Sentence the Twohundredandfortyninth
Over the next fortnight, Teri and Martin had an almost idyllic time; it was the Half-Term Holiday and Teri had told her parents she was going to stay with Laura and her family at their cottage in the Cheviots; Martin was quick to gratulate her for her smart thinking – the cottage, which was his own (or his Father's actually) was at the end of a long winding unpaved track rising towards the ridge which runs the length of the range and is the Northern end of The Pennine Way, but there were no tracks or trails used by Walkers running anywhere near the cottage, which was sheltered by mature woodland; it had no telephone so there would be no awkward or inconvenient calls from her Mum or Dad to be handled, and the village, about five miles away, was just a cluster of dwellings in an old Ferm Toun, had no pub or even a formal shop – one cottage's front room being converted into a small outlet for basic requirements: milk, bread, butter, eggs, bacon and sausages (mostly from the local farms) with some cans and packets of dried items to help the residents, mostly retired couples, professional weekenders, or young couples who all worked in Kelso as Solicitors, Accountants, Estate Agents, a GP and a Dentist (they were two men in their mid-thirties who lived in a pretty little cottage with a poodle called Joan, after Joan Crawford, and most of the other residents were patients at their practices in Kelso, defer their next trip to the Town's Supermarkets until later in the week when their alcohol would need to be augmented, thus making the trip worthwhile; not even a Phone Box, though there was a pillar box, emptied once a day, if there was anything in it, by the Postie who delivered to all the isolated cottages and Country Houses scattered along the seven tributaries to the Ale Water which constituted the Valley's Community Council Area; Martin's old spearcaster of a Father, who numbered quite a number of the Valley Residents among his clients, including the one Judge of the Court of Session whose views usually matched his own and who could always be relied upon if one of the firm's litigations actually made it to Court – most of the time, both individuals and corporations coughed up out of Court to save their costs and publicity, so the learned judges were rarely troubled by Elginbrod's business, which helped it flourish, was spending a couple of weeks on a yacht in the Mediterranean with presumably a crew of Arab boys to entertain him and his friends and there would be ample opportunity for him to ram his spear home, so Martin was free to enjoy this rare holiday, with a sweet and docile lover for him to use; and the fine weather, unseasonably warm, gave their afternoons – for they rarely rose from their bed till mid-day despite Martin's promise, which carried more velleity than validity, to go early for rolls and a paper – a sated, heady
atmosphere, when, replete with food, wine, the scents of each other mingling in their senses; this professional Man in his late thirties and his 13-year-old Mistress, assuredly his very own Lolita, had no worries about prying eyes or Peeping Toms observing their most intimate acts being performed in broad daylight under a wide, blue yonder, in the full glare of the afternoon sun in this most secluded and well-hidden little secret garden; but had they only used their eyes they might have caught the glint of sun on glass which could have betokened a pair of binoculars or a telephoto lens capturing every hair on Martin's head, the birthmark on his right bum-cheek, or the tiny mole brought into sharp relief when his penis reached it's full erection – and the shutter click might have been heard if their fucking had been just a tad quieter than it was!
Over the next fortnight, Teri and Martin had an almost idyllic time; it was the Half-Term Holiday and Teri had told her parents she was going to stay with Laura and her family at their cottage in the Cheviots; Martin was quick to gratulate her for her smart thinking – the cottage, which was his own (or his Father's actually) was at the end of a long winding unpaved track rising towards the ridge which runs the length of the range and is the Northern end of The Pennine Way, but there were no tracks or trails used by Walkers running anywhere near the cottage, which was sheltered by mature woodland; it had no telephone so there would be no awkward or inconvenient calls from her Mum or Dad to be handled, and the village, about five miles away, was just a cluster of dwellings in an old Ferm Toun, had no pub or even a formal shop – one cottage's front room being converted into a small outlet for basic requirements: milk, bread, butter, eggs, bacon and sausages (mostly from the local farms) with some cans and packets of dried items to help the residents, mostly retired couples, professional weekenders, or young couples who all worked in Kelso as Solicitors, Accountants, Estate Agents, a GP and a Dentist (they were two men in their mid-thirties who lived in a pretty little cottage with a poodle called Joan, after Joan Crawford, and most of the other residents were patients at their practices in Kelso, defer their next trip to the Town's Supermarkets until later in the week when their alcohol would need to be augmented, thus making the trip worthwhile; not even a Phone Box, though there was a pillar box, emptied once a day, if there was anything in it, by the Postie who delivered to all the isolated cottages and Country Houses scattered along the seven tributaries to the Ale Water which constituted the Valley's Community Council Area; Martin's old spearcaster of a Father, who numbered quite a number of the Valley Residents among his clients, including the one Judge of the Court of Session whose views usually matched his own and who could always be relied upon if one of the firm's litigations actually made it to Court – most of the time, both individuals and corporations coughed up out of Court to save their costs and publicity, so the learned judges were rarely troubled by Elginbrod's business, which helped it flourish, was spending a couple of weeks on a yacht in the Mediterranean with presumably a crew of Arab boys to entertain him and his friends and there would be ample opportunity for him to ram his spear home, so Martin was free to enjoy this rare holiday, with a sweet and docile lover for him to use; and the fine weather, unseasonably warm, gave their afternoons – for they rarely rose from their bed till mid-day despite Martin's promise, which carried more velleity than validity, to go early for rolls and a paper – a sated, heady atmosphere, when, replete with food, wine, the scents of each other mingling in their senses; this professional Man in his late thirties and his 13-year-old Mistress, assuredly his very own Lolita, had no worries about prying eyes or Peeping Toms observing their most intimate acts being performed in broad daylight under a wide, blue yonder, in the full glare of the afternoon sun in this most secluded and well-hidden little secret garden; but had they only used their eyes they might have caught the glint of sun on glass which could have betokened a pair of binoculars or a telephoto lens capturing every hair on Martin's head, the birthmark on his right bum-cheek, or the tiny mole brought into sharp relief when his penis reached it's full erection – and the shutter click might have been heard if their fucking had been just a tad quieter than it was!
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