Saralynne

Moors, thought Saralynne, I hate moors, especially the wet ones. But her uncle's compass was pointing straight into it. British Rail was holding her luggage hostage in an undisclosed location, so she didn't even have the correct clothing. She'd walked the roads around the compass's 'north' and was sure the thing was pointing at a spot inside that three-mile map-splotch where most of the tracks looked like they were made by animals.

She called an 'ahoy' to the small house, but nobody answered. She knew Scotch landowners might shoot first and ask questions later, but she'd have to risk it. It had been two days since the little compass had switched from pointing in whatever direction the needle fell, and there was no telling how long it would keep pointing in this particular direction. Her uncle Lord Bramberleigh-Smythe had asked his boyish niece to look into it, and she'd jumped at the chance to get away from her overbearing adventurous brothers. If she'd known it would point to this soaked bit of Scotch marsh that earned the name bog in more ways than one, she'd have let Percival or Algernon do it.

In for a penny, in for a pound. She took off her shoes and stockings and put them into her pack. Better not to ruin them if the ground got too wet.

Before she'd gone a furlong into the brush, the hem of Saralynne's skirt was soaked and coated in tiny leaves. How can a bleeding upland be a bleeding swamp? Even so, from the way the compass needle was moving with every step she'd chosen the shortest way in. And there was sort of a path in the right direction. In fact, the compass needle seemed to be pointing directly down that...

Her foot shot out from under her and she tumbled down a short decline to land face-first in a pool of stagnant earthy water. When she rose to her hands and knees she saw it.

"Hel-lo! What have we here?"

Someone had put a marble statue of a woman on the edge of a large puddle in a crevice valley in the middle of a bleeding swamp. Only in Scotland!

Saralynne rubbed most of the grime off the face of the compass. It was pointing at the statue. She walked around and saw the needle swivel. It was pointing directly at the statue.

So this is it. She looked carefully at the work of marble. It was eggshell white, shot through with grey and gold tracers, and depicted a naked woman with her hands up and a shocked look on her face. The workmanship was impeccable; there were no chisel or buffing marks on it, and it was so finely crafted she could even see a few individual hairs. A chill ran up Saralynne's spine. Nobody was that good a sculptor.

She ran her hands over the statue's smooth skin with the discerning eye of someone who'd been reminded several times that it was not appropriate for her to show such an appreciation for the ladies. The woman's face was pretty and her skin smooth. Her nipples were hard - Saralynne chuckled - perhaps erect would be a better word in this case. As well, her fanny was open and on full display, from the engorged clitoris right down to the slightly puckered opening of her vagina. She ran a finger across the girl's marble bush and gasped slightly at the tingling sensation of the tiny individual marble hairs.

Saralynne had a truly wicked thought. I'm out here alone with no real chance of anyone seeing me or creeping up and I'm soaked to the skin. And not all the water came from that pond. Why shouldn't I?

She set her pack down on some arguably dry ground, then stripped out of her soaking clothes, spreading them over bushes to dry a bit. She stepped up to the statue and ran her fingers over its delicately-textured bush. Then she reached around, grabbed two handsful of marble bottom, and started tribbing.

The texture sliding against her vulva was like nothing she'd ever felt before. Every little ridge stimulated and tickled her clit as she slid it up and down. She wanted to scream in ecstasy but bit her lip, letting out only little moaning grunts. She experimented, pushing in for a firm grind and backing off for the barest tickle. She could feel the heat of her passion warming the marble as it built, then pushed in hard as her body let go and gushed cum among the tiny marble hairs.

Hands grasped Saralynne's bare bottom and pulled and the statue shot back its own cum onto her tingling cunny. Warm no-longer-marble lips kissed hers forcefully and she could feel ragged breathing and a thumping heart against her chest. Finally the arms shifted up her back and the lips let go.

"Thank ye, lass; I thought I'd never get free."

"Who are you? What happened?"

"Ma name is Heather McAllister, and ah found out ah'm noh a goddess."

"How long were you... like this?"

"About two days. I don't ken what ye were doing on the moorland, but thank ye again."

"My name's Saralynne Bramberleigh-Smythe; my family investigates... ah, unusual things."

"I'm not tha' unusual, am I?"

"You were when you were made of marble."

"You decided to rub your fuzzy agin' a statue and ye say I'm unusual?"

Saralynne started laughing and Heather joined her. They laughed together until Saralynne shivered.

"It's getting cold out here."

"Of course ye daft Englishwoman. Now, we could rub some things together and make a fire, but that sort o' thing is better done indoors. We can go tae my house up there."

She pointed in the direction Saralynne had come from. Saralynne moved to gather her clothes but Heather stopped her.

"Just bring the bag; we can come back for the rest later."

"How will we find it?"

"I've played on these moors since I was in nappies; I know where this is, now that I can see a few inches."

And the two nude women marched up the path.