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From: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@ANTISPAMananzi.co.za>
NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Oct 2002 13:59:42 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} {Song Fest} Housewife, 1946: Franschhoek, Father Ignatius (MF rom <*>)
Date: Sun, 10 Nov 2002 00:10:08 -0500
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Housewife, 1946: Franschhoek
Father Ignatius
FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za
MF rom <*>
(c) 2002

-----

An entry in the "Song Story Challenge" of ASSTR's Song Stories Festival,
10th November 2002.

This story appears by kind permission of www.ruthiesclub.com where it first
appeared as part of the "Housewife, 1946" series.

-----

Marianne dreaded telegrams. Everyone did. The Great War taught her parents'
generation to hate them, and they taught her generation. Hundreds of
thousands, perhaps millions, of telegrams blighted lives and loves and homes
and dreams with the words, "THE WAR OFFICE REGRETS TO ADVISE OF THE DEATH IN
ACTION OF..." For a whole generation, the arrival of a telegram was a
bombshell.

The new war cruelly reinforced the prejudice for that generation and for
their children. Now The Bomb was come, and the world was a more dangerous
place than ever before. Why would anyone spend telegram money on good news?
What decent person would needlessly cause the recipient such distress?

Sympathetic and experienced in these matters, the post-woman dallied after
handing over the mail. She knew Marianne might need someone with her when
she opened it. Unthinking, though, in her rising agitation, Marianne shooed
her away. When it was too late, she regretted the woman's departure.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she called after her, but it was too late.
Marianne wanted to run after her, to bring her back. She dithered until it
didn't matter any more.

She then had to dither about something else, to hold the dread moment at
bay. She fussed about the immaculate kitchen, trying to find something to
do, something to clean, something to tidy up. Something to make her too busy
to attend to idleness like opening the post to discover if the respectably
married woman was a respectable war widow.

"I'll just have a nice cup of tea," she said defiantly, and put on the
kettle. While it boiled, she tried not to think about, tried not to look at,
the thin, orange envelope with the tracing-paper window. Maybe if she
ignored it, it wouldn't be there. Maybe she should call her mother. No,
she'd take too long to come. Warm the pot. Two spoons of tea. Let it draw.
Is it ready yet? _Why won't this damned tea draw?_ Sobbing, she snatched at
the cheap, frail orange envelope. It wasn't sealed, and the dirty white
manila telegram fluttered out.

"POSTING CANCELLED STOP RETURNING CARNARVON CASTLE DEMOB KAAPSTAD LOVE
JANNIE"

The Bomb had stopped the war. The Bomb meant Jannie wasn't, after all, going
to the hellhole of Burma. The Bomb, paradoxically, had made the world a
safer place. How could that be?

Jannie had survived fighting Rommel in the Sahara Desert. Jannie had
survived the invasion of Italy. He went ashore at Salerno and fought up the
spine of Italy. He had helped build the Springbok Bridge, and he had seen
Rome liberated. And that was enough. Jannie wouldn't have to survive the
jungle-green Burmese hell against the stubborn, suicidal, hated Japs.

He was coming home, to demobilize. The war was over. Life could begin again.
Relaxing military censorship had allowed Jannie to send a good-news
telegram--and he had saved a shilling by saying Kaapstad instead of Cape
Town.

"He'll be home for Christmas," she thought, "God bless The Bomb." And then
she cried, and then she called her mother.

He wasn't home for Christmas, or even--just--the New Year, but at least she
didn't have to lie awake at night, begging God to keep the torpedoes from
his ship. The cursed U-boats had gone, at last. A couple of them had even
startled the burgers by popping up inside Cape Town harbor to surrender.

With military censorship gone, Marianne knew Jannie's ship, she knew the
arrival date--2nd January--and she could wire the Carnarvon Castle "WILL BE
WAITING DOCKSIDE LOVE MARIANNE." She wanted to say so much more, but a child
of the Great Depression knew to save shillings wherever possible.

2nd January--_die Tweede Nuwejaar_, the Second New Year's Day, the great
Cape holiday--was the day that Jannie would come home to her. Starting long
before dawn for her journey down to the coast, she dressed with care in the
dress he had most liked her to wear-the creamy yellow one with the big, bold
poppy pattern. It was now washed-out and worn, but no worse than the rest of
her clothes--or anyone else's--at war's end.

    _Duke's son--cook's son--son of a hundred kings--
    (Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)_

chanted Marianne as she drove down to the coast. When she finally got to
Cape Town, she parked the 1935 Chevrolet on Adderley Street outside the
railway station. She took her bag into the ladies' public lavatory and
carefully donned her jealously hoarded last pair of nylons. There had been
no point risking snagging them on the long drive down to the coast. Using a
matchstick to gouge out the last scrapings of her last lipstick, she
carefully applied the scarlet and lipped a tissue to dab up the excess. She
combed and re-pinned her hair into slick, raven sweepings and put on her hat
and gloves.

She looked at herself dubiously in the mirror. She saw a respectably dressed
young matron. But would Jannie still think her pretty after all his years
overseas? He'd fought from Tobruk to the fall of Rome and just now spent
weeks in London, the sophisticated cosmopolitan capital of the British
Empire, awaiting the troopship to Burma. Would he still want the provincial
little _plaasvrou_ he'd married so hurriedly before shipping off to Suez,
Cairo, and the Desert War?

An older woman next to her by the mirror asked, in thick, rasping Afrikaans,
"You're coming to meet your man off the big ship today?"

"_Ja, tannie_," she acknowledged with the proper courtesy due to an elder.

"_Jy is baaie mooi_. You're as pretty as a flower in the veldt, my dear,"
said the older woman. "He's a lucky man. He won't be able to keep his hands
off you." She cackled lewdly and nudged Marianne.

"I hope so. He's seen a lot of the outside world since he last saw this
_plaas meisie_."

"_Ag, foie tog!_ He's here, isn't he? Let me tell you, my girl, the more a
man sees of the world, the more he knows that the best is at home."

Marianne faltered, and her head dropped.

"_Nie!_ None of that!" snapped the _tannie_. "Don't go spoiling your
make-up. Leave that to him. Come along now."

It was an elder, making a suggestion. It had the force of command. It was
only good manners to obey. The _tannie_ gripped Marianne's arm and marched
her firmly into the future.


* * *

_Tweede Nuwejaar_ meant the Coon Carnival, and the ship's arrival meant it
was happening down at the dock. The brilliantly dressed troupes from
Muizenberg, from Green Point, from Rondebosch, from everywhere, were
competing in dancing and singing all the traditional Cape _liedjies_. As the
Carnarvon Castle steamed across Table Bay past Robben Island, the various
troupes ceased competing. Spontaneously they all sang _Daar kom die
Alibama_, the song that remembers the day the burgers of Cape Town watched
the Confederate raider _Alabama_ capture the US ship, _Sea Bride_, in Table
Bay.

"It's almost like two different songs," reflected Marianne. The _liedjie_
was more about celebrating carnal lust than the Confederate Navy. _Now why
is that?_ she wondered idly and pat, in her mind's ear, came her father's
dirty laugh and his voice saying, _Because, my girl, most of life is about
celebrating carnal lust_. "_Ag, nooit_," her mother would scold in reply.
Marianne stood thinking guilty thoughts about her own carnal lusts these
past years, alone in the bed where Jannie also belonged. She also tried not
to think of what Jannie had been doing thousands of miles away in Port Said
and Cairo and Italy and England.

Trying hard to brush the shameful and troublesome thoughts away, she craned
her neck, trying to pick Jannie out from the thousands of waving young South
African soldiers. They were crammed onto every possible perch on the huge
liner. The hooting tugs nudged the liner up to the quayside. She almost saw
him a hundred times, and waved anyway, like everyone else.

The demob process was slow, and the crowd filled the waiting time singing
_liedjies_ with the minstrels and dancing _langarm_, two-stepping sedately
in the sweltering midsummer heat of the Cape New Year. The elderly fathers
and the sons too young to serve were heavily outnumbered, and perhaps for
the last time, many ladies danced with each other in the wartime fashion.

For leaving his family and risking his life abroad, each demobilizing man
received a suit of civilian clothes and a suitcase, courtesy of a grateful
Empire. A huge dockside warehouse had been turned into an enormous gents'
outfitters. The men trickled out, some looking awkward in their new civvies,
and some defiantly still in uniform. As each appeared from the dark shed
door, squinting into the sunlight there would be a scream of delight from a
mother, a wife, a _fiancee_, a sister... A torrent of family members would
fight their way to the front rank for hugging and kissing and crying and
gruff handshakes and shoulder slapping. Eventually, the group would move off
to a celebratory lunch, the journey home, civilian life, the future.

After two hours, many families had long left. Marianne was sweltering and
grateful for her wide, shady hat. Her legs sweated clammily in her nylons.
She was beginning to wonder how to check if Jannie was on the boat at all,
when a familiar figure appeared framed in the dark shed door. He was still
dressed as a soldier, with khakis and boots and webbing belt, but he wasn't
a soldier any more. They had taken away his rifle and they couldn't
discipline him for having his beret rolled up and stuffed into a khaki
shoulder strap instead of on his head as per regulations.

He seemed taller than the Jannie she remembered. The boy-next-door who
married her on his way to Tobruk had filled out strongly to full-grown
manhood. He was carrying more muscle and his carriage was more confident,
but there was no mistaking the tilt of his hips, the angle between his jaw
and neck, as he stood, blinking, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed
to the harsh, white sunlight.

He scanned the crowd, eagerly, smiling hopefully and not seeing that his
wife had stepped two steps beyond the front rank, waiting for him. Waiting,
hands clasped before her over her handbag, ankles together, in her full,
three-quarter-length poppy dress with the bodice. Her impeccably nyloned
toes peeked through her strappy Sunday-go-to-meeting high-heels, which had
been the height of pre-war fashion. She hoped her seams were still straight.

"Marianne!" He dropped his kitbag and his stupid new cardboard thank-you
suitcase and ran to gather her up. She hugged him fiercely, thinking, _He's
much stronger than he was_. He surprised her by pulling her hat off roughly,
dragging it back so he could kiss her scarlet mouth. The kiss was urgent,
demanding, rough. _He never used to kiss like that_, she thought.

He clasped her powerfully to him, crushing her breasts, and she hugged him
back, thinking _His chest is bigger, even_. To her embarrassment, he pushed
hard at the small of her back and pressed his crotch into her belly. She
felt the iron bar of his erection pressed against her and blushed for him
doing it in public. She felt shame for his crudity and shame for the
answering flickering tongue of flame it lit in her belly. Her man was back
and she wanted to get out of the public eye, to escape the embarrassment of
his behavior, to have him urgently to herself where there was no
embarrassment.

"Oh, Jannie," she said, when at last she could speak, "Oh, Jannie."

Too long separated, they did not know now what to say to each other. They
stood hand in hand, watching the prancing, dancing Fishhoek minstrels pass
by, singing _Sarie Marais_.

"The Yanks think that's their song," he said. "Only they play it slower.
They call it _Ellie Rhee_."

"_Ag, so_?"

He collected his kit bag and suitcase and they walked across the car park to
the old Chevy, his heavy Army boots crunching loudly against the tarmac. At
the car, she automatically handed him the keys and climbed into the
passenger seat.

"Shit," he said, coaching it to chugging life, "this car needs a tune."

"It drinks petrol. I had to bake _melktert_ for Hannes to get enough petrol
to come here today."

"For _melktert_ that _skelm_ could have tuned the car and saved the bloody
petrol."

_He never used to talk like that_.

He put a big, sunburned hand on her thigh. She jumped a little, so
unaccustomed had she come to being touched. He was looking at her. She had
forgotten his eyes. How could she have forgotten his green, green eyes, with
the whites so white, showing all the way round the iris?

_He never used to look at me like that. Yes, he did. No, he didn't. Not like
that_.

"So, _mevrou_, are we in a hotel somewhere?"

She laughed. "We are not. There is not one hotel room to be had in Cape
Town. The whole of South Africa, it seems, came to meet your ship."

She hesitated, uncertain now, in their strangeness, of herself.

"I have a picnic hamper in the boot," she said, "I thought we might go to
that farm in Franschhoek. You know, where..."

He knew. Where they had said good-bye on the way to taking him to the
troop-ship to Suez. She was trying to play the tape backwards. He knew,
guided the car out of the car park, and pointed its nose towards the
distant, blue Hottentots-Holland Mountains. As the ill-tuned car chugged
into the scenery, the newlyweds of many years' standing began the task of
getting to know each other again. They started by making conversation, by
chatting politely like strangers at a dance.

He concentrated on his driving until they were clear of the city. When they
hit the long, straight road that led past the distant Helderberg to the
pass, his big warm hand appeared again on her thigh, and this time, she did
not jump. She liked the feel of his hand, and moved closer to him on the
seat so she could reach to put her hand on his thigh, too. Through the
thick, rough khaki, she felt the muscles of his leg move as he changed
gears.

"That's a nice feeling," she said.

"_Ek, ook, skat_," he replied. Me, too.

She pressed a little on his leg, and rubbed her hand up and down. _I am
stroking my husband's leg like I stroke a cat. How odd. How silly. Maybe I
can make him purr_? Lost in thought, she was a little startled to hear him
gasp. She looked up. He was looking at her speculatively.

_She never did that before._

"Trying to interfere with the driver's concentration?" he grinned.

She noticed a tenting in his trousers. Oops.

"Shall I pull into a lay-by?"

She blushed. "You will do no such thing. Keep your eyes on the road."

But she moved again a little closer to him, so she could put her arm around
his shoulders. That meant that the other hand appeared on his thigh. He took
his eyes off the road and turned to kiss her. The blare of an oncoming
hooter got his attention back.

"This journey is too long," he complained good-naturedly. "We should have
tried Rondebosch Common."

She snorted at his preposterous suggestion.

"This will be better," she said. "You just wait."

"I can't wait. What am I waiting for?"

"All good things come to those who wait."

His steered with one hand, put his hand back on her thigh, and imitated her
cat-stroking movements. She played with his hair. It was too long. If he
wasn't coming up for demob, the army would surely have given him a
short-back-and-sides. He slipped his hand down to her knee, down her calf,
and hooked a finger round the hem of her dress. He glanced sidelong at her,
checking if she would object. She contented herself with staring boldly at
him with a slight mischievous smile, and he was encouraged gently to draw
back the hem of her skirt.

    _So slowly, slowly he came up,
    And slowly he came nigh her,_

sang Marianne teasingly.

"_Ja_, for sure he wanted to _naai_ her," said Jannie coarsely.

"_Ag, vuil_!" she said, and flounced back across the seat away from him. But
she wasn't really cross, and by the time the passed the Helderberg, she was
back next to him and the hem of her dress was halfway up her thighs and
retreating steadily. As the badly tuned Chevvie struggled into the foothills
of Sir Lowry's Pass, his fingers finally encountered her knickers.

The chugging car wavered on the increasing gradient.

"Change gears for me," he said, urgently, reluctant to use his hand for
anything else. Giggling, she grasped the gear lever and changed down to
third while he depressed the clutch.

"Oh, my, that's nice," she said. A little while later, they had to change
down to second as they neared the top of the pass and entered the winelands
of Franschhoek--"the French place"-- where the Huguenots settled.

"Change down again," he said, "My hand's got stuff on it."

"_Ag, vuil_!" she said again, but she changed down and didn't flounce this
time.

Jannie had been away for so long, but still he noticed himself automatically
slowing the car to a crawl as they turned from the strip road in through the
wide _plaas_ gateway, blinding white in the savage summer sun. It was good
manners to drive very, very slowly through vineyards, to keep dust off the
grapes.

She watched him, with endearing schoolboy furtiveness, wipe his hand on his
backside as he went up the garden path to the old Cape Dutch _plaashuis_. He
also took his beret from under his shoulder strap and put it on his head so
that he could bare his head when the motherly, aproned _plaasvrou_ answered
her front door. Marianne hastily put her hat on tried to compose herself so
she could nod politely, as one respectable married woman to another, when
Jannie gestured back at the car as part of explaining what he wanted.

When the door opened, it revealed the _tannie_ who had comforted the
doubting Marianne in the ladies' lavatory at Cape Town station that morning.
Seeing Jannie's uniform, she realized immediately that he was fresh off the
Carnarvon Castle. The big, round motherly woman beamed, clasped the
embarrassed Jannie in a bear hug, and gave him a smacking kiss. She called
back into the cool darkness of the house and her husband appeared to shake
Jannie's hand. The _tannie_ bustled off into the gloom and Marianne could
see the _oom_ nodding vigorously in a friendly manner to Jannie. Clearly
there was absolutely no problem with returning soldiers and their wives
swimming in, and picnicking by, his rock pool.

Only when Jannie was coming back down the path did the _tannie_ recognize
Marianne sitting in the car. Her eyes took on an appraising look. Behind
Jannie's back, she threw Marianne a look of something firmer than
encouragement and made a little gesture that the men used to set the sheep
dogs onto the flock. It was an elder, making a suggestion. It had the force
of command. It was only good manners to obey. Marianne smiled and nodded
obediently. Jannie didn't see.

The protesting Chevy struggled the mile or two down the dirt road. Marianne
had to get out twice to open and diligently close gates. They carried the
picnic hamper and the blanket down the steep, winding path to the pool's
edge. They stood on a huge boulder on the edge, looking down, many yards
deep, into the clear, shaded water. Marianne remembered from their last
visit that the water would be wrenchingly, bitterly cold despite the baking
sun.

They stood with their arms about each other on the great boulder. Marianne
was what she called "all hot and bothered" from Jannie's ministrations of
the drive up the pass and waited impatiently for his ardent overtures to
continue. He took her in a gentle hug, kissed her deeply and stood looking
down at her with his green, green eyes. That was nice, but it wasn't enough.
Hinting, she hugged his buttocks and pressed her groin into his, feeling the
urgency of his need, but he didn't respond.

Seeing her puzzlement, he said, "We can't. Not yet. The _plaasvrou_ is
sending us a basket with the _kleurling_."

"_Ag, kak_!" she said, frustrated and irritated into unladylike crudity by
the _plaasvrou_'s well-meaning hospitality.

_She never used to talk like that_, he thought.

"It's miles. She'll take forever to get here."

He shrugged. Manners were manners, especially manners to a hostess and an
elder. Disconcerted by Marianne's change in mood, he took the blanket down
the bank to a place where a bather could scramble out of the pool. He spread
it over the reeds, and sat down on it to remove his boots and socks. He lay
back on the blanket and rolled around on it, crushing the reeds beneath into
a flat mattress.

"_Eina_!" he cried as a sharp fragment pierced the blanket. He rubbed his
crotch ruefully and looked up at her through his long eyelashes. She stood
on the boulder and looked down on him, laughing.

"Careful of that thing while you wait," she said.

He took off his shirt, lay back, and held his arms out to her.

"Come down here and help me wait," he said, and sang,

    _Nooi, nooi, die rietkooi, nooi,
    Die rietkooi is gemaak.
    Die rietkooi is vir my gemaak,
    Om daar op te slaap_!

She kicked off her shoes and threw them for him to catch. With infinite
care, she removed her precious last pair of nylons.

"That's a good start," he called approvingly.

Affecting disdain for his crudity, she carefully rolled her nylons and
putting them safe in her handbag. She slid down the big boulder, picked her
way carefully through the reeds to the blanket. Her slim, bare legs
straddled his khaki-clad ones. She kneeled down over him, her skirt
ballooning, and lay into his embrace, teasingly wriggling around to grind
her belly into his straining erection. His hands slipped under her skirt and
she felt him tugging at her knickers.

"Jannie! _Nie, man! Die kleurling kom_!"

"The _kleurling_ will take ages, more is the pity. And when she gets here,
you will be sitting quietly in your nice skirt. She won't know you have lost
your knickers in the bush."

He wrestled her to the ground, using tickling as a weapon, and, as she
screamed with laughter, forcibly removed her knickers and threw them into
the rock pool. A poor swimmer, she gasped in horror.

"I can't get those back..."

"Well, _vroutjie_," he said, "you'd just better be nice to me, then, if you
want me to get them for you."

There was a scuffling up the bank and the _kleurling_ appeared, panting,
with a basket.

"_Jislaaik_, you were quick," said Jannie to her.

"_Ja, baas_. The _tannie_ said to run fast-fast. And to be careful with the
basket. It's got the good glasses in it."

"All right. _Baaie dankie_. Here's a _bonsela_ for you for running so fast."

He gave her half-a-crown.

"_Baaie dankie, baas_. _Baas_, must I come back?"

"No, we'll come and say 'thank you' when we leave."

"Okay, _baas_."

The _kleurling_ scampered off.

"Now I have you to myself," he said, and lunged for her.

"Wait!" she said. "Be careful! Just look at these glasses!"

The basket had a bottle of the farm's own wine, chilled and beaded, a huge
bunch of grapes, a bowl of _litchis_ and two exquisite Czech crystal wine
glasses.

"_Lewe Here_," she said. "She really wants us to enjoy ourselves."

"Well, let's do that," he said. "Wine later. Afterwards."

He stood up, unclasped his webbing belt, unbuttoned his khaki drill
trousers, and kicked them away with his bare feet. His ridiculous army issue
underpants followed them into the bush. Naked at last, he took her in his
arms. She felt his hands fumbling at her dress. He undid the fiddly little
hook-and-eye at the top of the zipper and drew the zipper tab swiftly down
her back.

_He was never able to do that from in front before_, she thought.

And, without fumbling, he undid the three clips of her bra.

_And he certainly didn't used to be able to do that so slick_.

And he drew her dress down, collecting her bra smoothly on the way. She
stepped out of the crumpled heap. He stooped to pick it up and threw it onto
a bush where it wouldn't crumple.

_And he'd never even think of that._

He bent gently to her breasts and kissed them softly. _Oh, my_. His gentle
kisses traveled up her chest, her neck, her chin, until he was kissing her
softly, insistently, on her lips as he held her arms in his powerful grasp.
_O, aarde_... She could feel him hardening, his thickening erection
thrusting between them, nuzzling between her legs. She wanted him. _O, lewe
Here_, how she wanted him.

And then she gasped at the suddenness with which he threw her briskly
backwards into the bitterly cold rock pool. It was cold, so cold. When she
surfaced, panicking, she couldn't even take a breath, it was so cold, so
very cold. Knowing she was a poor swimmer, he jumped in next to her and she
grasped him round the neck with her full strength. She wrapped her legs
around his waist, and locked her ankles. He was dragged under by her and
struggled to kick back up to the surface for a gasping breath.

"Ah," he said, amused, "_now_ you hug me?"

She expected him to penetrate her at last but such bitter cold could defeat
the most ardent erection.

"So you don't want me after all?" she teased.

He swam awkwardly over to the pool edge by the blanket as she clung to him.
She wouldn't slacken her grip and he was forced somehow to crawl out of the
water carrying her, clinging under his belly like a baby monkey under its
mother's chest. He dragged her onto the blanket and lay covering her as they
shivered in the blazing sun. Her grasp never slackened; she pulled him to
her as tightly as she had strength. He breasts were crushed to his chest,
her pubis ground into his.

As they kissed, he felt the warming sun beating down on his back and on the
backs of his legs and he felt his erection burgeoning afresh. She felt it,
too. It could not be otherwise. It grew between her legs, forced reluctantly
down into the blanket. There was nowhere else for it to go. He yearned to
draw back and thrust forward into her. He tried to do it, but the tightness
of her gripping legs around his waist defeated him.

He saw the mischief in her eyes.

"Ah," she said, "_now_ you don't want me to hug you?"

He groaned theatrically and then, as she laughed, broke her grip with a
strength she did not anticipate. She found herself flipped over. One strong
arm, like an iron bar, appeared under her belly, propping her up in a
kneeling position. Was he going to take her like some beast in the field?

He yanked her, hard, first to one side, and then the other. Her knees
splayed out on the blanket, seeking for balance, and, in a flash, she felt
his belly on her buttocks, his weight pressing down on her, keeping her
knees spread open. She couldn't lift him. She heard his low, rumbling
chuckle and felt him pressing into her.

_He never knew that move before, that's for sure._

The eagerness to penetrate that she knew was also gone. Gently probing,
retreating, pressing, withdrawing, he teased and tormented her into becoming
more "hot and bothered" than she ever had been before. His one arm remained
rigid under her belly. With the other hand, he found her _tikkelaar_ and
rubbed it, gently but firmly, with a calloused fingertip.

"_O, aarde_. Jannie, that's so nice."

"Yes, I know," he said, and artfully started using his fingernail. It was
heaven. She felt herself dripping, and begged.

"Jannie, please. I can't wait any more. Please..."

And he again pressed against her, but did not retreat, and slid a little way
in.

"More. Please, Jannie. More."

He gave her more, and more, and more. He sank slowly and deliberately into
her while his fingernail kept remorselessly working at her _tikkelaar_. She
squirmed and wriggled but had nowhere to wriggle to. She felt the feeling,
the feeling she had yearned for all those years alone in Jannie's bed,
growing in her, and he hadn't even properly started. When, at last, he was
all the way in, he stayed in, gripping her hard and holding her still.

His finger changed to doing a sort of brushing tap on her _tikkelaar_, the
same movement, over and over, unvarying, exactly the same, like a metronome.
The whole of her universe collapsed slowly into her groin as she felt the
breaking of the wave come slowly closer. The muscles on the inside of her
thighs trembled and she stopped speaking coherent words and just gasped in
time with his tapping.

As the wave, exquisitely slowly, began to break, he stopped. She gave a howl
of deprivation and desperately ground herself backwards at him, trying to
find enough friction to bring her wave crashing down onto the beach. He let
her go and rested his hands on her waist, to help him balance against her
onslaught. He pressed slightly forward to meet each of her desperate
backward thrusts and held her gently while she sobbed and gasped until, at
length, the wave crashed. She buried her head against the blanket, in her
forearms, gasping.

But he was still stiff, granite hard, buried as deep in her as her could go.
And now, she realized, it was his turn. He rolled her over on the blanket,
lifting one leg high over his shoulder so he could rotate her without, for
one second, retreating the smallest distance from the depth he was plunged
into her. She ended up under him, with one leg crooked round his legs and
with him gripping the calf of the other, pressing it back against her torso.
She lay with her hands by her side, letting him do whatever he wanted with
her.

And then, while she was still feeling the last tremblings of the wave-smash,
he pulled slowly back until he was nearly out of her, and then pressed
slowly forward again. Slowly forward, slowly back. The last butterfly
flutterings in her belly were not allowed to die away but were kept stoked
as he moved slowly backwards and forwards within her. She became aware that
she wasn't taking breaths, and deliberately breathed out and breathed in.

He slowly increased the tempo while she squinted down her belly and watched
him pistoning in and out of her. His control slowly wore away and he began
breathing harder as he pushed quicker and more roughly in her and she became
aware of the approach of the next wave. Higher and higher it built, harder
and harder he thrust, grunting and sucking the air through his teeth until,
with the cry of a dying animal, he whipped the leg he held down over her
belly. Leaning his elbow hard on her thigh, he gushed into her, thrusting an
d sobbing, and his gushing brought her wave second down, smashing onto the
beach, as she gripped and scrabbled at the reed mattress through the
blanket.

_He double-damn'-certain-sure never, never, never, knew that before_.

If she'd discussed it with anyone--which she never could, of course--she
would have predicted an uncontrolled eagerness to spend himself and she
would have had to wait until another time for her turn. Not this.

He subsided on top of her, panting. She thought he had gone to sleep when he
grunted and rolled off her. He gathered her in his arms, all mischief gone,
and said,

"I love you, Marianne."

"I love you, Jannie."

They slept in the sun and in each other's arms. When they woke, they talked
and talked and talked, of all that had been, before he went away and after.
When the force of this dam burst had, at last, abated somewhat, he took her
hand and guided her down his belly. She grasped him and he became hard again
as she played with him, experimenting with him. He lay on his back and
coaxed her on top of him.

"Be my jockey," he said. "Ride me home."

She mounted him carefully, thinking, _I never knew this before_. As she
slowly sank down him, he grasped her wrists firmly. When she had gone as far
as she could go, he pushed her up straight, even leaning slightly backwards,
and clenched his buttocks to thrust into her well as deep as could be. Her
head lolled back. Once again, she was finding it hard to breath as
slow-rolling waves of pleasure washed through her motionless body.

He relaxed slightly, retreating from this ultimate thrust. She hastily
flopped forward, pushing back, following him, desperate to have the waves
roll back. Again, he thrust; again, she straightened, searching for the
elusive pleasure. It flickered, coming and going in so fickle a manner that
she grasped his shoulders and ground herself down on him, rising and
crushing down desperately. Harshly, writhing, she rode him, breath hissing
in her teeth. Awed, he watched her, holding her torso in his hands, giving
her the support and balance she needed as she thrashed her head from side to
side, hair flying, eyes tight shut but leaking tears.

She couldn't ride him to a climax, though, and with a defeated, desperate
wail, she rolled off him, clawing at him to roll with her, not to leave her,
roll on her, pound into her until he blasted her to the relief she thought
she might never feel. As she cried out, he felt her clenching him, milking
him, and he erupted into her. She pulled him down on her, sobbing, returning
to her earlier baby-monkey grip.

_I never knew before that she could do that_, he thought.


* * *

Barefoot and tousled, they walked hand-in-hand through the gathering dusk up
the path to the _plaashuis_ to return the farmer's basket, the diligently
rinsed-out wine bottle, and the precious Czech crystal. Marianne was
uncomfortably aware that her rescued damp knickers were in her own hamper in
the boot of the car.

The _tannie_ raised her eyebrows enquiringly at Marianne. "Well?" was the
silent, woman-to-woman communication, "is all well?" A corner of Marianne's
mouth quirked up the tiniest bit and the fleetingest of shrugs said, "It
will be." The _tannie_ nodded, satisfied. That's as good as you get in this
life. Jannie and the _oom_, of course, were oblivious to the exchange.

"Wouldn't you two like to come in and have supper with us?" said the
_tannie_. "It's no trouble."

It was an elder, making a suggestion. It had the force of command. But...

"_Baaie dankie, mevrou_, but we must get home. His old _ma_ and _pa_ are
still waiting by their house to greet him."

"_Ag, shame_. Then of course you must go. And you two are going back home,
now, to build a new life?" She looked at them sternly, under raised
eyebrows, nodding to prompt their acquiescence.

It was an elder, making a suggestion. It had the force of command. It was
only good manners to obey.

"_Ja, mevrou_," they chorused obediently.

And they did.





-----

Lyrics:

"The Absent-Minded Beggar"
http://arthursullivan.20m.com/beggar.html

"Daar Kom Die Alibama"
http://users.erols.com/kfraser/confederate/songs/alibama.html

"Sarie Marais"
http://users.erols.com/kfraser/union/songs/sarie.html [Afrikaans]
http://usoc.snu.ac.kr/mp3-folksongs/around-world/around-text.htm [English]

"Ellie Rhee"
http://users.erols.com/kfraser/union/songs/ellie.html

"Barbara Allen's Cruelty"
http://www.bartleby.com/101/389.html

-----

* Skilfully and diligently edited by Alexis in Alaska.  Thank you, Lex.

* I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za, about
whether or not you liked this story, and why.

* My collected stories are hosted on my web site,
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/.

* Thank you for reading me.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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