Chapter 29: Roger Visits the Stones

[Spring Equinox, 1679]
At the stones near Oxford

THE SPRING EQUINOX came late that year. More accurately, warm temperatures in the week leading up to the equinox brought scents and aromas from the garden and the fields that made people think of summer rather than spring. The equinox came the same time as it always did, but the temperatures and the libidos of everyone corresponded more to summer than spring.

Gérard escorted the two, in the highest of spirits. They had expected Mistress Heathcoate to accompany them, but on the morning they were to depart she declined. Master Heathcoate was indisposed, she told them. “Indisposed” often meant recovering from the effects of the previous evening’s drinking, they knew. At the last minute, almost, Mistress Heathcoate pulled Amélie aside.

“Take young Roger with you, will you not? He’s never been to an equinox celebration at the stones.”

Amélie gave Mistress Heathcoate a quizzical look. “Are you certain about this, Mistress?” Amélie knew Mistress Heathcoate and Sandrine had more than flirted heavily with Roger on and off in the previous months, with his enthusiastic participation. Her only desire was to satisfy herself Roger truly wished to accompany them.

“I am, my dear,” answered Mistress Heathcoate.

With that they had called at his house and, after a short consultation with his mother, Roger joined the party. From his eagerness Amélie and Sandrine knew he had hopes for some kind of renewal of the games he had come to love with Sandrine and, from time to time, with Mistress Heathcoate herself.

Gérard sat up front with a classmate, Harold, who knew someone with a horse and open carriage to lend. The two women sat behind them, Roger sandwiched comfortably between them. The warm weather meant the women were dressed with but light shawls over their clothing as well as something to cover their heads from the sun, the men likewise with but light outer garments. Mistress Heathcoate had sent them on their way with a well-stuffed basket of bread, cheeses, leftover sausage and slices of beef from last night’s meal, plus wine.

They arrived in the heat of the afternoon to find several dozen of their fellow Oxford denizens already there. Harold discovered two classmates and moved away with them almost immediately. The musicians had arrived at the first hour and performed from one side of the ring of stones. Indeed, there was little room inside the ring, perforce the party made their way to a stretch of grass outside the ring but at the edge of the forest.

Every year those who chose to attend these ceremonies, which were numerous throughout England and Scotland and Wales, decided which of several ceremonies they would choose. Near Oxford there were two choices. One was the famous Rollright Stones, the second was the one the group attended. These stones did not have a formal name. Neither ceremony could be called sedate. The ready supply of alcohol, plentiful food and, with any luck at all, a sunny and hot day, meant a surfeit of dancing and singing and music at each location. At the Rollright Stones, however, the activities generally stopped this side of outright licentious behavior.

The more adventurous of Oxford’s denizens, including scholars and no small number of students who could afford to attend, favored the ring of stones Amélie, Gérard, Roger and Sandrine attended.

Once they were settled, Sandrine took Roger by the hand and pulled him to his feet. “Come with me, Roger.” She grinned. “We’ll see the sights.” To Gérard and Amélie she admonished, “Kindly do not eat and drink everything we brought. We shall return soon.”

With that the two set off hand-in-hand. Gradually Sandrine had become known in the circles connected with Master Heathcoate’s print shop, which touched most of the colleges and many of the larger businesses in the city, even if she worked mostly in the back rooms of Heathcoate’s establishment. In addition, some of Gérard’s tutors and his classmates had met Sandrine and Amélie. Her presence was no longer the attention-getting event it had been in the months soon after they’d arrived in Oxford. Sandrine greeted those she knew with a kind word and a smile, and to those she knew less well with a courteous nod. Almost everyone returned the courtesy, although she noted without appearing to do so some who seemed to be about to scowl at her presence.

For his part Roger was in heaven. His idol, his vision of female perfection, was by his side and speaking with him. He was neither a churlish lad nor a stupid one. He had every lust and desire known to a young man, he’d already demonstrated that part of his character on repeated occasions with Sandrine, his goddess, and on more than one occasion with Mistress Heathcoate. The latter was a bit of a puzzle to him. She was married but apparently open to liaisons outside of marriage, at least as demonstrated by her activities with him and Sandrine. On the other hand, to judge by the roars and cries and squeaks Sandrine told him came from their bedroom when Master Heathcoate returned from the pub and took Mistress Heathcoate by the arm from the fireside, she did not deny her favors to her husband in any form or fashion.

“Are you hungry, Roger?” Sandrine pointed at a small grill on which sausages were cooking. Suddenly, he was starving. He nodded.

“Come on, then, let’s try some.” She pulled him along and ordered two sausages in buns. After they were served the two continued their circuit while they did their best to avoid dripping grease on their clothing.

“Mistress Sandrine, may I ask a question?” Roger sounded uncertain.

“Of course you may, Roger, and kindly do not address me so formally, either.” Sandrine laughed. “You know why.”

Roger blushed, a not-uncommon state when he was with Sandrine. “I know,” he said. “Why have you, I mean, you, Mistress Heathcoate, uh, I mean...”

Sandrine chuckled. She hugged him. Carefully, for they each had the last bits of their sausage and buns in their hands. “Why do you think, Roger?”

He shrugged. “I wonder. I mean, I love it. I love you.” Sandrine smiled. She knew the difference between love and infatuation, between love and lust. Roger was still learning, but he was a quick study and she wanted to show him new marvels without causing him undue pain when the time came to say farewell. She knew that time was not as far away as he perhaps thought.

“Let me count the ways, Roger,” said Sandrine, unknowingly foreshadowing language from poetry that would come more than a century later. “You are kind, that is most important. No,” she held up her hand, “let me speak. I say you are kind because I see the way you speak with me, with Mistress Heathcoate. I have also seen you with your parents and with some of your student friends.”

She chuckled at his expression. “Oh, you did not notice me on the street? I am outside for several hours each day, Roger, and it would surprise you to know how many people barely notice my presence.” She held her hand up before her face. “Even if I’m black.” She smiled and hugged him again. “It wasn’t like that at first, Roger. At first people stared at me as if I had escaped from the zoo.” She laughed again, but her laugh was roughened by a bitter tone. “More than one probably thought I had.” She shrugged. “So what, Roger. So what?”

She paused for a moment. “You are inquisitive, Roger, and you have an excellent mind.” Here Sandrine laughed. “Even if you are distracted from time to time.” Roger blushed. “And you have a good sense of humor. These are all attractive qualities, but kindness is foremost among them.”

They’d arrived at their starting point after making a circle of the stones and clearing to find Gérard and Amélie in an embrace, the remains of the picnic lunch spread around them.

“Ahem, Amélie, Gérard. Roger and I have returned.”

The two broke their embrace. Amélie’s smile was broad, Gérard’s about the same. “Good,” said Gérard, and he renewed his kiss with Amélie.

“They are—” Roger began. Sandra interrupted. “They are close, yes, Roger, and they grew up together in the same household, but they are not related by blood.” She turned him to face her and put her hands on his shoulders to hold him there. “What they do is none of our business, Roger.” She put as much emphasis into her words as she could. Her dark features may be been difficult to interpret for people who did not know her well, but Roger understood quite clearly her message.

“It is not our business and it is not anyone else’s business, Roger.” He nodded. “You will keep silent about what you see, no?” Roger nodded vigorously. “Good,” said Sandrine. She hugged him again.

“Let us sit down and see what these two have left us to eat and drink.” She spread out luxuriously beside Amélie, her rear end pushing against Amélie, who remained wrapped in Gérard’s arms. “Kindly spare us some room, Mistress Amélie.” Amélie growled but she moved over and Sandrine and Roger reclined side by side. Sandrine grabbed a slice of meat and some bread and made it into an impromptu sandwich and offered it to Roger.

Instead of taking the sandwich Roger drew close and kissed Sandrine. Her chuckle was garbled by the kiss. She did not draw away. Instead she put the sandwich down and put her hand on his neck. He felt warm to her touch but his skin was smooth. She did not resist the urge to move her fingers up to his hair and to comb them through his tresses. He had washed his hair only a few days ago and a slight almost non-existent aroma of the soap he used lingered still.

His breath was sweet, despite the sausage he’d eaten. He smelled like a male. A deep and rich smell, very musk-like, but in his case given his youth and inexperience and good bathing habits, it was a lighter scent than she detected on older men, Gérard for one. Gérard’s scent excited her. It combined sweat, healthy male, arousal and, depending upon where they were in the encounter, a flavor overall of spending, of cum.

That was absent in Roger right now, but Sandrine had hopes she might correct that condition. She parted her lips just enough for Roger to notice and to accept her invitation to explore. It was an invasion and momentarily she felt overcome and defeated, but in a thrillingly positive manner. Overcome in a manner that compelled her to part her legs, but she resisted the urge for the nonce. Roger was in heaven, she was certain. To her surprise, he displayed a certain reticence, a gentleness, in his approach.

It inflamed her. She had always had a high sex drive. Despite the sexual demands of her first master, which included intercourse with him and others when she was older, he had discouraged her from commencing her active sex life until a year or two after she had begun her menses. Even if he had deflected her overtures, mostly, when she was so young, her master had taught her kissing and massage and how many places fingers and lips and tongue could go. He let her experiment with almost every pleasure there was short of intercourse. Until her master took her, no male organ had penetrated her below her waist, but she was no stranger to having a man’s erection in her mouth, where she welcomed the warm flesh tube.

Every time in those days was an exploration. Her tongue rimmed the cap and she’d early on discovered men liked it when she seemed to try to insert her tongue in the opening. If they liked that, they were nearly driven crazy when her tongue moved to the knot of nerves on the underside, and more than one lover had graced her lips and tongue and mouth with copious spending as soon as he felt her tongue massage that perfect spot. Full intercourse, first with her master and then with others, came later.

This afternoon she planned to be circumspect. While her behavior with Roger today had not yet gone beyond the relatively liberal and expansive bounds of the accepted at this festival, she had no desire to expose herself or Roger, or Amélie and Gérard, to undesired attention.

“Roger,” she whispered when she broke the kiss. “Let me, will you?” Roger had already experienced the effects of Sandrine’s request to let her do any variety of things. Now, his smile answered her.

She let her fingers trace the side of his neck to his mouth. Her finger pads moved over his lips. When he felt them there he parted them and sucked each fingertip gently. The wet on her fingers somehow transmitted itself to the secret place between her thighs, and she felt her moisture increase. Frustration, too, because she knew this afternoon, no matter what other pleasures they might sample nor how tempted she might be, she would not permit his manhood between her legs. In her mouth, that was a different story, and one she thought might conclude the day very nicely.

She smelled the woolen shirt he wore. It was not perhaps as fresh as other clothing but it smelled of Roger, a familiar scent, and one that excited her. She opened the topmost button and kissed his chest. The scratchy fibers of his shirt tickled her cheeks and made her laugh. She heard Roger laugh as well, although he sounded a little uncertain.

She moved her hand south. He tensed the closer she got to his waist. She felt him tremble. Sandrine knew his anticipation of what was to come had made him erect, perhaps as erect as he’d ever been. The movements beside them, subtle but evident, suggested Gérard had found new ways to pleasure Amélie without appearing to have disturbed her clothing. Her soft cries signaled Gérard’s success as he pushed her closer to climax. Sandrine knew Amélie’s path up the mountain as well as she knew her own. For a moment she wondered how close Gérard was, but only for a moment, until she decided it did not matter. Not with young Roger breathing fast and beginning to squirm beside her.

She felt her own moisture. Her own heart had begun to beat faster. The anticipation of what might happen had always pushed her higher and higher until she’d surrendered to the all-encompassing pleasure and spasms and contortions as her body celebrated its ability to give pleasure, an ability she knew God had given her.

This afternoon the shadows lengthened. Dancers paused in their labors from time to time to add more wood to the fire. The warmth of the afternoon had begun to fade. It would be cold as soon as the sun left. At the same time, the dances would become more frenzied and those dancing would leave their inhibitions and the straightjacketed behavior required of them at other times of the year behind and would let themselves be guided by the urgencies of physical arousal.

Sandrine moved her hand up and stilled it for a moment over Roger’s heart. She felt its rapid beats and smiled to herself. He was young. He wouldn’t die from a heart attack, she was pretty sure. She moved her hand further up to his neck once more. His skin was warm, almost hot, to her touch. It began to darken quickly now, but she could make out his smile. His eyes were closed. Good. That would let him imagine and try to anticipate whatever it was she would do next.

Without speaking she pressed her lips against his. Chapped. His lips were chapped and were rough against hers, but she gently pushed to get him to part his lips enough for her to move her tongue inside to find what it sought. When he responded she moved her hand once more down his torso to his waist.

She broke the kiss but didn’t move her mouth away from his. “Roger, I love to kiss you.” She felt rather than saw him nod. He made a little “Um” sound, that was all. Beside them, Sandrine heard Amélie’s quiet cry in orgasm. It was followed by a grunt from Gérard as he emptied himself into her.

Sandrine felt Roger’s hardness from the outside of this clothing. There would be time later to find a way to press her skin to his, she knew that. For the moment her goal was to relieve him of his misery. Part of her woman’s mind wanted to keep him wanting, to leave him frustrated, but she knew that game was one fraught with hardship and danger. No matter, right now she stroked him firmly through his clothing. When he gasped and pushed himself against her hand and attempted to rut on her fingers she kissed him again and put her tongue as far as she could into his mouth. All of a sudden he cried out into her mouth and thrashed against her fingers and she felt heat and a little wet under her fingers.

No matter, she had brought a cloth. She wouldn’t let him suffer in cold wet clothing for long. “Quickly, Roger, just as we did before, remember?” She pressed the cloth into his hands and felt rather than saw him adjust his clothing and put the cloth over his manhood. He had not shrunk appreciably, it appeared, and after he moved the cloth around a little he apparently found a way to dry himself enough for comfort.

“Good,” Sandrine said. “Kiss me again, Roger.”

Tentatively his lips sought hers. A light pressure, his roughness itself transmitted itself first to her lips and then directly to her center. She felt herself moisten even more and she moved her legs to relieve some of the tension. That provoked a protest from Amélie.

“Easy, Sandrine! I’m right here.” A giggle followed her protest. “So is Gérard. He’s watching you.” Sandrine felt Amélie shift and she heard murmurs behind her. Another giggle. “He likes what he sees, Sandrine.”

Her loins trembled and her belly began to warm. Her own heart began to beat faster when Roger’s tongue returned to explore. Sandrine could not see them but she knew Amélie and Gérard reclined behind her. With her free hand Sandrine moved to the fastenings Roger’s shirt. She undid more of his buttons and felt the heat of his bare flesh, his young and smooth and soft flesh, where she stroked him and let her fingertips transmit his heat and ardor to her head and her heart and her center.

His nipples stood stiff the way hers did when they were rubbed or kissed or sucked. She felt him shudder and draw a sudden breath when she tweaked the nearest one. His tongue stabbed her then, stabbed her wet and fierce and she yielded, but only for the moment.