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Saturday, 11 August 2018

Smutathon story 3: Finland, France, Germany, Greece

OK, this made me a little tearful when writing it. I hope you enjoy it (and donate here to Abortion Support if you do (or even if you don't).

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This summer night in June 1989 brought with it a slight chill. Daphne huddled into her jacket on the Lyon platform. It had been energy-sapping hot when she'd left Athens two days ago and this journey had exhausted her. But she knew she had to go, she had to see him again.

A train clattered along the platform and accepted new passengers. Daphne found a quiet seat and settled in for the ride. When she woke she peered out the window at military vehicles and human chaos. They had stopped at Berlin-Lichterfelde West and were going no further.

Accommodation was going to be hard to find tonight. People had swarmed to West Berlin when they heard the wall was coming down, many of them with a story similar to Daphne's. He was there, somewhere, on the other side. Would he be waiting?

"Is that your friend?" a man asked her, pointing at the picture she clutched.
"He was my lover. I haven't seen him since the wall went up."

Sensing a story, Haaken stopped next to this striking-looking woman and introduced himself. He explained that he worked for a Finnish newspaper and was here to cover the fall of the Berlin Wall.

"Would you mind if I asked you more about your story?" Haaken asked.
"I'm afraid I don't have time, I desperately need to find a place to sleep tonight."
"Come to my hotel, I'll sleep on the sofa."
"I don't think so, thank..."
"It's right next to the wall, across from the old Wertheim store."

That was where they had agreed to meet, 28 years ago. That was where she was returning to, hoping he would have the same idea.

"That's kind of you, thank you," Daphne said.

At the hotel Haaken asked his questions and Daphne told her story. 20 year-old lovers, they'd spent five years together and were going to marry and complete their lives in each other's arms. When the wall was built he had been trapped in East Germany having arranged to meet at the store later that day.

Devastated and unable to find a way to communicate with him, Daphne returned to her native Greece and failed to ever meet a man that could compare with her man, her Orlan.

"And you think Orlan will be waiting?" Haaken asked.
"I don't know, I can only hope."

His notebook full, the journalist accompanied Daphne to the wall. There was a strong buzz of elation in the crowd as the concrete was torn down and hands stretched to meet hands. Haaken led Daphne through the throng and, just like that, they were in East Berlin. 

It was dark, dusty and crammed with people. But Haaken forged through, edging ever closer to the old department store. There were far fewer people here. Just a handful, in fact, including a man stood perfectly still and clasping a bunch of flowers.

"It's him," Daphne whispered.

Haaken was a good journalist and a good person. He had his story and so he watched as the two lovers ran towards each other. He disappeared back into the crowd, his headline had a happy ending.

---

"It's really you!" Orlan said for the tenth time.

The tears had dried from their faces but the disbelief remained. He had walked her along empty streets to his tiny tower block apartment. During that 30-minute walk they'd compacted 28 years of their lives into brief summaries, but everything apart from the impossible circumstance of their reunion now seemed trivial.

"I love you Orlan. I never stopped loving you."

Tears reappeared, happy tears salting loving kisses. Brushing of lips turned into a dance between tongues and suddenly there was an urgency to make up for decades of lost lovemaking.

As tender as new lovers, they undressed one another, smiling at the effects of 28 years on each other's bodies. Bodies that were still as perfect as the day they'd first met. Daphne stepped into his bedroom, climbed into bed and presented herself.

Orlan hadn't forgotten where to kiss, lick and touch. He was the world's foremost expert in Daphne and soon had his woman melting into a pool of blissful desire. Her taste was so familiar to him and he wanted more, much more. His tongue buried itself deep inside her opening and drank her with the grateful thirst of a man marooned in a desert.

"I want you inside me Orlan, I want to know again how you feel."

He was rigidly ready and lost himself in her gaze as he penetrated the woman he had never stopped loving through the darkest days of Communism. The universe had re-aligned, two sweethearts who had aways belonged together were in each other's arms and consummating their relationship all over again.

Daphne gave every atom of her being to this man, crying out with the joy of this miracle as he drew from her the orgasm she'd been craving for so long. His devoted manhood was gripped deep inside her and, buried there, it released what he had always ever only given to her.

That night in 1989, mixing with the shouts of triumph all along the disintegrating wall, came the pure sounds of orgasmic delight from a man and a woman who had never stopped believing that this joyous moment would return.

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