Cold water

“I’ve got one!” I cried wading up the low stream, hand extended, to reveal the striped surface of a chunk of agate, glistening in the sun. I rested one hand on Ryan’s sun warmed chest to steady myself as he turned the rock over in his long fingers, nodding in appreciation, before handing it back. “There’s quite a good strip of gravel down there, why don’t you join me?” I glanced over at the remains of our picnic lunch, half in shade now as the sun had moved lower on the horizon. “Our stuff should be alright here, there’s still no-one around.” I nodded toward the metal sieve lying in the grass next to Ryan’s discarded Doc Martin’s. “Do you want to get the sieve, the gravel is fairly fine.” Ryan nodded assent, hauling his long frame over the small embankment toward the car, while I began the careful wade back downstream toward the willows and the gravelly inlet where I had found the agate.

My skin had warmed up as I stood next to Ryan in the sun, so the shadowy water under the willows felt surprisingly cold on my calves as I ducked under the low hanging branches intent on reaching the inlet I had found on my earlier reconnoiter. I shivered a little, nipples perking under the thin cotton shirt I wore as the shadowy branches enclosed me further.

This was the second time we’d come here looking for semi-precious stones, and it was fast becoming a favorite spot. Close enough to the city that we could reach it in an hour, secluded enough that we could combine our interest in collecting gemstones with an even greater interest in fucking outdoors, especially now that the weather was warmer. As usual, the drive had been one long  furious process of arousal, as we alternately stroked, rubbed, tweaked, fingered and provoked each other. Today I had had the dangerous delight of trying to drive safely along the winding country roads, while toying with Ryan’s deliciously rampant cock, freed from the confines from his tight jeans. In retaliation he had undone my zipper wriggling his hand down the front of my jeans to tease me through the cloth of my undies with probing fingertips. My attempts to shut my legs against this provocation while still operating brake and clutch, proved to be quite a challenge as Ryan continued to finger me through the wet cloth, despite my increasingly desperate protests.

I had barely had time to bring the car to a halt in the clearing near the stream before he was tugging at my thighs, keen to get his hands on and into my cunt properly. Equally impatient I had scrambled over the gear stick to reach his side of the car, helping him wrestle my jeans  down to the floor, before frenetically straddling his body. “You crazy bastard! One day you’ll get us killed!” I cried impaling my wetness on the length of him. “I nearly ran the car off the road just before we turned onto the bridge!” He laughed and thrust up into me in retaliation, and I pulled back and bit his shoulder through his t-shirt, hard, the polyester fibre of the cloth squeaking against my teeth. He grabbed my hair, pulling my head away and spat in my face. “Don’t wreck my t-shirt, you little bitch!” he cried, digging his fingers into my backside to hold me in place before thrusting up into me again. I spat back, tearing my thighs and hips away from his, holding myself poised over his tip before slamming myself down hard down  his shaft, digging my fingers into his waist, deliberately provoking him, eyes narrowed and snarling “Stop complaining and fuck me then, you bastard!” and bit him again…

Lunch was a comparatively matter of fact affair, as we turned out minds, bodies and libidos toward food and geology. As before we spread out to look for likely places to fossick, Ryan returning to a patch of shingle we had successfully explored on our previous visit, I, venturing downstream through the shallow water, toward the tunnel of willows…


Wading up onto the pebbles for the second time that day, I turned to see where Ryan was, expecting he would not be far behind me.

“Ryan? are you coming?”

I could see the dark shape of his body outlined against the vivid green of the sunlit willow curtain, but he made no reply to my call.


No reply.

“Hellooo, Earth to co-pilot, come in co-pilot…”

Huffing a little at his silence but also a little perturbed, I ventured back into the opaque water, my eyes fixed on the outline of my lover standing motionless under the darkened canopy, metal sieve in hand. As I moved closer I could see his gaze directed downward to a spot a little way in front of him, and slowed cautiously. What was in there? Grateful that I had on canvas shoes, to provide some protection for my feet now barely visible in the murky water; appreciative that my rolled up jeans provided some protection for my vulnerable parts, I tried to discern what had captured his attention. Could it be a relic from the mining days, or, and here I stopped in my tracks – some sort of water snake or a giant freshwater lobster. And yet none of those things could account for the look of terrified fascination I could now see on his face. Ryan had been a bush kid, snakes, lobsters and mining relics held no fear for him. He had ventured into the darkness of long abandoned deep mines in the teenage years before we’d met, sometimes with his mates, sometimes (the thought horrified me) alone, leaving no word where he had gone.


Approaching from the side, I touched his arm, and a shudder ran through him.

“Ryan? What is it?”

He dragged his gaze from the water and looked across at me, eyes haunted.

“We have to get out of here,” he said, grabbing my hand and tugging me back toward the car. “We have to get out of here, now!”

Breaking through into the sunlight he pushed his way through the water, dragging me in his wake. We scrambled up the bank together, my protests silenced by my own adrenaline rush of fear at his strange behaviour. Grabbing his boots and the picnic basket, Ryan threw them and the sieve in the back seat of the car and wrenched open the passenger side. I scrambled into the drivers seat, picnic blanket in hand, hell bent on getting away too, feet squelching in the canvas runners.

“Take them off!” Ryan reached toward my sodden feet.”Take them off, now! Leave them here.”

Impelled by the fear in his eyes I obeyed, dropping the shoes into the grass, before slamming the door, and turning the key in the ignition.

Ten km’s down the road we crossed the last bridge, roaring up the hill and onto the plateau. As we broke into broader bowl of sky and grass, Ryan seemed to finally relax, and I pulled into a lay-by and turned off the engine. We sat in silence for a moment, before I ventured to question him.

“Ryan, what was that? What the hell happened back there?”

He slowly turned toward me, shaking his head wearily. “I don’t exactly know.” he said. “It was like there was an ancient spirit, looking up at me through the water. It felt like she was trying to get inside me, trying to take me over.”

Ice trickled up my spine, a prickling stirred the back of my neck.

“What did she want?” I asked, trying to sound normal and rational, fighting the urge to turn the key again and head somewhere bright and warm and full of people.

He passed one hand over his face in a gesture of weariness.
“I really don’t know.” he said flatly. “But I do know we should never have gone there fossicking, can never go back there again. And I think we should stay away from water for a while.”

I nodded, belatedly realising why I’d been required to sacrifice my cheap canvas shoes, grateful that the moisture that had leaked out from them seemed to have been swallowed up by the carpet.

Later that night, dressed in warm clothes, we shared take away pizza, put on Jane’s Addiction, and Ryan played his bass while I worked on the computer, talking intermittently about plans for the following weekend, avoiding all mention of the day. Ryan seemed to have recovered from the terror of the afternoon, and I put the incident in the “too hard basket”, along with other fey mysteries which occasionally surfaced in relation to this complicated man with the celtic colouring.

Venturing into the dimly lit bathroom for a pee, I tripped on something soft in dark realising as I did so that I had not picked up the jeans I had discarded when we returned home earlier that afternoon. Reaching down to gather them up, something shifted and fell from the fabric, this movement followed by a sharp pain in my foot as a hard object landed on my big toe.

“Fuck! Oh Fuck!”

Ryan was at the door in an instant, turning on the light, as he ventured in behind me, his voice sharp with alarm.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

I straightened up, releasing my bruised toe, my eyes watering in pain. “It’s ok,” I said softly, trying to meet his eyes in the mirror. “I was picking up my jeans and this damned rock fell out of my pocket. It landed on my foot. Right on the fucking joint! I’ll be ok in a minute.” My words faltered, as Ryan’s expression of concern changed once again to one of sick fascination.

“Ryan? Ryan!”
“She’s here again,” he said, adams apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “I can see her in you, in your eyes, in your tears.”

I turned my gaze from his stricken face and stared back at my own watery reflection in the mirror. Then I placed the rock gently on the edge of the bathroom basin, backing away slowly and carefully…





This story is based on strange events which occurred when Ryan and I were fossicking about 23 years ago. I still don’t know what that situation was all about. I ventured back to that place a couple of years ago, only to find it’s wild nature greatly impinged upon by rural developments. However, I can’t help but wonder if a there is a spirit still  lurking in the stream or if it was all a fantasy brought on by too many hormones…

The spitting was an erotic activity Ryan and I picked up watching Gadjo Dilo. (Now there’s another movie I need to watch again)!

The memory was triggered as I played around with a photograph I took for Masturbation Monday. Something about the greenery outside the window reminded me of the willows, then when I saw the lovely spooky entries the others had made I cast around for an idea and there it was looking at me out of the mirror of the past… I hope you like the story and the pic. Since my face was a tad too visible I used my go-to free editing site ipiccy to add the crazing which in some way reflects the craziness of that day.

I had decided to post this as my entry for #Smutober/cold and only thought about adding it to Wicked Wednesday just before posting. Then I saw this weeks prompt… How spooky is that!





15 thoughts on “Cold water

  1. What a glorious spooky and erotic story Indie.You weave such a wonderful tale which leaves me in total admiration.(Not to mention a state of arousal) Your characters are so believable and whether they are fossicking or fucking it’s just so very real. x

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  2. It’s a wonderfully written tale, enough so that I can well picture everything that happened in my mind’s eye. Obviously, you have an artist’s eye for detail! I’ve had a few select moments in life along the same lines, so can relate to the ‘occult’ feeling you describe. There are ancient spirits in the world, some are easier to feel than others, but they do exist, of that I’m sure. Very well done!

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    • Thanks Michael. I’m convinced of that too Ryan and I seemed to attract their interest on more than one occasion. I’d forgotten a lot of it. Writing about our relationship has really stirred up a lot for me had a very difficult day yesterday…


    • Thanks very much, I appreciate your feedback. Unfortunately I’m a bit stuck on starting the next one, though I’m sure it will come eventually… Indie x


  3. Wow this is great! I love the way you write- it’s a really special skill to keep a reader engaged (I appreciate this so much more after doing a creative writing course). Although the reason that you write is fab- I feel you and I have a lot in common, and I think the journey we’re on into exploring sexuality is one of the best there is!

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