from his resting place, reclined on the recumbent stone. I bent over Alan, petting his prick and smiling as it stood up stiffly. It was about this time that I spotted two girls of my age watching us from the edge of the wood. I winked at them as I drew down the soft foreskin and uncovered Alan’s large swelling head, red and shining like a ripe plum. Alan, who had also spotted our two admirers, directed me to sit on his face and called the girls over saying he’d like them to play with his prick and arse. I clambered onto the recumbent stone and knelt with my knees on each side of Alan’s shoulders so that I could place my cunt full on his mouth. One of the girls lay between Alan’s legs and lifting them up, pressed back his hams and thus gained access to his upturned derrière , into which she thrust her wet tongue as far as she could. The other held Alan’s prick in her mouth but without frigging it, which, I observed, she carefully avoided as she sucked the head and gently stirred the balls.
We carried on in this way for quite some time, the sun beating down upon us, until Alan and I had simultaneous orgasms. The two girls had yet to come, so Alan and I jumped down from the recumbent and they leant back against it as we hitched up their skirts, pulled down their knickers and got to work with our tongues. Once our new friends had enjoyed orgasms, we all adjusted our clothing and got into the car. We dropped the girls in Inverurie, then made our way back past Safeway to the Easter Aquhorthies stone circle. Fortunately the route was signposted since we had to make our way up a single-track road for the best part of a mile. There was an old 2CV occupying one of the spaces in the minuscule Easter Aquhorthies car park when we arrived. We hauled Dudley out of the back seat and made our way up a track, forked right and quickly found ourselves at the stanes. I’ve forgotten what Alan told me about McCrum’s second novel A Loss of Heart as we walked back to the circle.
A 40-something hippie mama was doing a lap of the circle, placing her hands on each stone, closing her eyes and hoping to feel the energies. A considerably straighter-looking man was attempting to keep two children entertained. As soon as the bairns clocked Dudley they wanted to play with the dummy. Alan did a bit of ventriloquism, getting Dudley to explain that he liked to slit the throats of youngsters and fry up their kidneys. The kids were enthralled, their father was grateful to get a break and their mother was so consumed by her quest for mystic energies that she ignored patter that in different circumstances she may have considered offensive.
Taking his leave from the dysfunctional family, Alan returned to the subject of Robert McCrum. He began talking about the literary time-server’s third novel The Fabulous Englishman. Alan tittered that in this work McCrum’s literary powers extended no further than describing an Austrian train station as typically Austrian and the air on a station platform as carrying the smells of a train station. When Alan told me this I thought he was exaggerating McCrum’s hack style. However, when I eventually tracked down a paperback copy of the novel I found these extremely literal descriptions on pages 66 and 67 exactly as Alan had assured me I would. Mercifully, McCrum avoided the accusation that he did not know his material by making his main character a failed novelist. As we bypassed Inverurie town centre, Alan observed that being a dedicated bureaucrat McCrum not only succeeded in getting this novel published, he even received puffs in the press for his brilliant descriptions. I wondered why McCrum bothered, since most of those who read the book must have done so for the cheap laughs to be had at his expense. It was the McGonagall syndrome all over again.
By the time we reached the Aberdeen side of Inverurie, Alan had exhausted Robert McCrum’s prose as an object of ridicule. He was kept busy justifying his
We carried on in this way for quite some time, the sun beating down upon us, until Alan and I had simultaneous orgasms. The two girls had yet to come, so Alan and I jumped down from the recumbent and they leant back against it as we hitched up their skirts, pulled down their knickers and got to work with our tongues. Once our new friends had enjoyed orgasms, we all adjusted our clothing and got into the car. We dropped the girls in Inverurie, then made our way back past Safeway to the Easter Aquhorthies stone circle. Fortunately the route was signposted since we had to make our way up a single-track road for the best part of a mile. There was an old 2CV occupying one of the spaces in the minuscule Easter Aquhorthies car park when we arrived. We hauled Dudley out of the back seat and made our way up a track, forked right and quickly found ourselves at the stanes. I’ve forgotten what Alan told me about McCrum’s second novel A Loss of Heart as we walked back to the circle.
A 40-something hippie mama was doing a lap of the circle, placing her hands on each stone, closing her eyes and hoping to feel the energies. A considerably straighter-looking man was attempting to keep two children entertained. As soon as the bairns clocked Dudley they wanted to play with the dummy. Alan did a bit of ventriloquism, getting Dudley to explain that he liked to slit the throats of youngsters and fry up their kidneys. The kids were enthralled, their father was grateful to get a break and their mother was so consumed by her quest for mystic energies that she ignored patter that in different circumstances she may have considered offensive.
Taking his leave from the dysfunctional family, Alan returned to the subject of Robert McCrum. He began talking about the literary time-server’s third novel The Fabulous Englishman. Alan tittered that in this work McCrum’s literary powers extended no further than describing an Austrian train station as typically Austrian and the air on a station platform as carrying the smells of a train station. When Alan told me this I thought he was exaggerating McCrum’s hack style. However, when I eventually tracked down a paperback copy of the novel I found these extremely literal descriptions on pages 66 and 67 exactly as Alan had assured me I would. Mercifully, McCrum avoided the accusation that he did not know his material by making his main character a failed novelist. As we bypassed Inverurie town centre, Alan observed that being a dedicated bureaucrat McCrum not only succeeded in getting this novel published, he even received puffs in the press for his brilliant descriptions. I wondered why McCrum bothered, since most of those who read the book must have done so for the cheap laughs to be had at his expense. It was the McGonagall syndrome all over again.
By the time we reached the Aberdeen side of Inverurie, Alan had exhausted Robert McCrum’s prose as an object of ridicule. He was kept busy justifying his
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