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. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public
figures in the background, are figments of my imagination.  Any resemblance
to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

   Virgin Rock by Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com

   MF 1st

   "Stay off the cliff, now," Mrs.  Campbell warned me as I left her inn.
"Try to climb that cliff and you'll wind up on Virgin Rock." Well, I hadn't
come to Scotland for the rock climbing.  That was a peculiarly British fad.
I took myself to the pub.  A young man served my beer.

   "Not busy," I noted.  I was his only customer.

   "They'll come in at dinner time.  'Lunchtime' for a Yank.  My parents
couldn't afford to pay someone to tend bar for the solitary visitor, but
our universities are off now, too." I had been out of school for six years,
but I let it pass.  I wanted to be his peer.

   "Dave," I said.

   "Brian.  Are you staying with Mrs.  Campbell, then?"

   "Yes.  She warned me off the cliff.  Is there another way down to the
beach."

   "A nice path not a mile north of here.  She's right about the cliff. 
Rocks fall off the cliff face into the water all the time, even without a
climber pulling on them."

   "What are the virgin rocks she threatened me with?"

   "Virgin Rock.  It sticks out of the ocean under the cliff.  So do many
other rocks, but it's thicker and much taller."

   "Weird name."

   "Well, you have your choice of derivations.  All the other rocks are
mostly covered at high tide.  Never covered might translate as virgin. 
Then too, you can't get a boat close to it nor reach it from the beach. 
And then, of course, there is the folk etymology."

   "What's that?" The idea of a rock which nobody could reach sounded
fascinating.

   "Summer morning's version: There was a girl courted by a swain.  When he
went to sea for a long voyage, she promised to be true to him until he
returned.  A local laird took a fancy to her.  He pursued her until she
jumped off the cliff and fell to death on that very rock.  That's the
summer morning's version.  The winter evening's version has names for the
girl, the swain, and the laird.  It has long speeches from all three and at
least ten minutes for the chase across the top of the cliff."

   "Thanks for the drink, the directions, and the local legend."

   "Any time.  Come back this evening, and -- summer or not -- you can hear
other local legends from those who know them better.  Some of them may even
believe them more."

   I went back to my room to get my wet suit.  I carried it and the
breathing apparatus to the path down to the North Sea.  The water began
quite chilly.  The water next to my body never circulated, though.  As soon
as it had absorbed some body heat, the chill wore away.  I swan lazily back
until I was near the rocks.  Then the swimming was tricky, but I was more
maneuverable than any boat.  Tide was near high, and Virgin Rock was easily
distinguished.  After a few miscalculations, I found a path between the
other rocks and to the landward of Virgin Rock.  From there, I could climb
it, even in my gear.

   I turned off the air, took off the faceplate, and lay face-down on the
rock.  The black suit was warm in the sunlight.  I'd pushed myself and
still had a swim back.  I rested.  Indeed, I dozed.

   "Did ye come back to me, Davy?" It was a woman's voice -- or a girl's --
soft and close.  So much for no one's ever climbed this rock before.  I lay
silent.  The words were clear enough, for all that the accent seemed
thicker than I'd heard from others.  Nobody calls me "Davy," but the
correction wasn't the most important issue.  I hadn't come back, much less
come back for her.  This was my first trip to the rock.

   "It's been such a long time," she continued as if my silence had been an
answer, "but I remained true to ye." This sounded increasingly embarrassing
to her when she discovered who I was.  Still, it had to be done.  I turned
over, carefully.  On a flat beach, this isn't easy in a wet suit with air
tanks; I was atop a curved rock.  "No," she said before I could see her. 
"Tonight."

   Sitting there, I couldn't see her in the bright light.  There didn't
seem anywhere for her to have gone.  The sea was empty; the cliff face was
empty.  Virgin Rock was not large enough to have concealed a frog, let
alone a woman.  Well, it was time to get back.

   This, too, was an adventure.  The climb up from the beach and the walk
back to the inn was a chore rather than an adventure.  I ate a hearty tea
-- having missed lunch (or dinner).  I read until supper.  After supper I
went back to the pub.  With the business that he had at that time, I didn't
think the landlord would feel he owed me an answer with a beer.  Besides, I
was pleasantly fatigued.  I ordered a scotch.

   "Here's your whiskey, Yank," he said setting my glass in front of me.  I
nodded to accept the correction and paid him.  I sipped until he came back.
Most of the others were grouped at tables, but I didn't feel I'd be welcome
at any of them.  When the barkeep paused in his duties, I asked him a
question.

   "Brian was telling me about the legend of Virgin Rock," I began.  "Did
the swain ever come back?"

   "Now, that's not something I'd know about." He raised his voice.  "Yawn,
have ye heard whether Davy Campbell ever returned?  Yank wants to know."

   "Well, there's a couple of ways the story is told," said the man I
suddenly figured out was named Ian.  I drained my glass.

   "Two glasses of whatever Ian is drinking," I ordered.

   "Whiskey again." He set the two glasses down, and I paid.

   Ian was willing enough to fill me in on the story.  He even, to my
surprise, bought me a round.  That put me over my limit.  When he wound
down, I made my excuses and returned to my room.  I stripped and got into
bed.  The stories, the dream (or ghost) of the day, the question of whether
I was learning a well-believed legend or merely being strung along as a
gullible Yank, all troubled my mind.  Between healthy exercise and three
glasses of scotch, I fell into a deep -- if not a dreamless -- sleep, even
so.

   "Davy?" It was the girl from this morning.

   "Yes?"

   "It's been so long.  I feel as though it had been hundreds of years
since ye went away."

   "It has." Stupid response, but I was still groggy.  Besides, you're not
responsible for what you say in dreams.

   "Oh!  For ye, as well?  Well, I don't want to wait longer." I felt a
weight on the side of the bed.  "Do ye?"

   "No!" Whatever was about to happen was wrong.  I had to stop it.  But I
couldn't stop it.  A lithe female form slipped under the covers with me. 
While she held my face and kissed me, my hands were covering her body.  I
found not a bit of cloth covering her.  The breasts were pleasant handfuls,
pressing firmly forward.  Her legs were smooth and strong.  And, between
those legs was a patch of wiry hair.  All of this was by feel.  The room
was too dark to see a thing.

   Still kissing me, she rolled onto her back.  I got into position a
little less smoothly than in most dreams.  Her legs gripped me while I
placed myself at her entrance.  I was no longer resisting.  Strangely,
enough, she was.  Her hands pulled at my shoulders while her legs hugged
me, but the critical place was closed.

   By this time, however, nothing could stop me.  I thrust hard with my
hips and broke through.  She was tight, and warm, and wet.

   "Davy," she shrieked, and woke me.

   It was the strangest wet dream I'd ever had -- the strangest dream of
any sort.  For one thing, I was still hard.  It had been a wet dream,
though.  I could feel the moisture on the sheet.  I rolled as far away as I
could get and still sleep comfortably.

   The weather had turned chilly when I woke that morning.  I slipped out
of bed and into my clothes.  Mrs.  Campbell asked me whether I would skip
dinner again.

   "Well, I might return to the beach from which I swam yesterday.  It's a
long walk to come back for dinner.  Do you think you could pack me
something?"

   "It will be no dinner.  Maybe a bit of bread and cheese."

   "That would be fine." I knew her 'bit' would be plentiful.  For that
matter, both the bread and the cheese she served tasted better than what I
was used to.  I walked to the path down to the beach, changed into my wet
suit, explored the lower levels of the North Sea in that area until my air
ran out.  Then I ate a generous lunch.  After an hour, I got back in the
water and explored north.  Having left my empty tanks behind, I stayed on
the surface.  I trudged back, getting there a little before tea time.  I'd
have to take my tanks to a larger town to be refilled, but the bus would
take me there.

   "I changed your sheets today," was Mrs.  Campbell's greeting.

   "That was kind of you." Had she seen signs of my wet dream?  Would she
mention it?  Certainly, this wasn't an unusual experience for innkeepers.

   "I'm sorry to see that you had bled." Huh?  "But, really sir, you should
have told me that you got blood on the sheets.  They are easier to clean
when you start early, and I wouldn't have minded giving you clean sheets
that night.  It would have been better for both of us."

   But, as I verified when I got to my room, I hadn't a cut on me.  For
that matter, even if I hadn't noticed it at the time, a cut would have
stung when the ocean filled the wet suit.  What had Mrs.  Campbell seen?



   The end Virgin Rock by Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com

   Another story of a girl's first time, this one a living girl,
/~Uther_Pendragon/Gjt/sch_01f.htm "Honey Bee"

   The index to almost all my stories:
/~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm