Typhoid & Gossip Ch 11: Anne - The Sands at the Oasis, an anne of green gables series fanfic

Author's Note:

FYI this is the only lusty graphic portion in the story at this time and likely in the whole story. Its full of metaphors, and only descriptive enough so you have an idea of what does and doesn't happen for plot purposes (otherwise it wouldn't be in there). If though you prefer to skip, when Anne starts to dream skip to the last paragraph. I've tried to keep it T rated, but maybe skirting the edge of M rating so I'm giving a warning. Honestly later chapters will have more graphic descriptions of Gilbert's bowel movements then the lust. But as I prefer to skip often times lusty portions, I'm giving fair warning and if there's any "lusty portions" again, will do that, and only ever include in my story telling if it's vital for moving the story forward and raising the stakes.

— Anne —

Sunday June 20th, 3:30am

Boarding House, Brookfield, Nova Scotia

I'd been sitting, on the only flat surface not covered in our wet yet clean clothing. My back was aching, but not daring to lean back against my dripping corset as I sat in my last dry clothing items. Why had I not packed more clothes? And forget my night gown likely safely still tucked daintily under the pillow in Phil's room. Instead I sat in my undermost undergarments, and the shawl that Aunt Jamesina had knitted for me. I'd kept my lap covered with the sewing for Diana's baby and was certain I'd never stop blushing. Perhaps it would have been better to have been stuck in room all night with Christine Stewart and Meg Gordon after all. And if the girls ever learned that I'd spent a night sharing a room with Gilbert Blythe. Yes a very sick Gilbert who slept so deeply with a warm fever that I doubt he'd remember much later.

I'd considered commandeering some of his clothing. His spare suit perhaps. But I wasn't certain which would be more scandalous. To wear Gilbert's clothing or if he were to wake and find me sitting there in nothing but my drawers and chemise with a shawl. My arms completely bare and my legs below my knees. Which were a bit cold, despite the warm June air and the heat from the stove going.

And it didn't help to think about him. Laying there, and having to have helped him put his night shirt on. That he'd fallen asleep before putting fresh clothes on. Thankfully he'd fallen asleep on his stomach.. There are some things that one can just not unsee, and Gilbert Blythe sick in bed where everyone in the hotel believed his lie that I was Mrs. Gilbert Blythe…

Why had I not packed more clothes? Or at least a nightgown? That dreadful nightgown innocently resting under the pillow in Phil's girlhood bed. I did her best to not think of Gilbert Blythe, sleeping fitfully in the bed, already his nightshirt damp with sweat from the fever, I'd only found the one night shirt. I'd seen some undershirts, perhaps I should wake him and help him into one, I thought. But then blushed at the memory of having to help him dress before. I covered my mouth and a slight gasp. To think that it'd been all rumor about him and Christine. That morning when I'd woken up, having to face hearing Meg talk about her special friend Christine and her dashing fiance. I'd even wondered if I'd ever see Gilbert again. If next time I saw him I'd have to see him introduce Christine as his fiancé or wife. Instead here I was. With a Gilbert who... What would happen if others learned we lied and posed as a married couple?

Oh… I'd turned then and glanced my reflection my hair still darkened and slightly damp. In the lamp light on the table I could see it. "The most beautiful hair in Canada, like the sunrise on the Island shore…" Roy had written me lines of poetry. He'd described my every feature. But then there'd been a flatness to his poems. Like they were too cheap, too common. Gilbert. I'd never heard him once get poetic. In fact we'd argued over it a time or two about the necessity of poetry in life.

I sighed. How had Gilbert Blythe without a poetic bone in his body spout out something like that in his fevered state? And that he still cared? Oh, how wonderful that I had my old friend back, but then I imagined it. Sitting after we were home across from each other, him in the Blythe family pew and me in the Green Gables. And I'd remember when I'd found him too exhausted to even dress himself. I'd be red throughout the sermon and would get a lecture from Mrs. Lynde afterwards. Marilla would just shake her head at me.

Because I'd never be able to face Gilbert Blythe again!

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by moaning and sobs coming from the bed. He quickly grew louder. Sobs like I'd wrenched when Matthew had died. I'd rushed to him, forgetting about our states of undress and climbed onto the bed on the empty side, sitting on the bed I wrapped my arms around him, rocking him. Trying to sooth him. So he wouldn't wake the neighbors, I pressed his head into my bosom. I'd imagined he was a small child. He'd told me once about a dog he'd had as a boy, years before I came to Avonlea. How he'd sobbed when they'd had to shoot it because it'd gotten injured. How old had he been? I couldn't remember. Perhaps eight? Well, I imagined it was Davy as he first came, waking from a nightmare.

I settled down, and my arms around his sticky back, I began to doze with him, finally relaxing as I slipped down into oblivion. My last thoughts was I'd have to go back to the chair in a few minutes. But exhaustion was overtaking me. My frozen toes finally felt warm, his arms were around my waist, making it hard to move. I'd thought I'd let myself stay just a few minutes, were my last conscious thoughts.

I dreamed of the bible book we'd read. Back there with Phil, Stella and Pris. The Song of Solomon, only now the king, the Lover was coming across the desert to me. He'd have form one minute then be so dry and hot he'd be about to fall to the wind as dust. I was an oasis, like a dryad perhaps. The beloved with the nectar he needed. He'd nearly been lost to the wind when he finally reached me, crawling. He'd drunk of my nectar from my cup and I'd clung to him that he might not shift again into sand. With each sip he took more form, my King Solomon.

I arched to him as a cat and he began like a thirsty dog to lap at my waters. He scratched from the rawness of the desert as he climbed for breath. I clung tighter. My nails clinging that he'd not slip away to sand. He began worshiping my hair. I'd remembered Gilbert's words and this lover began to repeat them, showering my hair with kisses in my watery oasis. I'd poured my love to him, clinging to him that he might not fly away into sand in the wind above my oasis threatening our lives.

Oh that he might kiss my lips. So I'd pulled him down, to keep him from leaving the pool of my oasis. From returning to his camel to return to the desert and the wind. I sighed and pulled him down, and our lips became one. Oh I'd dreamed of my first kiss, and perhaps dream kisses are better. I'd heard the girls speak of their first kisses. Roy had tried once to kiss me once, but nothing as this King Solomon, and I'd turned away from Roy but to my King Solomon. Oh but this put all descriptions of kisses to shame. It was as though we had one breath. We were rocking in the water, drifting the desert forgotten. In my pool of my oasis.

Suddenly a door opened, jarring me from the the dream. Only it was no dream. Above me as the King Solomon had, Gilbert's own eyes blinked in a daze, at the noise, only to come down continuing to kiss whispering "I love you Anne Blythe." Before trailing kisses down the side of my neck.

I glanced towards the door, where I saw the back of a man moving back towards the door. One of the staff, with the morning delivery promised, oh had I not told them to just bring it in when the clerk had dropped off the hip bath and come straight in. Oh the mortification that we'd been found thus! What a Jonah day! At least, none knew us here new the truth and here they thought we were within our rights as a married couple. What a lie. Anne Blythe, I realized my head spinning as he kept his ministrations going. My nails still clinging to him as from the dream, I quickly removed.

"Gil… Stop…" I tried to shake him from it. "Gilbert Blythe!" He did not stop. I'd break a slate over his head as soon as I found one. No one hundred! His hands where where they never should be. I will forever pity the milking cows for he thought I was one of them. I bit him, trying to get him to stop.

"Anne-girl." He spoke in a whisper, shuttered as though in pain.

"Gil.." I quietly sobbed.

He didn't respond. Instead he collapsed like a dead weight and began to snore. He was like a cake that the door is slammed on before it finishes rising.

I managed to roll him off of me, onto the dryer side of the bed, adjusting his night clothes such that he was at least covered again for they had bunched up indecently from our dreams. Next time he had a nightmare I'd just dump cold water on his head. What had we done! Perhaps I should wake him, shake him. Slap him? Instead as soon as I could discern he wouldn't notice the movement I hurried from the bed, righted my undergarments and threw up into the sink from the shock of what we'd done. Oh the depths of despair did not reach for the panic I felt.

Author's Note: Poor Anne. The next installment will be Monday evening. I have to rewrite and edit the next several chapters but am maintaining staying ahead of posting so I can edit as I post. 2/10 - Some clues were missing for future chapters so the last few paragraphs were edited.