The FIONA-Triology 1 -Assassination

The FIONA-TRILOGY - The Assassination

© JoeMo1619 - July 2025 ff.

Prologue:

The "Fiona Trilogy," the first part of which appears here, is set in the time leading up to and during the COVID pandemic that broke out in 2020, a time that brought about an almost absurd transformation of our everyday lives. The behaviour of the British government under Boris Johnson and the Scottish government under Nicola Sturgeon was diametrically opposed and also differed significantly from the German "bureaucratic theatre" and Donald Trump's actions and advice -- though not necessarily for the better.

An Assassination and its Consequences

After twelve days, I was finally standing in the parking lot in front of the portal of Cheltenham General Hospital, watching my now twenty-one-year-old daughter Eileen as she packed two travel bags and my dressing gown into the boot of her Nissan Micra. Completely against my will, exactly twelve days earlier, I had been brought here by ambulance with flashing blue lights and sirens blaring from my school, only to undergo emergency surgery in a hastily prepared operating room that ultimately saved my life. Until the anaesthesia took effect, I remembered the events of that day as if watching a documentary film. Now I hoped that the prediction of the trauma psychologist who had been caring for me over the past days would come true.

"The human brain is capable, with the right support, of processing tragic and dramatic events in such a way that they do not affect the rest of one's life," she had explained to me repeatedly. I was to continue outpatient psychological care in the coming weeks to help with this.

What had happened? For four years, I -- Fiona Williamson, 47 years old, divorced with one daughter -- had been the headmistress of a private high school in Cheltenham. I also continued to teach English and history on a reduced schedule because I still enjoyed working with the two upper school classes. During the fourth lesson, I was on one of the main corridors heading to the sports arena on a work-related matter when I suddenly heard a commotion and screams from one of the classrooms. Then the classroom door burst open, and a young man stumbled into the hallway holding one of those special Japanese kitchen knives with a terribly large, shiny silver blade -- from which, as was instantly apparent, blood was dripping.

"What's going on...?" I hadn't even finished asking my question when the young man was already in front of me and, without any warning, stabbed me. At 1.81 meters tall, I'm a tall woman, so the knife struck me deep in the lower abdomen. I felt my knees give way immediately afterward, and I twisted as I fell to the corridor floor; a second stab hit me high on my upper arm as I was falling, which prevented the blade from going further into my chest. Then the young man ran on, only to come across our PE teacher a few steps later -- drawn by the noise -- who had come running into the corridor. I don't know why Andrew Master happened to have a cricket bat in his hand, but with that very bat, he disabled the rampaging attacker by shattering his knee, making it impossible for him to flee.

I only learned the full course of events six days ago from the chief inspector investigating the case during my first interview. The attacker -- normally a very reserved student and the son of one of Cheltenham's most famous chefs and restaurant owners -- had suddenly attacked a female classmate with the knife, fatally stabbing her three times, then slashed the abdomen of the teacher trying to intervene, severing her abdominal artery, and then attacked me as his third victim while trying to escape. My colleague died on the classroom floor.

In my case, the emergency ambulance arrived within minutes and got me to the hospital in time to prevent me from bleeding to death. During surgery, the emergency surgeon, after consulting briefly with the hospital's gynaecologist, decided to remove my uterus, which had been severely damaged by the stab wound. Furthermore, two strangely shaped cysts were discovered on my ovaries, and considering my age, they decided to remove all of my female reproductive organs. The subsequent tissue analysis revealed the two lemon-sized growths were benign, and I fully agreed with the doctors' decision.

What had deeply disturbed me during my hospital stay was the coverage in England's notoriously ruthless tabloid press. Andrew Master was hailed as a hero, while reporters dragged the entire private lives of teachers, students, and parents into their skewed spotlight and sensationalized it. The attacker's parents closed their well-known and highly acclaimed restaurant temporarily and travelled to an unknown destination. As I learned from the ward nurse, two reporters even attempted to enter my hospital room.

The autumn break, starting the following week, gave me the chance to reflect on my future. When I visited my office and the staff room, I was greeted with applause and warm words of encouragement. But I avoided teaching during the two remaining days or taking on any other duties. I had to admit to myself that I felt an odd sense of fear at school and was relieved when I got back home.

A week later, Rosi Mackenzie, the neighbour and close friend of my long-widowed father, suddenly called.

"I called the emergency doctor two hours ago. I found Gary on the floor of his barn -- the doctor suspects a stroke."

I groaned. "That would be his second. Not good!"

"No, definitely not. The doctor treated him and then called for a helicopter. The small hospital in Broadford isn't equipped to deal with such cases. They flew him straight to Raigmore Hospital in Inverness."

My father had lived alone since my mother died fifteen years ago, in a croft cottage in Aird of Sleat, at the southern tip of the Isle of Skye, part of the Inner Hebrides. The entire estate had originally been built by my great-grandfather. The southern part of the large Scottish island is known as Clan Donald land, something reflected in my maiden name, Fiona Macdonald. After World War II, my grandfather sold most of the land and the actual farm, keeping only this croft cottage and a smaller parcel of land as a second home for family holidays. But the croft had a stunning view over the Sound of Sleat, facing the mainland and the Isle of Eigg.

Rosi's message alarmed both me and my daughter. My own problems suddenly faded into the background.

"I'm really scared for Dad," I had told Eileen on the phone. "This is his second stroke. That's usually very dangerous." We decided to get to Inverness as quickly as possible. After a quick internet check, we found a direct evening flight from Birmingham to Inverness and agreed to meet at the airport.

The next morning, we took a taxi to the central hospital of the Scottish Highlands. We weren't allowed to visit him directly due to medical reasons, but we could see him through a glass window -- hooked up to tubes and machines, asleep in his bed.

"To be honest, it doesn't look good," the attending doctor told us. "We're doing everything we can, but the stroke caused a brain haemorrhage that's affecting critical areas of the brain."

"And if you succeed, will he be able to live alone again?"

"We can't say that at all right now. He recovered surprisingly well from his first stroke eight years ago. But this time... I'm quite sceptical."

After the hospital, we went for lunch at a restaurant by the River Ness and held a war council.

"I know it sounds cruel, but I honestly think it would be better if Grandpa dies," my daughter suddenly said. "Living bedridden and in need of constant care is more like torture than a life worth living."

At first, I was shocked, but then I thought about it. "You're right, in principle. I had those same thoughts while in the hospital. 'Either fully recover -- or die.'"

While we were still discussing our next steps, my mobile phone rang. "Are you still in Inverness?" a friendly female voice asked. I said yes. "Then you should return to Raigmore. The doctor said your father is likely dying."

This time, Eileen and I were allowed into his room. "He's fallen into a coma," the doctor explained, "and we don't expect him to wake up again. No matter what we do."

"Then let him die in peace," I replied. I held his hand, which felt icy cold, for the next half hour. Then the monitor showed that his heart had stopped.

Eileen and I decided to rent a car and drive to Skye the next morning. I knew that my father had signed a contract years ago with the local undertaker, so we didn't have to worry about any arrangements. I had already passed this information to the hospital, and they coordinated everything directly and professionally with the undertaker.

Our destination was Dad's cottage, which had been a lovely holiday spot for my daughter and me for many years.

Rosi Mackenzie was already waiting for us. Her croft cottage was the nearest neighbour to my father's, painted with lilac windows and doors -- a visible declaration of her sexual identity. Rosi was only a few years older than me and was a well-known feminist and LGBTQ activist across Scotland. At the same time, she was a hardworking crofter who, in practice, managed not only her own farm but also that of my father and another neighbour. She had also ensured that the three crofts and additional land -- about 120 hectares in total -- became their rightful property after the 2003 land reform. On the other hand, my father had kept administrative and financial order thanks to the small accounting and tax consulting practice he had continued after selling his main business fifteen years earlier.

Eileen and I made ourselves comfortable in Rosi's pleasantly warm kitchen, drank tea, and ate freshly baked scones -- already lunchtime.

"Gary was a wonderful man," Rosi confessed -- a compliment that surprised me, given her lesbian background. "He was the only trustworthy man in our book and reading club. We will miss him dearly."

Her statement piqued my curiosity. "A feminist book club with a male member?"

Rosi laughed deeply and knowingly. "Surprised? You didn't know your father was a well-read man?"

Eileen and I looked at her, baffled. "When I looked around the cottage earlier, I didn't see ten books."

"He didn't need to. He got all the club's special reading material here."

"What kind of special reading?"

"My dear Fiona -- lesbian women's literature. And our four club members enjoyed putting the ideas into practice." Rosi laughed in her characteristic way and gave me a friendly look. "We both know your father's first stroke left him completely impotent. That made things easier. He was practically our fifth member -- literally." Rosi reached for the teapot and refilled our cups, taking a moment to consider how much more to reveal. Then she visibly made up her mind. "He made up for his lack of potency with incredibly skilful use of his mouth, tongue, fingers, hands -- and who knows what other toys." She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, we'll all miss him very much."

I was indeed surprised. I knew of the close friendship between my father and Rosi, but this level of intimacy was new to me. My father had found a substitute for his lost family and romantic life in a circle of lesbian and bisexual women, and neither I nor my daughter had ever noticed.

"He wrote down some of his experiences -- or fantasies -- in short stories. You'll probably find them on his laptop. But I also have a full set on my PC if you ever want to read them."

"Once things settle down, I'd love to." I was genuinely curious to discover this side of my father.

"Are you inheriting Gary's property here?" Rosi asked suddenly.

"As far as I know from his will -- yes. Why do you ask?"

"I hope you'll keep it. It would really worry me and some others if it were sold to a stranger. In Ardvasar and Armadale, many crofts have been sold, decrofted, and turned into holiday homes."

"Honestly, I have no idea what to do with it yet. As you've probably seen in the papers, I've had a few terrible weeks."

"Yes, I read about it. Gary talked to me about it too. He was very worried about you -- maybe that even triggered his second stroke. Are you okay now?"

"Physically, mostly. It was a radical operation, but it saved my life. Mentally... I'm still not over it. But I'm getting good care."

Rosi leaned back and looked at me thoughtfully. "Do you have to go back to work?"

"I'm on medical leave until further notice -- at least until mid-year. If I go back at all. It was a very strange feeling being back in school after the hospital."

"Were you afraid?"

"To be honest -- yes."

Rosi took a deep breath. "You should consider coming here for a while. Our Claire is the NHS psychologist for the islands and could take good care of you. She used to be in the army and has a lot of trauma experience." Rosi grinned. "And she's a permanent member of our book club."

When I was back at my father's cottage with Eileen and we began going through his belongings together, my daughter got straight to the point.

"I think Rosi made a great suggestion, Mom. Here, you're far enough away from everything that happened at school to calmly consider what you want to do next. And with Rosi and her Dr. Claire, you'd have instant human connection too."

I smiled at her. "Thanks for the advice, Eileen. Just one problem: I'm not part of Rosi's lesbian circle."

"You're not expected to jump into bed with them. You were born here and spent your childhood on Skye. I think this special environment would really help you get some distance from the attack."

"And where would I live?"

"Here, in Granddad's cottage."

I looked around and made a face. "I'd have to change a lot to make this place even halfway liveable." I gave a slightly sarcastic laugh. "You can see in every corner that a seventy-three-year-old widower lived here alone. Thank God my father was very orderly; otherwise, it would look much worse."

"He was an accountant and tax advisor. Orderliness is part of the job."

"True. You're cut from the same cloth." I got up and consciously walked through the cottage, mentally listing everything that would need to be changed if I were to live here for even a few weeks or months.

The cottage had a small entry porch -- necessary in Scotland's wet and windy weather for outdoor clothing. The ground floor had two rooms: one used as a living room and the other as a study. There was also a flat-roofed extension with a kitchen and a small bathroom -- both a bit dated but fully functional. There was another room that my father had used as a storage space for all sorts of things. Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a second small bathroom.

I estimated the cottage, with its later extension, at around 100 square meters -- more than enough for one person, with room for guests.

"Alright," I said, sitting back down with Eileen at the kitchen table, "the cottage needs a fresh, bright coat of paint right away. These walls haven't seen new colour in decades. And I need a new bedroom immediately. Dad's bed and wardrobe are junk. And I'll invest in a professional deep-clean of the entire place." I added, "There must be local cleaning services here on the island that do holiday rentals."

Eileen and I sat down and started making a list of actions and a budget.

"Will cost a few thousand pounds," I concluded after looking over our work.

"Totally worth it, Mom. I'd love to come here too. It's such a beautiful location."

Back in our bed & breakfast in Ardvasar, we spent a few more hours discussing renovation ideas to turn the croft cottage into an appealing second home. The next day, I spoke with a local painter Rosi had recommended. He gave me a quote immediately and promised to complete the job in ten days.

Rosi also arranged a handyman service who cleared out the unusable upstairs bedrooms before painting began and disposed of the furniture. He was also set to rip out the old, undoubtedly unhygienic carpets upstairs.

This left two more immediate tasks: new flooring for both levels and purchasing two new bedrooms' worth of furniture. To my surprise, Rosi recommended a well-known family business in Kyle of Lochalsh for the flooring. Since tourist season was winding down, they could deliver and install quickly. I opted for wood laminate flooring throughout the house, with the option to add rugs wherever needed.

"For the bedrooms, we'll keep it simple, Mom," Eileen offered a great solution. "Instead of flying back, we'll drive the rental car to England and stop at IKEA in Glasgow. We'll pick what we like and order everything. They deliver now and even offer assembly service." Eileen was on fire about renovating the cottage to our tastes. Fortunately, we didn't need major updates -- my father had replaced the electrical and plumbing fifteen years ago.

Pretty exhausted after a busy day, we both went to bed early. While Eileen fell asleep right away, I lay awake for a long time. Rosi's stories about her book club and my father's unusual role in that circle of lesbian women had stirred my imagination so vividly that I played out an intense porno in my mind -- featuring an impotent old man "serving" a quartet of much younger women. The mental film aroused me so much that I discreetly brought myself to orgasm -- the first careful climax since losing my internal female organs surgically. Surprisingly, it felt incredibly good.

Four weeks later, I relocated my temporary home base to Skye. Due to my injuries and medical leave, I was declared unfit for work until February's midterm, which also ensured my continued salary through the school's insurance.

Eileen had come along for a few days so we could first bury my father's urn. It was touching -- and surprising -- that practically the entire community from the three southern Skye villages attended the small church service. That way, I met nearly all the neighbours in one go.

Thanks to the renovation, our cottage had gained significantly in living comfort. Especially as the season turned darker (and wetter), the bright cream walls, light wood floors, and white bedroom furniture had a wonderfully uplifting effect.

To sort out proper lighting, Eileen and I made a day trip to Inverness and returned with nearly a full set of new lamps. Rosi arranged a local electrician with just one phone call.

Rosi, my neighbour and my father's former friend, was otherwise invaluable to us. So I wasn't too surprised when she invited Eileen and me to something new.

"Traditionally, our book club meets every two weeks, alternating between me and Claire. The next round is this Friday. You're both warmly invited."

When Rosi saw hesitation on my face, she added quickly, "Don't worry, Fiona. We're not going to pounce on you or Eileen." She laughed loudly. "We're not men, after all."

I shot a quick glance at my daughter. Her curiosity was written all over her face. Then I nodded. "Thanks, Rosi. We'd love to come. Eileen's not leaving until Sunday."

Rosi was genuinely delighted. "I'm thrilled. The ladies would love to meet the daughter and granddaughter of our dear Gary."

The book club met at Rosi's house. It was a truly diverse group. Along with 38-year-old Dr. Claire Hamilton, whom I knew professionally from her work as an NHS psychologist, there was Beatrice Leskesund, a 35-year-old textile artist married to a Norwegian carpenter and artisan. And Eilidh MacIntosh, who had just celebrated her 40th birthday a month ago.

Eilidh ran a tourist-oriented textile shop near the ferry terminal in Armadale, mainly selling Celtic wool fashions and accessories. She was also married and had two daughters -- the only mother in the group.

"So, Eileen and I are the youngest and second oldest here," I said with a laugh once the initial reserve had worn off.

To my amazement, the women's group was indeed a book club, albeit a slightly unusual one. Bee, as everyone affectionately called Beatrice, had brought a newly published nonfiction book by a Glasgow University professor about the societal role and dominance of Viking women. She read aloud two passages.

Even though I was a history teacher, I had never really thought about this aspect. Viking society, back home in the villages, was mainly run by strong women because the men were often away on long raids at sea. These women cared for the elderly, raised the children, and kept society functioning.

"In that sense, today's group is a typical Viking society," Bee concluded.

"Strong women in exactly the right age range."

"And how did those women fulfil their sexual needs when their strong men were away?" Rosi asked curiously.

"Or when they never returned?" Claire added. "The Vikings were great sailors, but they definitely lost ships at sea."

"Like us," Bee answered with a wide smile. "Lesbian love was quite normal back then. At least until the muscular men came home." She laughed heartily. "Bi is good for all occasions."

We all laughed at the double entendre.

It was a lovely evening. For the first time since the attack and my father's death, I felt completely relaxed and entertained.

I was so at ease I didn't even notice that Bee had subtly moved closer to me on the sofa, or that Claire, the psychologist, was openly flirting with Eileen -- who clearly enjoyed the attention.

Once I finally noticed both developments, I asked myself how this early evening might continue.

"I'd love to show Claire our renovated cottage," Eileen said suddenly.

"Oh yes," Bee agreed. "We only know it the way Gary had it. Clean, tidy, but very old-fashioned."

"Go ahead," said Eilidh. "I have to head home early anyway -- my girls are alone."

"Alright," Rosi agreed. "I've already seen Fiona's updated cottage. You four go. I'll say goodbye to Eilidh. If anyone wants to come back later -- great. Otherwise, see you in two weeks. Or sooner." She gave me a meaningful smile.

Half an hour later, Bee and I, along with Claire and Eileen, were upstairs in the completely renovated cottage, admiring the two bright and cosy bedrooms.

"Lovely, really lovely," Bee finally said. "Much more inviting than Gary's bedroom."

"You can see a real woman's touch," Claire agreed. "Quite a difference in taste." Then she turned to Eileen, wrapping an arm around her waist, and looked deeply into her eyes. "I'm being really bold, which isn't usually my style. But we just met today. Still..." She kissed Eileen on the lips. "Shall we christen your bedroom together?"

To my great surprise, Eileen didn't hesitate. "Nothing I'd like more." She nodded at me briefly, then pulled Claire into her bedroom. The old-fashioned latch clicked shut behind them.

Bee and I looked at each other, somewhat uncertain and waiting.

"And us?" I finally asked her.

"That's entirely up to you, Fiona. Rosi told me what you've been through these past months. Truly shocking. So, I promise I won't pressure you into anything."

I bit my lower lip -- a habit when I'm nervous -- then gathered my courage, took one step toward her, and embraced the young woman.

"I have very, very little experience with women," I admitted. "But I think a gentle, empathetic woman is exactly what I'd like right now."

Bee looked up at me, rose onto her tiptoes, and gave me a warm, deep kiss. "I'd love to be that for you."

We slowly undressed each other, pausing frequently to embrace and kiss. Naturally, my two large, still-fresh scars became visible -- the cross-shaped one across my lower abdomen and the long, nearly vertical one on my upper arm.

"May I?" Bee asked softly, kneeling before me.

I had a feeling what she wanted to do and gave a quiet yes.

She began gently kissing my abdominal scar, all along its length. "My kisses will make your belly invincible forever," she said. "Human saliva can be infectious--but it also has powerful healing properties. The Vikings knew that well. After all, they carried plenty of scars from battle. It all depends."

I responded cautiously, and our conversation moved on to other topics.

Bee's kisses hadn't touched me just emotionally; they had made me really horny. My lesbian experience was almost not existing, the one and only time I had sex with a woman, was decades ago, during my time at university.

Bee felt my tentativeness. "Relax Fiona. It will be beautiful. For you and for me." Bee pushed me back onto my bed, pressed my upper body backwards and knelt beside me. Then she started to treat my entire body with her caressing hands, her lips, her tongue and even her teeth. She recognized almost immediately that my nipples had been highly sensitive, especially when she pulled them slowly upwards with her teeth or fingers and screwed them. Bee loved this play in an instant. Kissing my entire body, she found that my clit reacted even more sensitive. Reaching the centre of my lust, I became more and more unsettled, even hectic. And I felt my love juices flowing. Bee was absolutely unimpressed, played with my clit using her lips and her tongue, and continued to caress my nipples harder and harder. I moaned loudly and became really ecstatic as my lover pushed one, then two fingers into my pussy and pressed with her fingertips against my g-point.

For the first time since my surgery, I allowed a non-medical penetration of my pussy. "It is marvellous," I confessed between two moaned breath strokes. "I was so anxious that I wouldn't be able to love anybody and would enjoy it." Then I pressed my hips upwards and exploded in an unbelievable exciting orgasm. Bee had her mouth placed on my clit, just on top of my pussy. Now she got a real shower from my squirt covering her entire face.

Bee gave me enough time to surf on my climax wave and to come down. She had crawled up to me, so we lay head-to-head, mouth-to-mouth, tis-to-tits. "To feel your lust, your emotions, was unbelievable beautiful" she whispered into my ear. "I hope, we can repeat this many times."

I smiled at her. "If you always give me this much pleasure, then more than gladly."

"Promised," the young woman confirmed.

As we lay side by side, quietly and still gently caressing each other, we heard loud moans of pleasure from the other side of the upper floor -- clearly from both women. Claire and Eileen had apparently found delight in each other as well, which, a few minutes later, audibly culminated in another shared climax. Then things quieted down there too.

"Won't your husband get suspicious if you come home this late?" I finally asked Bee, who was still playing with my body.

"Suspicious? No. Hagen knows where I am and what I'm doing at the book club. He knows I'm bi and he doesn't mind." She giggled. "He says he can't compete with women, but they can't compete with him either. And he's right about that."

It took us more than half an hour before all four of us, now fully dressed again, stood in my living room. Our two old-fashioned bathrooms had served their purpose but left me with a strong desire to modernize them as soon as possible -- and to better suit women's needs.

"I envy you, Mom," Eileen admitted to me later that evening as we sat in the living room with a bottle of red wine. "I have to leave you here alone on Sunday and go back to university. I think you've drawn the better lot -- for now."

I wrapped my daughter in a hug and held her tight. "You can come visit me, you know. I'll definitely be here until January. That means Christmas and New Year's will be on Skye. And you'll be on holiday."

I met Bee's husband, Hagen, ten days later. I wanted to equip the second room on the ground floor, on the wall that faced outward and had a wood-burning stove built into a former open fireplace at its centre, with a custom-built bookshelf and cabinet wall. Our trip to IKEA had shown me that ready-made shelves weren't suitable for this task, as I wanted to keep the stove in use and didn't want to alter the beautiful old fireplace surround, adorned with floral tiles.

Hagen was truly Viking material -- over 1.90 meters tall, muscular, and with large but apparently skilled hands, the kind any woman would notice. Internally, I congratulated Bee on her tolerant husband, who was undoubtedly the perfect contrast to feminine tenderness.

Hagen took measurements for his quote and said he would deliver and explain it over the weekend.

"Why not bring Bee with you?" I suggested spontaneously.

"Thanks. I don't know if she has any plans. But I'll ask her."

Of course, Bee came along early Saturday afternoon. And so, we sat in my kitchen with tea and cake, looking at Hagen's proposal on his laptop.

"This cottage is six meters deep, which makes it larger than most in the area," the carpenter explained. "So, I let my imagination run a bit and included two glass doors on each side of the new bookshelf wall. That opens up a wide range of design options." He showed us half a dozen glass doors, ranging from simple to very high quality with etched glass and various designs. Around the fireplace mantel, he planned open shelves with adjustable heights. "Alternatively, we could leave the space above the mantel free. That way, you could hang a large picture or a lot of small ones."

After an intense discussion, we settled on exactly that option. The bookshelves on the left and right would be fitted entirely with high-quality glass doors to protect the books and other items from dust and fine ash from the stove, which couldn't be completely avoided when emptying it. And above the mantel, I'd hang a mix of framed family photos and small landscape paintings. Hagen was very pleased and promised to give me the final price estimate by Sunday evening.

While Hagen was packing his things, Bee leaned forward and whispered in my ear. "Do you feel like playing with Hagen and me?"

I looked at her, totally surprised and incredulous. Had this young woman just suggested a threesome? "Now?"

Bee nodded. "Here or at our place. Wherever you prefer."

I thought for a moment. Hagen was indeed a man who probably stirred certain desires in any woman. "And what does your husband say about that?"

"He would love to, but he's completely willing to respect any conditions and boundaries you set."

I took a deep breath. "I would love it. But my doctor said that I have to wait a minimum of three months until a man can penetrate my pussy. 'It could be really hurting' was his advice."

"No problem. We tell Hagen that your pussy is off limits for him."

I raised my eyebrows and bit my lower lip. I really wanted to, if only I weren't so afraid. Actually, it was the perfect way to slowly find my way back to a normal sex life. I reached out my arm, pulled Bee's head toward me, and gave her an intense, loving kiss. "Let's give it a try."

At that moment, Hagen came back into the cottage, saw us kissing, and smiled knowingly. It was only a few minutes later that the three of us climbed the relatively steep but safely walkable staircase to the upper floor. Bee and I had the pleasure of being the first to help Hagen out of his autumn-warm clothes. When he finally stood naked between us in all his well-trained masculinity, I couldn't help but say:

"Oh God, what a beautiful man."

Bee laughed. "Oh yes, he is."

Hagen now took two steps back as well so that I could take in his full appearance. To my surprise, he was completely shaved, except for the hair on his head and his three-day stubble.

"I love him clean-shaven," Bee explained with a smug smile. "And Hagen is obedient."

Then we women began undressing each other. Despite being 47 years old, I was still in good shape at 1.81 meters tall and weighing only 74 kg. The twice-weekly dance aerobics classes at the gym of our school in Cheltenham, as well as the weekly women-only evening at our local fitness studio, had done me a lot of good over the years. Nevertheless, I was well-proportioned in the bust, hips, and thighs, and not skin and bones. Otherwise, I was just as completely shaved as the two guests in my bedroom; however, in my case, this had only been the case recently -- a direct result of the lower abdominal injury and surgery.

Our mutual striptease was already eliciting the first reactions from Hagen. His manhood showed full growth by the second. His cock was as beautiful as the entire man. Just average length and simply straight, but the more and more incoming blood pumped his cock into an impressive thickness, to be honest, I had never seen such a large sausage in my entire life. My special pleasure was his glans, plump and dark red; for whatever reason Hagen was circumcised.

Just at that moment I recognized that I had purchased the perfect bed at IKEA for our threesome; the mattress stood free to all three sides and anybody could walk around the bed. I took Hagen by his hand, pulled him to me, and sat down on the edge of my bed.

"My mouth and my throat aren't damaged," I laughed at him, placed a kiss on top of his glans and started to play on its entire length with my lips, my tongue and my fingers. Bee joined in immediately, knelt beside Hagen, giving him the pleasure to play with two women simultaneously. In less than a minute he was rock-hard. And his thick sausage forced both of us to open our mouths as far as possible.

Because of our oral treatment, Hagen started to puff like an old steam engine. He was profiting from Bees and my different preferences of oral manhood treatment. I love to pull the glans and a cock's upper part between my lips and to suck intensively, combined with my swirling tongue around the glans' rim. Bee was much more familiar with her husbands' thick cock and had trained for years to take him really deep throat. This technique resulted rapidly in a horny stimulating sound effect, increasingly gurgling and choking.

"Do you swallow?" Bee asked me suddenly. I grunted affirmatively with my cock filled mouth. "Hagen loves it dearly."

I didn't make a further comment because I took Bee's words as a command. Hagen buried his strong hands in my hair and directed my head in his preferred way. Soon later, I felt his first eruption coming. I pushed my mouth onto his glans as deep as possible and let it come. Hagen escorted his first two splashes with a kind of rutting call, loud enough to be heard far outside my cottage. Then he produced some dirty talk during his further splashes, animating his wife to clap his arse checks heavily.

Having sucked him dry, I stood up. Hagen and I grabbed under Bee's armpits, pulled her upwards and arranged the much smaller woman onto my bed. Now her head reached the same level as ours, we snogged each other like love-drunken teenagers. My still creampied mouth was licked clean by both, Hagen and Bee, with much enthusiasm.

"I know that we still need to be especially considerate of you," said Hagen, once we had finally calmed down. "But Bee and I have come up with something that will definitely bring you a lot of joy."

I looked curiously back and forth at the erotically alluring couple. "And what lovely idea have you two come up with?"

"We enjoy each other in 69," suggested Bee. "I know, you love to get indulged by me. And I promise that you will squirt as strong as last time." She laughed dirty. "You stretch yourself under me, totally relaxed. And I place myself on top of you. So, Hagen can take me doggy-style, simultaneously you treat my clit and my pussy with your mouth and fingers intensively."

I understood only the first half of Bee's explanation. But after my last climax with Bee, I was assured that we both could heat us up mutually. I was not experienced with pussy eating, but I was up to her challenge.

A word and a blow. I stretched myself on my bed, positioning my head at the lower end of my bed. Bee saddled in one quick move upon me and lowered her already soaking wet pussy directly onto my mouth.

"Hagen, please give me a small pillow," I asked Bee's husband, "otherwise I get a stiff neck." The small pillow relaxed my head's position and made it easy for me to reach Bee's sanctuary. We'd been absolutely greedy on each other and treated us with high intensity from the very first beginning. It took us less than ten minutes to reach both a wet, zappy climax. Bee showered my face completely. "Well then?" was my silent question to myself, but Bee knew already the right answer. She continued her treatment of my highly sensitive pussy without any break. My body was shaken by a second, heavy climax. This time I could hear clearly how Bee guzzled my overflowing pussy.

Suddenly, I recognized the mattress behind my head was lowered by Hagen's weight. He placed his knees on both sides of my head, took his rock-hard thick penis into his hand and placed it directly above my eyes into Bee's labials. Then he pushed his wonderful thick cock in one thrust deep into his wife's pussy. Alone by watching this attempt so closely, my belly hardened. I was convinced that I wouldn't be able to take Hagen's thick cock into my pussy, even before my major surgery. But Bee was well-trained and used to it. Hagen fucked his wife with long, hard thrusts, which made it difficult for her to keep her mouth on my pussy and to continue her licking treatment. But Bee substituted her mouth and lips with her fingers and stimulated me further.

Suddenly, Hagen pulled his cock out of Bee's pussy and placed his well lubricated glans directly in front of my lips. "Do you take it?" I accepted his offer, pressed my neck backwards and opened my mouth as wide as possible. Hagen pushed his cock rapidly forward and reached immediately my untrained throat. I grabbed his thighs and pushed him back, a signal he understood immediately. The next ten fucks went entirely into my mouth, then he pulled back again and started to penetrate Bee's pussy again after she begged him already to do so. Hagen repeated this change of fuck hole twice until his wife cried out a new command.

"Fuck my arse!" she gave a second command few seconds later. "And Fiona licks my pussy again."

Hagen and I were obedient. Because of my close-up position, I could observe that Hagen was able to push his swollen, dark-red glans and then his entire thick cock fast and without problems through Bee's constrictor muscle. Then he fucked her with the same strong rhythm as he had fucked her pussy. But it was obvious that Bee's backward entrance was significantly smaller and put a lot of pressure on Hagen's cock. He needed less than twenty thrusts until he sprayed his cum deep into her bowel. His wife ran riot on top of me with her own climax. To be honest: I had never observed such a furious female orgasm. She was shacking with her entire body for several minutes.

Bee collapsed on me, absolutely sweat-soaked and totally finished. Her husband's shrinking cock slipped out of her and honoured my close-up observing position with a mixed torrent of love juices. My face became fully covered with this special mixture.

"Oh, how randy," was my spontaneous reaction, but I closed my eyes to protect them against this creampie blend.

Bee took the towel, which we had placed under my head before, and cleaned my face provisionally. Then she kissed my eyes. "I think you can open your eyes now." She looked at me with the most beautiful smile a very satisfied woman can make. "You enjoyed it?"

„Oh yes!" was my still breathless answer. "I have never ever experienced such horny sex in my entire life."

Hagen laughed in the background. "I think the three of us are going to experience a lot of beautiful things together." Then he knelt down at the foot of my bed, took my head in both hands, and gave me an upside-down kiss -- first on the forehead, then on the mouth. "You're amazing, Fiona!"

Tears of joy sprang to my eyes. I had never received such a compliment from such a beautiful and attractive man right after an intimate moment. "Thank you, both of you," was my honest reaction as I sat up. Then I looked at them, one after the other. "It feels like I've entered a wholly new territory in the past few days. And I'm curious to see what kind of adventure this will turn out to be."

All three of us laughed together, then quickly dispersed to the two small bathrooms to become presentable again.

During the pre-Christmas period, Hagen installed the book wall I had ordered in my second room on the ground floor. I was a classic bookworm, both professionally and personally. And this second room on the ground floor was to become my study and workspace. During his short work breaks, I supplied him with tea and cake or sandwiches, with him particularly enjoying anything with shrimp, salmon, or other smoked fish. We would then sit at my small kitchen table and discuss a wide range of topics.

"You teach history?" he asked at one point.

"Yes. According to the curriculum, of course, although that only covers half of real history. In English schools, nobody is really interested in Scottish or Celtic -- meaning Irish -- history. Even Nordic prehistory and the significant role of the Vikings in British history are only briefly touched upon."

"Do you know much about Viking culture?"

"I think so. Decades ago, I deliberately learned Danish and Norwegian to be able to read untranslated original literature. My library in Cheltenham has a lot of material on the Vikings."

"Wow!" Hagen was impressed. "Bee and I are fascinated by old Viking culture. It's very significant here on Skye."

"I know. Our island got its name from Viking times. 'Skyer' is the Norse word for clouds -- the ones that always hang over the Cuillins."

Hagen laughed. "Yeah. The Cuillins with their mountain peaks make their own weather." Then he suddenly stood up. "Do you have half an hour for a short walk across your croft?"

I looked at him, surprised. "Yes. I have less to do than you. What do you want to show me?"

"A strange feature. Quite near the southern tip."

We got dressed. Fortunately, it wasn't raining, but a strong wind was blowing from the west. Hagen led me to the southern end of our shared croft pasture, where between several rugged rocky sections of coastline there were also two small sandy coves. Paths led down to the beach alongside the streams that emptied into them. At one point, Hagen showed me clearly discoloured but straight strips of land with significantly less vegetation.

"Scientific research over the past decades has shown that the Vikings had several permanent settlements on Skye. Further north, a full Viking shipyard was even discovered years ago. The Vikings were skilled seafarers and definitely used Skye's east coast and the Sound of Sleat as a refuge during severe Atlantic storms. You can feel for yourself that the wind is much weaker here than at your cottage."

"True."

"I'm certain that a large Viking hall once stood here. These strips here are foundation lines, embedded in the soil, made of natural stone. And down there at the two beaches, their boats could find safe refuge, be loaded and unloaded, or even repaired. They could take on fresh water from the two streams."

I listened intently. It all sounded incredibly logical and convincing. "Have you ever talked to the scientists in Glasgow or at the Gaelic College about this?"

"Several times. They find my hypothesis interesting. But they don't have the budget to explore it further."

"Hm. And what's your idea?"

"I doubt we'd find anything archaeologically that would justify a large excavation. But I've had a far more tempting idea for years. Unfortunately, your father wanted nothing to do with it." Hagen shrugged. "He was a lovely old gentleman. But very much an accountant."

I looked at Hagen challengingly. "And what didn't my father want to hear?"

Hagen took a deep breath. "There's fantastic literature about old Viking halls -- with drawings, floor plans, construction details. They were all solid wood structures. I'd like to build a new Viking hall here. For the same purpose as back then -- as a residence and meeting place."

"And what exactly do you envision?"

"Do you want the details?"

"Yes."

"Alright. I'll come to your place with Bee on Saturday and bring my documents." He now laughed with a hint of mischief, but his face lit up like a little boy. "Maybe we'll even have time for more."

I understood his implication, took two steps toward him, embraced him, and gave him a warm kiss. "I'm looking forward to the full package."

That third Advent Saturday, Hagen brought not only his wife but also a suitcase full of documents and books, plus his laptop. I was amazed. The carpenter and fine woodworker had already created a complete three-dimensional design of the Viking hall on his computer. For three hours, he explained his ideas and plans with endless patience and incredible detail knowledge, and the three of us engaged in passionate discussion. Afterwards, we were all pretty exhausted from our collective mental effort.

"You and Rosi own the entire area down there, including the two beaches. So, we already have one essential requirement covered."

"So, all that's missing is the necessary funds," I remarked with a somewhat cynical tone.

"Yes and no." Hagen really looked like an excited boy wanting to bring Jules Verne to life. Only in this case, it was more like a kind of architectural 'Back to the Future.' "Yes, because, of course, we'll need construction timber, windows, and a hidden but modern infrastructure for electricity and plumbing. No, because I'd build it with a few friends myself." Then he suddenly looked at me intensely. "If I'm not mistaken, the forest with the forty-year-old Scottish pine trees south of Ardvasar also belonged to Gary's estate. Is that correct?"

I thought about it. "I think so. But I'd need to check his documents to be sure."

"If that's true, we could trade that wood for the construction timber we need. Then you wouldn't have to spend a pound on the biggest cost block."

Now I was thinking even harder. "That would make me the builder?"

"Yes. Or the three of us could form an official, legal building cooperative."

"And what would we three do with our Viking hall?"

"We'd live there together. And enjoy our shared life."

Hagen's message hit home. "Bullseye," I suddenly thought. "Instead of living as a divorced, ageing single, I'd be in a triad with a young, attractive, and incredibly magnetic couple, living under one roof without limits and enjoying a life of mind and body almost beyond imagination." I took a deep breath.

"This is a real tsunami. I need to process it mentally first. But it sounds incredibly tempting."

My answer clearly made Hagen very happy. He reached out both hands to Bee and me. "I love you both. Let's celebrate this properly."

Ten minutes later, the three of us were once again standing naked in a tight embrace in my bedroom, letting our six hands roam freely without limits as we continuously kissed in changing combinations. Suddenly, I broke away from Bee's and Hagen's embrace and took a step back. "I am still very anxious to take Hagen's wonderful cock into my pussy," I confessed. "I am afraid that it will never ever work." I took a deep breath. "But Bee's and Hagen's anal fuck has animated me very much. I was able to watch it from close range." I giggled like a young girl. "And my doctor told me that from his point of view there is no restriction." I hugged my friends again. "I have almost no experience with anal sex and to be honest, I haven't any good memories of my few unsatisfying tries. But I think you two could be the best teachers for me. Do we want to give it a try?"

Their answer was pure excitement. So, Bee and I swapped our positions. Hagen started to caress my pink rosette and my backdoor entrance with baby oil and stretched it slowly. Bee's lesbian love treatment had an immediate effect and resulted already in two climax eruptions for both of us. Meanwhile, I became accustomed to Hagen's caressing and massaging fingers. I was prepared with carefulness and had no hurting feelings.

During that procedure, Bee had wanked Hagen's cock rock-hard from her position.

"I think, you are ready," commented Hagen finally. "Don't be afraid. I will be very cautious." I recognized that he positioned his plump glans at my rosette. "Just relax, Fiona." He and Bee hold my hips with three hands in position, Hagen used his free hand to grip his penis' root and to keep it in the right position too. I felt indeed that my backdoor muscle widened even more under the pressure of his thrusting cock. I took him in step-by- step. After two additional attempts, he announced proudly. "I am in! Now relax more. Become accustomed to it. And then I start slowly to fuck your arse."

It was a really unusual feeling to feel Hagen's cock in my arsehole. "Oh my god, I am really filled up," was my last clear thought. Then the double love attack from Hagen and Bee took over. After approximately ten thrusts from my lover, everything started to become easier, I even started to counter Hagen's forward movement by a counter move. Our threesome finished in the same way as the last one. But this time Hagen pumped his load deep into my bowel while I was pushed over a third orgasm cliff. I exploded with a tremendous loud cry, which is unusual for me. But this anal climax was an absolutely horny premiere. Bee got the same reward as I had received some days before - a full flow of mixed love juices all over her face.

That was good!" I admitted to my two lovers as we finally sat back down at the kitchen table. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to welcome a man like a normal woman again. But a skilful ass fuck like that is a real alternative." Bee and Hagen both beamed at me like two people in love. Apparently, we had become a true threesome -- not just in bed.

Four days before Christmas, Eileen arrived in Skye with her little Nissan. Due to the uncertainty of her exact arrival time, I had pre-baked a Quiche Lorraine in a large baking dish, which only needed to be reheated and was big enough to last for two days easily. Somehow, I had shown wise foresight in this dinner decision, because just 15 minutes after Eileen, Claire arrived to greet her new girlfriend and hug her. I knew from my daughter that ever since the intense love affair with my psychologist, they had been talking on the phone every day. Claire had barely hung her rain jacket on the coat hook when there was another knock at the door. I didn't even have an opportunity to call out "Come in" before the door opened and Rosi's mop of hair peeked in.

"Are Eileen and Claire here with you?" I laughed at my neighbour, who apparently had just returned from some pasture in the twilight on her quad bike. "You can see their cars out front."

"Yes. That's why I thought I'd pop in and say hi to Eileen."

"Come on in. I made a huge quiche. Together with the salad, it's easily enough for four." I grinned inwardly. My two-day meal plan was already out the window.

Twenty minutes later, dinner was warm and, with our combined efforts, a massive mixed salad was prepared as a fresh side dish. We each had a well-filled glass of red wine beside our plates and clinked glasses in good spirits. Our table conversation flowed easily, and after we were all completely full, we asked for a double espresso. My first and so far only kitchen investment, an original Italian espresso machine, sprang into action and quickly provided us with the revitalizing, deep black elixir.

"Oh, life is good today," Rosi said, stretching out contentedly in her chair. "After this dinner and this coffee, I could uproot trees." We all laughed heartily together.

"Speaking of 'uprooting trees'... would you mind terribly if Claire and I withdrew for a while?" Eileen grinned meaningfully. "We've been waiting for each other for weeks."

"Then go get 'em, you young chicks," Rosi teased in return. She looked at me. "We won't hold you back."

I nodded involuntarily. Still, Eileen's announcement sent a pang through my heart. It suddenly became clear to me who would be her priority during this Christmas and New Year's holiday.

The lovers quickly disappeared into Eileen's bedroom upstairs, while I opened a second bottle of red wine for Rosi and me and refilled our glasses.

Rosi raised her glass to me and took an unusually deep sip, draining nearly half of it. "And what do we older ladies do now?" She looked at me challengingly. When I didn't answer, she continued. "Bee told me what a wonderful lover you are. Do you feel like replacing your father as my lover?" She was, as always, incredibly direct, without being rude or harsh. That was just how she was, in all situations.

I looked silently into Rosi's eyes for quite a while. Neither of us blinked or looked away. Then I gave myself a little push, stood up, and walked around the table to her. Rosi met me halfway by standing up as well. A few moments later, we were wrapped in a close embrace and kissed -- more accurately, we made out like two teenage girls. After a few long moments, I took Rosi's hand and led her toward the upstairs, to my now well-broken-in love nest. "Come on, if they can do it, so can we."

What followed was a lesson for me in lesbian sex between women, especially in terms of giving. Of course, Rosi knew that I was still not fully functional after my emergency surgery. But that didn't bother her in the slightest.

"The beautiful thing about sex between women is the infinitely wide range of possibilities, from very tender to very rough," this statement was almost a credo of hers -- politically, literarily, and personally. "And that's why attentive and sensitive women can respond very individually to other women and their wishes and needs."

She had summarized this perspective for me in a very concise way during a conversation a few weeks ago. "Women don't want to fuck other women to come inside them. Women want to love."

So, there we lay, completely naked -- really, because except for the hair on our heads, we were both fully shaved all over our bodies -- on my wonderfully soft, silky bed, letting our hands, fingers, mouths, lips, and tongues go on a loving journey, accompanied by a multitude of short, long, wild, and/or intense kisses. Rosi licked me with all her artfulness to a double climax, just penetrating with her tongue and caressing my clit with all natural tools. Especially my second climax was endless and shacked my entire body.

Unexperienced as I was, Rosi directed me now into the love making position. She helped me with clear commands to fulfil her wishes and demands - the effect was tremendous: I was able to give her a first real climax. After a short recovery, she raised herself, placed two pillows behind her head, which made it possible for her to watch my love making attempts between her thighs.

"I love to be treated in a second round harder and more demanding", she declared her additional wishes. "It would be wonderful, if you could penetrate completely with your hands. A real fist fuck!" She smiled devilish. "Have you ever done it?"

I looked at her with some amusement. "No. Never done it. Neither active nor passive."

Her grin became even wider. "Gary was by far the best fist fucker of all time, a real champion. It was significantly better than an ordinary fuck by a more or less hard cock."

Rosi handed me a small bottle of body oil and ordered me to rub her pussy and my hand really slick. "We start with your third and fourth finger," was her first command, "your inner wrist is upwards. Then you push your fingertips upwards onto my g-point and simulates it from the very first beginning." Rosi's body became unsettled very soon, her abdominal wall, which was very female and far away from a six-pack, raised and declined in a fast rhythm and her breath became rapidly heavier and louder. In between, she gave me additional commands like "Keep on going" or "deeper". Finally, I was pushing all four fingers into her pussy. "Now place your thumb between your fingers, roll your hand together and push forward. And turn your hand right to left and back. Like you would screw me." After a short while she demanded "more oil!".

That worked out fine. After two additional pushes my long stretched, rolled hand flushed deep into her paradise. "Fuck me slowly with your stretched hand," was her next command. "And when you feel that you have enough room, form your hand into a fist." This command came already with a very erotic, hoarse voice.

Her love juices started to flow. Knowing her behaviour, she had already placed a big towel below her butt, otherwise she would have drenched my bed completely.

For me surprisingly, it wasn't difficult to form a fist inside her. I started to fuck her harder and harder. In the same moment Rosi's pussy became more and more flexible which gave me the possibility to pull my fist to the knuckles and then to penetrate her again with full force. I could see that inside my lover I gigantic climax was building. Then I observed the most violent orgasm of a woman ever. Rosi became very loud, her hips pushed upwards so that her tummy and her thighs became one stretched line. Rosi's head bashed right to left and back. Most impressive for me were her wide-open eyes. She had pushed her pupils to the top, so that her eyes were almost entirely white. Then she grabbed my fucking arm and pushed me downwards. "Pull your fist out!" She squirted like a fountain several times. Rosi collapsed heavily breathing with an unfamiliar whimper, rolled to her side and curled herself together like an embryo.

It took her quite a while before she returned to the normal world. In the meantime, I had lain down on the bed next to her. When she opened her eyes, she beamed at me like a young girl. "You're just as good as your father. Amazing!" She stroked my cheek and hair with her free hand. "Thank you!"

We lay next to each other for a long time, speaking very little, but continually caressing and kissing each other. Then we heard the couple from the other bedroom coming down the stairs into the living area, presumably to use the bathroom on the ground floor. The assumption was correct -- shortly after, we heard the shower start running.

"Shall we shower too?"

Rosi nodded. "We have to. We're such a mess."

It was a tender yet refreshing shower experience. Over the past few days, I had stocked up in a speciality shop on Skye that sold handmade soaps and body and hair shampoos. We used them now for the first time, lathering each other up and massaging each other clean.

Half an hour later, the four of us women were sitting at my dining table again, chatting with a casual cheerfulness that gave no hint that we had just spent the last hour and a half engaging in wild sex. Apparently, we had all really needed it.

Claire and Eileen spent as much time together as possible; they were always together at night, either in my cottage or at Claire's house. For me, it had the great advantage of almost always having loving and cheerful company in the house. On Christmas Day, the four of us were together again -- Rosi and Claire had no desire to visit their families.

"We're like a family," Claire had said dryly. "Probably much more loving and intense than many 'normal' families." Her statement was absolutely true. And of course, we decided to spend Christmas night again in pairs in our bedrooms.

"It's so wonderful," I confessed to Rosi on Boxing Day morning, as we slowly woke up and looked into each other's eyes in my bed. "Since Eileen's tenth birthday, no one has woken up next to me on Boxing Day. And I had to stare death in the face before my life made a complete turnaround."

Rosi ran her hand through my hair and over my face again. Then she leaned in, kissed me on the mouth, my eyes, and my forehead, then lifted my T-shirt to greet my nipples too, making them instantly hard. "I'd be happy to repeat that -- often," she said with a thoughtful smile. "I never did that with Gary. I never woke up next to him. Sadly. But with you, it's very, very lovely."

At the beginning of January, our foursome came to an end. Eileen had to return to university, and I drove with her back to England, then continued on to my apartment in Cheltenham and back to my school. "I need to make a decision about how my life should continue," I explained to Eileen during the long drive, where we spent hours talking about her and my feelings and dreams for the future. Claire and Eileen had truly fallen in love and wanted to become a real couple. Until then, they had many goals to set and agree upon, and many obstacles to overcome.

Returning to Cheltenham felt like a shock. After nearly three months of absence, my apartment genuinely felt abandoned. Everything was cold and dusty, and it took me two full days of intensive work to make it liveable and cosy again, and to restock supplies. On top of that, there had apparently been a power outage at some point, and the small freezer hadn't restarted properly afterward. Its thawed contents reeked terribly and had to be completely disposed of, requiring thorough and disinfecting cleaning.

If returning to my apartment was already a shock, the first day at school was even worse. My knees literally trembled as I walked through the main entrance into the headteacher's office and then into the staff room during the big break. I was warmly welcomed by all the teachers, students, and staff. But the trauma of the attack still weighed heavily on my shoulders and my soul. When asked about my return to work, I vaguely replied that my rehabilitation leave ran until February 1st.

When I returned home after just two hours at school, I was completely exhausted. I sat frozen in my favourite armchair in the living room for at least an hour. Then I picked up the phone and called Claire, who had provided such wonderful psychological care for me on Skye. I was relieved that I reached her right away during her lunch break.

"I don't think I can do this," I admitted, with tears in my eyes and voice. "I can't go back to that school without dissolving in fear."

"I expected that," Claire replied in a professionally calm tone. "And it's not unusual. In cases like yours, there are typically two standard reactions when returning to the scene of a traumatic event: some people are able to shake it off -- they've processed or suppressed the experience enough during recovery that the memory no longer affects them. Then there are those who want nothing more to do with that place ever again. They have to stay away to overcome their trauma in their own way, somewhere else."

"Then I probably belong to the second group." A long, silent pause followed. "So, what do I do now?"

"You should consider moving permanently to Skye and making a fresh start here professionally. You have good friends here who will help you." I could tell Claire was thinking something over. "Do you speak Gaelic?"

"Yes, it's actually my mother tongue. Literally. My mother was from the Isle of Lewis and only ever spoke Gaelic with me, even when she spoke English with my father."

"Then you should see if the Gaelic College here might be an interesting place to work. Your students would be older than at your high school. And probably more motivated."

I thanked her for the idea, which truly seemed like an attractive alternative.

My psychologist in Cheltenham kindly signed me off for another three months after I told her about my experience returning to school. That ensured I would continue receiving insurance payments. Then I had a detailed conversation with the chairman of the private school board, who, despite sympathizing with my near-death experience, expected a statement from me regarding my future as headteacher.

"I've thought a lot about it since being discharged from the hospital," I told him, "and I want to make a clear decision within the next four weeks. If I choose to resign, that should allow you enough time to find a suitable replacement."

He was satisfied with that assurance. But he already seemed to suspect what my decision might be and apparently began taking appropriate steps the very next day, as I would later find out.

That evening, I had a very long phone call with Rosi. Thank goodness for WhatsApp -- old BT phone rates would have bankrupted me. I was actually in a lucky situation. I had a lover, a beloved married couple, and the so-called book club -- a group of true kindred spirits. Something I hadn't realized I lacked before my autumn trip to Skye.

Rosi put it bluntly in her unique, direct way: "Where are your best friends, dear Fiona? Here or in Cheltenham? And where can you live and work freely and without worry?"

Despite all my years of life and work in Cheltenham and Gloucestershire, Rosi's key questions had clear answers: on the Hebridean island where I was born and spent my early childhood. So, I bought a set of moving boxes at the local hardware store and packed up my most important books, pictures, and belongings -- plus all essential clothes. I was surprised at how many boxes fit into my KIA Sportage, which had sat unused for three months in the underground garage of my apartment building.

Then I drove north again. With every mile, I increasingly felt like I was going home.

Part 2 and 3 will be published on short notice.