the hill, which we descend much more carefully. On reaching the lane, we can link arms and head back to the manor house. Once through the gateway our path is not only lit by the moon but also by strategically placed, low wattage lawn lights and the sound of the brook. The soft light coming from the porch is welcoming. Back in our room we have just time to freshen before eating.
The dining room has only a few tables: just one is laid. Wall lamps give a soft, unobtrusive light, to the room. There is a little vase of rich red camellias in the centre of our table. The food is wholesome. Deep-fried Somerset Brie is followed by venison stew with cobblers and fresh vegetables. I am able to wash mine down with a large glass of Merlin bitter: you have a bitter lemon with lemonade. In the low light against the walls and flickering candlelight we are in an intimate world of our own, filling in parts of the pictures of our lives for each other, adding detail, colour and texture.
We decide to take coffee in the reception room; this was the one we had seen earlier through the partially open door in the hallway. More properly the drawing room, this is a large room with a massive stone fireplace against one wall with an arched, carved mantle stone. A roaring log fire burns in the grate, lighting up the stone flags in front. Dotted around the floor, between large, comfortable, smooth backed, brown leather sofas and armchairs, are several sheepskin fleeces. A huge basket of logs stands to one side of the fireplace. In two places either side are plain, iron candle stands which each support a candle nearly a foot in diameter, containing five wicks each. The flames dance and sway in the slight draught that came in to the room with us. The room is suffused by a mellow light. Burgundy velvet curtains hang down from ceiling to floor in front of the windows adding to a sensual depth and richness. For such a large room it is warm and cosy. Between the chairs and sofas are heavy low tables with a lamp on each kaçak iddaa and some magazines including “Country Life” and “The Lady”. As we are the sole guests we plump for the smooth comfort of the sofa, with a high back that keeps the light and warmth of the fire. We sink into it. I choose the left hand side. You lean up against me, my arm around your shoulder.
Peter comes in with a tray of steaming coffee and places it on the round table nearest to us. “We turn in early,” he said. “When you go up, would you snuff out the candles? You can leave the fire unattended; just push the logs down so they can’t roll out onto the stone. Breakfast is served between 8.30 and 9.30. Goodnight. Sleep well. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” With that he left, pulling the door to behind him. We are truly alone at last.
I put my arm around you and draw you close. You lift up your face that is radiant in the firelight. I stroke your hair with the back of my fingers and caress your cheek; so soft and so beautiful. I tuck your hair behind your ear. The sofa creaks softly as you stretch yourself up slightly and our lips meet. Gently at first, whispers across the skin, then searching more deeply. I watch your eyes reflecting the dancing flames in the fire; the flames are spreading, igniting in me the warmth and passion you so easily arouse in me. Our kiss takes time away. We become absorbed in each other, forgetting the possibility of anyone else in the world.
Your gentle, sensitive fingers find their way under my shirt and trace their tips up across my chest and down over my tummy, slipping under the waistband of my trousers, and stroking the tip of my now hard penis. You retreat and on the surface again unbuckle my belt, slip the button at my waist and pull the zip down. My rapidly engorging erection lifts my pants up like a tent. Finding the opening, you free me from the confines of my clothing and wrap your fingers around me giving a few gentle pulls to draw out any wrinkles. I focus on releasing you from the modesty of your top and bra. The palms of my hands are now able to smooth over your breasts and feel your nipples hardening under their touch. The firelight bathes your skin in warmth and light. Skin touches skin touches light touches warmth.
The fire crackles and spits as the flames lick into the void of the chimney. Shadows dance and shift on the walls. The firelight makes our skin glow: you make me glow from the inside. The room temperature is warm and comfortable against our skin. We are alone. I leave you and go to the back of the room, quietly sliding a chair across the door so just a corner would catch and give us precious seconds if someone came in unexpectedly. You slide down to the floor, closer to the fire, kneeling on a sheepskin fleece. Poker in hand you disturb the wood and the flames leap higher still: your flesh gilded in the living light.
I take off my shoes and socks then drop my trousers down to the floor, stepping out of them. My shirt disappears in a trice. I am standing naked in front of the fire, my erection pointing out from my body. You stand in front of the flames and we embrace. We can feel the intense heat on our skin. Trickles of sweat seep from our pores. I kiss you first on the mouth, then neck and then your exquisite breasts, down across your tummy to the top of your trousers. My fingers deftly undo your buttons and slide your trouser and pants over your hips. As they come lower and more is revealed, I whisper a kiss over your soft pubic hair and nuzzle into your garden of delight. You are moist and aroused already. Your smell excites me. I trace down your inner thighs and to your ankles. You step out of your trousers, free at last. I stand again. We embrace our warm nakedness; fingers touching lightly over skin; mouths searching, probing; unending and undying pleasure.
You sink down on to your knees on the sheep fleece and take my hardness in your mouth. The sensation makes me gasp in pleasure. I look over my shoulder at the near wall. Exaggerated shadows cast by the flaming logs repeat our actions as in a shifting Egyptian fresco. Fascinated, I watch as the goddess on her knees takes my larger than life phallus into her mouth. Slowly and sensuously my length disappears and then is revealed again on the plaster. My ears drink in the softest sipping sounds. I cannot help myself and move my hands to your head feeling the softness of your hair under and through my fingers, watching enrapt as more of me slides into your mouth in the shifting shadow show. Your lips pull on my skin; suction from your cheeks tugs on me; and, your tongue, circling the tip of my penis, teases me exquisitely, drawing me to the moment of climax. My buttocks tense and my thighs begin to shake. I look back down at you; your back lit by the flames, an ever changing, shifting amalgam of gold and bronze and copper; your head moving gently up and down, now turning to the side as you reach right round me; on your shoulder a trembling butterfly has alighted and shimmers alive in the firelight. Alchemy. Heaven. Paradise. My testicles kaçak bahis tighten and draw towards my body; you cup them gently. I need to stand on my toes as my muscles tense; my fingers stroke your hair with urgency. I can feel myself tipping over the edge and then… shudder…release.
You keep sucking, milking, encouraging, thirstily drinking every drop. You make me feel so, so wanted.
My muscles relax and as I soften you let me leave the heaven of your mouth. I drop to me knees opposite you; I take your face in my hands and look deep into the midnight whenever of your eyes, kiss you deeply, passionately, our tongues rolling around each other. I can taste myself in your mouth. We separate and kneeling I drink you in: your hair, your face, your smile, your eyes, your shoulders, and your breasts. I adore you. I complete the brushstrokes of the portrait stored in my memory. It is my turn to return the pleasure you have given me.
Gently I lay you down on the rug in front of the fire. The logs are glowing red in the centre, the flames flicker and wave as sparks disappear up the chimney to the cold air outside. A damp piece of wood found by the flame hisses suddenly and dies away. At the back of the fire some wood, turned to ash, collapses sending a myriad sparks like shooting stars up into the dark, each one a dream, each one a wish. I take a couple of ash logs from the basket and put them on the fire and stoke the flames. The end of the steel poker glows red hot. Heat pushes out into the room lighting the curves of your hips and breasts. I kneel over you kissing your eyelids and nose, sweeping your hair away from your face, kissing your ears, round behind them, a tongue darting into them and raining gentle kisses down your neck and throat. Then slowly back up to your precious mouth that breathes the words “I love you” before devouring my tongue: lips, teeth, cheeks, tongue, suck, swirl, moist, envelop, immerse.
I release myself and continue my journey tracing sensitivity down your beautiful, sensuous body already feeling the stirrings of longing in my loins again. You have an incredible effect on me. I move over the fine bones that are nature’s necklace: licking, kissing, blowing against your skin. You shiver and your hips tighten, lifting slightly as I continue to your breasts; circling your nipples that harden further under my tongue’s damp twisting trail.
Round each one again.
Tiny indentations develop under my tongue as the areola tightens. A slight liquid lick on the tip of each; tasting, teasing, before taking the engorged, hardened buds into my mouth. I draw them into my mouth in turn, brushing each one against the edge of my teeth, pulling gently deeper into my mouth, circling them with my tongue. If I could milk them I would! I roll the teat between my lips causing you to gasp quietly as at the same time I dip one finger into you and feel your muscles tighten around it.
Not yet, my sweet. Not yet, my love.
Leaving your dark nipples, I trace my tongue down your tummy, stopping to swirl round and in your navel like waves in a smooth washed rock pool. I cast my eyes up your body glowing in the firelight. Your eyes are closed. Your breathing is deep and relaxed. I put my hands under your bottom cupping a cheek in each hand as my tongue reaches the fine hair that adorns your mound and works its way through a fine, soft forest until I reach the tip of your damp, delicate swollen lips. You open your legs a little wider. I lift my head and look down at your beautiful labia, opening like unfurling rose on a hot June day; a sheen of moisture films its skin, catching the fire light. Glistening.
I pause from the ministerings of my tongue and slip my forefinger into you: you move involuntarily. Your face turns, your lower lip is under your teeth. Your muscles pull on my finger as I delve deeper, deeper still; feeling my way around your moist fleshy walls and inner curves, lazily circling your clitoris with my thumb.
And a second finger.
Then a third.
You lift your bottom again trying to draw my fingers deeper into you. More. Please, more. With my fingers still safe inside you, I lean forward again and run my tongue in long, wet passes across your clitoris, pausing occasionally to circle and probe with the tip, lifting the swollen flesh, sucking each fold gently into my mouth. Fingers and tongue become delicious torturers. I can see your fingers grasping the wool of the rug underneath, knuckles tightening as you grip the fleece and then relax. You are wet, so wet. You arouse me so completely. My penis is hard again, jerking, desperate to enter and join with you.
But not yet, not yet, my love.
I still have to taste your sweet nectar.
I put two more birch logs on to the fire causing a fresh flurry of sparks, stoking the flames higher, their different colours roaring up the chimney. A slight smell of wood smoke pervades the room mixing with the smell of dry wood from the basket. A scent of musk and passion in the air mingles with the earthy mellow sandstone of the fireplace that becomes more honeyed in the brighter flame light. In the centre of the stone mantle is a carved crest topped with a unicorn. The moving light lends movement to the mythical beast that watches us.