Depiction of Fiona
A story about love and art, not a stroke story. This story is more of elderly people's love tale. It might inspire you, but it won't make your heart race as overly dramatic movies do. The main characters are in their late fifties, and they're British, so don't expect much action during the love scenes.
Fiona Birchwood sat under a green leafy tree, her lower back resting against the trunk, and sketched with oil-based ink. She was capturing the beauty of the forest, her passion. Fiona preferred to rest her art pad on her legs instead of using an easel. It's an uncomfortable position, made worse by arthritis, but this was her preferred way to paint. So engrossed was she with her creation, she didn't notice the pain nor her discomfort.
A nuthatch hopped close by, fearless of the artist. Fiona swiftly captured its outline in a single, fluid line. Her eyes brimmed with grateful tears upon seeing the flawless sketch of the adorable bird. She decided to paint in only black and white, willing to leave behind the vibrant colors of her subject. She rose, feeling weariness in her knees. The weight of her art supplies and the ache in her joints would come back as soon as her moment of solitude in the woods was over.
Fiona carried her painting tools back to their home, passing by the wooden and stone sculptures painted with beautiful colors in the lush garden. She looked at each sculpture individually, then smiled at the flowers growing beautifully in the border of the flowerbed. Their yellow petals seemed to dance with joy in the April sunlight.
As she entered, she saw Harry in the kitchen, watching her. He was patiently waiting for her help to put on his shoes. She smiled back but dreaded to resume helping him, missing the solitude brought by her time alone in the woods.
Harry was an artist, but after his stroke, paintings almost became history for him. His hands still held a paintbrush, but wood carving was now impossible. He had slipped back into drinking a bottle of wine a day, after 30 years.
Their lives were simple. Their savings were limited, but they didn't mind. They didn't need children to educate, nor vacations. They had a lovely cottage with a beautiful garden. Friends visited often, and Fiona's paintings were making a few sales. She even used the power of Facebook to share her work, enjoying the positive feedback, even though it mostly came from her artist friends.
She gently guided his feet into his slippers. "Tea's ready if you could bring it out", Harry said as he sat on a wooden kitchen chair.
She led him outside to the garden table, gently aiding him without taking control. After they were seated, she showed him the painting of the nuthatch.
"It's beautiful, Fiona", Harry praised, awed by the simplicity and beauty of the sketch.
She got up, rushing to immortalize the subject digitally. She pulled out a camera and her laptop. Harry sighed and watched her set up the editing table against a tree stump, a great addition to the background.
When she returned to the table, Harry started to talk, a little more than hesitant. "Darling, I think..."
Fiona started flipping through the photos she'd just taken, checking the back of her camera for possible errors.
"What do you think, Harry?"
"Well, darling... you know?"
She closed the laptop, "Yes, the Internet addiction..." she began to chuckle.
"I know, it's reckless, and it seems everyone does it. Just wait for the tea, please."
Fiona resumed her seat, "I'm just so happy, about Nigel the nuthatch."
"'Nigel the nuthatch'?", Harry looked amused.
She laughed again, "Yes, he deserved a name."
Harry sighed heavily, "I think, I might be jealous, darling... I wish I still painted."
"Harry, I..." her voice trailed off when she saw the flash of pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Alexander. I'm sorry dearest. But surely it can wait till after we've had tea."
Just then, Alex closed the laptop. "Of course, there's nothing more important than our time together."
A beautiful depiction of a nuthatch caught her eye, the black bird helmet, the white breast, and the delicate beak, all making a cute package. She felt sad for the shattered life he had. He was trapped in his body, a walking mess, while his mind was still as brilliant as ever. "No one can do anything for you, my love. These sketches are the only way you could create. I'll stay with you until we both pass. I'll make sure you're content."
A glimmer of a smile appeared on his face, "I love you, Fiona."
Fiona replied affectionately, "I love you too, Alexander." She focused on the present, cherishing the little moments that made life worth living, If there's life in his withered body, she'd stay with him till the end
Fiona delayed posting the image until nighttime. She'd set the fire previously and it was now burning brightly. Harry was lounging in his armchair, reading. With a sigh, she shut the laptop before preparing her "nightcap," a blend of marijuana and tobacco. The cannabis was weak, cultivated in their garden.
Fiona plopped herself down in her own armchair and started up the laptop again, checking her Facebook page for comments and likes. There were already four 'likes'! One of them was from someone she didn't recognize: He'd also left a comment.
"Cool photo! Are you the same Fiona Birchwood who was pals with Pippa and Emma in London during the 70s? Not sure if you remember me, I'm Nathan Brown, a friend of Jeremy Cooper, from Hampstead."
Fiona mulled it over. Although she'd been friends with Pippa since their teenage years and chatted with her every now and then, she couldn't place the name 'Nathan Brown.'
She searched for his Facebook profile. He was about her age, in his middle fifties. A lean, grey-haired man, reasonably attractive. Reminded her of Nat, Jeremy's skinny buddy from their high school years. They'd shared a fleeting moment after Jeremy's party, while they were both eighteen.
She invested the subsequent hour in sifting through his wall posts and photos, learning about what had unfolded in Nat's life since they last crossed paths. Exploring his profile was a first for Fiona, uncovering someone's life via Facebook, and she found it thrilling.
He was divorced, with two college-aged sons. His ex-spouse, whose Facebook profile she located, was a stunning woman of Asian or Middle Eastern descent. A photographer. Nat appeared to be a scientist now but still dabbled in music. His sons were both musicians too. Fiona recognized Nat playing the piano at Pippa's gathering.
He now resided on a canal boat in London, and it looked enchanting.
"What are you doing, sweetheart?" Harry's voice jolted her.
"Just perusing some pictures."
"Ah, okay. I guess I'll head to bed." That was Harry's way of requesting her help in going up the stairs.
Trying not to appear overeager to get back to her computer, she helped Harry off to sleep.
"Thanks, darling. Will you be following soon?"
"In a bit."
"Fine, goodnight, love."
Fiona retreated to the living room, delighted to have privacy. For Mrs. Brown. she typed a response to Nat's Facebook comment:
"Absolutely! I do remember you! I'm still in touch with Pippa."
By ten o'clock, Fiona's thoughts were saturated with memories of her eighteen-year-old self: A big-eyed, dark-haired young lady, passionate about nature. A virgin, planning to save herself for "The One": He'd be an artist, like her, appreciating nature and the countryside. Possessing wealth yet not materialistic, Oxbridge educated, intelligent but not a scholar. Essentially, that was Harry.
She recollected more about their acquaintance, Jeremy, a Cambridge student, a mathematician. He had a working-class background in contrast to Fiona and Pippa. Nonetheless, he was fun, giving her an introduction to London life with its newness.
Pippa had invited Fiona to join Jeremy's bash. At his soirée, Fiona had heard reggae music for the first time. All the guys danced clumsily to it.
She recollected that for the festivity, she had worn a fitting black dress, flaunting her petite silhouette. However, she'd fretted over appearing overdressed, swapping her heels for Dr. Marten's boots and fastening Indian beads around her neck, merging hippie and punk cultures in an awkward mix.
At the soirée, Fiona had received much attention from males. Like today, she'd often smiled and chuckled, exhibiting her wide lips and big black eyes. But as soon as she'd begun conversing, the boys would slowly lose interest. She'd never grasped flirting; she would be too obsessive. Yet she believed that The One would fully comprehend; he wouldn't boast about his scholarship or ask her to dance: He would chat about Art, Nature, and Beauty, as she did, gleaming with affection much like Harry executed when they first met.
She remembered Pippa's fête well. It was at this event she'd heard reggae music for the first time. She'd worn a tight black outfit, accentuating her dainty figure. But she'd panicked about seeming too formal, so she'd substituted her heels for combat boots and adorned herself with Indian beads, creating a questionable amalgamation of hippie and punk styles. Looking back on her younger self, she still radiated cheerfulness and eagerness.
At the gathering, a certain lad attracted my attention. He told me he'd noticed me checking him out. When he approached me and initiated conversation, I found it effortless to converse with him. He was an oddball, like myself, which made him approachable. He was excessively skinny, sporting a wild, dark curly mane. He wore a tight, vertical-striped sweater and an oversized army coat from a surplus store. His bulky Frye's cowboy boots seemed two sizes too large for his feet. This was Nat.
During a pause in the music, Nat headed to the room's upright piano in a corner and played. His improvisation didn't sound like jazz; it was more similar to what would later be classified as trance music. I thought he had great talent.
Nat wanted to accompany me home from the party. When I mentioned walking to Chelsea, he exclaimed, "I absolutely love walking! It's like, my favorite thing after music!"
When we arrived at my place, I felt uneasy about his desire for intimacy. I wasn't in the mood for sex.
"May I lay beside you?" Nat asked gently, shaking with nervousness. I accepted, so he nestled up beside me on my bed. He was visibly scared and uncertain.
Slowly, his hand found its way onto my abdomen. It ventured further down. My toes tensed in case he was startled by even the slightest movement. Eventually, his middle finger rested on my clitoris. His hand then pushed firmly inside me, an experience that felt odd, cold, and intrusive. It scared me, and I asked him to stop. Almost immediately, I heard him rubbing his finger against the floor, seemingly clearing off my fluids, adding to my embarrassment.
He clutched my shoulder in affection as he lay beside me for the rest of the night. I can't recall if I slept that night. When I awoke, Nat was gone.
That evening I had my first sexual encounter. Unaware of its consequences, I didn't realize until now that it was Nat's first time too. We've never crossed paths since.
With the fire fading, Fiona pondered her recollections.
Nat chipped at the earth with his foot, ensuring the garden fork made contact with a hidden object. He jiggled it until it caught the edge of the piece. He removed it from the soil, careful not to injure his back. Newly hurt, he kicked the slab, "Fuck you. Fuck you."
He moved towards his narrowboat, exacerbating his back pain, and sat at the front deck. He gulped down the cold tea he'd been earlier and retrieved it from the deck. Inside the boat, he washed his hands with soap then wiped them on his muddy jeans. Slumping onto the couch, he powered his laptop.
So this was Fiona. I recall her large eyes and plump lips... she was truly adorable. "The cruel twist of time and its aftermath, Mr. Frye, the cruel twist of time..." he thought, as he typed his response:
"No. I haven't seen Jeremy in years. I know he married an Irish woman and moved to Dublin. He's a professor at Trinity now."
He continued:
"I remember you as the first environmental activist I've ever met. You literally hugged a tree in Hyde Park at 3 am during our journey from Hampstead to your place!"
Within a few moments, her reply popped up: "I'm STILL an environmentalist! I'm even more passionate about it now! And I still see Pippa once in a while!" - This surprising speed somehow aroused Nat.
They shared more personal information in real time, enthusiastically. Nat read between the lines: She seemed unhappy, supporting her alcoholic, crippled husband, "Harry." And she was lusty, like him.
Then she sent a recent photo of herself.
"The signs of aging... Damn."
Nathan didn't know how to kindly back out without hurting her feelings. He merely ignored her messages until, after a week or so, she got the message his Facebook silence conveyed: He was not interested.
July arrived. Nat sat on the warm metallic gunwale in the warm early morning sun, a hot mug of tea in his hands on the boat deck. A plate of scrambled eggs on toast was balanced precariously on his knees. He stared blindly at the dancing patterns of light on the canal. It was going to be another hot day.
"Nathan? Is that you? It's me, Fiona!"
She was standing on the opposite towpath. She was wearing white shorts and a floral shirt.
Nat stood and put his plate down. "Hi!"
"Permission to board your vessel, Captain!"
He couldn't refuse.
Fiona crossed the bridge to his side of the canal and stepped onto the front deck, causing the boat to rock slightly.
"Be careful, it's a little wobbly until you get the hang of it."
"I'm used to it, Nathan. Harry and I lived on a narrowboat for the first five years we were together."
They stepped inside. The kitchen area was right by the entrance. He filled a kettle. Fiona leaned against the door frame, smiling.
"I was in London, visiting my mom. She lives not far from here. That's why I decided to pay you a surprise visit."
Nat busied himself making tea.
"Can I have a look around your boat? It's been ages since I've been on a narrowboat. I've forgotten how magical they can be, with sunlight reflecting on the water."
"Sure. It's a bit bachelor-ish in here, I'm afraid."
"Don't worry, Nathan. You are a bachelor." Nat chuckled.
She wiggled past him, her voice light as she said, "You won't mind if I take a look?" She raised her hands to provide him more space. He noticed his armpits smelled of sweat.
In the back of the boat was an unmade, king-size bed. A lead crystal pendant glinted in the window. Fiona spun it, admiring the dazzling rainbows that swirled on the rumpled white sheet.
She went back into the galley. Nathan had set up a tray with cups, a milk jug, the teapot, and a plate of plain biscuits. "Right on time! Inside or outside?"
"Inside, please Nathan. Your boat is lovely. I noticed you even have a mini electronic piano on your boat!"
"Yes, it's not as nice to play as a real one, but better than nothing."
"It's so romantic!"
"Yes, this boat is my personal paradise."
"And how many women have you 'caught' with it?"
Nat chuckled. "A few... To be honest, they were a bit too young. 'Babes' is the right word."
Fiona didn't respond directly, but it seemed she was thinking the same thing: "It would be different now..."
Nathan shivered, slightly. Fiona's perfume reached his nostrils. He placed his hand on her thigh, causing his dick to stiffen. He kissed her lips gently.
He pulled away, examining her face. He was having trouble interpreting her expression. It was a smile... of... pity? Joy? Or was it, "Thanks, but no thanks?" He stroked her gray hair. She laid her head on his shoulder, sighed, and spoke softly, "I love my husband. I feel... confused, I've never... we've never..."
Nat's dick, tired of the hesitation and indecision, took over the situation. Nathan stood quickly, holding out a hand for Fiona with a warm, welcoming voice, stating, "Let's go, Fiona. That's why you're here. You know it."
She followed him to the back of the boat until they reached the bedroom. Nat settled at the foot of the bed, patting the space beside him. Crystals next to the window bobbed like pendulums on their fishing wire threads as the boat swayed, creating rainbows that danced a minuet on the mattress and Fiona's white knees. Nat began closing the blinds, but Fiona asked him not to.
"But people might see in..."
"I want to see out. The sunlight in here is so beautiful..."
"Alright."
Fiona removed her sandals and lay on her back, her legs closed, her hands behind her head. She stared at the ceiling, her eyes wide and smiling. Nat was now certain that it was a smile of fear.
Nat joined her at the bedside, kissing her lips, her neck, even her earlobe. His hand traveled up from her thighs, slowly, until it rested on her lower abdomen, his middle finger hovering over her private parts. He gently patted her... then squeezed his hand into her crotch. She let out a sharp intake of breath. This was the first sign Nat received that she wanted it.
Gently massaging her crotch, Nat told her, "Do you know, I remember that first time... it was my first experience with a woman's pubic bone. I was mesmerized. I can't reproduce that for myself. My penis interferes."
Fiona parted her lips but couldn't speak. She lifted her pelvis and pushed down her shorts to her knees but left them in place.
Nat slipped his hand under her panties and patted the crest of her vulva. He hovered over her and kissed her lips, tenderly, delicately. Then, with more force. He pressed his lips to hers, firmly. He plunged his tongue deep inside her mouth and his finger deep into her vulva. She let out a muffled cry. His tongue played with hers and his invading finger throbbed and plunged even deeper.
He pulled his head back slightly, so he could observe her reaction while his finger pounded into her womanhood relentlessly and irresistibly. Nat watched her, entranced, as she climaxed with a long, deep sigh. Her eyes remained open, looking straight through him, into his soul. He shivered, and the hairs on his arms stood on end. Then...
"Fiona... Fuck..." Nat climaxed in his pants.
He lay back beside her. He wiped his finger on the sheet.
Now, Fiona laughed... but her laughter turned to sobbing tears.
"Oh my God. I've wanted this for so long."
"What can I tell you? That was the best sex I've ever had. You're... I don't know. A witch. Mother Earth. I don't know. Powerful. Really strong. In your eyes. Like a witch."
"Yes, that's what Harry calls me, too."
At the mention of her husband, Nat felt a twinge of envy, something he hadn't expected. He opened his mouth to ask if she felt guilty over what they just did, but Fiona stopped him with a kiss.
"More. Please, Nathan, I need your lips on me." She removed her panties, exposing herself. Nat stood and took off her panties, throwing them behind him. She spread her legs.
Fiona turned to the window. "Turn the crystal."
Nat rotated the crystal.
He knelt on the floor at the end of the bed and pulled at her ankles, bringing her towards him. He placed his hands on her breasts and ran his thumbs over her nipples through her white bra. He leaned over her and licked her pussy lips, lingering long slow licks. As he became more aroused, he quickened his pace.
"Slower. Nathan. I want this to last forever..."
Nat's consciousness became distorted; his mind focused solely on her pussy. His erection grew fervent...
...Fiona arched her back and clamped his ears between her thighs. He heard faintly through the muffled ears, "Oh God... Oh my God..."
Nat rolled onto his back and began to stroke himself. Fiona grasped his hand and directed it towards her, plunging his index finger deep into her wet pussy while they remained face-to-face.
* * * * *
Fiona sat on the front deck, her notepad on her laps, drawing a trio of mallards - a female and two males - who swam nearby the boat, begging for food. Nat sipped his tea.
"Fiona, I've never, in my whole life, experienced an orgasm without, you know, without jerking off or having sex, or being given a blowjob - you know, without direct stimulation to my penis. Is it - is this, you know, something you can do to men? Have you ever?"
"Nathan, it was a unique situation. And in response to your inquiry: I don't know; I've only been with Harry."
"Yes, I know it was a unique situation. Thank you. I'm an idiot."
"Why are you an idiot?"
"Oh, it's just that I've spent the past two years being unhappy, trying to find women. Trying to boost my ego with silly Facebook posts."
"Well, I do that too. And incidentally, we met because of your ego-boosting Facebook posts."
"May I visit you and Harry in Hereford again, Fiona? I mean can I drop by and see you?"
"No."
"Okay."
She gave him a kiss on the lips and smiled at him. A kind smile that said "Thanks, but no". A pitying smile.
She stood up and examined her drawing. "There, I've finished it." She sent silent thanks to the three mallards.
Fiona swiftly organised her brushes and paint supplies in her bag and prepared to leave the cottage.
Harry had noticed that she'd been distant since she returned from London. She appeared to be preoccupied, and a little sad. He supposed that her mother might have said something to her when she'd seen her, something to undermine her, he thought. Fiona and her mother had never gotten along, and he knew she would have glared at him for taking advantage of her wife's hard work and his own struggles as an artist.
"I'll be back within an hour or two, love." Fiona said to him without looking back, as she rushed out the door.
Harry remained at the window and observed her walking past the flowerbeds towards the back gate of the garden, then disappearing into the green darkness.
He entered the kitchen and saw her sketchpad - she'd forgotten to take it.
He flipped through the pages and found her latest sketch, of the three ducks on the lake. He couldn't understand why she hadn't shown him this.
Her choice of colors was uncharacteristic; a strange purple hue was used to depict the shadows. The painting unsettled Harry deeply. He carefully shut the sketchpad and waited for Fiona to notice she'd forgotten it. But she didn't return.
He made the choice to venture through the dense woodland to locate her. He held her sketchpad in one hand and grasped his cane firmly in the other. After a half-hour, he found her. She was lying naked on her back in a grassy glade a half-mile deep in the woods. She hadn't noticed him yet.
He stood in the shade under a holly tree and watched her touch her vagina, quickening the rhythm, until she shoved two fingers deep within herself. She paused, then lay motionless. A blackbird suddenly sang a complex song, as if it had been waiting for her to finish. Startled, Harry rapidly retreated to avoid being seen.
When Fiona returned home, Harry smoked his pipe while sitting on the bench in the sunshine by the cottage wall.
"Hi, dear! I left my sketchpad behind, so I took a stroll in the woods towards Sternham."
"Did he love you?" asked Harry.
"Excuse me, dear?"
"The man you were contemplating while lying naked on the grass?"
Fiona sighed, deciding to share with Harry what happened in London. He listened without interrupting. Eventually, he remarked, "so, to answer my initial question, yes, he does love you."
"Oh, Harry, I'm such a fool. I'm so sorry. But of course he doesn't love me, any more than I love him."
"You don't know your own power, honey. You've only been with me. The question is, what are we going to do about this?"
"Well, if you can forgive me, I'm going to forget about it altogether. It was, I swear, a one-time occurrence."
"Why make three people miserable?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, you're not going to forget it. Neither is he, and neither am I, I'm afraid. So I suggest we invite him here. I'd like to talk to him. Do you think he'd come?"
"No, Harry, please, no."
"Alright... alright. Let's put it aside for now. Let's discuss it at a later time."
Today, during his daily jog along the canal path, Nat stopped by the mailbox. He had a letter from Fiona. She wanted him to come to her house. When he told Harry about their afternoon together, Harry had been understanding. His heart soared. Then it dawned on him that this was more than just lust and obsession; he was in love.
The following evening, Nat reread the letter. His inner cynic spoke up. "Threesome can be messy." He thought of Harry being unable to get an erection and likely wanting to masturbate while watching Nat and Fiona. Nat became disgusted with himself. "Shut up. Get lost. Give me a moment of bliss." He cursed.
Nat took a deep breath, quieting his skeptical side. He replied to Fiona's letter, agreeing to visit her.
Seven days later, Nat arrived at Fiona's cottage. He saw a tall, fit-looking gentleman, around sixty-five, leaning on a cane at the door. Nat expected Harry to be a frail, ancient man in a wheelchair, wrapped in a Burberry blanket.
"Nathan! Welcome."
"Hi, Harry. Nice to meet you."
"Would you like a drink after your drive?"
"I'd prefer some tea, if you don't mind."
"I was thinking of something stronger than tea."
"I'll join you for a whiskey later, but for now, a cup of tea is perfect."
"Splendid! I'll turn on the kettle."
"Is Fiona here?"
"She's outside sketching. She'll be back soon."
Nat followed Harry into the kitchen. In the hallway was a collapsible wheelchair. "I'm supposed to have one, but I never use it," revealed Harry, reading Nat's mind.
Harry sat at the kitchen table while Nat did not put the kettle on, hoping Harry would not interpret his gesture as a slight against his drinking. Nat searched for some tea in the cupboards.
Harry poured a half full glass of white wine and said, "the teabags are on the bottom shelf, on the right."
"Got it."
Upon taking a seat at the table, Nat sipped his tea. Harry became quiet, as if uncertain about how to proceed. Nat decided to start the conversation.
"This is a bit awkward, huh?"
"Yes. But it doesn't need to be. In reality, it isn't, in fact."
Encouraged, Nat asked Harry, "Were you angry, at her or at me?"
Harry refilled his wine glass and said, "I rarely experience anger. But to answer your question, no, I am not angry with either of you. I do, however, feel a bit of melancholy. It reminded me how much you both had been missing out on the joy she brought to my life."
Nat doubted Harry's sincerity. He found it difficult to trust Harry's claim to not be angry when he himself was often quick to anger. He fired back, "So you saw us having sex. It was just a casual encounter."
"To the contrary, I am not upset, my dear grandson. On the contrary, I'm appreciative. You made her happy."
Harry's words struck a cord in Nat, and he felt bad for his defensiveness. They said nothing for a while.
As if reading his thoughts, Harry declared, "I want you to see something. It's upstairs in our room. There's a painting I made of her. When you look at it, you will see how I feel about her."
Nat climbed the stairs, drawn to the painting. He stood in the bedroom, staring at the portrait hanging on the wall. It was of Fiona, naked, splayed out on the bed. Her eyes were wide, capturing his soul and smile, beaming wide and jubilant. Her erect nipples were pink against her creamy skin, her hair spread all around her. She had her hand on her groin, like Venus of Urbino. Harry had likely painted her while standing above her, capturing her orgasmic moment.
"Wow. Holy sh*t."
"Indeed, Nathan. That's the reaction I hoped for. It's been two decades since I've seen her like that. Thanks to you, though, I've seen it again."
Nat was still transfixed by the painting. "How can I utter this-"
"What, Nathan?" [
Nat finally tore his focus away and descended the stairs.
"What I've done - what we did... put it simply, functioning genitalia aren't a must for the task. I basically fingered her and gave her oral pleasure. I hope that's not too explicit."
"You underestimate yourself. You're a pianist. You have no doubt that your fingers are tactile and sophisticated, I'm not questioning that. Frankly, you don't need sexual tutoring from me. By the way, you have now revived my Birchwood Venus portrait. That's what I call that painting of her. A bit of vanity on my part." Harry paused and listened. "She's coming. She doesn't know I've invited you."
"You invited me?"
"Yes, in her name. I doubted you'd show up if I had invited you directly."
"Well, I believe that's quite-"
Fiona arrived, setting her sketchpad on the table and hastily heading to the kitchen sink to wash the paint off her hands. She dried her hands on her dress and turned, smiling. However, both Harry and Nat could sense the rage behind the smile. Her eyes rapidly blinked.
"Darling-" Harry started, but Fiona interrupted, busying herself with tea cups and spoons.
"-Nathan, it's wonderful to see you again."
Nathan stood, an uncharacteristic polite gesture, and said "It's wonderful to see you again. Your husband - Harry, that is - invited me."
Fiona refused to face Nathan. "That was a little underhanded of you, Harry. I did say I didn't want to see him again."
"I wanted to see him. And I wanted him to see you."
"Why, Harry? Why couldn't you leave it alone?"
"He deserved to see you again."
"Deserved it? What do you mean?"
"Because it'd be too cruel otherwise."
"I don't understand."
Nathan comprehended. He deserved a last glance at the woman he loved.
Harry filled the remains of the Chablis into his glass. "Fiona, I'd like Nathan to move in with us."
Fiona eventually turned to face Nathan, her wide eyes piercing his. He shuddered, and his penis stirred.
"So, Nathan, is that what you want?" She asked.
"I don't know. All I know is that I'm in love with you. And I believe I always will be. For whatever it's worth. I haven't been able to remove your image from my mind. It's not your fault."
"Fiona, I'm so sorry." Fiona hung her head.
Yes, he'd been jilted.
"Well," said Harry wearily, "I did my best. I won't press you, darling, I know it will make things worse. What a shame."
"Ah well." Nathan rejected Harry's offer of "at least staying for dinner."
As he was fastening his seatbelt, readying for the extended trip home, Fiona ran out of the house toward him. She'd changed her mind!
"Wait, Nathan, don't depart just yet." Fiona ran back inside the house.
"What is it?" Nathan called out after her.
"Waitt!!" Fiona yelled as she re-emerged.
Fiona returned a few minutes later, holding something large in her arms. It was her portrait - the "Birchwood Venus."
"Here."
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Fiona, I can't accept it."
"We wish you to possess it. We no longer need it."
"There's no space for it on my Narrowboat."
"Well, keep it for when you settle somewhere more suitable for it."
"It will be safer here in the meantime. Mayhap I - I'll come and pick it up one day."
"Please do, Nathan. I mean it. Nathan... Forget it."
"Say it."
"You were my first, and I believe you'll be my last."
Nathan was silent. Suddenly, Fiona laughed. "However, I won't be your last, Nathan. Promise me that."
"I promise."
She watched as he drove off. Upon returning to the house, she became aligned with the evening birdsong, signaling the summer night.
Read also:
- My Close Friend, a Female, Fondled Me
- Slim, Youthful, and Well-Endowed in Part 2
- Vanessa's Entry
- Lady FitzWilliam's Team: An Inside Look
Source: www.nice-escort.de
