Heaven And Earth

Once you’d been there a couple of times, the hole in the fence was fairly easy to find. I get Bill’s attention with a hiss, and move toward it.

It wasn’t really a hole, as such – it was more a spot where the earth had moved, and the fence hadn’t been long enough to reach down to it. They’d put it too near to a shallow stream bed, and during all that wet weather we had in the Spring, the bed had got wider.

I’d found the gap a few weeks previous, walking the dog out here in the woods, and I guessed we only had a couple more weeks before someone noticed it and sorted it out. But that was okay – this is England after all, and we probably only have a few more days of Summer left anyway, and then it’ll get too cold too quick to risk coming out here.

Staying low, I hold the skirt of the fence up carefully so that Bill can scramble under it. Bill’s carrying the booze after all, so it’s only fair. I note with relief that Bill’s pants are tatty and black – last time it’d been khaki and brand new, and I never heard the end of it.

It’s still a bit light out, so we keep low, staying out of sight behind the natural and the not so natural undulations in the landscape. This place has been shaped almost like a golf-course, with long, thin bunkers that could probably act as shallow trenches in a pinch. Bill is carrying the supplies, and takes care not to let the carrier bag move around too much, to cut down on the sound of glass clinking against glass.

We find a nice patch of ground, hidden a little more deeply behind a man-made mound, with some nice, tidy and untouched turf around us, and I put my coat down, flatten it out, so we can sit properly.

We don’t say a lot, worried about wandering bodies and sound carrying in the dusky silence. I take the Tescos bag off Bill and pull out the bottle of wine, and the two cheap glasses. I wonder aloud, but quietly, if we should call home, check in on the kids, but before I finish the query, she’s on me, her hot, wet mouth on mine, her tongue on my lips, stealing the words.

I get a second to think to myself that the babysitter will probably be fine, and that we’ve made this happen, put the effort in, and deserve the break. You have to make your peace, with a newborn in the house – it doesn’t come natural.

But then, she’s done something urgent and eager with my fly, and her hand is down the front of my jeans, and it turns out anticipation has been working it’s magic on me, because I’m coiled tight and unspool into her busy, tiny hand, and her breasts, bigger since the second baby, pushed urgently into my face, are only moving me further along.

There’s not been a lot of this. The first half of the pregnancy was so tense and tough, and we struggled to get back into the swing of things, even once Jodie got old enough that she could be left with the sitter. Once we found ourselves this little private sanctuary, though, it didn’t take Bill long to get her appetite back.

Small and shy in public, she’s always been a coiled and purring kitten once we were alone, and she’s no exception now. She won’t strip off completely, yet – she’s still not at home with the c-section scar, even though the doc did a bloody good job, we reckon, and she’s a miracle for losing baby weight, but she’s still preoccupied with what’s left. She’s worn that top that stretched loose over the last few months, mind, and pulled back like it is, I feel the swollen naked flesh of her against my cheek as she tries to suffocate me. She’s careful of her nipples, though… they’re still a bit sore from feeding.

I’m being careful of them too, so much that I didn’t notice her using her spare hand, the one not kneading and working me, to undo her own trousers. In fact, her hand and mouth have me so wound up that I don’t notice that she’s wriggled out of her pants and knickers until she’s pushed me down on my back – my shirt has ridden up, and I feel her nakedness as she sits across my exposed belly. She’s a trooper – her hand is still in place, and she’s yet to break the kiss for more then a few seconds, and even then only to drown me in her cleavage.

Even after all that time without, she’s not lost her touch, and she doesn’t skip a beat – before I can tell her that she needs to be careful with those nimble digits of hers if she wants me to play much longer, she’s scooped me out of my pants, and deep inside her – and it’s easy. Like it was the night we reckon Jodie was conceived. The way it always is and always has been with Bill and I.

This is her gig, as if that weren’t obvious. I mean, don’t get me wrong – I’m getting plenty from it. But I know that she’s still a little tender, and it worries me too much for me to push – I panic. She accepts that she has to take the lead, and she loves it, and all. So maybe we’re all kinky now.

She’s moving against me, around me, and everything’s out the window – the keeping quiet, the staying low, the being careful. She’s working me, faster and faster, when there’s a whistling sound, and the first explosion goes off, somewhere in the earth far off to the right of us.

Mortars? So they’re training with mortars this evening, are they?

The sudden shudder of worry slows down my impending climax, and she takes it as a good sign – she’s a lot less nervy then I am, but then it’s possible that she doesn’t understand about mortars. Or else she just knows and trusts, because I told her, how far away we are from the targets.

It’s army land, you see. This is where they do their target practice, and where the recruits get used to their heavy weapons before having to use them overseas.

Trainee snipers and rifle training is the safest, of course – they only shoot in straight lines, and the raised banks of earth that create bunkers, like the one we’re in, give cover from even the strayest shots, although at least once we’ve had dirt sprayed over us from a ricochet that hit the rise.

The same goes for most of the mid-range hand-held anti-armour weapons, like the rpgs and such, most of which will just fly over the top of our little trench here. Although if one of them goes off nearby, you could still lose a limb, and they make a fuck of a noise. The possibility of which, of course, adds to the thrill.

The really heavy artillery, they test elsewhere – despite the size of this place, the range of that stuff is far too long to be tested so near to civilisation – Cranwell Town, where we live, is only ten odd miles away, and the woods here are close enough that everyone and their uncle comes down and walks their dogs in them.

But mortars – they’ve got a weird arcing trajectory, and aiming them always seems to involve some sort of on-the-spot maths when you see it in films. I don’t trust it. They pack a punch, too – a near miss, coming straight down near you, could easily take you out.

Still, though, Bill doesn’t know all this, and even if she did – well, this is the point, innit? The spice that we had to add to our life together, to make either of us dare go near the other after the pain and heartache and difficulties that brought our beautiful Jodie to us.

Fuck knows, sex was the last thing on either of our minds after the birth, but this – the way we’re locked together now, the way she’s smiling down at me, even while her face is contorted and concentrating on bringing her own finish on, the way I know that I’m smiling back, despite that feeling like my teeth might break off against each other if I flex up any further – it’s how our bodies speak to each other, me and Bill. And that’s at least half the conversation between she and I. It’s how we stay knowing each other this well.

And that’s the other thing, isn’t it? The baby, god, we both love her so much. But the pregnancy – it was so hard on Bill, and there was no way that I could relate, or she could share it with me. Not without her stamping on my nuts every five minutes for six months, while telling me I was ugly, fat, stupid and worthless over and over, as she so charmingly once put it.

Once the pain was over, she was so tired, and to be fair to her, she shook it off pretty fucking well, and got past it quick. But we were struggling to reconnect, on anything except cooing over Jody, and that was too much difference from how our life is supposed to be.

Coming out here – fuck, I don’t even know who first suggested it. Sex might not even have been on the agenda at the time. I think she was just curious at first, to find out more about the hole in the fence, and the dangerous world to which it led. It was all her, and she’s pretty smart, of course, so maybe she already knew what this place could end up meaning to us.

But course I might not be making a lot of sense. I’m balls deep in my beautiful, apparently hyper-ventilating wife, and she’s peppering kisses on my face in that way that tells me she’s almost there, and if it was the risk of violent death that got us worked up enough that we could be here, wrapped up in each other again, then fuck it.

A shell goes off too close, close enough that the flash fills my eyes, sweeps across my field of vision trailing dirt and vibration, and for a second I feel sick with horror, realise I can’t see her face. I’m convinced that I can’t see it because the blast took her head from her shoulders, and I can’t hear her moans any more, which adds to the fear.

But of course, I’m just confused, and her fingers clenching on tender, puckered skin don’t help. My vision swims back in at the same moment that my hearing returns, and I realise that she wasn’t making any noise, anyway. She’s in that last moment before her orgasm, when she’s only audible to dogs and hearing-aids, and fuck knows if it’s seeing her face on the cusp of angelic like that, framed as it is by repeated flashes of high-yield explosives in the sky behind her, or if it’s the relief, or the possibility of imminent death, or who knows? Maybe it’s the simple fact of her body pressed like a glove around my erection.

But whatever it is, she only cums a few seconds before me, and we’re still flexing and twitching together when she slumps down alongside me, her body still hooked to mine at the pelvis, my body stretched out to a melting point deep inside her. There’s an energetic barrage of mortar fire, like the afterthoughts after the grand finale of a November 5th display, and we simmer down to the crackle of dirt and gravel falling back to earth.

She wipes sweat off her face with the back of her arm, and then grins over at me.

“Fuck me!” she laughs.

“There’s an obvious response to that,” I sigh, suddenly knackered, “do I need to bother with it?”

“No, I mean…” and she laughs again, over the echo of explosions that are moving away from us, now, to a different part of the range. “I mean, fucking hell!”

I look over at her, nose wrinkled, quizzical. “What?”

“Well, I mean. The earth actually did move, didn’t it?”

I laugh, and pull her close, and ponder the night sky.

“Survived again, then.” I think aloud.

It’ll soon be time to go home.

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Nicolas Papaconstantinou
Nicolas Papaconstantinou is an enthusiastic amateur creative type, and the chap behind Elephant Words. Be nice to him. He growed up kinda wrong.

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