Yorkshire Dales
Copyright© 2026 by MicaMeesha
Chapter 23 Weathering Heights
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 23 Weathering Heights - An ongoing account of the various interactions, some natural, some supernatural, some fantastical, all sexual, that occur in a small cottage in the West Riding Yorkshire Dales.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Fairy Tale Aliens Paranormal Magic Demons Incest Mother Son Daughter Water Sports
I was staying at the cottage again; I found myself there more and more. I could do most of my work online and found the solitude of the dales somehow comforting. The day was looking gloomy; the sky was in turmoil, a vivid tapestry of greys and blacks, a scene I wish I could have painted. The clouds looked to be low, and they looked angry, swirling and just asking for trouble. I decided I would shower; a wash would brighten my mood.
I looked at my phone; there was a message. Mik said he would be popping over. I shrugged. That would be nice; I could get an update on Connie, his off-and-on girlfriend. I undid my robe and hung it up on the hook on the back of my bedroom door, and I ran my fingers over my mons; it needed a shave. There were a few prickly hairs. I decided I ought to get a waxing machine to get rid of these troublesome hairs; I would look on Amazon later.
In the bathroom I ran the hot tap and then warmed my sponge and gave my mons a good soaking, the skin pink from the heat of the water. I sprayed shower gel on my hand and then smothered it over me. I put my razor under the hot water, and I started a careful shave. Slowly going downwards towards my vulva and my sweet plump lips, careful not to nick my nubbin, then I reversed the razor and shaved upwards. Darn hairs down there grew in every direction. I moved across half a blade’s width and repeated.
Eventually I had covered everywhere, and I ran my finger through the remains of the gel on my skin and couldn’t detect any spikes. Good. I rinsed my razor and donned my shower cap, turned the shower on and stepped under the flow of hot water, the falling droplets sounding like a percussion band as they bounced off my shower cap. I took the showerhead and directed it at my groin, rinsing away the last of the shaving gel and catching my breath as the water droplets bounced off my nubbin, sending waves of pleasure darting everywhere.
I removed the head from the hose and douched, loving the feel of the water as it drained from my fanny, leaving me clean inside. I put the head back on the house and replaced it on the hook and leant forwards under the shower, the water now running down my back, sluicing into my arse crease and falling from my fanny, tickling and stimulating as it dropped.
A hand reached around and took the gel from me; I gasped as it squirted on my back.
“Shush, Mum,” Mik said, “you don’t want to disturb the faeries.”
He rubbed the gel across my shoulders and then down my sides, capturing my breasts from the side, soaping underneath and then downwards, through the crease of my arse, pulling my buttocks apart, and teasing my sphincter with gel.
I could feel his dick jutting into my crease, pressing against my sphincter, testing my muscle with his pressure, and then he slipped down and his dick slid along my fanny crease. I jinked, and his dick lined up with my entrance. I sighed with pleasure, and Mik pressed forward, passing my petals, through my opening and into my depth, his stomach flattening my buttocks.
Water ran down my back, through the flattened valley between my buttocks, and pooled around his dick as it penetrated my fanny, falling to the shower floor in a cascade of warm water, stimulating my fourchette, tickling, and arousing me. Mik pulled back, his dick leaving my fanny to hover at my entrance, and then he pushed back in, his dick filling me, his balls dancing between my thighs, his hands on my shoulders as he fucked his mum.
“Connie will be here soon, Mum,” he said. “I couldn’t miss this chance.”
“Fill me, baby; give me your seed,” I gasped as his dick pistoned within me.
Connie and Mik were in the shepherd’s hut; they didn’t need my input. I looked out of the back door; the sky was incredible. There were so many shades of grey, too many to count; the sky had every shade from not quite white all the way to nearly black. I could see the clouds swirling and curling, their shapes looking like the mud flats in an estuary.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I decided. I wrote a quick note and put it on the kitchen table: ‘off for a walk, got my phone.’ I had a skirt on; that would do, and I would wear my walking boots and my wax jacket over my blouse. It wasn’t cold, but the wind could cut through and chill the bones, and no one wanted that.
I grabbed my walking stick and headed off; I was going to go in a new direction today. I walked past my pole barn and passed the small copse. “Morning,” I said in passing. “Morning,” a young beech replied. Usually just past the copse I would head straight on, but today I wanted to explore to the right, up where Jacob called ‘the Heights’. It was the highest part of the Dales, and the fields swept down to the town far in the distance, the horizon as far away as it can be.
I decided that would be the place to sit and watch the weather, in the lee of the northerly winds, looking southeast to the town far in the distance. As I walked, the clouds swirled above me, and wild winds blew about me, my wax jacket whipping back and forth. I felt alive somehow, the weather treating me unlike any other day I had spent on the moors. The air felt alive, but a despondent alive; there was a heavy mood hanging over the moor. I refused to let it get me down.
I knew that somewhere over to my left was the Devils Hole; Jacob had talked about it, a limestone hole that a beck tumbled into but seemed not to leave or fill. Cracks in the limestone floor meant that the beck seeped away. Jacob said the area was a favourite with potholers, and they annoyed him by forever leaving the gates open. Sheep were good enough escape artists without idiots leaving gates open for them.
The land was scrubby; the grass grew tall in some places and was short or mossy in others. In some places gorse was full of flowers and spikes. The limestone wall to my left was in poor repair, many stones having tumbled down to lie on the grass besides the wall. I guessed maintenance of the wall was low in Jacob’s priority list. I looked at the stones and the wall, and I wondered if it were something I could learn. Was it difficult? I had no idea; it looked easy. I suspected the truth lay somewhere else.
As I walked, I saw a stone stile in the wall, and its construction fascinated me. Horizontal slabs of stone sticking out like steps up to a lower part of the wall. Easy for a human to pass, but was it also easy for sheep? Again, some of the stones were missing from the top. Had animals knocked them off, or were they careless humans? I wondered. The stone slabs making the steps looked to be very heavy; I wondered how they had been moved into place.
Dragged by horses, I decided, and then lifted into place by a few burly farmhands, the weight of the stone ensuring that they stayed in place once placed in the wall. I climbed the stile and looked over. The field on the other side looked the same as this, apart from a few clumps of sheep’s fleece caught against the stones. I was surprised that birds hadn’t taken it for nesting material; perhaps it was fresh, and the birds hadn’t yet seen it.
I climbed down off the stile and carried on with my walk. The clouds were busy, and the wind blew; there were few birds on the wing, which was sensible, I concluded as I wondered what madness had brought me out here. I stopped and looked ahead; there was still a little way to climb before the land would fall away. I shuddered at the wind but marvelled at the sky, moving and writhing as if it were alive. The atmosphere on the moor got darker, the air seemed heavier, and the light felt as if it were losing a battle somehow.
As I trudged on, the stone wall to my left climbed a little, and I was more and more in the lee, and the wind lessened, and my wax jacket felt heavier and lay still over my shoulders. My way was forced a little further from the wall, the ground to my left becoming quite steep. I turned a curve to the west, and the bank became a stony outcrop. Before me the dales fell away, and I could begin to see the industry of the distant town beyond the rurality of the dales, a lightness over the town contrasting with the darkness over the moors.
There was an indent in the stone, not quite a cave, perhaps only a few yards deep, but enough of a shelter, I suspected, when the wind rose and the rain poured. A good place for a rest, I decided. The floor of the cave, for that is what I decided it was for lack of any better word, was shattered limestone pebbles at the rear for the most part and mossy at the front. I took my coat off and laid it on the pebbles just behind the moss, and I sat, my knees up, with my hands around them as I looked out at the town in the distance, bright as if some great cosmic torch were shining on it.
I could hear the wind as it whistled over the stone wall high above me, but here in the shelter of the cave all was calm and still. I should perhaps have bought my binoculars, but what would they have offered me? I knew what towns looked like close up, and there were no birds or animals to be seen, the weather was wild, and I was the only one mad enough to be out in it.
I nearly jumped out of my skin as a man stood at the cave entrance; I had no idea from whence he came. He had a flat cap on his head and a neckerchief in a knot around his neck; his shirt was a grubby white cotton that laced up the front and his trousers appeared to be leather, tied up with string of some kind.
“Miss,” he asked, “are you from Thrushcross?” His accent was a mix of broad Dales and an edge of Irish; I wondered if he was a local gypsy.
“Gosh no,” I said, for I had never heard of Thrushcross; I would have to ask Jacob if he had heard of it and where it was.
“I thought that you might be Miss Linton, Catherine Linton. I am about as the dogs are locked away. Blethering dogs Lockwood has; they cause trouble, they do.”
I had never heard dogs even in the distance and wondered what dogs they might be, probably sheep dogs, but why would they cause trouble?
“No, I am not she; my name is Mica. I am from over the hill; I live in a small cottage not far from Jacob’s farm.” I was wary of giving away too much information to this strange man.
He stepped forward. “The weather is fair wuthering,” he said, a strange word I thought; perhaps he had meant weathering, and I chuckled to myself as I turned an adjective into a noun.
“Yes,” I answered, “I was lucky to find this shelter to let the winds blow by; my journey back will be faceward into the wind.”
“Fair take your complexion it will,” he said, “be ruddy in no time.” He crouched down next to me, no longer between me and the light outside. I could see that his skin was dark, not that of an African, more as if it were darkened by exposure to the sun. His eyes were bright and piercing, and I was startled when he leant forward and ran the back of his hand across my cheek. His fingers were cool to the touch, and I could still feel their passage long after they had left.
“Strange clothes you wear, Miss,” he said as he looked me over; it felt as if he were undressing me, and then I realised that with my knees up, he would have had a perfect view up my skirt to my knickers.
His hand cupped my face, and he turned it to him and leant forward and placed a kiss on my lips. He was saying something softly into my mouth; it sounded like “Cathy” or perhaps it was not. I had told him my name.
A hand rested on my knee, and my pressures grew. What stranger was this man that should presume so much? His hand moved along my leg to my thigh, and I gasped as fingers rubbed across the gusset of my knickers. “No,” I gasped, but my heart wasn’t in it. What would he venture to do next?
His hand moved to my blouse, and with its partner it undid my buttons, pulling my blouse apart and revealing my bra. He ran his fingers over my breasts, the material seeming strange to him.
“What vestment is this, wench?” He asked, “covering thy tits as with an armour, how do you feed a child with that upon you?”
My bra was a front loader, by coincidence, there being no reason other than it had been at the top of the pile in my drawer when I dressed earlier. My fingers trembling, I undid the catch, and the cups fell away, my breasts revealed to his gaze.
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