Author's Note: This easily stands alone but is a sequel to "Book of Love." It's part of a new series I'm calling "Seasons." Although you can read it on its own, I'd recommend reading Book of Love first, as this story reflects back on that. Thanks as always to MajorSam for being my beta and to Lady Deadlock for doing a quick read for me and providing moral support. I hope you enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Peace. And PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks so much.-ncs

Seasons: Spring
The Picnic
(Copyright 2011, by NoCleverSig)

Helen Magnus looked up at the clear, April sky, her flush, half-naked body molded into a cocoon of tall, green grass.

John Druitt lay asleep beside her. His dark head rested on Helen's stomach, gently rising and falling with each quiet breath that she took. His shirt and vest were tossed carelessly behind him, lost somewhere in a sea of blue and pink flowers. The wicker basket Helen had packed for their picnic sat neatly latched nearby, abandoned on the cotton blanket John had laid out upon their arrival.

Her bodice was unbuttoned, her corset removed, and her breasts let loose over her chemise. Her hair was undone, fanned out in a spray of golden curls around her. Her long cotton drawers were hiked about her waist. The aftermath of their lovemaking lay sticky and wet between her legs.

Is this what it felt like to be a woman? She wondered, absently stroking John's hair and listening to the sound of his breathing. To be desired? To feel such desire in return?

An errant cloud drifted overhead, briefly blocking out the bright English sun and casting their bodies into shadow. Everything she had been taught, even by her father who was by no means a conventional man, told her sex outside of marriage was wrong. More than wrong, it was immoral. And pleasure from that sex? Unthinkable.

Then why, for the first time in her life, did she feel so alive? Why did every fiber of her being vibrate with such intensity that she was left with nothing but the sensation of glorious satisfaction? How could the simple act of reproduction do that to a person? Or was there more to it than bodies meeting bodies? Could souls have touched souls?

She should feel dirty, cheap. Like a Whitechapel whore. Instead, she felt clean, conscious, and complete.

She slipped her fingers from John's hair and rested her hand against his cheek, stroking his neatly shaven sideburn and closed her eyes.

She couldn't stop touching him.

Helen understood, on a biological level, what had happened to her. The physical stimulation of her breasts, her clitoris, had lead to an autonomic physiologic response in her body, an orgasm, the peak of the sexual response cycle.

But it had been so much more than that…

The sensation of having John's body pressed against her breasts, inside her thighs, driving his manhood into her womb, urging her body to respond, finally pouring his seed and his soul into her had sent shockwaves through her system. She shivered at the memory of it. Her muscles had convulsed around him. Time and space had disappeared. All that survived were waves of sensations, raw and unbound, and pleasure exceeding all expectations. Afterwards, it was as though every tension she had carried in her muscles and her mind had been released, floating on the soft breeze that drifted off the River Cherwell leaving her with a euphoria that had no words. No words.

No wonder the French called it le petite mort, "the little death." In that moment, she had entered a heavenly realm.

This wasn't something to fear or to be ashamed of but an act of pure and unconditional love. And while John slept, also a physiological response Helen recognized and smiled, she reflected on every moment of their encounter, promising herself to sear it into her memory and savor it forever.

They had planned their picnic a week ago. The spring exams had ended, the clouds had parted, and the air had grown warm and bright. Springtime at the University Parks in Oxford was glorious. The cherries, crab apples, hawthorn, and rowan trees were in full bloom. Bluebells scattered the ground amidst the tall grasses that grew in The Ley. And the strong, fresh scent of balsam poplars near the pond permeated the meadows.

It had been two months since they had started their courtship. Two months since John had rushed into the library one dreary, winter afternoon, walked up to Helen behind a shelf full of books and declared his love for her with a Valentine. He'd been so frightened, so fearful of rejection. She'd seen it in his eyes, and it had nearly broken her heart to witness him so distraught.

Her own feelings for John Druitt ran equally deep. She didn't realize how much so until the morning they had walked together in the Botanic Garden. John stopped and fell behind. Helen turned to see what had delayed him and was startled by his piercing gaze and flushed cheeks. She hurried back and laid a gloved hand on his forehead to test for fever, fearing he was ill, when suddenly he closed his eyes and sighed at the gesture.

When he opened them again, everything changed between them. No longer did he look at her as a friend regards a friend, but as a man regards a woman, with desire in his heart. What surprised her more, however, was that she returned that desire. A desperate need, a sudden craving that burned from her stomach to her womb shot through her, making her want this man in a way that a woman shouldn't want a man outside the marriage bed. It was so strong and so sudden that it terrified her, and they continued their walk in silence, neither uttering a word.

After that day, Helen found herself unable to tear her eyes away from John Druitt. She noticed little things about him that she'd never seen before, like the way his voice resonated in a room, deep, confident, and melodic, so much so it made her shiver at the sound of it. His eyes were a sharp blue, and when he bent over his books, his brown hair fell forward, forcing him to bat his locks away time and time again just so he could see, an act so simple and endearing it mesmerized her. It took all her will to keep from brushing his hair back with her own hand and tucking it behind his ear.

One evening as John sat working with Nikola assembling the Serbian's latest invention, his shirt dripping with sweat, she found her eyes wander to his arms. They swelled with strength as he hammered and lifted and moved Nikola's equipment to and fro, and she wondered suddenly what it would feel like to have them surround her in an embrace. His sweat-soaked chest was long and lean and his abdomen tight with muscles. In her mind, she pictured running her hands over his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, slick with sweat. What if she were to dip her hands even lower, following the trail of dark hair that led from his navel to the edge of his trousers and disappeared below? She felt herself blush at the thought and had to look away but not before John caught her staring.

He was all she thought about outside of her studies and The Five. He even permeated her sleep with dreams so vivid she woke up gasping, sweating, and shaking with need.

The meetings with The Five took on an entirely different turn. Nikola or James would speak, but no matter how engaging the topic was, her eyes would drift toward John. Sometimes he would sense the weight of her stare and turn to look at her, and she would quickly look away. When he eventually turned back, she met his gaze and smiled, and something…something she couldn't identify passed between them.

She was in love. Hopelessly so.

Never before had she had time for such matters. Her studies, her work, the continuation of her father's legacy, that's what compelled her. Now suddenly there was John, and the world as Helen knew it shifted on its axis.

She felt off balance, out of sorts, unfocused. She could hardly wait to see him, yet was frightened as a little girl when she finally did. Her stomach twisted in knots just thinking of him. The tension between them grew exponentially, so much so she thought she might explode from the pressure of it.

She suspected The Five knew, certainly James. Watson had asked her one evening before the rest had arrived if she had feelings for John. She had hemmed and hawed and obfuscated as much as possible when he took her hand, looked her in the eye, and said, "There's nothing wrong with loving someone, Helen. And if you do, I can think of no finer man than John Druitt."

She decided then and there that she would tell John; confess her feelings for him even if it made her a fool. But John had beaten her to it with his sudden appearance in the library and his Valentine, so sweet and simple, that it made her heart burst with joy.

Since that day they had become inseparable, their courtship quite open with The Five, though less so in public. It was no doubt readily apparent to all who had eyes to see. John walked Helen to and from class, escorted her to lectures, and accompanied her to plays and recitals. If they believed they were alone, which they rarely were given the circumstances of their living arrangements, they might venture to hold hands, John caressing Helen's palm with his thumb. If they were certain they were alone, they would kiss. Always chaste, always proper, but with an undercurrent so strong it pained Helen to pull away.

One night they arrived early at Watson's home for a meeting of The Five. The servants had been dismissed for the evening. Tesla had been delayed. Nigel was still recovering from the previous evening's bout of gambling and drinking, and James had been called away. John and she were alone.

They wasted no time taking advantage of the opportunity. Cloistered in Watson's parlor, seated on the couch, chaste kisses suddenly turned into a heated frenzy of passion. Mouths opened, tongues dueled with tongues, and hands flew quickly and in shaky succession from shoulders to arms to back to waist to chest exploring every muscle, every hint of skin hidden beneath their layers of clothes. John tore his lips away from Helen's mouth long enough to rain kisses along her neck and stroke her slender arms, sending shivers up and down her side. She reached forward to grab his coat, to pull him toward her and back to her mouth when her hand slipped into his lap to find him hard beneath his trousers. Her eyes flew open, and John pulled away.

"Helen…," he started apologetically, but she shook her head and silenced him with a kiss so searing in intensity it left him breathless. Tentatively John reached up and squeezed her breasts through her gown, making Helen dizzy with delight at this new found pleasure. Hesitantly, she reached down again and found his erection, experimentally fingering it through his clothes. John took her hand and guided her; the two of them stroking him threw his pants, his hardness growing larger. John growled against her lips, his fingers now hovering over her nipples causing her heart to race, her breath to come up short, and a sudden wetness to flow between her thighs.

No man had touched her this way before. Ever.

Suddenly, the room seemed too warm, her clothes too constricting. If Nikola Tesla hadn't knocked on the door, interrupting their explorations, Helen had no doubt she would have lost her virginity then and there. She should have been shocked, embarrassed by the notion, but instead, all she felt was disappointment.

She knew then that it was only a matter of time. She wanted this man. Wanted him with a passion so strong she had no desire to fight it, and she cared less what society might think of her choice. She did, however, worry about the consequences of such action.

As much as she loved John and as sure as she was that they would one day marry, now was not the time to bring a child into their world. The experiments within The Five had grown bolder. If certain pieces fell into place, they would soon be conducting their greatest experiment of all, a test that could change their lives and human evolution forever.

If she was to lay with him, she would have to take certain precautions. Although it wasn't precise, Helen knew her body well. If she timed their encounter correctly, the chances of her becoming pregnant would be small.

Confident in her calculations and determined to take this final step, Helen suggested a picnic, and John had jumped at the idea. The weather had turned warm and sunny. Their term was almost at an end. Spring time, with the trees and flowers in full bloom, had made them both restless with longing and the desperate need to be alone. Although neither of them had said a word, Helen knew what they were both thinking. This picnic was a ruse, a plausible excuse to wander into the woods, hide within the tall, green grass, and surrender to the needs of the flesh that they had been fighting for far too long.

Helen packed a wicker basket and filled it with dishes and utensils, iced champagne, poached chicken, pound cake, a kettle, and a kerosene burner for their tea. John brought a cotton blanket, and they headed for the parks.

Most people selected the pond or outside the cricket fields for their lunch, but John suggested The Leys, a secluded area where native grasses were allowed to flourish and seed. Helen nodded her acquiescence, not saying a word, but her heart began to pound as they walked toward the meadow. The realization of what they were about to do, what she was about to do, suddenly struck.

"Are you all right my dear?" John asked, gently holding her elbow as they walked along the path leading down toward the field.

Helen smiled up at him. "Fine. I'm fine, John."

John stopped and held her arm, stilling her. "If you're feeling ill, Helen, we can go back. I don't mind. We can hold our picnic another day."

He was giving her a way out.

She closed her eyes and smiled at his kindness. She cared for this man with all her heart and would prove it to him soon with all her body. Helen looked up at the bright, blue sky, breathed in the warm, fresh air, and listened to the birds singing in the fields.

"I can't think of a finer day for a picnic, John. Can you?"

He smiled at her and squeezed her hand. "No, my love. I cannot."

They continued their journey, making their way down to The Leys. It was far away from the walking path, close to the River Cherwell, and out of sight of the oak groves where most picnickers, if any were about, might seek shade. John laid the blanket on the grass, anchoring it with rocks and the basket Helen had packed.

He helped Helen to the ground, and she invited him to sit beside her. The tall grass formed a wall of privacy around them like a living fence dancing in the spring breeze.

They talked for awhile about inconsequential things; politics, art, and science, both of them strangely uneasy in one another's presence. Finally, Helen suggested they open their basket and begin lunch when John took her hand, kissed it, then moved quickly to her lips, and a hunger of a different sort set in.

Before Helen knew what was happening her hat was gone, her hair was unbound, and she was lying on her back. John was on top of her kissing her with a passion she hadn't known since that night at Watson's home. It was fierce and untamed; a side of him she had yet to experience.

Helen wrapped her arms around John's neck and kissed him eagerly in return, opening her lips to him, allowing him to slide his tongue into her, exploring her cheeks, her teeth, her mouth. He opened his mouth as well, and Helen followed suit, tentatively at first, then bolder, until their tongues tangled in a furtive embrace.

Suddenly John pulled back; propped himself up on his arms and stared at her, his face flush, his eyes wide. "Helen, I want…I need…Will you permit me to…"

She stopped him mid-sentence, gently holding the sides of his face then easing her fingers down to her bodice, unbuttoning the first button of the light pink top that she wore.

"Yes, John," she said as he sat up, transfixed, watching her slowly undress before him.

"You're certain, my love?" he asked quietly, staring at her, his eyes drifting from her face to her hands and back again.

"I want this, John. I want you."

It was all the permission he needed.

John removed his coat, then his vest, leaned down and resumed their kiss, his hands finding hers, both of them fumbling to undo the buttons of the bodice that she wore. When it was done and gone, John pulled back to look at her. She'd worn no cover today, anticipating what would transpire between them. Instead she lay there with only her ivory corset and white chemise on, the tops of her breasts now plainly visible. He reached down and began to unlatch her corset, his hands shaking. She knew he had done this before, been with other women. She wasn't a fool. Most men his age had, but the fact that his hands shook as he undressedher nearly brought her to tears.

When he was finished, he pulled the corset aside leaving only her thin, cotton chemise between them. John looked back up at her, his eyes seeking her final permission. Her breathing was heavy and ragged, filled with fear and anticipation. She couldn't find her voice, so she simply nodded. He slid the white cotton garment down below her shoulders, watching her chest heave up and down, then dipped his fingers beneath it, lowering it slowly and freeing her breasts.

For the first time in her life Helen Magnus lay naked before a man, scared and uncertain. Did he think her pretty? Did he want her? Would he still want her when this was finished between them?

John leaned back and smiled at her, knowing her mind too well.

"Helen…you are beautiful. So beautiful," he repeated, stroking her hair.

It was all he needed to say.

He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped off his suspenders, revealing his taut, muscular chest. All the while he stared at her, never taking his eyes from her. In that moment Helen understood the power a woman could hold over a man with her body as well as her mind.

John leaned forward and kissed her softly, not touching her breasts. She knew he was restraining himself. She could feel his erection through his pants and her skirt. He was purposefully proceeding slowly, trying not to frighten her. But her fear was already easing, overcome now by longing. She wanted his hands on her, squeezing her, fondling her.

Once again he read her mind and his hands reached up to cup her breasts, gently at first, caressing then kneading. He turned his attention to her nipples, flicking them lightly then rolling them between his thumb and forefinger, all the while deepening their kiss.

Helen became lost in pure, physical sensation, her body responding to his touch before her mind could register what was happening. Her skirt and her petticoat were removed in quick succession, leaving her in nothing but her open cotton drawers, black stockings, and garters.

John sat up on his knees, resting on his heels, admiring her. His eyes said everything she needed to know, but still he spoke.

"You are a vision, my love. An absolute vision." His voice was hoarse, choked. "I love you, Helen. I love you so much."

He leaned forward, continuing to murmur sweet words in her ear, kissing her lips, then her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, working his way slowly and achingly down to her breasts. When he finally reached them he kissed the tops of her mounds, sweetly, softly. Helen twisted her fingers in his hair, absorbing each and every new sensation. She realized then that she was losing control. Her body, not her mind, was taking over, urging her on, reacting instinctively to his ministrations. John's body answered her in kind, moving from her full, fleshy mounds to her nipples, taking one then the other into his mouth gently sucking them at first, then growing harder, lightly pulling them with his teeth. As he did so, he moved his hand down between her open drawers and found her center, tenderly rubbing her, feeling the sweet wetness that was building there and darting his finger, gently in and out of her opening, preparing her for what would come next.

He was making love to her, Helen thought fleetingly in the part of her mind that was still registering coherent thought. It had begun. And it was glorious. She wrapped her arms tighter about his neck, pulling him into her chest, lifting her hips to meet his probing fingers, urging him onward, inside her, never wanting it to stop. Her own fingers became lost in his hair as he clung to her breasts like a child. The sensation of his mouth on her nipples, his hand massaging her clitoris, dipping into her most private area made her burn with desire. Every time he sucked her nipple it felt like a burst of fire shot from her chest to her center. She pulled his head up and kissed him, their mouths wide and wet.

"Now, John. Please…," she moaned. "Please."

He nodded, unable to speak. Finally he found his voice. "This may hurt, just a little, love. Only for a moment. I swear."

Helen nodded, knowing full well the physiology of the female body.

John sat up and undid his trousers, pulling them down along with his drawers revealing his solid erection.

It was the first time Helen had seen it, seen him, and it both frightened and intrigued her. She reached out to touch him. His cock was a contradiction, just like the man himself, stiff yet smooth, hard yet velvety soft. John took her hand showing her how to stroke him in a way that gave him pleasure, revealing his most sensitive spots. After a time he stopped and pulled her hand away.

"You learn quickly, my love. But if you continue in that manner I'm afraid our picnic will end too soon."

Helen laughed, understanding his meaning. Then his face turned serious again.

"Are you ready my dear?"

Fear swelled up inside her once more. Fear of the pain to come, of the unknown, and of her own naivety. But most of all fear that she would somehow fail at this and he would find her lacking.

John leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

"I'll be gentle my love, I promise. I shall go slowly. But once I start, I fear I shan't be able to stop. Do you understand?"

Helen could barely breath let alone speak. She simply closed her eyes and nodded.

He leaned down, caressed her face, then kissed her. Gently, sweetly. At the same time she felt the tip of his hardness touch her opening and she started, her eyes flying open. He pulled back to look at her.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, giving her one final out.

She shook her head, closed her eyes once more, and wrapped her arms around his neck. He began again, softly massaging her with his fingers, spreading her wetness, preparing her for this new world as best he could. Slowly, he entered her, and she gasped. As promised, he moved gently, delicately, all the while kissing her lips, her breasts, massaging her clitoris with his fingers. When he moved even further, she felt the pain and winced. John deepened the kiss distracting her, and suddenly the pain was gone, just a lingering soreness remained.

"Are you all right, Helen?"

She'd been so quiet.

"I'm fine. I'm fine, John…"

He pushed harder now, deeper inside her, and sighed.

"My God…," he moaned

He was so deep within her, filling her so completely, she thought she might burst. He began to fall into a rhythm, pulling in and out, slower, then faster, then slower again, all the while rubbing her with his hand, murmuring sweet words into her ear, kissing her lips, her cheek, her neck, her breasts, urging her on.

She tightened her hold about his neck, suddenly and instinctively lifting her hips to grant him easier and deeper access. He began to push ever harder, faster in response, moaning at the obvious pleasure she was giving him. Helen responded in kind, falling into a rhythm with him, the two of them grinding flesh against flesh in time, lost in one another. They no longer knew where one began and the other ended.

She had no words for this feeling. No way to describe the sensations she experienced, the pleasure that seemed to be building within her. If there was a heaven, it was on earth, here, now, with him.

Abruptly his pace quickened, faster, harder, pounding against her. She lifted her legs up and placed them on his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh, holding on for dear life. Her climax began to build, her breathing quickened. He slid his cheek against hers and whispered in her ear.

"Let go, love. Let it go…."

Suddenly, her muscles convulsed around him. Time and space disappeared, and she found herself riding waves of pleasure, raw and unbound, exceeding all her expectations. She felt him stiffen, drive against her womb, and gasp against her cheek, convulsing on top of her, spilling his seed inside her.

When they were done, he lay on top of her motionless, their two bodies sticky with sweat. She heard John mumble, "I love you." Helen reached down and stroked his cheek.

"I love you, too, John" she said. "For all eternity."

She felt, rather than heard, John awaken. He turned his face, his cheek against her stomach, and looked up at her, grinning. She smiled back at him.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he asked.

She ran her fingers through his hair, moving an errant strand away from his brilliant blue eyes and tucking it back behind his ear. "I'm fine, John. Wonderful, in fact. Thank you. For your kindness…your patience."

He sat up and looked at her, then reached down and tenderly pulled her chemise above her breasts to cover her and took hold of her hand. "I am the one who should be thanking you, my love," he said softly. "You gave yourself to me, and it was beyond," he hesitated, "beyond all imagining."

Helen blushed, relieved that she had pleased him. He took her hand, held it to his lips, and kissed it.

"What can I give you in return my dear? A cottage by the sea? I'll write you poetry. Sonnets perhaps?"

Helen giggled at his gallantry.

John scooted closer to her, lying down on his side now, his head propped up with an elbow, caressing her cheek with his finger.

"I'm serious you know," he said in a hushed tone. "I'd give you anything, Helen. Anything at all."

Helen reached up and grabbed his hand, put it against her lips and kissed it.

"You've already given me everything I want, John. What more is left?"

She pulled him down to kiss her with the clear, April sky sheltering them overhead. Cocooned in the tall, green grass, the wicker basket Helen had packed for their picnic still sat neatly latched behind them, abandoned once more for a hunger of a different kind.

THE END