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The Well-Read American free porn video
Jack stumbles for real into some classic works of literature, with results he didn’t bargain for!
1/9
Jack Durvill was an accomplished professor of literature at the Missouri State University. Along with holding regular student tutorials in creative writing and appreciation, he often fulfilled guest-speaking roles at national symposia, and would supply publishers with critiques of authors and novels, for forewords and fly-covers of new print runs, and the like. Un-professorially outgoing and popular, Jack was as familiar with English classic ‘favourites’ like Dickens and the Brontës, as he was with more contemporary American ‘favorites’ like Steinbeck and Hemingway.
He had recently reached ‘the big 40’ years of age. His one failed marriage had ended in divorce several years earlier. Away from reading, writing and lecturing, only one pastime currently came close to competing with his pursuit of busty fun-loving female post-grads, and that was researching his genealogy.
So, he decided on a celebratory vacation in England. This would enable him to seek out his roots, and experience at first-hand its unique locations, to appreciate better what had inspired great writers to set their stories there. Jack had been once before to Britain, for a literary conference in London. On that occasion he ventured no further than the city limits, exploring the popular tourist hot-spots, Dickensian back-streets, museums and libraries, and a municipal building called Somerset House, where one can trace one’s family history.
His grandfather had maintained that the American Durvills originated as French colonists in the 17th century. But Somerset House and The British Library had indicated to the contrary, and that a similarly named family had held a seat in the West Country of England a good century later, but relinquished it following some sort of scandal.
2/9
Jack’s flight duly arrived at Heathrow. Being in the frame of mind he was, he decided to rename the airport Heathcliff, it having obvious associations with the Wuthering Heights that a Boeing 787 could achieve. His excitement overcame any jet-lag, and he immediately hired a car to transport himself via the Cotswolds and Shakespeare’s Stratford-on-Avon, to Somerset and Jane Austen’s dwelling in Bath, to Dorset for Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, and on to Devon, and Dartmoor — that beautiful, but brooding, eerie expanse with its notorious prison, and of course, Conan Doyle’s setting for his most famous Sherlock Holmes mystery.
By the fourth day, Jack had got the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road, and of making himself understood — initially believing, mistakenly, that everybody spoke the same mother tongue. To compound communication problems, dialects changed as he moved through one county to the next. But he was loving every minute, despite the quirky customs and unavailability of decent steaks or bourbon. He finally arrived at his Devon destination, where he was cordially welcomed at ‘Ye Old Stump Inn’, a lodging house in the unremarkable village of Fondleham-by-the-Brook, which lay between Bovey Tracey and Widecombe-in-the-Moor.
His genial hosts, the Glumms, Fred and Marge, showed him to their very best room. He suspected it was the only room, but no matter. The Park Lane Hilton it was not. But then, the Park Lane Hilton didn’t have characterful low beams on which one could merrily crack one’s skull, creaky floorboards the noise of which would waken the dead, or an atmosphere so thick with history and mystery one needed to swim one’s way through it to reach the bathroom which was way along the passage. After just one night, Jack decided he needed to go easy on the local Devon cider, if only to minimise the number of nocturnal trips down the corridor.
3/9
He mapped out his first full day on the moor, and after a hearty Glumm breakfast, threw his walking boots in the car, and set off, first to visit Princetown jail, then to search for the Hound of the Baskervilles. The prison museum was suitably gruesome, depicting Victorian conditions for incarcerated convicts and the barbaric violence perpetrated therein. Jack was fascinated to learn that, originally an overspill for prison-ships in the times of the Napoleonic wars, it also housed American POWs taken during the 1812 skirmishes. Few escaped from Dartmoor. In that respect, it was like Alcatraz, except that instead of being safeguarded by treacherous waters, it was surrounded by equally inhospitable moorland, with its freezing temperatures, disorientating mist, rain, bogs, sink-holes and wild creatures.
To the average holidaymaker, things would be looking grim, but Jack could only revel in the living atmosphere of the whole area, reasoning that whereas some locations were photogenic, others could be equally literagenic, if that was a word — he’d have to check, lending themselves readily to fictional fantasy. He drove back across the moor, and located the craggy hillock named Hound Tor, reportedly the site where the Baskerville legend originated.
On trudging back down from the Tor summit to the car park, where he and several other tourists had left their vehicles, he was reminded of the ever-resilient British sense-of-humour. A mobile café had arrived, serving hot food and drink to grateful hikers. Jack smiled wryly at the garish sign-writing on the side of the van, announcing its identity: ‘The Hound of the Basket Meals’. He wondered what Sir Arthur would have made of it.
At nearby Widecombe, merriment had been scheduled, in the form of visiting Morris dancers. To Jack’s untrained eye, this consisted of men and women dressed in frilly shirts and floppy hats, wearing bells wherever bells could be worn, waving handkerchiefs, and wielding sticks dangerously. This was all done to the lively music of someone playing a squeeze-box. Every so often, sticks would engage, resulting in a loud clack. And every so often someone would fall down, either injured, or drunk. Apparently it originated as a Pagan ritual. Jack sipped his scrumpy, a locally brewed cider, at least establishing the probable cause of the endemic inebriation.
4/9
Back in Fondleham, ignoring his waistline, Jack went into Mrs Plummett’s tea shop for a world-famous Devonshire Cream Tea, or so the sign claimed. (He couldn’t recall it being an actual household name in St Louis, Missouri.) It comprised of a pot of tea, accompanied by scones, thick cream and jam. Delicious. As was the voluptuous Mrs Plummett, in traditional costume for the benefit of the late-season tourists.
Jack explored the rest of the quaint village, which, admittedly, didn’t take much exploring. On turning back towards the inn, almost by chance, he came across the local museum. It was no more than one room in a tiny thatched cottage, housing mostly dull, rusting antique farming and household implements. Nevertheless, he wandered in for a browse. From nowhere, seemingly, a girl appeared. No surprise, she also was attired in authentic period costume, but it hung on her particularly well. She was mid-twenties, Jack guessed, and an absolute cracker.
‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles?’ Jack ventured, smiling, hoping to impress.
‘Sire,’ replied the girl, feigning a blush. ‘How generous ye be. Alas nay. Tessie Durberfield, of whom ye speak, is from an adjacent shire, many leagues thither. Her legen’ry beauty is admired by gen’lemen an’ coveted by maidens from all o’er the West Coun’ry, including myself. But please call me Tess if it amuses thee. ‘Twould indeed be a sweet enjoyment.’
What a find this was. It was as though he had stepped into the pages of an English classic. ‘Well, Tess, we do enjoy sweet things in America, you know,’ he said. Licking maple syrup off her breasts was actually what came foremost to mind.
‘Oh, pray do tell,’ she implored him. ‘Ye be from the colonies, methinks. Tell how it is, the New World?’
Oh, how he adored the charade. And there was Tess, playing her character so perfectly, so ch
armingly, so alluringly. How could Thomas Hardy have treated her so mean? Jack told her where he was from, and that he was researching Conan Doyle’s inspiration for the Hound mystery, as well as the origins of his own family, the Durvills.
‘Of Master Doyle, I know nay,’ she confessed. ‘Ne’er a gen’leman of this parish, am I certain. But of Lord Henry D’Urville, of course, all are surely familiar.’
‘Please continue, sweet delightful Tess.’ Jack imagined she may simply be humouring him, but didn’t see why he shouldn’t flirt back a little.
‘But the incident of Devil’s Crag, sire, ’tis well documen’ed.’ She led him past the minefield of museum pieces spread about the floor, and pointed out the old manuscripts, newspaper cuttings and maps displayed on the rear wall.
Jack’s loins stirred as she brushed past him, the linen of her chemise against his arm, the crinoline of her full skirt against his leg. Her demeanour, her purity — surely an angel sent to brighten his day. His life, maybe. One could wish, but right now he needed to concentrate. He read avidly the article from a time-yellowed page of the Tavistock Clarion, realising very quickly this was exactly where Conan Doyle had poached the Baskerville legend, which in essence was:
‘…young pretty serving wench abducted by debauched drunken hunting party… escapes their lustful clutches by fleeing across the moor at night… pursued by the said mounted huntsmen, with pack of hounds trained with her scent… the unnamed woman never seen again… Lord Henry found dead on Devil’s Crag, horror-struck expression etched on his face… reports of a monstrous hound of Hell…’
The girl waited until Jack had digested the text, then quickly added: ‘The report is confused, sire, there be inaccuracies of some consequence. ‘Twas in fact Squire Pidgen, the wicked master of the hunt who perished, at the hand of the noble Lord Henry, who gallan’ly strove in vain to save the maiden’s life. This good Henry D’Urville then fled into exile to avoid the gallows. Rumour has’t he did board a west-bound steamer at Bristol.’
Jack was enthralled. He needed more time to take it all in. ‘Look, Tess,’ he apologised, ‘I have to get back to the inn. Mrs Glumm is doing steak and ale pie, apparently just for me. It would be so rude if I was late. Will you be here tomorrow?’
‘Sire,’ replied the girl, as pleasantly as ever, ‘I am here constan’ly.’
5/9
Jack tucked into Marge Glumm’s pie. It was worth crossing the Atlantic for. He related his day’s adventures to her and Fred, who were only too delighted to be catering for such an unusual and colourful visitor. When he mentioned the episode in the museum, they listened intently, but looked doubtingly at each other.
‘Funny,’ Fred said, ‘museum’s not been open all season. We ‘ad the ‘ealth and safety people in from Tavistock — was a major fire ‘azard, risk to public life ‘n limb they said, oo-arr.’
Jack shrugged. Well, at least Jack knew one thing the locals didn’t. He did agree it was a fire-trap though. Remembering his resolution, he limited his evening nightcap to just one glass of ‘Stump Inn Special’, and bade goodnight to his hosts.
Judiciously calling by the bathroom first, Jack finally reached his room, where his comfortable bed beckoned. The events of the day were swimming through his brain, especially the museum experience. As he began unbuttoning his shirt, he suddenly became aware that he was not alone. He wheeled round, startled. But fright turned to delight. Pure joy, in fact. It was Tess from the cottage, dressed just as she was earlier, looking every bit as irresistible as before, with shining hazel eyes and a loving smile that would melt Alaska.
‘But my Lord Henry,’ she purred, ‘my sweetest redeemer, thou who hast captured my heart for eternity, allow a lowly peasant maiden to assist in thy task.’
On very few occasions was Jack lost for words, but this was one of them. She approached him, and finished unbuttoning his shirt. She gently tugged the tails out of his jeans and caressed his bare upper body with hands so warm and soft, his knees trembled and he thought he would crumple. Again, the material of her chemise had a magical effect on him, brushing tantalizingly against his wide chest.
Jack was consciously aware that he should have been thinking ‘Who is this girl who suddenly has popped up so brazenly in my bedroom?’, ‘Am I being set-up for some ruinous scam?’, ‘Am I taking advantage of someone who is vulnerable?’, ‘Should I be thinking in terms of taking precautions?’. Yes, he knew that’s what he should have been thinking. But he was helpless, and had never ever felt this way before.
As she continued to undress him, he peered down her halter-neck top at lily-white flesh leading to soft curves of young breasts, looking as though they’d never been touched. As his jeans fell to the floor, and she eased down his shorts, he was acutely embarrassed by his uncontrollable erection popping up and hitting her in the tummy. As her thin cotton skirt flicked against his legs, arousing him even further, he decided bizarrely that kissing her would somehow reduce his embarrassment. So he held her shoulders and kissed the sides of her neck. She tossed back her head, gasping, inviting his lips to her bosom, and downwards towards her pulsating heart.
She pushed him gently backwards, and he fell upon the bed. As he lay on his back, she removed his socks, and then pulled at some tie-strings, and one by one, each part of her costume slithered off her silken body onto the bedroom floor. Jack could hardly contain himself, being almost past the point where it was worth trying. She straddled him, teasing him with her mesmeric gaze, the wispy fair hair of her private womanhood, and what was below it.
Having carefully guided him inside her, she just as skilfully rolled their joined bodies over, enabling herself to lock her thighs round his waist. The vice-like grip seemed to prohibit any thrusting, and momentarily he felt frustration. But she gradually relinquished her hold, allowing successively longer pushes, controlling the affair expertly, through her own pelvic agility. Her timing was exquisite, and inevitably, as her own gasps reached a crescendo, Jack burst with a prolonged ecstasy which sapped the conscious life out of him.
He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but fall asleep he obviously had done, and it was breakfast time before he came to. The rest had done him good, and he felt refreshed. But seconds later, everything rushed back to him. He realised he was alone. Tess had flown.
6/9
Over breakfast, Jack thought it imprudent to mention the girl in his room. However, he was desperate to meet up with her again, so he rather bolted Mrs Glumm’s ‘full English cholesterol-buster’, in order to make an early start.
‘Any plans for th’day, Mr Durvill?’ asked Fred. ‘I’s afraid old forecast’s not so hot, oo-arr. Be stayin’ off th’moor if I wuz you.’
‘We have some pretty scary tornadoes back in Missouri,’ said Jack, playing down Fred’s concern. ‘Guess we know how to handle a bit of English breeze.’
Fred shrugged, sincerely hoping his valued customer wouldn’t live to regret his bravado.
Once away from the inn, Jack made straight for the cottage museum. To his dismay, it was closed. Checking the notice in the door, which implied it was closed until further notice, he was startled to spot the map, which had hung next to the newspaper cutting the previous day, but was now prominent above the ‘closed’ sign. And close to Devil’s Crag someone had pencilled a cross. What could be the significance? Only one way to find out, resolved Jack.
He strode back to the inn for his car, passing, as he did so, the Reverend Blunt outside the little church, updating the woefully low steeple-restoration appeal fund thermometer. ‘Good morning,’ the man of cloth cheerfully greeted him.
Of course. The vicar will know every damn body and thing that’s going on around
here. Sure he’ll know Tess and where she is. Jack related his story, watering down the section not suitable for ecclesiastical consumption.
‘Hmm,’ pondered the reverend, rubbing his chin. ‘Well, dear boy, our museum’s definitely been closed all year. And as for Fondleham’s flock being blessed with its own Tess of the D’Urbervilles impersonator… er, the good landlord Glumm hasn’t been plying you with that evil scrumpy of his, has he?’
It wasn’t the answer Jack wanted to hear. ‘Never mind,’ he said, ‘I’m off to take a look at Devil’s Crag.’
‘Oh dear.’ The vicar seemed alarmed. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, dear boy, they say the Good Lord is blowing a storm in from the west to quench our thirsty lands, Tavistock is awash…’
But Jack was already marching on. ‘Thanks, Reverend, see you later.’
7/9
Jack was getting to know his way around, and managed to hit on the narrow track from the main Buckland-over-Moor road, leading him close to Devil’s Crag. He parked up, and set foot to where he figured the pencilled cross must have marked. The air had taken on an autumnal feel and the strengthening wind added to the chill factor. Jack wished he’d put on extra clothing, but it was too late now.
He was nearing the top of the crag, and he was getting out of puff. He had also worked up a sweat, and its rapid evaporation was causing him to shiver. The threatening skies and worsening visibility began to merge the terrain of rocky outcrop, gorse and heather into one dark grey mass. Nothing significant here was going to be discernible, so Jack decided to beat a retreat. That’s when Tess appeared, a few dozen yards in front of him, beckoning him on, like a shining beacon.
She was dressed as normal, in her light summer blouse and frock. She was calm and smiling, as usual. How could she appear so, out here in such adverse weather conditions? Jack had no choice. He hurried to reach her.
He rounded the last large cragstone before the summit. She must be waiting here. But no. There was nothing. Nothing, except a pile of small-to-medium boulders. Jack took hold of the top one, intending to hurl it down the hill in angry frustration. It was heavier than he bargained for. He managed to topple it from the apex of the pile, and in doing so, dislodged another stone further down. There, exposed, was that a bone? The carcass of some animal – a sheep maybe?
As another rock shifted, a huge black storm cloud materialised directly overhead, reducing the area to darkness. Jack looked skywards. By a freak of nature, the cloud assumed the dreadful shape of the head of a snarling hound with menacing red eyes. A strong gust whipped up around the crag, and a vicious fork of lightning lit up both the rocks, and the human skull which had rolled out, freed from the weight of boulders which had incarcerated it for heaven-only knows how long. An ear-splitting thunderclap was followed by torrential hail.
Jack’s 40-year-old legs couldn’t carry him fast enough down the hill to where his car stood. In blind panic he had slipped and fallen several times, grazing knees and elbows, and scratching himself to pieces on the prickly gorse. Miraculously he found the car, and sat in the driving seat, panting, shivering, bleeding, soaking wet and covered in mud.
Too many things had happened simultaneously for Jack’s nervous system to cope with, not to mention his sense of reasoning. Had he been magically lured to this place to pay some retribution for sins of a forefather? Where was the girl, was she out there, or had she found shelter? What was she doing out here anyway? And whose was the skeleton?
Too many unknowns. Jack needed help. After regaining some composure, he decided to risk driving back along the ill-defined track, to the nearest place he could pick up a cell-phone signal, and call the emergency number.
Police and rescue services came promptly to meet him. They were less than impressed that some dumb-ass tourist had ambled out onto the moors in this weather. However, they were interested in the mention of human remains.
Mikayla
- 18.05.2020
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