The late morning light was muted as Declan and Aoife stepped out of the shelter of the forest and found themselves in a grazing pasture. Turning north to keep their distance from Enniscorthy, they walked side by side through the grass and clover as sheep and lambs bleated and trotted from their path. Soon they climbed over a flower dappled stone wall and crossed the road to scale the wall on the other side.
In the next field, a small farmhouse was visible, and upon approaching they beheld the farmer carrying a shovel, his young son at his side. Exchanging pleasant greetings, Declan inquired where there might be a public house, and as the wee lad gaped at Declan's battered face, the man gave them directions to the village of Monageer.
'Twas almost an hour's walk through the countryside, during which they happened upon occasional farm tenants but mercifully no Yeomen or Redcoats. Monageer proved to be a small village with a church and a few shops among the homes. Here and there, people were about on the main street --- men and women engaged in conversation in front of the houses, children playing. A few curious glances were cast in their direction as they passed by.
There was one tavern in town, at the end of the lane, as the farmer had described. Entering the establishment, they discovered a pleasant room with a low fire in the grate and chatting customers at the bar and tables. Declan scanned the room before selecting barstools at the far end from whence he could observe the door and windows.
A middle-aged barkeeper was leaning on the counter, conversing with a man at the opposite end, but as they seated themselves, he straightened and crossed to wait upon them. "What'll it be, lads?"
"Tea." Declan looked at Aoife; she nodded. "For both of us. What have ye to eat?"
The man raised a finger and stepped through a doorway behind the bar. Upon his return he announced, "Colcannon or black pudding and eggs."
Declan and Aoife burst out giggling at the words 'black pudding', Aoife ducking her pink face. As the puzzled proprietor continued to look at them, they spoke nigh in unison, "Black pudding and eggs."
Aoife's face alight with mirth was so comely, Declan could scarce restrain his adoring stare...but she was a lad, he reminded himself...they mustn't draw unwanted attention.
The man soon returned with the tea. "What happened to yer face, lad? Looks like ye've been worked over right well."
Declan shook his head, one corner of his lips quirking up. "A misguided wager at the tavern last night, so it was. But you should see the other lad." He winked his good eye.
The hot, strong tea was a welcome restorative, doing wonders for his sore throat. They drank in wordless appreciation, Aoife wrapping her fingers about her cup and inhaling the steam. The food when it arrived was excellent as well, and Declan was by and by feeling freshly fortified.
But as equal as he now felt to confronting his dilemma, he was having no better luck finding a solution. Intermittently he glanced at the now red-haired 'lad' next to him.
'Twas whilst they were eating that Aoife's hand froze upon her teacup and she sat up straight, her eyes widening. Declan took in her distressed expression, and his eyes flew to the door and windows. Finding nothing amiss, he murmured. "Are ye ill?"
Her eyes were fixed ahead. Declan followed her gaze to the other end of the bar and beheld the barkeeper --- occupied with nothing at all extraordinary. Mystified, he looked back at her. Now she was staring at her plate, poking at the eggs with her fork as her cheeks reddened. She shifted upon her stool awkwardly. Declan's eyes dropped, and he at once perceived the cause of her discomposure: there upon the blue wool in the crotch of her breeches was a darker wet spot about the size of a gold crown.
His spunk was running out of her cunny!
Declan's own cheeks swiftly flushed as he imagined the vision between her legs. They both sat with their hot faces tilted down towards their food. All he could see, however, was her wee pink slit with a trickle of his pearly seed emerging. The sensations from earlier in the morning overwhelmed him: the sight of her wide-stretched aperture skewered on his glistening cock...the feel of the hot flesh of her vagina gripping him...the sounds of her moans and breathing. He was powerless to halt the unfurling of his machine inside his breeches, and he soon had to tug his coat forward to hide the obvious, bulging protrusion under the wool.
He took a draught of the tea, then coughed and cleared his throat. When he glanced towards Aoife, he saw her lowered gaze fixed upon his lap. A moment later, her big eyes fastened upon his. Her pale irises were glowing even as they received the burning, silent message in his own eyes. With his heartbeat quickening, Declan signaled the barkeeper and reached for his knapsack to grab his coin pouch.
As he paid, he said in a nonchalant tone, "Do you let rooms?" To the negative reply, he asked if there was an inn in the village. Aoife had dismounted the stool and was fussing with her knapsack straps, hiding her blushing face.
Again, the man shook his head. "Sorry, lads, there's no inn, but ye might try Cavanaugh, the butcher down the lane. They sometimes have a room to let."
Declan thanked him and they headed out, he holding his knapsack in front of the indecent display in his breeches. They hastened from town, by mutual, unspoken understanding bypassing the butcher's shop --- 'twas far too personal a setting for what they were contemplating. They strode side by side along the road from town, their wits possessed only of the desperate search for a secluded place to indulge in Love's sweet commission.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats ahead of them recalled them to their circumstances, and they leapt over a stone wall to hide in a field. Two men on horseback trotted by wearing civilian garb; they were not soldiers.
But the scare kept them off the road as they roved on...the pressure of wanting waxing more and more insistent. They passed cottages, haybales, and trees...but everywhere they saw people at work in the fields. Nowhere could they find sure solitude, and Declan was nigh ready to throw caution to the wind and tumble her down behind the next shrub. Nigh an hour had passed --- at this rate they should have simply headed back to the waterfall when they had left the tavern. Now, that haven was some two hours in the opposite direction.
They were presently following a stream that separated two fields, lured by the cover of trees that grew upon its banks, but the potential opportunity was thwarted by the sighting a pair of men some hundred paces distant, walking through the young barley with hoes upon their shoulders. Declan waved friendly-like even as he shared an expression of frustration with Aoife.
Onward they proceeded, leaving the farmers behind as they crossed a stone wall into the neighboring pasture. The terrain was growing slightly hillier as they continued along the stream, passing grazing sheep and nursing lambs.
Declan's attention perked as he beheld what appeared to be a ruined structure at the crest of the hill, next to the stream and attended by scattered white-flowering blackthorn trees. With the exchange of a hopeful look, they redoubled their pace, soon reaching a jumbled array of large stones. It appeared to be a fallen cromleach, so it did --- indeed, quite similar to the ancient stone structure in which they had taken shelter that night in September...the night when Aoife had fled him.
In the present case, the standing stones on one side, along with the massive cap stone had collapsed, but several large stones remained upright on the other side. The smooth granite boulders were spotted with lichen and surrounded by a riot of shamrock and varied colored flowers.
They scrambled to scout round the stones and vicinity, miraculously discovering themselves at last alone, with nary a soul in sight in the fields on all sides. Declan did not long ponder the irony of this gift after Fate's capriciousness.
As they rounded the boulders from opposite directions, they faced each other for a second --- hearts pounding and eyes fervid, then Declan leapt towards Aoife to seize her in his arms, lifting her off her feet as he bent her to his ravenous kisses. Her arms flung about his neck and her slim, warm body molded to his as their tongues and lips melded in slippery rapture. Between the push of his hips and the tightening of his arm round her waist, he pressed his aching cock hard against her belly. "Oh lass, I'm rare famished for ye!" he muttered between kisses.
He released her from his embrace only to frantically tug open the buttons of her coat, pulling it from her and tossing it aside. She likewise pushed his coat over his shoulders and stripped it off. Then their hands bumped together as they worked at each other's breeches --- she with his straining buttoned flap, he struggling to undo the knot of her rope belt. She won the race and next grabbed the fastening of his drawers. Simultaneously, he at last freed her rope belt and fumbled with her buttons. With his drawers undone, his raging cockstand sprang free.
A whimpering sigh accompanied her renewed embrace, her small body nigh climbing up him to grind her mound against his upright iron. "Aye, love! Aye! I want ye something fierce! Let's get these confounded breeches off ye!" Declan growled, trying to yank the loosened garment down over her writhing hips. But some force was inexplicably opposing him, and he realized that even as he was pulling downwards, she was dropping to her knees before him with an impatient squeal, her arms yet wrapped round him and sliding down over his back and buttocks.
Declan stared in shock as Aoife, clutching the back of his thighs, lavished his privates...cock, ballocks and all...with kisses. One of her hands shifted to grasp his rigid organ and angle it down from his belly, and she at once tried to cover it with her open mouth.
"Oh God!" Declan whispered; she was clearly attempting to mimic what they had witnessed from the wardrobe: the oral exertions of the maid Charlotte upon the Yeoman officer! But the friction between his bulbous knob and her small mouth stymied her first, brave foray.
Not to be denied, Aoife hastily regrouped and began again with her lips, kissing his crown as she held the shaft in her fist. The kiss was deeper and more pointed than the first shower and incorporated the soft stroking of her wet tongue. Declan was reeling at the glorious, novel sensation of a lass's lingual caresses upon his tool...he sighed and leant back against the tall stone behind him, his thighs braced apart as Aoife knelt in the flowers between his feet. His face tilted down to watch agog as her lovely face explored his groin.
Ardent and agile, her tongue was all over him, painting his overheated musket with velvety swabs, coating the hot skin with spittle...her wee pink muscle traveling up and down the length of his shaft and breadth of his ruddy helmet. In evident awe, the tip of her tongue poked at the tiny hole in his cockhead. Now her eyelashes and hair were tickling his belly as she wetted the sturdy root...even lapping at his tautly wrinkled bandoliers. Declan stroked her hair as her head shifted about, freeing the fiery locks from its tie.
Soon his entire affair was festooned with slobber from stem to stones and tingling in the breeze.
Aoife paused, her eager fingers struggling to regrip as much of his girth as she could, then her mouth...open, soft, and glossy slick...sealed to the top of his knob. She pushed down on him, her lips stretching and stretching into a wide 'O' over his cock.
