The Fisherman's Wife

The Fisherman's Wife

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Fuckery This is just random wordporn. Dirty stories. That’s what we’re here for, yes? ‘The Fisherman’s Wife’ I wrote after a conversation with some old ladies in a hotel in the Western Highlands of Scotland. I love the way the old like to be naughty! No-one in The States got ‘Bennet’s Brother’ – it was way too English in every way. I had a hoot writing it and its companion piece (now lost, ‘Battle at the Regatta’). I was attempting Wodehouse with added fellatio… ‘Teacher’s Night Off’ – good idea – not so well executed. I didn’t quite get what I wanted with that one. Horny enough, mind. ‘On The Eve of All Hallows’ – again, not quite right. I wanted to write a story using a student of mine, an Indian girl, as muse (obviously her name was not Krythika!). I wrote it in a hurry for Hallowe’en and it shows. It’s a bit clunky. ‘A Christmas Kiss’ was also written for the holidays. This is a better story. A true story, although it didn’t happen quite in the way I tell it. The girl involved is now a senior partner in a law firm in Birmingham and I learned from Facebook last week that she has become a grandmother for the third time! ‘Katie’ is also based on truth. I’ve known Katie for years and years. Our families are still close and, were it not for lockdown, I’d be visiting her next month. Obviously, her name isn’t Katie – or mine would be shit. ‘Yes or No’ is a story I am, or at least was, quite proud of. I wrote it in reaction to a news story about Ivy Leaguers ‘protesting’. I was very angry. Sadly the news story will be forgotten, so the story will lose its punch. Still good, though.

Tags

sex, etc

Summary

Fuckery
This is just random wordporn. Dirty stories. That’s what we’re here for, yes?
‘The Fisherman’s Wife’ I wrote after a conversation with some old ladies in a hotel in the Western Highlands of Scotland. I love the way the old like to be naughty!
No-one in The States got ‘Bennet’s Brother’ – it was way too English in every way. I had a hoot writing it and its companion piece (now lost, ‘Battle at the Regatta’). I was attempting Wodehouse with added fellatio…
‘Teacher’s Night Off’ – good idea – not so well executed. I didn’t quite get what I wanted with that one. Horny enough, mind.
‘On The Eve of All Hallows’ – again, not quite right. I wanted to write a story using a student of mine, an Indian girl, as muse (obviously her name was not Krythika!). I wrote it in a hurry for Hallowe’en and it shows. It’s a bit clunky.
‘A Christmas Kiss’ was also written for the holidays. This is a better story. A true story, although it didn’t happen quite in the way I tell it. The girl involved is now a senior partner in a law firm in Birmingham and I learned from Facebook last week that she has become a grandmother for the third time!
‘Katie’ is also based on truth. I’ve known Katie for years and years. Our families are still close and, were it not for lockdown, I’d be visiting her next month. Obviously, her name isn’t Katie – or mine would be shit.
‘Yes or No’ is a story I am, or at least was, quite proud of. I wrote it in reaction to a news story about Ivy Leaguers ‘protesting’. I was very angry. Sadly the news story will be forgotten, so the story will lose its punch. Still good, though.

Content

Submitted: July 31, 2020

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: July 31, 2020

A A A

A A A


The night was darkening, the sea crashing on the shore and the wind whistling round the cottage. The fisherman’s wife felt her body tingle as she wished for her husband to come home.

‘Let it be like last time.’ rung in her head as she fought to suppress the deep physical longing that filled her. Her body ached for him. Desperate. Hot. She was never told about this aching need, but she’d learned.

 

Two weeks after their wedding, her mother-in-law had come to call. Mrs MacNiven was a formidable woman, a mother of six fishermen, widow of one.

 

“Well, daughter?” came the question, as she settled in the parlour.

“Well what, Mrs MacNiven?”

“Now that’s enough of that, lassie, Mrs MacNiven indeed! You’ll call me Mammy, now, for that is what I am.” the woman gave a sly wink, “At least I think I am.”

The fisherman’s wife blushed.

“I can tell by your look that you’ve made a man of my boy. Good girl. Now tell your Mammy. Does he hurt you, lass?”

 

The fisherman’s wife thought of that first fortnight of marriage: what had begun with embarrassed fumblings turned to eager couplings, resolving into trust and tenderness.

 

“No Mrs…Mammy, he would never hurt me. We laugh a lot.  And he likes to cuddle…after…and sing to me. But he never remembers all the words.”

“Just the ones that matter, aye? Like his father, then,” chuckled the older woman, “always the softy after he’d had his way.”

The fisherman’s wife was blushed again, but there was pride with her embarrassment.

“Now listen to your mammy, lass. I know you’ve made my boy happy, I’ve never seen him so, but he’s off after the herring now and that can act on a man. Weeks on a boat with nothing but other fellows and fish for company! If he’s anything like his father he’ll come back angry, and not know why; hungry, and no food will satisfy him. He’ll be hard and coarse and raw. And it’s up to you to take that out of him.”

“But how, mammy?”

“On you back, or your belly! Like you’ve been doing every night this past 14 days I’ll wager! Fuck him hard and no matter what he says or does, keep fucking till you’ve fucked the edges off him! There’ll be no songs or cuddles until he’s got the sea out of his system, my lassie. That’s the nightwork of a fisherman’s wife!”

 

So true. At first he terrified her when he came home. The anger, the need. There was a brutality in her approach to her. But she followed her mother-in-law’s advice and with her body sucked the seas from her man. In time she came to enjoy it: the wild fucking, the coarse language, even the blows.

 

Then she started to long for it, as she longed for it now. She thrilled at the thought of those first hours, sometimes days, of unfettered lust: the wildness, the anger, even the pain.

 

‘Let it be like last time,’ rang through her, as she felt her body tingle in anticipation.

Last time he’d come home in the night, the children were asleep and he banged through the front door, throwing his kitbag to the floor. But she was ready for him. He’d opened his mouth to shout, but she’d thrown herself on him. Stopping him with kisses, thrusting her tongue deep in his mouth. Pressing her body against his. His arms crushed the breath out of her.

 

He turned her hungrily and pushed her onto the stairs. He threw the skirt of her dress over her back and his strong hands pulled at her knickers until the fabric ripped and her skin chafed. With one hand he unbuttoned his trousers, while with the other he shoved two fingers fiercely into her cunt.

 

“Wet are you, you fucking bitch? I’ll give you something to be wet for!” But of course she was wet – she’d been desperate for this for days! She shuffled her knees apart as far as the stairs would allow, eager for his entry to her.

 

She wasn’t disappointed. His rough probing fingers were replaced by the sticky head of his wide cock. He plunged it into her, forcing the walls of her womb apart in a way her fingers never could. The force of his thrust made her gasp.

 

“Liked that did you, you dirty whore, I’ll show you!”  he withdrew almost completely, then pushed into her again. She shuddered in pleasure. Then he began pull and thrust in a steady rhythm, grunting. She met his thrusts, grinding her hips back towards his. Her tender flesh was bruised and bashed by his fly buttons, which snagged on her pubic hair, tugging and pinching at her swollen vulva.

 

He began to slap her arse in time to his thrusts. “Bitch” slap, “Cunt” slap, “Dirty,” slap, “Fucking” slap, “Whore,”. With every stinging blow, he pumped harder. She arched her back and bucked in lust. Yes. This was what she had been waiting for. She could feel her orgasm build as he gripped her hips in both hands and started to take deep, quick thrusts. She could feel his cock twitch, he was nearly ready, she put her hand between her legs and flicked at her special place.

 

“Are you ready for this, cunt?” he shouted, his voice thick, “Do you want my spunk, bitch?” She knew better than to answer at this stage, but instead concentrated on her clitoris, her finger rubbing harder, harder.

 

She felt his sperm burst into her as she brought herself to orgasm. Oh the delight! No matter how much she tried, no matter how good she got, she never came like this by herself. She felt tears come to her eyes and her legs begin to wobble. Her husband continued to hump at her, but she could feel his cock slackening.

 

He fell off of her, leaning heavily against the door. She turned to him and fixed him with her black eyes. She sat on the stairs and pulled up her skirts at the front exposing the coal black hairs of her twat. He stared at her, hungrily, as she let her hands slide up her thighs and her fingers pull her cunt lips apart. Blobs of his semen, still steaming, dribbled from her cunt onto the stair carpet. His breathing quickened. Now it was time.

 

“Is that all you’ve got for me, fisher lad?” she teased, fingering herself in his plain, open-mouthed sight. She put her sticky fingers to her lips, and licked the man-seed from them, making satisfied lip-smacking.

 

With a roar, he ran at her, picked her up in his arms and bore her to the bedroom. Dumping his wife unceremoniously on the floor, the fisherman sat on the bed and tackled his boots.

 

His wife meanwhile quickly threw off her dress and underthings and stood, her pale body glowing in the lamplight. The fisherman sprawled naked on the bed, he pointed to his cock: thick, coiled and hairy, like the end of an anchor rope. “You!” he commanded, “get this fucker hard!”

 

The fisherman’s wife knelt on the bed and taking the cock in two hands brought her mouth towards it. The smell of her own juice gave her a shiver. Oh she’d hated that sourness to begin with, but now it thrilled her. She could also smell her husband’s come, his sweat, and fish and the salt of the sea. She rolled back his thick foreskin and began to lick at his bell. Oh the taste! She could taste her cunt, she squirmed as she lapped at his cock like a cow at the salt-lick, finding the dribbles and gobbets of sperm under the head and down his shaft. She placed one hand under his heavy ball-sack, pinching the hairs and squeezing gently on the wrinkled skin. She took the head of his cock into her mouth and sucked. Good, he was beginning to respond.

 

“You fucking cocksucking fucking whore.” he cursed, but breathily, not shouting now, “Suck me, you cocksucking fucking cunt!”

 

And she did. Massaging his great hairy balls, stroking his thickening shaft, she sucked at his hardening flesh; her tongue gliding lasciviously over the swelling head. Her own juices were flowing again, she’d be ready when he was.

 

His cock now standing proud, the fisherman grabbed his wife’s arms and pushed them above her head. With one strong hand he pinned both her wrists together and with the other he squeezed at her breasts, his hard calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh. He kissed her angrily, his tongue seeking the back of her throat as his rough fingertips pinched and pulled at her nipples. The fisherman’s wife wanted to howl in pleasure and pain, but the salt-tasting mouth of her husband took her breath away.

 

The hand was between her legs, pulling at the hairs of her outer lips, she couldn’t stop herself from squirming and wiggling.

 

“You like that, do you bitch? Well what about this?” His coarse hand slapped her between the legs, she squealed. “I’ll teach you, you whore!” he grunted as her began to spank her wet, swelling cunny. Each stroke was a jolt of pleasure to the fisherman’s wife: she was now so wet she thought she heard her cunt-juice splash.

 

Letting go of her hands, the fisherman roughly pulled his wife’s legs apart and placed himself between them. Drawing himself up, he put the head of his cock against his wife’s sopping slit. With a curse he forced himself in. His wife cried out as he began to thrust.

 

“Fucking bitch, fucking…” he cursed as he fucked. His wife met his thrusts with pushes of her own, rocking her pelvis against him as he ground into her. She put her arms under her thighs to hold her legs apart.

 

The fisherman had stopped swearing now as his breath came heavily, panting like a dog as they rutted in the lamplight. His deep regular thrusts were now accompanied by moans of pleasure. The fisherman’s wife felt that he was slowing down, tiring, just as she was about to come again. She put her hands to his back and dug in her nails, raking the flesh of his broad back. The fisherman roared and yelled but bucked and jumped like a sloop in a storm. As his wife felt her orgasm start, he ejaculated deep in her, still thrusting erratically.

 

“You fuck…oh God…you…oh yes…lovely…you…beautiful.” He held her tight, their limbs entwined. “Oh my wife,” he gasped, “my beautiful…” and he was asleep.

 

The fisherman’s wife held her sleeping husband and listened to the sea and the wind.

 

“Let it be like last time,” sang the sea and the wind, as her body tingled. It would be soon.

 

 

The following morning the fisherman’s wife had woken early and got the children up and dressed. She showed them their sleeping father before they had their breakfast. Then she got them ready for school.

 

“Now remember,” she said to the three little faces, “pop into the shop on your way and tell Mr Black that Daddy came home last night. Otherwise he’ll expect me to be in. And after school go straight to your Grannie’s house – that’s Grannie MacNiven, not Grannie Laurie, she’ll be expecting you. I’ll come and get you when Daddy … wakes up.” and with that and kisses, she shut the door.

 

Unbuttoning her dress, the fisherman’s wife went to the back door to get the clothes-rope.

 

The fisherman woke up to see his wife standing by the bed, her black hair down about her shoulders; her hands holding her breasts, the dark red nipples pointed and hard; naked but for her white panties, the blackness of her pubic hair showing a dark shadow through the thin material. He made to reach out and grab her back onto the bed, the he realised his hands couldn’t move.

 

“Are you having a wee bit of trouble there, fisher lad?” she said, tossing her hair.

 

“What have you done to me, woman?” he pulled against the ropes that tied his hands above his head to the iron bedstead. “Untie me now, or I’ll beat you black and blue!”

 

“Am I not black and blue already from last night?” She teased, “Look at my poor babbies, all bruised from your dirty paws.” She leaned over him, her breasts brushing his face, they were covered in yellowing bruises from his finger marks. She turned around and pulled down her panties. “And would you look at the state of my arse?” Her round firm buttocks were blotched with shiny purple weals. “So I think you’ll stay as you are, my boy.”

 

“Untie me now you fucking bitch!” he ranted, and as he cursed his wife pulled off her panties and rubbed her cunny with them (the tying up had got her really quite excited.), then balling the knickers in her hand she stuffed them into her husband’s shouting mouth.

 

“That’s enough from you,” she whispered as she climbed onto the bed, and lay across her husband’s agitated body.

 

She kissed his neck, then bit it. Gently at first, then harder, making his skin red from her teeth marks. She kissed his shoulder, again she bit: bringing the blood near the surface of the skin. She moved her mouth to his hairy armpit; the smell of sweat and salt and man thrilled her. She pulled at the hairs with her teeth. Her mouth then moved to the hard muscle of his chest which she bit harder than before. Her husband’s muffled curses were turning into muted moans, he was no longer trying to push her off with his movements.

 

Her lips found his hard knobbly nipple. She kissed it, then licked at it with her tongue tip, tantalizing the salty nub with little flicking licks. Then she bit, just a little nip, but it was enough – under her belly she felt his cock begin to twitch. She used her fingers to pinch that nipple while her mouth gave the same treatment to the other.

 

She could feel his arousal grow as she ran her tongue down the groove at the centre of his muscular stomach, her hanging breasts now gently jiggling around his fattening cock. She paused and pushed them together, trapping her husband’s twitching flesh in her soft cleavage. Then journeying down with her tongue, she traced a saliva path around the hairy base of it.

 

She brought her mouth to his grizzled ballsack, sucking in one ball, then the other: shifting each fleshy egg around in its leathery pouch with her tongue. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, but couldn’t fit both in. She had wanted him to feel that she could, if she chose, bite his balls clean off.  So she lifted the scrotum with her hand and nibbled on the stretched skin underneath, nipping and chewing at the wrinkled flesh with the teeth. Her husband’s moans increased.

 

She turned her attention to his thick hard cock: massaging his balls in one hand, she took the other and pinched the top of his foreskin, pulling it up, stretching it as far as it would go, before letting it spring back. She repeated this move with her teeth, pulling at his foreskin as far as it would stretch. Her husband twitched, moaned and gagged, his hips pushing up to try and compensate for the upward tug on his tender skin.

 

Still clutching his balls, she pinched the top of his foreskin again and bit the shaft of his cock, pressing her teeth down and sucking at it until her teeth marks remained and an angry red bruise came up. Two hands now on his shaft, she gently pulled the foreskin back, to reveal the top of his purple, swollen cock head. A clear bead formed like dew on a lily at his hole; she rubbed the sticky fluid over his exposed glans with a fingertip and pulled back some more. More of the clear sticky stuff leaked from him; she rubbed and rubbed and pulled and pulled, until his skin stretched back, exposing a shiny, purple bell.

 

But still she tugged, until the thin fold of skin that makes the cock head and arrow was stretched taught. She gave the fold some quick licks with her tongue, then with her teeth she gave it a tiny nip. Her husband howled through his gag.

 

She pumped his cock like a milkmaid at the udder, wanking him mercilessly until his wetness made his foreskin loose. The she flung a leg over his belly and positioned herself, arse towards his face, her cunt directly over the raging red head of his cock. She grabbed his cock with one hand, while with the other she rubbed at her cunny. The hairs were matted and damp, the lips slick with her juices, she pushed two fingers into her hole to make her cunt drip on that fat cock, tantalizingly close to her opening. Her husband tried to thrust up, to force himself inside, but she gripped his rod firmly and moved herself up, out of his reach.

 

“You wait, boy. You wait.” She turned her head to him, smiling lasciviously over her shoulder. “You make me wait, and then you come home and jump me like I was some fish-quay whore: filling my fanny with your fishy spunk before I had time to breath! Now you work at my pace. I’ll fuck your prick when I’m ready, not before.”

 

She ignored the muffled grumbles and erratic thrusting and slowly lowered her soaking twat towards his rampant member. She felt a jolt of pleasure as she stroked her open cunt-lips with the hot head. She moved the cock back and forward along her slit, their wetness combining and increasing. Then with an agonising slowness she gradually leaned on him, rocking gently, but still, teasingly pulling away from his thrusts.

 

She moaned in lust as her cunt enveloped his hard, sticky cock head, waves of rapture powered through her. She rode up and down on it, pulling in and out, so that together their cock and cunt made a slurping, squelching, sucking sound. The fisherman’s wife thought it sounded like a hog in muck, but found the wanton noise so exciting that it drove her into a frenzy.

 

She bore down on her husband’s thick, fat cock, gasping and crying out as her vaginal walls parted to accommodate his hard wide length. She put her hands on his thighs and rode him like a bucking colt, roaring out in sexual abandon.

 

Up and down she bounced, oh God, she was close to coming. But not yet, make him wait, she thought. She bent over, put her hands behind her and parted the cheeks of her arse. She imagined her husband’s view: his cock like a great slimy herring, slipping in and out of her meaty, slopping snatch, bordered by black, curly hairs, sticky with sex. The thought thrilled her, and she reached a finger towards her anus.

Unlike some men she’d heard about in the village, her husband never bothered with that hole; but the fisherman’s wife would touch and finger it for her own enjoyment when she pleasured herself. She rubbed it now, the sensation of gentle probing convulsed her. Her hands met at her hole, she was about to explode, she could feel it. She inserted the index finger of each hand into the tight rubbery opening and pulled.

 

The act as well as the thought of opening her arsehole to her husband’s view was too much. Her orgasm hit her like a great wave, she screamed and she ground her cunt down as hard as she could, taking the full fat length of her man as far as was possible.

The fisherman’s wife was in a daze of pleasure: her whole body tingled and buzzed, it was as if she could feel every pore on her skin, ever tiny hair on her body, her blood pulsing round in her veins and the air moving in her lungs as took great panting breaths. Her focus returned to the fat cock, shoved deep inside her. She could feel it twitch and throb.

 

“Oh no you don’t.” she said aloud and lifted herself free of her husband, whose cock fell with a wet slap against his belly.

 

She turned, kneeling on the bed to face her man. Her black eyes looked into his and saw desire, confusion and hurt. But no anger. Was it done already? She straddled his thighs, cupped his balls and rubbed them against her steaming cunt.

 

“Is that nice, fisher lad, do you like a nice hot fanny on your big hairy ballocks?”

 

The fisherman replied with a whimper and a bout of frantic nodding. She shifted forward, now her slit was sliding along the length of his shaft, she moved backward and forwards on it. The sight of his raging purple cock-head amongst the black tangled bush of her cunt hairs started a new wave coursing through her. Now, she thought, and quickly impaled herself on her husband’s thick erection.

 

Slowly she built up her rhythm, all the time looking in her husband’s eyes. She took her breasts in her hands and squeezed them together. Her husband’s eyes were wide, he was spluttering through the gag. She reached down and pulled the sodden panties from his mouth.

 

“Oh my wife,” he croaked, “My beautiful, black-haired darling wife!” I love you!”

 

She stopped his endearments with a furious kiss, which he returned, their tongues rolling and slithering over one another like herring in a net. She could feel that he was about to come so she put her hand on his chest and sat up.

 

“Wait for me, my darling,” she whispered, “Wait for me!”.

 

“Always.” Said the man, clenching his teeth in an effort to stop himself.

 

The fisherman’s wife put two fingers alongside of her clit and rubbed, she could feel the heat build from her chest. Faster she rubbed and faster rode her husband’s cock. Yes. She coming again. She put her free hand behind her, took her husband’s ballsack and pulled.

 

“Oh God!” their voices and orgasms came together, and she fell sweating on her husband’s naked chest, panting weeping and laughing in equal measure. She kissed his mouth as she deftly undid the knots that bounds his wrists. The fisherman put his around his wife and held her close.

 

“Let it be like last time” the need was so powerful now, it was like a solid thing inside her. “Let it be like last time.” It would be soon.

 

It was afternoon when the fisherman’s wife got up to get a drink of water from the kitchen. She threw on her husband’s shirt – it stank of sweat, and salt and fish, and the coarse material chafed at her tender nipples – but you never knew who might be passing the kitchen window.

 

She drank the cool water and looked out at the sea. She heard her husband come up behind her, but she froze when she felt his hand pinch her buttock. A pinch! Not a stroke or a pat, but a pinch. So it wasn’t over yet.

 

“That hurt!” she said, turning and fixing him with a withering stare, “Who do you think I am that you can come up and grab my arse like a wee boy with a hand in the sweetie jar?”

“I’m sorry,” her rejoined, “I did not mean to hurt you.” He looked contrite. The fisherman’s wife had to be sure. She turned her back to him and lifted his shirt-tail.

“Kiss it better.” She commanded. Now we’ll find out, she thought.

 

Without a word the fisherman got on his knee, bent his head to her bum and kissed. Good, she sighed inwardly, we’ll be safe from any upset now. She felt her husband’s hard hands caress the tender skin of her buttocks as he continued to kiss and tongue them. Oh, that felt good. He started to kiss the tops of her thighs, moving her around until his searching lips and tongue were amongst the black curls and twists of her fanny hair.

 

The fisherman’s wife sat on the kitchen table, pulled the shirt up to her belly and opened her legs. Her husband kissed the sore and swollen flesh of her cunny, little pecks to begin with, then load sucking smacks. She squirmed in delight, then shuddered in joy as he began to lick: long slow licks, starting low and ending with a flick of her clitoris. She arched her back as the fisherman nuzzled her clit, while sliding two fingers into her dripping hole, then her body thrilled with surprised lust as she felt a hard finger press gently on the little brown button of her anus. Her husband’s free hand reached up to touch her breast, so she flung off the shirt and stuck out her chest. Who gives a fuck what the neighbours think! She ran her fingers through his hair as he licked and nuzzled and poked and stroked her to another howling orgasm.

 

He stood and held her as she gasped for breath, her chest heaving. She could feel that his cock was thick and hard again. She put her hands on his shoulders and her legs round his back and pulled him into her. The fisherman lifted his wife off the table and they fucked, standing in the afternoon kitchen for all the world to see.

 

“Carry me to bed,” she whispered into his ear as he thrust against her, “carry me upstairs on your dick.” She laughed and tightened her legs around his back as he staggered, laughing to the kitchen door. He stumbled and fell on the stairs once or twice on the way up, the fisherman’s wife couldn’t tell whether this was deliberate or not, but it meant a good pounding on the steps when they paused. They were both helpless with laughter as they staggered through the bedroom door and collapsed in a tangle of sex-sweated limbs onto the bed.

 

The fisherman’s wife awoke to a gentle pressure on her eyelids, she was aware that the sun was low, but she kept her eyelids closed as her husband kissed them gently. She’d have to go for the children soon, but for the minute she’d wait and enjoy her husband holding her in a warm, comfortable embrace. Then she heard it. He was humming a tune. Hah! ‘Morag or Dunvegan’ -  her song. Silly man, he never remembered the words, she thought.

“Oh how I love my Morag.” Sang her man.

Just the ones that matter. She smiled.

 

“Let it be like last time!” her body arched with the pain of desire. Suddenly she felt a hand in hers. She didn’t have to open her eyes, she knew who it would be. Morag. Her youngest grandchild, named for her and every bit as black-haired and black –eyed as she was herself once. Married to a fisher laddie now, two children and one on the way. She had always been her favourite.

The sea crashed and the wind whistled. The warmth of the younger woman’s hand began to fade and the darkness fell.

And she was free. Free of the pain, free of the longing, free of all the concerns in the world. Free to join her fisher lad who’d drowned off Cape Wrath, fifty-two years ago.

 

Let it be like last time.

 

 

 

 

 

 


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