Such Stuff
By Maximilian Cummings
Part 23
Friday — comes at last
Lizzie exultant.
Her dream of the Mississippi, of being underground with Tom Sawyer had been at times horrible but, in the end, she had beaten Conrad, wrested control of the dream from him and manipulated it to her own escape. She no longer needed to fear Conrad, no longer had cause to be worried about the night and what sleeping might bring. Lizzie knew how to deal with what Conrad sent her—she could change the dream providing she had time to think and deflect what he sent. Lizzie had indeed won another victory—though, of course, she still did not know how to get home.
Why had the Green Maiden said, when Lizzie had been dreaming, “You can get away, you can escape.” She had not said that Lizzie “must try”, or “must find a way.” It had been more definite. Yet she had not said how—did she know? Or was it just a dream, her own subconscious making things up? A dream within a dream.
Conrad was still in his Tower Innominate. He had scowled at her when she had gone to see him. He had said nothing and she had said nothing until, as she was leaving, Conrad had murmured almost to himself,
“Your last chance Lizzie, I don’t want to do this.”
“Do what? She had demanded but he had just smiled and turned away.
“Just let me go or you will be more than sorry.”
Lizzie had walked away back down the sunny hill to the Great House. The meeting had not spoilt her day at all. She had nothing to fear from Conrad now. She walked the long way to the village, taken tea and cakes and had a very pleasant day only spoiled by Fabian ignoring her as if she had stood him up. It had not been like that, she had not kept the appointment because she had been trapped in Oz but his crossing of the road to avoid her indicated a coolness. It was a disappointment. She would love to have tried again what lay beneath his tunic.
Lizzie sat cross-legged and naked on her bed. She had not had sex all day, had not had sex since her dream of the night before when Tom Sawyer had been with her. She felt in need, there was an itch between her legs. This need was not something she had felt so strongly before, before Conrad had entered her life. She touched her breast, the nipple reacted. Why could Fabian not have been more reasonable to her today? The two of them could be in bed now, she squeezed her nipple, those marvellous egg shaped balls could be sliding within her this very moment or perhaps his cock, which would be a more normal experience—not one she had experienced with Fabian though. Conrad’s fault.
Gently at first, her fingertips circled her breasts moving slowly towards the nipples. She squeezed them twixt fingertips—what a pity Fabian was being so standoffish—a hand slipped up a thigh. Lizzie’s eye fell on her stool. The special stool she had had made just for her by the Artful Bodger. The dildo, 8 1/2-7 with a middlin’ bend, was not in place but it took but a moment for Lizzie to find it and fit it to the stool. She let herself down. It felt so good to have something hard inside her—something that fitted so remarkably well, as if it had been made just for her! Lizzie began to ride, the hard wood sliding freely within her, her thigh muscles working, one hand curling in so its fingers could work her clit, the other at her breasts squeezing and tugging.
Puck watching, mused on the pretty scene of a young girl pleasuring herself alone, he was not sure of a more beautiful sight. He would miss Lizzie when she was gone—she had been most diverting—if she found a way to escape of course, but she was most resourceful.
The climax was approaching; Lizzie was almost bouncing on the stool now, her fingers busy. She could feel it building, yes she was almost there and then... gasping, panting with eyes tightly shut she came.
Unlike a real penis the wooden dildo did not self-extract: it remained rigid and hard within Lizzie. She could not just slide off the stool and get into bed but she had to rise, use her thigh muscles to lift her up to stand above the stool, the wood sliding from her, before she would be able to flop into bed.
Lizzie looked back at the wet stick rising from a puddle of moisture. She thought it would have been good to have introduced the Green Maiden to the stool, and she imagined them taking it in turns to ride, each sliding anew on the other’s wetness.
She tumbled into bed feeling ready for sleep. “Really tired, really sleepy, really quite worn out, really sleepy, really...”
Lizzie could feel she was on a beach, the sand beneath her was warm and crumbly, and there was the sound of the surf coming up before it ran back down into the sea. She knew she was dreaming again. She laid spread eagled upon sand with the sun beating down upon her naked skin. The light was so bright that she could see red, from the sun’s light, penetrating through her eyelids. She could feel the warm sand and took a handful only to let it trickle out through her fingers.
“I’ve been here before,” she thought. Lizzie knew where she was - she was sure she was back on Crusoe’s island. Her eyes blinked open. She had loved being here before and not just because of the wonderful swimming, the beauty of the island and feeling of freedom but there was Friday as well. Friday—Robinson Crusoe’s native manservant who he had rescued from the Cannibals. Lizzie had missed Friday, more than she realised, that, ‘comely, handsome fellow, perfectly well made, with straight, strong limbs, not too large; tall, and well-shaped.’
Lizzie wandered along the sand looking for Friday. But what an awful Surprise she had. Instead of discovering the Print of a Man’s Foot she looked up to see fifteen or twenty Savages racing along the beach pursuing her, and by the Swiftness of their Running, no Possibility of her escaping them. Her eyes opened in fear for not only were the Savages armed with Spears but also they were lead by a familiar Figure ridiculously adorned with some sort of headdress in Yellow and Black. Lizzie began running but she did not think she would be able to Escape. This was not how ‘Robinson Crusoe’ was meant to be!
There was a Shout and a Bang, quickly followed by further retorts. It was Friday on the headland with fowling-pieces. Friday took his Aim again. He had already kill’d two of them, and wounded three more. The Savages were, you may be sure, in a dreadful Consternation; and all of them, who were not hurt, turned upon their Feet, but did not immediately know which way to run, or which way to look; for they knew not from whence their Destruction came; they ran about yelling, and skreaming, like mad Creatures, all bloody, and miserably wounded, most of them; whereof three more fell quickly after, though not quite dead. Lizzie kept on toward Friday and Safety but looking back she could see Conrad shaking his fist in frustration, disbelief and rage before fleeing back with the remaining Savages to the Canoes.
With the Savages in full flight Lizzie was free to embrace Friday, tears streaming down her face. It really did seem Conrad had been out to Kill her: not just imprison or frighten her but really kill her. She could not believe even he could be so Evil. Was this what he had meant by her last Chance? Her eyes opened in even greater astonishment surely he had not meant to Eat her? She could not believe that even of him. There must be another explanation. It was only a dream after all, wasn’t it? A dream within a dream.
Already the dead bodies were fading as they had done when she had first come to Crusoe’s island. Could it be because she had been to Crusoe’s Island before that Conrad had been beaten again. He had not known she had been here—he had meant her to go to a different island, she remembered, with the Swiss Family Robinson but she had chosen her own Dream and it had been free of him—Conrad had not found her there. Yes, her choice had prepared Friday to protect her, had thwarted Conrad’s plan to hurt or frighten. She kissed Friday.
The horrid Conrad gone and with him the Savages living or dead Lizzie was delighted to be back in her dream of Friday. She had not forgotten that last time she had Awoken before he had had the chance to Fuck her and she did not want to risk waking up too soon this time. She loved this island dream and resolved to Avoid intercourse, at least at first anyway.
Crusoe had kept a Journal in Defoe’s story and Lizzie found she too was keeping one and writing it very much as Crusoe might have done, she wrote,
‘The Reason why I could not go quite naked, was, I could not bear the heat of the Sun so well when quite naked, as with some Cloaths on; nay, the very Heat frequently blistered my Skin; whereas with a Shirt on, the Air itself made some Motion, and whistling under that Shirt was twofold cooler than without it; no more could I ever bring my self to go out in the heat of Sun, without a Cap or a Hat; the heat of the Sun beating with such Violence as it does in that Place, would give me the Head-ach.’
Lizzie was certainly careful to wear her wide brimmed grass Hat and a big man’s Shirt and this not only allowed the breeze to whistle within her shirt but let her breasts bounce free and, lower down, afforded Friday glimpses of her bare Bottom and fair Curls. He reacted to these sights in a Manly way and Lizzie was pleased to see it. Whilst Crusoe was most particular about seeing Friday clothed Lizzie saw things rather differently, and certainly had a different feeling for Friday than had the Crusoe of the book. Lizzie was very happy to see Friday naked and enjoyed watching his straight, strong limbs, tall and well-shaped, his very tight small muscular bottom and, of course, his lovely soft Penis and hanging Balls framed by a nest of dark hair. She was ever pleased to see his Penis stir, more than happy to see it rise, indeed once risen she would often keep it in that state for a long time by judicious use of her hands. They could be in the cave, walking along the beach or moving through the forest and Lizzie’s hands would be at work maintaining Firmness. It was an incongruous sight. Lizzie with her home-made rough sandals or boots, long white man’s shirt and wide brimmed grass hat perhaps carrying a spear or gun and beside her Friday, naked, his well oiled olive skin shining, he too carrying a spear, gun or stores or food yet with his Penis not at rest but fully Erect. One time, Lizzie and Friday managed a two-hour trek across the Island with Friday erect the whole way but often Lizzie would overdo her handwork and send him Spurting across the sand or onto the forest floor.
Sometimes of course she would be particularly kind to Friday and take his penis in her mouth, letting him Release himself there before continuing what else they were doing. Lizzie settled easily into life on the island. Of course being a dream, time passed at a varying rate but Lizzie found herself busy doing what Crusoe would have done and some things Crusoe would not have done.
‘Whenever I sucked on his Penis I observ’d an extraordinary Sense of Pleasure appear’d in his Face, and his Eyes sparkled, and his Countenance discover’d a strange Eagerness. You may be sure I was every Day pumping him to keep him happy with me. Causing his Penis to spurt Manfully in the air.’
Of course it was not just Friday who was alternatively sexually aroused and satisfied. Lizzie had her needs too—it was her dream after all—and much as she enjoyed playing with Friday’s cock, indeed it was almost like having one of her own to play with, and sucking the Plum of its large light coffee coloured head, she needed playing with as well.
Friday was more than happy to oblige, though puzzled why his mistress would not let him fuck her. It took great self control on his part not change position and Push himself into her when he had his fingers in her feeling how Wet she was or was lying between her thighs with his Tongue in the place he so desired.
Lizzie was happy in her dream; she did not want to leave it. She had beaten Conrad yet again and thought she must now finally be Free of him. Of course she needed to Escape but her dream of Crusoe’s island was so wonderful, so satisfying and she was happy to bask in it. The island really was like a perpetual summer Holiday, lots of good things to eat, beautiful beaches to swim or fish from and the Company of a wonderful man. From being a servant, a dumb servant she had to communicate with by sign language, Friday was becoming a Friend, a friend apt to learn her Language and, indeed, he was becoming something more:
‘This was the pleasantest time of all the Life I led in this Place; Friday began to talk pretty well, and understand the Names of almost every Thing I had occasion to call for, and of every Place I had to send him to, and talk’d a great deal to me; so that in short I began now to have some Use for my Tongue again, which indeed I had very little occasion for before apart from on his great Penis; that is to say, about Speech; besides the Pleasure of talking to him, I had a singular Satisfaction in the Fellow himself; his simple unfeign’d Honesty, appear’d to me more and more every Day, and I began really to love the Creature; and on his Side, I believe he lov’d me more than it was possible for him ever to love any Thing before.’
Whilst Lizzie was not anxious to wake from her lovely dream, indeed was happy to stay dreaming, her desire to be Fucked by Friday was steadily growing and it was very clear to her that his wishes strongly coincided with her own. Of course it might be Penetration by Friday would not cause her to Wake: but she remembered her Frustration when she was last on Crusoe’s island—waking too soon when Friday had been just about to fuck her. Lizzie wrote in her journal that:
‘Friday and I need to become more intimately acquainted, and know everything about each other’s Bodies.’
Fingers, thumbs, and tongue—all these Friday had had in her but not his Cock. The Hinting was getting stronger. Only the day before, whilst pleasuring her, he had pushed a long almost penis shaped shell into her, Motioning intercourse. The corrugations of the shell had excited Lizzie as it had been pushed in and out of her; she had enjoyed lying back on the sand, legs wide open as Friday had worked the magic. Of course she had not at all misunderstood the Symbolism, what Friday was trying to suggest to her. The lovely coffee coloured Plum had stayed full as he had pleased her but she had not relented however much she had wanted to feel its soft hardness pushing into her. Instead she had got him down on the sand and sat astride his face letting him have free reign with his Tongue whilst she had bent forward and Sucked the Plum. For Lizzie it proved a perfect Orgasm - she coming just at the very moment the plum Spurted. She sucking greedily as electric waves flowed up from between her legs.
Poor Friday’s face was a picture when Lizzie got off him—shiny wet with her excitement. Lizzie licked his face before kissing him, her tongue rolling around his own.
It was next day. Lizzie was walking along the sand with Friday - not hand in hand: instead, as was their Custom, it was cock in hand. As Lizzie so often did, she was walking along gaily chatting with Friday her hand clasped around his erect penis. The Plan was for a swimming day and a barbecue of fish on the beach. Lizzie loved swimming and fishing with Friday—it was still like being on a perfect holiday—being completely Free and Naked with him as they swum seeking out the best type of Fish. Sometimes she was able to sneak up on him unawares and make him jump. Once she caught his Penis in her mouth- the speed at which he leapt away thinking some great Fish was about to bite his Manhood off had been so amusing. It had taken Friday quite a time to see the funny side of it.
Part of a perfect holiday for many young people is not just the sand and sea but the Sex, and that morning Lizzie’s mind was turning to that, perhaps it was having an erect cock in her hand, perhaps it was the Heat but Lizzie felt really excited, her sex ready and wet for Intercourse. She slid Friday’s foreskin up and down a few times, hiding and then revealing the head, pulled Friday to her, kissing him long and hard, her hand moving his cock. She really did want it inside her today. Friday responded slipping down her chest, sucking on her Nipples and pulling them with his teeth as his hand slipped between her thighs. Lizzie’s arms went up and round Friday’s neck and with a little bound pulled herself up, her Thighs opening wide as her legs wrapped around him and she let herself down, down to let Friday’s cock slide easily and smoothly up into her.
Friday was astounded. After all this time of waiting it had happened all in a Moment—he was inside Lizzie, inside his Mistress, her wet heat enfolding him. It was she who was moving, bouncing on his cock, rather than himself. This was not how a man should treat a Woman—it was for him to make the action and push himself in and out of her. So Friday began to Walk, the motion causing his penis to rise and fall as it slid easily inside Lizzie and, with her arms around his neck, his hands were free to fondle and caress her Breasts within her shirt.
They had not gone far when Friday dropped to his knees and fell across Lizzie to continue Intercourse in the most traditional position. Friday’s bottom rose and fell as he Pumped Lizzie—a wriggling Lizzie lost in the ecstasy of the moment. She had denied herself this for too long in this dream—a real fuck—that her excitement and pleasure was building and building. The sheer delight of having this lovely man on top of her fucking her with the hot sand beneath her as a bed was an utter Joy. She was coming, coming and deep within her she could feel Friday come as well—spurting, spurting as the Plum released his Love into her. Lizzie’s head thrashed from side to side as the waves kept coming up her Body just like the waves on the beach. And as the waves of Pleasure slowly subsided so did the Sounds of the sea and the Island.
There was silence. Lizzie lay still in the aftermath of her orgasm, warm, satiated, cosy and happy. As she had feared, her dream of Crusoe’s Island had been ended, just as before, by letting Friday have her—but what a fuck! Perhaps she could dream that again tomorrow night? She lay there, thinking about Friday, thinking about the island, thinking about what she would do the next day. Should she walk in the woods and meet the delightful Artful Bodger and then go on for tea and cake in the village? Should she try and make up with Fabian? Should she try a different road or path—how far did Conrad’s world of imagination extend? Should she go and see Conrad again and have a Confrontation? Lizzie lay quietly thinking until it stole up on her that the bed felt different, the clock’s tick sounded different, the smell of the room was different though very familiar - indeed what could be more familiar than the bedroom she had slept in for most of her life? Lizzie’s eyes opened wide in surprise. She was home!
Or was she just dreaming? She jumped from her bed and turned on the light. The room looked real, it smelt real, it sounded real and, most importantly, it felt real. There, hanging on the end of the bed waiting for her was the nightie her granny had given her. There on the chest of drawers were her things, even Rabbit, the soft toy she had cuddled since she was smaller than she could remember. Lizzie sat back naked on the bed trying to puzzle out what had happened—how she had got home. What had she done? All she could think was last time she had been on Crusoe’s Island—or last time she had dreamt about Crusoe’s Island—she had been here in this bed. Her mother had woken her just as she was about to be fucked by dear Friday (there was a feeling of loss)—perhaps the resumption of the interrupted bout, in her just finished dream, had somehow brought her back on a track that led to her own bed and not back to Conrad’s world. How peculiar it all was—to move in dreams from one world to another or rather one book to another, for had not Conrad been insistent he was writing a story and Lizzie would be in it? And had she not read part of that book? Lizzie pulled on the familiar nightie, her hands stroking its reality. Had it all been just a dream? She was tired—dare she go to sleep again? Well, it would not hurt to get back into her warm bed.
The scream of delight woke Lizzie. It was her mother hugging her for dear life, tears streaming down her cheeks, “Lizzie, Lizzie dearest where have you been? Daddy,” she shouted, “our baby’s home.”
The joy of Lizzie’s parents at finding their daughter can only be imagined. It was immediately clear to the awakened Lizzie that not only was she really home but she really had been away, really been missing for weeks. A missing person. The date in the newspapers was undeniable. The Police had to be called and Lizzie had to answer innumerable questions from her parents and the Police. But what could she say? What could she answer? How could she explain? It was if she had been whisked off by the fairies.
Lizzie was not allowed out on her own for days and days. Her unsatisfactory answers to questions had not been well received. “I’m all right Mummy, really I am, just don’t ask. Nothing has happened you need to worry about. Really, please don’t ask.”
The bookshop owner had not seen Conrad for quite a time and was annoyed with his abrupt disappearance. It had inconvenienced him. “He should have given proper notice. Are you a friend of his, do you know where he is?”
Lizzie could hardly admit that, most certainly, she did know where Conrad was—locked up in somewhere called the ‘Tower Innominate’ situated on a hill in a half finished book. It did not sound very likely at all: not to someone who had not been there. The most she could bring herself to say was she was ‘sort of a friend.’ But even that grated on her tongue. The bookshop owner did however tell her where Conrad lived and Lizzie went to look. It was a very ordinary Victorian house converted to bed-sits—not in the best part of town.
The owner of the bed-sits was equally unhappy with Conrad. He had disappeared and now owed rent. She was about to throw his stuff out and re-let the room. Was Lizzie interested? She might be. The landlady gave Lizzie the key whilst she got on with cleaning.
It was very strange for Lizzie to find herself standing in the doorway of the very room she had seen from Conrad’s chamber in the Great House. It really was the room; there was no doubt about it. She could surely not have got the detail so right in her head if she had been dreaming—could she? With a sense of trepidation Lizzie stepped into the room and closed the door, a feeling almost of fear. It was several minutes before she could bring herself to do what she knew she had to do.
Lizzie turned to the bed and then slowly got down on her knees on the scratchy carpet to look under the bed. Would the yellow Parker pen be there where it had landed when she had so foolishly thrown it that morning in Conrad’s chamber? Lizzie bent a little lower and stopped. She swallowed. It was there. She reached out to pick up the pen that was lying in the dust under the bed, just as in her heart she had known it would be there. Her fingers paused half an inch from its yellow body. Did she really want to touch it again? Why not just leave the thing and go? She now knew for certain what she had dreamt had been true—but could she really leave the pen and risk someone else picking it up and writing with it?
Her hand closed over the shiny yellow barrel and she pulled it towards her.
In her hand it seemed so ordinary. Just a rather lovely fountain pen in a rather garish yellow with black top and bottom and gold bands and clip. Lizzie looked at it in her hand as she eased herself upright again. She turned to look at the wall facing the bed. She was not surprised to see the doorway opening, opening through to Conrad’s chamber. Lizzie could see right into it, could see the tall clerk’s desk where she had sat writing in Conrad’s book—indeed, though she could not see, the very book might well be on the desk. She stepped to the wall and stopped, just looking into the chamber. Should she? A frisson of excitement came through her and not just of wonder or at seeing a place she well remembered, Lizzie recognised it as the thrill of sexual excitement as if the strange nature of the place was radiating out to her through the doorway in the wall.
Almost without thinking her arm came up and found no resistance. She pulled her arm back—it came. Should she walk through?
One moment she was in the bed-sit: the next she was in Conrad’s chamber looking back. She stepped back into the bed-sit—there was no resistance, no difficulty at all.
The chamber was how she had left it—the book was still there on the desk. She opened it. Nothing further had been written. Lizzie had no particular interest in the room but she wanted to know what was happening outside. She opened the wooden door and peaked out into the corridor. There was no one there. Did they know she was gone? Had she been gone the days she had been home? It was too much of a temptation not to go out into the corridor, look out of windows and see the Great House and its gardens again, the house of her strange dreams—the house of her sexual awakening. To see it not in a dream but just as real as if she had crossed the road to the Post Office.
From a window Lizzie gazed out across the Quadrangle to where the Guard marched resplendent in their ornamentals. Lizzie looked with desire at their manhood—properly encased in silver cages—what fun it would be to be with them and unlock the cages. To her left dear Chevalier Heuron walked across in deep conversation with his friend, the possessor of the ridiculous codpiece. To her right Mallow was dancing with one of her friends both (almost) dressed in the thinnest gauze.
Lizzie wanted to go out, see her friends, talk with them and perhaps, no definitely, engage in...
Lizzie bit her lip. It was happening again, the insidious, seductive nature of the place was getting to her, exciting her, bringing her need for sex to the fore—changing her. Lizzie bit her lip and resisted by turning away and walking, walking away from them along the stone flags of the corridor. From another window she could look out across the countryside to where the Tower Innominate stood high on its hill. She scowled as she thought she could espy through a window in the tower a hint of yellow—the source of her change. Her resolution hardened.
Quietly, secretly, quite unobserved, Lizzie returned to the chamber. She could not stay here in the Great House—much as she liked both it and its people in so many, many ways—she could not risk treating it and them, as Conrad had done, as a pleasure garden to visit and lord over. She could do that, oh yes, she was sure she could do that now she had the pen again. No, she must leave, never to return. But what of Conrad? Should he stay locked forever in the Tower Innominate? Horrid, horrid man. Even so, did he deserve—or moreover would it do him any good to stay locked away—forever? Would it make him any better, make him reflect and realise what he had done wrong? Oh yes, the punishment fitted the crime: but what about any idea of reforming Conrad? Continual punishment would fuel resentment not remorse and a personal redefinition.
Slowly Lizzie unscrewed the cap of the Parker Duofold pen.
“The Chevalier, being kinder than most, decided that Conrad, despite his grievous errors, should be permitted to leave the Tower Innominate every third day and reside those days as a private denizen of the Great House until eleven of the clock at night.”
For some time she sat looking at the words she had written, an idea she was putting into the Chevalier Heuron’s head, and then stood and without looking back, walked through the doorway and into the bed-sit. Placing the pen in her pocket the doorway was already fading as she opened the door and left the bed-sit.
No, she did not wish to rent the room.
Despite what she thought, Lizzie had not actually been alone in Conrad’s chamber. As the doorway shimmered and disappeared a small figure in a blue cap could be seen, if you knew where to look, shaking his head gently from side to side, saying to no one at all,
“Lizzie, Lizzie Sherrell, you are too sweet and kind by half. You really ought not have done that—let the Writer out. Ho, ho, no! But ‘tis all amusement to me—so should I care?”
Home again, Elizabeth Sherrell carefully placed the yellow pen in her dressing table drawer and turned the key. She had beaten Conrad, won against the seduction of his story and controlled her own lust. She sighed, thinking wistfully of what might have been, it was not that easy to suppress desire now it had been raised to such a pitch. She would miss Friday, miss the Guard, miss her friend, the Green Maiden—miss people who were her friends, indeed people she had been more than friendly with. Lizzie, though, had real things to do, a real university course to follow, substantial real world challenges: not made up, make believe things to do that are only possible in dreams. How could she really have dreamt such things, even been dreaming dreams within a dream? That chapter of her life was over: the new chapter started now and that was not a dream at all. With resolution Lizzie picked up one of the new books she had bought and needed to read before her English course started. It was a poetry anthology down the years. The new book fell open and Lizzie read, with a growing disquiet, the poem (by Poe) on the page:
Take this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow—You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the golden sand—How few! yet how they creepThrough my fingers to the deep,While I weep—while I weep!O God! can I not graspThem with a tighter clasp?O God! can I not saveOne from the pitiless wave?Is all that we see or seemBut a dream within a dream?