Free Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown by Alan Daniels Page B

know of your lover
    Has he the arrow
    To pleasure your furrow
    And the wit to be quick with his quiver?
    Limerick by CM Jones Cambridge is cool. It ' s not the university and its timeless colleges, it ' s the ambience; students on bicycles, corduroy professors strutting around in a miasma of their own importance, townies, market criers, scruffy street musicians, flower baskets, eclectic conversation in the pubs and coffee shops, spontaneous craziness, lazy summer picnics on the banks of the River Cam. I love the history of it all, just being here, being part of it, excites me. This week marks the end of my final term and I know I ' m going to miss it.
    I am going out with a boy from my poetry group, Ryan Donovan, who truly has the soul of a poet. This afternoon he ' s taking me punting on the river and I ' ve packed a lunch for us and a bottle of wine. I have plans for Ryan Donovan.
    I ' m wearing a cotton frock embroidered with baby blue forget-me-nots, lightly gathered beneath my breasts so I don ' t need to wear a bra. I am not wearing panties either, although Nanny Burton says to always carry a pair in your purse because you never know when you might need them. I am reclining on pillows in the prow while Ryan, standing in the stern, poles us along. Most people, tourists mostly, never venture more than a couple of hundred yards from the landing, but my boy, the would-be rowing blue, is taking us to a place less travelled, beyond the end of the towpath, past civilization as we know it, where the river meanders unnoticed through fields of poppies that nod their heads at us beneath weeping willows. Steering close to the bank, he plucks a poppy, theatrically touches its scarlet petals to his lips and gallantly presents it to me. I thread it into my hair and reward him by laying back, closing my eyes and casually allowing the hem of my frock to ride up until I can feel the sun high up on my thighs. Then I sit up and rub on sunscreen, parting my long legs unashamedly in front of him, ignoring his presence as if he were invisible. He is sweating from the exertion which puts a sheen on his muscles. I can smell him, which heightens my lust, it must be the estrogen or pheromones, or something. When I look up, he is pretending not to notice, but our eyes meet and I can see from the bulge in his shorts that his attention was not only on the river. I sigh. This is so romantic. Mute swans show us that beautiful heart shape they make with their wings as they sail downstream like galleons before the breeze. I have a tiny image of swans tattooed at the base of my spine, a present from Nan for my 21st birthday.
    " Easy enough downriver, " I say to Ryan. " But what about when they have to swim upstream? "
    " They don ' t swim, silly, they fly, " he says, which is so obvious it makes me laugh. " You fly a lot, don ' t you, back and forth to Ireland ? Ever join the mile high club? "
    Okay, no subtlety there, you can tell where my mind is. I am so hot I can barely sit still. In fact at this juncture I ' m wondering if it ' s possible to do it in a punt.
    " Are you kidding? he says. " In one of those tiny little toilets? I wish. Closest I ever got was standby. " This makes us both laugh. " Well, here we are. " Expertly he brings the punt alongside the grassy bank and ties it to the branch of an overhanging tree.
    Ever her ladyship, I step ashore, Ryan trailing behind with the picnic basket.
    We have found ourselves in a grassy clearing secluded by mulberry bushes and elm trees where we lay out our blanket, the gentle swell of the river at our feet. It feels like there is no one to disturb us for miles around. For a few blissful minutes we lie silently together staring at the high summer clouds, listening to the river and the birds singing, breathing in the fresh air and the fecund smell of the countryside. We kiss, at first shyly, then passionately and when I feel his hand on my breasts I close my eyes, my nipples hardening to his touch. I turn