The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Island in the Barley

by Maximilian Cummings

Part 1

It was the third time she had dreamt of the copse, the wood, the cluster of trees in the middle of the open field.

Sasha sat up in bed and drew the covers around her. It was a very odd dream. Why would she go into a copse and then want to take all her clothes off? Why would she want to step into the shade of the trees leaving her clothes at the border between the sunshine and the gloom? She had not yet stepped far enough into the trees before waking to find an answer. Waking, though, with a quite intense longing between her legs and a wetness running down her thighs. Each time she had woken she had felt that way.

Sasha got out of bed.

In the mirror she looked at herself. What a funny round face she had, she knew it, but it was not an unpleasing face and it seemed to make people laugh; she smiled at her reflection and it smiled back showing her little white teeth. Sasha glanced downwards at the breasts, as round as her face with the nipples now hard, pointed and sensitive. She clasped them in her hands and moved them, the touch felt good and she watched her hands playing with her breasts as if she was watching some other girl. Her tummy was flat and below it the vee of ruddy gold hair, rather darker in colour than the rich golden red hair hanging down around her shoulders. Sasha parted her legs a little and looked at the hint of pink lips just showing. A hand moved, a hand obscured her fur and a finger touched. She watched fingers stirring and disappearing a little. It was still rather like watching another girl but the feeling, the sensation was very clearly her own. What would it be like watching another girl... or boy?

The thought took her back to bed, back to intimacy with herself, back to wet hands, heat and the scent of her arousal under the bedclothes. Her dream had started it: her fingers finished it.

It is one thing to have a recurring dream and become familiar with it. We all have them. They can come to us year on year, stretching back into childhood, something familiar, often strange and not quite normal but a dream we recognise, often know it as the dream and wake ourselves from it: it is quite another thing to walk in reality into the dream, to be at one moment in the normal everyday world and the next to recognise the setting or sense of that dream in the now. This, though, was what came to Sasha when visiting friends and going with them for an afternoon walk in the country. It was not some great expedition, a hike, but a gentle stroll down footpaths, across streams and on green roads. Of a moment Sasha stopped on a footpath, staring across a field of green barley, barley gently moving in the breeze, at a copse right in the centre of this field. Not just any copse but the copse, the wood, the cluster of trees from her dream. It was there before her—real and substantial. She wanted to go to it but the copse was not something she could reach as the wood was cut off from the footpath by the fresh growing barley. It would not do to trample the farmer’s field.

“What are you looking at, Sasha?”

“The trees, the copse... nothing really.” She tried to sound unconcerned but her whole appearance, her stance, showed otherwise.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Bit too sunny for that!”

Sasha wasn’t saying more. It was most peculiar though. It was annoying not to be able to walk over and look at the trees, what did they hide—anything? Why did it look like her dream? She hadn’t been to the place, the footpath, before. Was it just co-incidence? But it looked too much the same—no, it was the same.

That night, in her friends’ house the dream came again. For the fourth time she found herself by the stand of trees; just outside and trying to look in. Standing close to them with the barley moving around her in the slight breeze, like waves across the land, touching her bare legs; the breeze cooling on a hot day. Sasha’s hand touched the barley ears, the seeds were swelling, green and new, her fingers feeling the long awns. Skylarks soared behind her rising into the blue, blue sky. Why was she here?

The pull of the trees seemed strong in the dream, Sasha felt she could not stay in the sunshine, in the ripening barley, but needed to be under the cover of the trees. It was cooler there, out of the full sun and the dappled sun would not burn her bare flesh. She knew the drill by now. The pink gingham dress slipped from her shoulders to fall around her feet and it was but the work of moments to be free of her shoes and underclothes. Even at the very edge of the wood the feeling was starting, a tingling feeling between her legs, The ground felt soft under her toes as she stepped forward determined to get further into the wood this time. Without a path Sasha would have expected branches and undergrowth to be in her way and perhaps it was just the dream but whilst the trees grew close together she had no difficulty moving forward into the wood. It was warm and not at all gloomy; the trees were young and the canopy not thick, allowing sunlight through as a patchwork of dark and light. It felt strange to be out walking naked but it was only a dream and one she had experienced before.

The feeling was building, she was sure the top of her legs were already damp with the lubrication leaking from her, flowing to allow easy entrance to male genitalia. She thought to touch but it did not seem right—what she wanted was the touch, the caress of a male, to have the smoothness of a penishead parting her, penetrating her taking her as a woman. Sasha’s hand brushed a nipple, it was hard and pointing.

Whether it was her desire for a penis and a man or not but she was, of a sudden, aware she was not alone. To her right and not so many yards from her, coming through the trees was a young man. Like herself he was completely without clothes; unlike her he was fair and tall; like her he wore his hair long, indeed he was hirsute with beard and fine curly chest hair and, of course, fair curly hair around his sex; like her he was sexually excited, it was easy to tell that by the long slightly curved erection standing in front of him and swaying as he walked.

Dreams limit inhibitions, dreams do not matter, dreams are not reality. Sasha knew what she wanted to do and that was embrace this male vision and feel his erection inside her. A lovely orgasmic wet dream. Dreams, though, can be remarkably frustrating. She could see the man was sexually excited and so was she—intensely so.

The young man caught sight of Sasha and stopped; his eyes wide as he took in both her presence and her nakedness. He had not been touching his penis and it just stood there rising from its bed of fair curls, foreskin retracted and shiny head exposed, caught in a patch of sunlight as if by a spotlight. Sasha advanced slowly towards him, her eyes flicking from his face to his penis, her desire strong, and then she saw him grimace and the lovely penis, she was so desperately in need of, all at once began to spurt. Sasha was aghast. He had not touched it: she had not touched it. String after string of creamy fluid flew from the tip of the penis to fly a yard or so through the air, seeming to flash when it caught the dappled light, before landing on the dry leaf mould of the woodland floor.

Sasha awoke in her bed in the dark, tossing and turning in frustration with the dream of the man and his ejaculating penis so fresh in her mind. Her fingers went straight to her sex and with dancing fingers she imagined the young man on top of her, his hard cock thrusting and spurting more usefully inside her as she came hard and long.

In the early morning Sasha sat cross-legged on her bed looking out of her bedroom window, watching the sun rise, the change from monochrome to colour, then from subdued pastel to the bright colours of a summer’s day. In the distance sat the copse in its sea of barley looking quiet, fresh and a little mysterious in the early dew-light. She was almost minded to go to it that very moment, plunge into its depths but her hosts would be surprised at her having gone out so early and she was not sure she could do it—walk into the wood naked.

As the day wore on she was more and more puzzled as to why she had thought in the early light that she would have to walk naked. There was no reason for that, just the dream and that did not bind her. That night she dreamt again.

It was the same as before; there she was on the edge, the very edge of the field of barley, the sun pouring down and the inviting coolness of the wood so close. This time she let the dress fall before reaching the wood and felt the hot sun on her skin and the plump ears of barley stroking her thighs as she moved, drawing the already flowing wetness from her. It was quiet in the copse, cooler but still bright from the sun coming through to dapple the ground. Sasha moved forward purposefully wanting to get further into the wood, to find out why she was there—if, that is, there was any reason for the dream.

The tingling was strong, tempting her to lie down on the cool soft carpet of old leaves and plunge her fingers into her wetness and strum her herself to orgasm. She tried to ignore the feeling, ignore the sexuality, concentrate on walking further into the wood’s depths, get to the very centre to explore, find and understand. But it was no good, her desire was too strong and she sank to her knees with her hands going to her breasts to touch, squeeze and pull before she rolled onto her back, splayed her thighs and her right hand touched between. It was a delicious sensation, first stroking around and then plunging three fingers hard into herself as her thumb touched her little nub.

It must have been because of the noise she was making as she rolled on the ground getting closer and closer to orgasm that she did not hear the boy come from her right, nor see him until he was up to her, just feet from her, almost looming over her. As before, he too was naked but this time his long slightly curved erection was firmly held in his hand, a hand that was moving, alternately revealing and then hiding the shiny head. He was staring at her and what a sight she must have looked to him, wanton and exposed on the woodland floor.

Her fingers moved as she stared at the boy’s cock and his stroking hand, he in turn was staring at her own masturbation, both caught as if in the freeze frame of a picture, motionless but for the playing hands when all of a sudden, long strings of creamy fluid flew from the end of his penis to fall like thick rain drops across her naked tummy and sex. That knocked her into orgasm as she felt his ejaculation falling steadily onto her, warm on her skin.

The intensity of the orgasm awoke her with a cry. Sasha had never ever woken to find herself actually coming—coming moreover without having to touch herself first. One moment asleep and the next staring out blankly into the darkness as the waves of orgasm crashed about her all emanating from that one touch, the pattering touch of the boy’s ejaculation in her dream.

“Were you all right in the night, Sasha, we heard you call out?”

Sasha had assured them she was OK, was fine, it had just been a funny dream, a nightmare (she had fibbed a little, it was hardly a nightmare).

It was the last day of the visit. There was no time to venture out into the sea of barley.

Home again, back from her visit, Sasha was free of the dream for days, weeks even, had other things to think of. But back it came one night. She found herself dreaming in the field of barley at the edge of the copse, the summer sun as hot as before and her legs bare under her dress. She was not unhappy at the familiarity of her recurring dream, not unhappy at its usual sexual conclusion. The feeling was there again, an itch, a want. Sasha looked across the moving sea of barley but there was no sign of the fair boy. Would he be in the dream tonight? Stepping carefully she moved through the rustling gold of the barley to the copse, the sun so hot on her shoulders and hair, pausing as she entered to slide the thin gingham across her skin and discard it on the woodland floor.

The pleasant coolness, the pattern of light and shade was as before, the leaf mould soft on her feet. Sasha looked left and right for the boy but there was no sign, perhaps he would be further in, she stepped forward anxious to see further into the copse and, perhaps, find the boy. She remembered the morning in her friends’ cottage looking at herself in the mirror, what would it be like to see herself now, a child of nature, unclothed, stepping through the pretty young trees and saplings. What had she looked like to the boy? It was not, after all, she who had caused his erection for he had been excited before he saw her—as she was now. Sasha hoped she would see him, hoped her mind would conjure him up, so she could watch him, another child of nature walking in the trees, tall, fair and bearded with his long limbs. A vision of maleness with his strength, hair, tight buttocks—she would be happy to walk behind him and watch those—and his long curving erection with the smooth, shiny head. Perhaps they could walk, explore hand in hand—for a time. The feeling of desire was growing as she walked onwards, finding a way through the outer trees.

As Sasha thought to herself, she descended a dip in the ground, seemingly a wide dry ditch filled with silver birch and young ash. She paused in a patch of sunlight and touched her left nipple. The feeling was electric. Her other hand went to her mouth, brushing her lips and her tongue lightly caressed her finger tips. She was actually breathing faster as her excitement grew. Where was that boy? She wanted to touch, wanted to be touched. Sasha wanted the penis, wanted to feel it, stroke it. What would it be like to kiss it, to put her tongue out and touch it, suck its big smooth head into her mouth? As she thought, her lips parted and her fingers went into her mouth, her tongue fluttering as if...

It was no good, despite wanting to see what lay within, she couldn’t go further. She needed to be touched. Sasha turned to an ash sapling and touched her nipples to the smooth bark. Even that felt good, the touch of cool living wood on her sensitive skin. She pressed, pushing one knee forward so the slim trunk was between her thighs and touching her fur. She pushed hard against it and rubbed her pubis hard against the bark so the friction moved and pulled at her sex, her auburn curls mashed between herself and the tree. It was good to feel the touch, to be rutting against the tree, rubbing herself to a climax as she pulled the tree close to herself.

There was a sound ahead and above her. Standing on the rise out of the wide, shallow ditch was the boy, the self-same boy as before and with the sun catching his yellow curls. He was as naked as she. Sasha liked his face, liked his body and, most certainly, liked his erection which was standing strong. Sasha did not feel at all embarrassed being caught making love to a tree, it was a dream, her dream, and she could do what she liked. She smiled at him, a friendly smile, a welcoming smile. Sasha was glad to see him.

Leaving the tree she turned and walked towards him. Being lower than before she had a different view of his penis, an underside view bringing his balls, his slack scrotum into view and she could even see the shape of the testes, like eggs, within the sack. Sasha wanted to lift, feel, and hold them in her hand. The boy’s hand was on his penis now sliding the foreskin up and over the head and down again, alternately revealing and hiding, she could see the bifurcation of the head and the thin strip of skin joining it to the ridge that rose up from the scrotum to the head. Sasha was so close now that she could see the tip of the penis was already a little wet with moisture shining in the sunlight. The desire to suck was strong—it was not something she had ever done for real.

Sasha paused, legs a little apart, just below the boy, just below where the bank rose up, watching his hand move. In response her own hand went down to her sex and there they were, two children of nature, masturbating to each other in the green wood, not saying a word. It was good, for a time, but Sasha wanted to touch the boy.

With her free hand, Sasha reached upwards, towards the boy’s long penis, wanting to replace his hand with her own. The boy’s hand fell away and, bending her fingers and thumb, she encircled and held, feeling it warm and hard in her hand. This, though, seemed too much for the boy and with an inarticulate sound of pleasure, the first sound either had made, the penis began to spurt again, the warm jet flying across the space between them to land, this time not on the leaf mould but on and within Sasha’s partly open mouth.

She awoke startled and orgasming, the taste of the boy on her tongue, the eroticism of the image in her mind fuelling her climax; her fingers brushing her face and lips as if she could still feel the product of the ejaculation; she was wringing wet.

Sasha knew that she had to, simply had to cross the sea of barley and enter the copse for real. The feeling was becoming stronger by the day, not just an inquisitiveness but something more as if she was being called, as if someone was in her mind pulling her towards the wood or, perhaps, simply there was a need to satisfy. It was not as if the boy would be there or anything—it was just a wood—but it would be so interesting to be within it and compare it to her dreams.

Recurring dreams are not uncommon but Sasha could not escape the idea this dream was peculiarly persistent—not that she did not like it but it was so strange.

If anything the sun was hotter than before and there was hardly a breath of wind to move the barley and make it rustle, even faintly. Sasha looked around her across the field back to the track and then to the copse close by. She knew she was dreaming once more, back in the vivid colour of the barley field. Even before entering the wood she let the gingham dress fall luxuriating in the feel of the hot sun on her naked body, its warming effect on her round breasts. Sasha’s nipples hardened and a thin trickle of sweat ran down the valley between her breasts. She looked ahead at the cool shade and shook her head, these dreams were so sexual, she could feel the arousal coming even before she reached the trees.

There was purpose in her tread, Sasha wanted to get further into the wood, but even as she stepped through the young ashes the touch of the thin branches and long pointed leaves on her skin was electric each time one lightly brushed her as she moved past. There was moisture between her legs now, dampening her auburn hair. It was as if the very copse itself was readying her for sexual intercourse. At the bottom of the shallow ditch or long depression Sasha paused. What would it be like—intercourse? She had thought about it a lot in her bed as her fingers had played, had pushed into herself just like a hard penis she presumed. It would be good to try it with her dream boy; she knew from her earlier dreams she would remember and the semblance of reality would be very strong; it would be a taste, an imaginary approximation.

This was where she had reached before, where the boy had appeared standing on the rise ahead of her. This time she felt she could go a little further despite the powerful urge to touch herself, to fall to the ground and roll in the soft leaf mould as one hand stirred her sex to orgasm. Sasha reached up to a sapling, her fingers closing around the smooth young trunk as if enclosing the stem of a rather oversize penis, and she pulled herself up the bank feeling her wet thighs slide across each other as she did so. She paused again but at the top of the bank, feeling as if she had crossed a boundary, had achieved a small success in moving towards the goal of reaching the centre of the copse. Her hand stayed on the sapling, still encircling it with thumb and fingers, she moved them a little up and down remembering holding the boy in the same way in her last dream, her finger and thumb holding his warm hard but soft cock before it had released. The tip of Sasha’s little pink tongue ran across her lips moistening them at the memory.

Behind her there was a faint noise and Sasha turned to see the boy on the other side of the shallow ditch, standing looking at her. Her thought of going further slipped as she stared at his naked maleness. He had such a nice face and she would be very happy to kiss him, to feel his fair beard on her face as he held her with his long arms; and to feel the touch of his long curving erection on her thigh. Exploration, hand in hand perhaps, could come later after touching and intercourse. It was a dream, her erotic dream, after all.

This time his hand was not on his penis; that was certainly standing firm, perhaps he had been stroking it earlier, perhaps it had risen at the sight of her—Sasha liked that idea, she would like to see the boy becoming aroused merely by the sight of her body, seeing the penis grow, elongate and rise but she had never seen the process of erection on any man—perhaps, like her, the mere act of walking into the copse had aroused him. But all that presupposed he was real like her and they were sharing a dream whereas the boy was but a figment of her subconscious, dreamt up in a wet dream—a lovely dream.

Sasha smiled and the boy smiled back. Her desire to penetrate deeper into the copse wavered. The boy moved and stepped down the bank into the depression in the ground, his long curved penis moving a little to one side and then the other as his thighs moved and he walked across the shallow ditch to her. Sasha’s eyes flicked from his face to his penis and she thought she could see, in the patches of sunlight coming through the tree canopy, a pearl of liquid forming on the shiny dome end of his cock. She hoped this did not presage another spurting; an orgasm frustratingly early for her. The frustration of dreams. With her hand still on the sapling she swung herself back down into the ditch to face the boy. Their faces were but inches apart, there was a pause and then their lips met in a kiss, soft lips pressing together; a slight parting and a touching of tongues; Sasha felt a hand moulding her left breast. She let go of the sapling and, as she did so, her knees gave way and she found herself face to face with the boy’s curving penis. There it was up close, what she had been thinking and dreaming about. One hand reached to encircle, just as with the sapling, the other to her sex to touch and stimulate. The penis was big before her and her desire for it strong.

Leaning forward, Sasha’s lips closed and she had the shiny dome within her mouth, cooler than she had expected and so silky smooth. She drew her lips back slowly, following the dome shape so that her lips came closer and closer together as the circumference narrowed until they were together just resting on the very end of the boy’s penis. Sasha gave just the tiniest lick right at the end where she had seen the pearly drop and there was just the faintest taste of salt on her tongue. A dream taste.

Sasha awoke in the dark from the dream, a dream of the copse. The imagery had been so strong and she knew she had to go to it as if someone was telling her what to do and calling to her in her mind. Dressing hurriedly she was in the car within minutes and travelling as the dawn broke; the light gradually spreading across the land and her speeding motor car. It was midday before she reached the village, before she parked her car and walked up the track which led by the copse. There it was on the skyline, quiet, not really very mysterious but set apart, on its own—an island of trees in a sea of ripe golden barley. Sasha had hoped the crop would already have been reaped as she did not want to trample. It was still and quiet all around her with just the sound of the larks rising as she stood on the track, in the shade of an old oak, irresolute, looking out over the barley. She had come such a long way.

Carefully Sasha moved out into the sea, picking her way and disturbing very little. Wouldn’t it be awful to hear the farmer shouting at her, angry with her being in a field ready for the harvest but there was no sound but the larks. There was a hush upon the land, a midsummer, midday, hot, still kind of hush; a drowsy quiet to succumb to in the shade of an old oak after a picnic lunch in the fields. Sasha moved slowly across the field getting ever closer to the trees. Unlike in her dreams there was no breeze to move the barley and cause waves to move upon its surface. It was like a flat, sultry calm.

Pausing, feet from the edge of the field where the trees began, it seemed to Sasha that she was in her dream for it was just the same—exactly the same; she glanced down at the hem of her gingham dress brushing the barley—so just like the dream: but this was real. It seemed ridiculous, not something you did, but Sasha knew she was going to take the dress off as soon as she was within the trees and her bra and panties as well. She wanted to be naked, to be as naked as she had been in all those dreams. But what if she met someone?

The silver birches met her as she reached the copse, their leaves brushing at her, touching the bare skin of her arms. Sasha turned and looked back at the golden field of barley ripe for the harvesting stretching back, acre upon acre, to the track, its colour seeming the colour of her hair.

Carefully Sasha took off her dress and folded it, placing her underclothes and sandals beneath. She took a step, a naked step away from the little cotton pile, a first step from what was normal. Why did it feel so good to be naked in the trees, feeling the soft dry leaves of another year beneath her feet?

Somehow she was not surprised to find the dip in the ground running to her right and left, a wide depression that was more than a ditch—perhaps the remains of a moat from a time long past. She paused in a patch of sunlight feeling the contrast with the shade on her skin, the midsummer sun hot on her golden-red hair, hot on her pale skin. It did not do for her to be in the hot sun for too long as she would burn. She should have brought her straw hat to shade her shoulders but what would she have looked like walking naked with just a sun hat in the copse—what did she look like now with just her harvest golden hair shading her shoulders and the rest of her naked in the sunshine? It was quiet, very quiet, not even the birds were singing in the heat though there was a background noise from the insects. Sasha looked up into the sky and saw far above her an airliner passing, its con trail faint, a reminder of the modern world in the timelessness of the copse: but she could not hear it.

Sasha sat in the pool of sunlight. She did not plan to stay there long, she wanted to go further into the copse, to explore, but it was pleasant just to sit in the stillness and feel the softness of the land beneath her bottom. She was tempted, though, to touch herself as she had done in her dreams. To open her thighs and touch what she knew was already a little wet and waiting.

Nearby a pair of butterflies were wheeling around each other, darting here and there in the dappled sunlight. Unbidden Shakespeare came to her mind.

‘The wren goes to’t, and the small gilded fly

Does lecher in my sight.

Let copulation thrive;’

She watched, sitting in the stillness.

There was a slight sound behind her as if a foot had stepped on a twig. In alarm her head came round to look over her right shoulder and there, unbelievable but real, was the boy, the boy of her dream and as naked as she had always seen him. Not a stitch on his body, he was as naked as she; he had stopped and was standing completely still, gazing in apparent shock at the sight of a girl with golden hair sitting on the ground, back to him, but evidently naked.

Sasha shot to her feet, turning so her breasts and vee of fair red curls were revealed to him.

“It’s you!” he said his eyes moving over her body.

Sasha had never in her dreams heard him speak, his voice sounded just as she thought it would, and the words showed he too had dreamt of her. What were his thoughts of her—how was this happening?

What he thought of her became obvious, his penis at first at rest had stirred and embarrassing for him, rose to its full height. It was long and curved just as in the dream.

Sasha liked it. “Hallo,” she said.

It was incongruous shaking hands but how else to hide their embarrassment, to deal with their nudity? A kiss between strangers, even if they already felt they knew the other, would have implied more, and involved a touching of bodies, no doubt a fleeting touch of breast on breast and the touch of smooth penis head to skin. They both pretended to ignore the erection so obviously present.

“I dreamt, I had to come, to be here for real,” said Sasha.

“Is this real?”

“I had to take my clothes off,” said Sasha by way of explanation.

“Me too, it seemed right, only,” his voiced tailed off, “I didn’t expect to meet someone. To meet you...”

Their hands were still clasped as if to let go would break the moment, require something more.

“You have a name? No, of course you do! I’m Sasha.”

“Nathaniel—Nat.”

The simple exchange of names made them let go of their hands leaving them standing in the sunlight, facing each other, facing each other’s nakedness and Nat’s tumescent penis.

“I’m sorry about this,” Nat indicated his still standing erection.

“Don’t be, it’s nice.” She had seen it before. His indicating of it allowed her, gave her permission or reason to look at it, admire it. Sasha wanted to touch but this was not a dream.

There was a pause, each uncertain what to say next.

“I came to walk further into the copse,” said Sasha, “to see what is there, perhaps a glade or something at its centre... I don’t really know why I came, I just awoke and had to come, had to drive here. It was a compulsion as if there was a voice in my mind, as if I was being directed to come.”

“And take your clothes off?”

“Yes.”

“It was just like that for me. Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s walk. I’ve never got beyond the rise before, always, always... always you’ve come and I have been distracted...” It was out in the open now, the sex.

Nat turned and walked up out of the depression. Sasha watched his back, his buttocks and liked what she saw. He turned, higher up than her and with his erection standing proud offered Sasha his hand to help her up the bank. She took it—their second touch. He did not let go and they walked on, hand in hand, through the trees as silver birch and ash saplings gave way to more mature trees, ashes and oaks as well as old coppiced hazel. The floor carpet was thick with old leaves and soft to their naked feet.

There was a feeling of wetness between her legs, Sasha glanced down at Nat’s cock moving a little side by side as he walked, the erection showing no sign of abating. The sexual feeling of the copse was there, not as strong as in the dream but by no means absent. It was nice, Sasha was sure sex would follow, something she had not done with a boy, her only experience was in her head, but she was not worried, not frightened: instead happy to partake—she wanted to touch Nat, feel him and hold his long cock. But that could wait as yet.

It seemed to the two that they were now following a path, a track; not that there was any visible sign on the ground such as where old leaves had been scuffed out of the way or even old stone paving but the easiest way, a route avoiding trees and saplings led straight, a clear way before them running into the heart of the copse. They followed the easy course and hand in hand stepped deeper into the wood.

Nat paused and looked at Sasha, “I cannot believe you are just the same, just as I imagined you in my dream, just as pretty.”

Sasha wanted to pull him to her, kiss him, feel his hardness against her tummy but knew if she did it would not stop there. “Later,” she said. Both knew what was meant.

They walked on.

Ahead there seemed more sunshine as if the trees were thinning, and as they drew closer they found this to be so and shortly the boy and girl reached the edge of a glade devoid of trees, and stopped motionless. In the glade only yards from them were deer and, as they watched, the stag mounted the doe, its forelegs high in the air. It performed; the copulation was brief and energetic, on the part of the stag, and then it was over and the ever wary deer saw the couple and bounded away.

“It’s the wrong time for the Rut,” said Nat puzzled, “October, starting September but this is too early.”

Here and there were patches of grass, soft and cropped. “Must be by the deer,” said Sasha.

Separating they took their own paths in the sunshine around the glade. The ground was not level, and there were mounds and the occasional sign of old moss covered masonry indicating a building had stood at some time in the distant past. Sasha looked across the glade at Nat examining some old stonework, she liked what she saw and the feeling between her legs was strong, she knew she was really wet, ready for sex, penetration even.

It was time.

Sasha made her way towards Nat and he turned and walked to meet her. They sat down on one mound, its top particularly level and grassy almost like a bed. It was Sasha who leant in, face upraised, her right breast touching Nat’s shoulder and kissed him, her lips on his, a brush at first and then a harder pushing. Lips parted and Sasha’s small pink tongue sought Nat’s own, wet tongue on wet tongue, the beginning of the mingling; his fair beard on her face; her arm went around his back and his around her shoulder and they pulled each other together. They were not hurried despite the arousal which had been building for both of them since entering the copse. The kissing was long and the tongues played and explored.

The touch of Nat’s hand on her breast was a pleasing shock to Sasha, one moment it was not there and the next it was holding her round breast, its hard nipple in the softness of his palm. Un-rebuffed, and why would Sasha push him away as she was as ready as he, his fingers moved together, tips sliding on the so smooth skin of her breast to meet around her small pale pink nipple and hold its hardness. A squeeze and Sasha could feel a sudden rush of moisture to her sex and a strengthening desire to be filled.

Nat explored and played with Sasha’s breasts, stroking and coaxing, she, for her part stroked his downy fine curly chest hair before finding his nipples, though smaller than her own and they—totally without purpose, absurd on a man—were as hard as her own.

Without any encouragement from touching, a pearly drop appeared at the very tip of Nat’s penis, just as in her dream. Sasha looked at it, its slight opaquecy, how it just rested there, rounded, held together by surface tension; as she did so, the desire from her dream to touch it with her tongue came strongly to her; she remembered though the propensity of the boy, of Nat, to come so quickly.

“If I touch you won’t come too fast, will you? I do so want to hold you.”

Nat shook his head, it was different from the dream, he was not on the knife edge.

Sasha reached, her hand closed, and she held it in her hand, for the first time in her life she was holding a boy’s penis and an erect one at that. She had no comparison to make but she liked the way it curved and was sure it was longer than most. The pearly drop shone in the sunshine. She did not resist her feelings, complied with her instinct, indeed followed the dream. Sasha bent and gave a gentle, tiny lick right at the tip of the penis and there was just the faintest taste of salt on her tongue. She smiled up at Nat, his startled face with its blue eyes and fair curly beard. With her hand she squeezed the shaft, both intriguingly rigid and hard within yet, at the same time, having such soft skin without; she tasted another drop on her tongue.

They kissed again as Sasha’s hand held the erection and, holding it, she realised its soft skin moved, not like say the skin on her arm or leg moved when pushed across the musculature beneath, but with a much greater freedom. Breaking the kiss she watched her hand moving the skin so it wrinkled up and rolled over the shiny head almost covering it before she rolled it down again so the bulbous head was fully revealed again.

“Do you like that? Is this right?”

Nat nodded, “Just slowly,” and kissed her again, his tongue seeking as his hand began to slide down from her breasts across her tummy, not hurrying, but with purpose in mind. The fingers came to the very edge of her vee of curly red gold hair and paused to stroke the downy softness and to run finger tips through the fine hairs and feel the soft mounding of her pubis above the bone beneath.

Sasha’s fingers left Nat’s penis and they too stroked pubic hair, Nat’s fair curls, running her fingers through and then down either side of the shaft; the shaft that rose from the growth and was so very different from her own arrangement where, instead of a penis there was just a little slit, half hidden by her curls, a slit that widened to where she was now very wet.

Nat’s finger found the little valley and began to travel downwards; Sasha’s fingers too went exploring, seeking what lay beneath the penis, again so very different from her own body for instead of her wet folds she found his hanging ball sack; her fingers curled and she held the testes in her hand; she stroked feeling the wrinkled skin, feeling the smooth egg shapes within; careful not to squeeze for she knew how vulnerable, how easily hurt boys were there; her fingers moved on down to find just smooth skin with a smattering of hair, so very different from her own body as Nat was discovering.

He, in turn, had let his finger follow the valley downwards; its tip encountered a changing texture, a softer skin and the touch of wetness and the feel of pendulous, so soft skin, skin he could hold between finger and thumb and move and gently rub; his fingers and thumb parted and moved outwards to begin a journey running downwards just where Sasha’s thighs ended and soft downy hair began, a travel down the edges of her outer, nether lips.

Sasha shuddered at the touch, her tongue thrusting deep within Nat’s mouth, she felt on fire with desire for this boy.

From far away came the sound of a combine harvester: the harvest had begun.