A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (17 page)

She was on all fours, covered in mud, warmed by the sun, her hair standing out like a haystack. Alex approached and brushed water from her cheek. She nuzzled his leg and felt him stiffen inside his blue jeans. She pushed against the swelling flesh like a pony pushing at a door and he stroked her hair, delaying the moment until it was just too much for him.

‘Here we are then, girl. Here it is.’

He unzipped his pants and unveiled a long, hard cock faintly tasting of beer and bar smoke as it slid between her lips. She ran her mouth down the shaft, in and out, flicking the tip with her tongue, and down again, taking its length deep into her throat because she knew the deeper it went the more they seemed to like it. She bit down gently with her teeth. She felt the tremor run through his thighs and then she felt something else.

Her bottom cheeks were being spread. Tom stuck a finger through the sticky ring of her arse, worked it in and out several times, then replaced it with the probing head of his throbbing member. He lifted her thighs, pushed in hard, filling her back passage right up to the cervix, and being there in the gorgeous weather with a cock in her mouth and another up her arse just seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

All the water she had consumed had irrigated her vagina and as the urgent vibrations pressed down on her clitoris she began to turn liquid and her muddy body went into spasm.

Ohmygod, I’m coming. I’m coming. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me rigid. Ohmygod
.

She rocked back and forth, sliding her mouth down Alex’s shaft, pushing back into Tom’s erection. Alex started to come and grabbed the back of her hair. He rammed the trunk down her throat and the taste was soursweet like warmed goat’s milk when his sperm washed over her taste buds. Tom, too, was reaching the critical moment and pushed deep into her arse, coming copiously and slipping out slowly on a sloppy tide that ran into her pulsing pussy. Her stomach muscles clenched and her climax burst from her like a cork from champagne.

‘
Ohmygod
,’ she gasped as Alex pulled out of her mouth and she felt a wave of pleasure and a jot of irritation because she had abandoned her role and spoken.

Tom had lowered her thighs and, still on all fours, she observed Richard strolling unhurriedly across the yard, not looking at them, but scrutinising the neat towers of turf.

‘Nice job,’ Richard said, speaking to Tom, who nodded in agreement as he hooked his withering cock back into his pants.

‘Yep, all done, Mr Marsham,’ he answered. ‘We were just going to get on with the cheese.’

‘So I see.’

Tom laughed.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Alex.

‘I’m going to have a spot of lunch, Tom,’ Richard then said. ‘You can send Pegasus up when she’s finished.’

‘Aye, right you are.’

She was disappointed that Richard didn’t even glance in her direction and then, to make it worse, he put his arm around Alex and moved him to one side.

‘So, how are things going?’ she heard him ask, but didn’t hear Alex’s reply.

Tom clipped her lead back in place, the strap dangling. As they were crossing the yard, Richard called.

‘You should give her a wash down, Tom, you know what old Bradley’s like.’

‘Aye, I do an’ all,’ he replied, and the two men exchanged knowing smiles.

Tom continued and Greta followed in a carnal haze. She was sweaty and sensuous, but the serene feeling that had taken possession of her turned to terror as she entered the milking shed and the billy goat charged, looming up with obscene longing, and it was only the tether at his throat that prevented it seizing her in a satanic embrace. Tom grabbed the cheese paddle and went on the offensive, and the he-goat kept struggling, trying to get at her. Greta was shaking with fear, rooted to the spot, her hands covering her pubis, the goat leering with unruly lust at her muddy body.

‘Down, down, you filthy beast,’ Tom yelled, striking the goat with the paddle until it dropped down on all fours and backed away spitting and stamping. ‘If we didn’t keep him the ladies wouldn’t give milk, see,’ he explained. ‘Come on, girlie, I won’t let him near you.’

She edged her way back to the milk vat, her hands trembling as she gripped the sides.

‘Just life on the farm, don’t let it get the better of you,’ Tom said, and he wasn’t gentle, just matter of fact, and she glanced over her shoulder at the billy goat, its black eyes glassy and malevolent. It hissed through its teeth and Greta hissed back.

Tom tapped his fingertips on the rim of the vat and she did her best to concentrate. The goat’s milk now had the consistency of jelly and as Tom stirred it with the paddle it solidified, turning thick and buttery. He cut squares of muslin and showed her how to line the moulds. Using a curd knife, Greta drew curls of the creamy stuff from the surface and patted it down into the muslin, working it into the edges as you would fill pastry with cooked apples for a pie.

They emptied the moulds from the previous day, turning them over, slapping the bases, and producing small perfect wheels of goat’s cheese a bit smaller than the Dundee cake her old nanny used to give her when she was a little girl. The cheese was soft still to the touch, but the rind was darker and was beginning to harden.

While she continued to fill the moulds, Tom placed the finished wheels in a basket. ‘Off they go to market in a week or so,’ he said, and placed the basket on a shelf. He brought one of the matured cheeses back to the table and cut off a thick wedge for her. Greta took a bite and it was so scrumptious she realised even her taste buds had come to life.

‘Nice?’

She nodded vigorously.

‘Come on, keep going,’ he added and she scraped the thickening curd a little at a time into the mould.

Greta turned instinctively at the renewed outbreak of hissing behind her. The goat straining at its leash was intimidating, but what made it all the more humiliating was that her breasts were firm and it was her own ripe aroma that was intoxicating the creature.

‘Don’t mind him, girlie, his bark’s louder than his bite.’

She took a deep breath and carried on filling the moulds before Tom placed them on the shelf. Billy goat gruff was kicking its devil hooves against the barn wall and Greta for some reason suddenly remembered a fat girl named Rachel Gold whose father practically owned Yorkshire and whose court at the convent consisted of all the plain girls who loathed all the pretty girls.

Greta at 14 had grown tall and shapely with breasts that encouraged the nuns at Saint Sebastian to cross themselves every time the buttons on her blouse popped open. Rachel bullied Greta persistently until one day in the showers after hockey, Greta grew so tired of her horrid comments she waited until the girl was in mid-flow and shoved a bar of soap in her open mouth. Rachel went berserk and charged, but Greta like a matador stepped out of the way and Rachel fell skittering over the wet tiles. She stood, snarling as she took a breath. She slapped Greta across the face and Greta slapped her back. They went for each other, two naked girls like two rabid dogs and kept fighting until the games mistress pulled them apart. Greta had scratches down both arms, teeth marks in her neck and a black eye that turned purple, green and yellow in the coming weeks, a trophy she was proud to display for all to see. Rachel Gold may have got the better of her in the fight, but she never bullied Greta again.

Greta turned and snarled at the billy goat. The creature kicked its heels and strained at its leash as if Greta had thrown down the gauntlet and he was ready for the challenge.

When the work was finished, they left the barn and went back out into the hot sun. On the side of the building was a tap and a galvanized pail that Tom filled. He unhooked the leather lead and hung it on a nail.

‘Stand back, girlie,’ he said and when she did so, he threw the water over her.

He repeated this several times and she stood there dripping as the mud turned slippery on her white skin. Grace chased in circles, the peacocks hollered, and Tom collected a sponge which he used to wipe her down more thoroughly, dipping the sponge in the pail, sloshing water over her shoulders and back and down her legs. He teased the sponge into the caverns of her ears, scrubbed her underarms and worked through the cheeks of her tender bottom. He ran the sponge under the tap, wringing it out several times, before squeezing clean water through the open lips of her vagina. He was careful with the most intimate places and Greta, with eyes closed, learned the lesson of the tall nanny goat and gave herself fully to the sensation.

Tom filled the bucket with fresh water, tipped it slowly over her head, then rubbed the drips away with the palm of his hand. He looked closely at her bottom and Greta turned to do the same. It was a field of pink with fine crimson lines like one of the paintings on Gustav’s wall.

‘There, you’ll do,’ he said.

He went to get her lead but as he was about to put it on, she took it from him, folded it in loops and slipped it between her teeth. He grinned and shook his head. He was about to slap her bottom but changed his mind for some reason and she was both pleased and disappointed. She liked Tom and nuzzled his cheek to show it. He was looking at her as if she were a cryptic clue in
The
Sunday Times
crossword, then turned her around and pointed up the path.

‘That way,’ he said, and she trotted off with the lead all wet and leathery in her mouth.

It had been nice being all lathered in mud and it was nice being clean again. Alex and the golden mare had gone, the turfs were ranged in neat piles and she was pleased to have done such a good job. Greta slowed to a walk. It was hot. Her skin was damp. She could smell the woody scent of her underarms. Her breasts seemed fuller, solid on her chest, the areolae and nipples baby pink. Her pubes were silky and her long mane lay down her back, the sun picking out threads of gold.

With the exception of the set for
Madame Bovary
, the village was unlike any place Greta had seen before, the cobbled paths and horse trough, the tall birch shading the corner of the square, the little houses with shiny windows belonging more to a picture book than present day. She looked round for a camera; she was sure there was one there somewhere. Her eyes rested on the sign: Marsham, and she remembered Mr Marsham was waiting for her in The Black Sheep
.

He was sitting alone and the way he was tucking into the big plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding made Greta imagine it must be Sunday, although she was sure it was only Saturday. Old-fashioned farm tools filled every inch of wall space and on the beamed ceiling horse brasses hung on belts of black leather. A man scraping out the bowl of his pipe and a woman who seemed vaguely familiar were sharing a table and the big, bearded fellow she assumed was Bradley watched her enter as if he didn’t fully approve of naked girls in the bar.

She let the lead drop from her mouth into her hand. Richard crooked his finger before patting the stool at the end of his table. She sat, hands in her lap, watching for each little emotion his face might reflect. She liked Tom but it was from Richard that she desired approval. Being exposed while everyone else was dressed reminded Greta of Richard’s dominion over her, his power to give her pleasure or pain, or to take them away. He carried on eating and the smell of the food made her mouth water. Finally, he picked up a potato and fed her from his fingers. He shared the rest of the food that way, feeding her with titbits of meat, some sprouts and carrots. Gravy ran down her chin and, as he was wiping it away, the woman from across the bar paused on her way to the bathroom.

‘Don’t spare the rod, Mr Marsham,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘Indeed not, Mrs Maddox.’

Mrs Maddox!

Greta couldn’t believe her own eyes. She knew she had seen this woman somewhere before but it took several moments before she remembered that Mrs Maddox was the tweedy woman who had made her bring out every pair of shoes the shop possessed before buying some cute kitten heels and a pair of pointy sling backs.

You’re going to do very well, very well indeed.

Greta recalled the odd phrase. She remembered the plotter’s look she had exchanged with Madame Dubarry and the way she had pinched Greta’s cheek until it hurt.

Now she pops up in Marsham chatting with Mr Marsham while Greta sat there naked with gravy on her chin. It clearly wasn’t a coincidence, Mrs Maddox being in Marsham, rather than the gravy on her chin, or her being starkers for that matter, and Greta that moment felt like a little fly, a little flying horse, caught in a sticky intriguing web.

The thought was frightening and exciting. She had been cast in a role, a major role, as far as she could tell, and she intended to give it her absolute best.

Mrs Maddox looked Greta up and down for a long time and then turned again to Richard.

‘She’s a fine, strong thing, let me have a look at her.’

She hoisted Greta up from the stool by her armpit and turned her around. She felt the muscles in her arms and legs. She pressed a finger into the soft flesh of her bottom, making a dimple, the pink flare turning white and then growing pink again. She nodded with approval and ran the side of her hand between her legs, see-sawing slowly back and forth and then removing her hand slicked with a thick creamy coating.

‘Don’t spare the rod,’ she said again, and continued into the bathroom.

G
RETA WATCHED THE
lavatory door close and turned to Richard with big puppy eyes he had no difficulty reading. She had consumed a bucket of water and was literally bursting. Lines creased his brow like sheet music, and she just had to sit there gritting her teeth and squeezing her legs together under the table.

He finished his drink in a leisurely swallow, stood to attach her lead and told Bradley to put lunch on his bill.

‘Always a pleasure, Mr Marsham,’ he said.

At that point, Mrs Maddox appeared, brushing down the pleats of her skirt.

‘Come along then, girl, don’t just sit there,’ she said, chivvying Greta towards the door with brisk little taps on her bottom.

After the pub’s cool interior, it seemed hotter outside. Richard paused to savour the taste of the day, his gaze wandering lazily about the square. Marsham was like a painting by Constable, a place on the borders of imagination. It wasn’t that time had stood still, the Range Rover parked some distance away was testimony to that. No, time was played out in its own unique space, as in a film, especially with the cameras peeking out from every corner, yet all magically real, no set designers, no make-up, no costume.

They set off towards the tree in the far corner of the square, the strap hooked to the band at her throat held loosely in Richard’s hand.

‘Lovely weather, Mrs Maddox,’ he said.

‘And no good will come of it, you can rest assured.’

Richard glanced at her with a barely visible smile and her voice darkened.

‘It awakens the passions,’ she added with a severe sniff of her long, pointed nose and Greta wondered guiltily if the broom she had used to sweep out the stable belonged to Mrs Maddox.

They reached the pool of shade below the tall birch and Richard jerked the lead to pull her closer. When he opened the clip they gazed at each other for just a moment and the blue of his eyes were like chips of sky. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Greta could read him as well as he could read her. They were connected like sound and its echo. Like a key and a lock. Those who grow through discipline are in constant search for the person, perhaps the one person, from whom discipline will complete them. It is a happy marriage.

Greta lowered her eyes. There was a prickling in her armpits. The sense of humiliation and her need for approval were conflicting emotions, but the feeling in her bladder was stronger than both.

‘Come along, girl, we haven’t got all day,’ Mrs Maddox said and tut tut tutted to herself. ‘You don’t have to ask me what this one needs...’

Her voice trailed off.

Greta was squirming with embarrassment. Being naked had become familiar. It seemed right and proper. But not this, she thought, not with people watching. Her tummy was clenched tight. While she delayed, she heard the pub door open and glanced behind her. Bradley and the pipe smoker propped up the doorway like a pair of statues. To make it worse, if it could be worse, a tall man had appeared and was standing behind the horse trough, a leather boot propped on the stone rim. His face was shadowed by the brim of his straw hat, but Greta was sure she knew him from somewhere, from that other world in the past.

Mrs Maddox was fanning herself and panting. ‘It’s rather too hot for me just standing here,’ she complained, and Richard lightly touched Greta’s elbow with the tips of his fingers.

She swallowed and, taking a deep breath, moved towards the tree, where she squatted down, knees spaced out, her toes curling into the grass. She closed her eyes and the golden stream of urine that came splashing out of her sounded like a roaring wave in the still afternoon, a downpour, a waterfall. She peed like a pony, a huge puddle engulfing her feet and spreading beyond the shade below the tree. It was horrible and wonderful. She had a deep craving to be naked like this, to be displayed, her breasts ripe and voluptuous, her legs spread, a veil of warm steam rising to her nostrils as sour and sensuous as goat’s milk. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and opened her eyes. Mrs Maddox had drawn so close, the puddle was about to reach the toes of her polished brown shoes and the woman stood back shaking her head with incredulity.

‘Well I never,’ she said.

Greta gave her hips a wiggle to shake herself dry and was sure she discerned about Richard’s features an air of pride and that made her feel better. The pub door slammed as Bradley and his customer returned to the bar and the tall man sauntered off below his straw hat. Richard turned and Mrs Maddox strode along at his side, fingers knitted below billowing breasts that shuddered with vexation as she reminded him that she knew a thing or two ‘about this sort of thing’.

‘All knowledge is valuable, Mrs Maddox.’

‘Mr Marsham. You don’t spend a lifetime in correction management without learning a thing or two about human nature.’

‘That aspect of human nature, Mrs Maddox. Are we not multidimensional?’

‘Young girls are young girls, sir, and what they require is discipline.’

‘That’s what my father always said.’

‘And your father was a man who knew about such things,’ she said darkly, and added, ‘God rest his soul.’

Mrs Maddox glanced back at Greta, scampering along, naked as a flower and furtively brushing away the last warm drips of wee leaking down her legs.

They had reached one of the cottages and continued on a stone path that passed through a mature garden to the open doors of the workshop at the rear. The man bent over his desk drawing in a sketchpad looked up through spectacles clipped to his nose and Greta tried to remember the special name for those glasses but her mind was wandering and her eyes were glued hypnotically on the vast rump Mrs Maddox transported beneath the stretched pattern of squares on her woollen skirt.

The man stood, stooping to peer over his spectacles. He looked to Greta like a quiz fanatic who spent hours between the dusty pages of old encyclopaedias, his pale eyes tired, his body loose in his clothes like a stuffed toy with half the stuffing knocked out of it.

‘Well, here we are,’ announced Mrs Maddox.

The man flapped his white hands. ‘My dear, are you hot?’ he said. ‘Can I fetch you a glass of water?’

‘If I need water, William, I can fetch it myself. Let’s get on with it, shall we.’

She took her husband’s seat at the desk. Mr Maddox bowed in that old world way that reminded Greta of Count Ruspoli. ‘Mr Richard,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you.’

‘Mr Maddox, always a pleasure.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ he said in reply and, hands now gripped behind his back, he turned his attention to Greta. ‘Now, let’s see what we have here.’

He moved around her, his gaze running over her body as if he intended measuring her and, weird she thought, that’s exactly what he did do. He took a tape measure from a drawer, dropped it over his neck like a tailor and led her with a delicate touch to the wooden contraption a bit like a gallows attached to the wall. He lowered the top beam to the crown of her head and stood on tiptoes to read her height.

‘Five feet nine and...’ he hesitated. ‘Nine-and-a half inches.’

Mmm, I’ve grown an inch!

Mrs Maddox started making a list with a pencil. Mr Maddox moved Greta to one side and, with the light behind her, she had a better view of the workshop, the walls lined with glass jars full of clips and flanges, the workbenches stained with dye, leather hides in rolls like carpets in a showroom. Greta liked the look of the tools wedged in leather loops below the shelves, ancient awls and chisels with shiny edges and wooden handles.

Mr Maddox glanced at his wife before chastely moving the tape around Greta’s breasts. ‘36 and...’ he hesitated again and Greta took a big breath. ‘And a half.’

Mrs Maddox tutted with apparent outrage as she wrote it down.

Greta’s waist was just over 24, her hips were 34.5 and she felt faintly gauche that her figure didn’t match the symmetry of the girls in magazines with their flawlessly regulated curves. Mrs Maddox was agitated no matter what the measurement. She wrote it all down on a list with a good deal of sucking on the point of the pencil and Greta recalled vaguely that at school they said the habit gave you lead poisoning and made you stark raving bonkers.

Mr Maddox ran down her inside leg... 33 inches; across her shoulder blades that were sticking out
like the wings of an angel
, and she didn’t hear the measurement because Mrs Maddox was tutting so loudly it sounded like a swarm of midges were tapping against the windowpanes. Her feet were size 7, and Greta was mortified because she only took a 6 and didn’t know if she had always been fooling herself or whether her feet had grown to balance the immodest fullness of her breasts. They were throbbing, tingling, swelling before her eyes, the roundness lifting them from her chest like gifts crying out to be cupped in open palms, the pink buds peeking inquisitively up at the ceiling. Greta May, you are so wanton, she thought to herself, and couldn’t resist squeezing her nipples for just a second to take away the ache.

Mrs Maddox observed this impertinent behaviour and sat back to savour the sadistic implications of the situation, the naked submissive girl feeling guilty for touching herself and eager to please after her shameful display peeing in the village square. It was hard for Greta to believe that she’d done such a thing, but she couldn’t have waited another second and the image of herself squatting there with a golden lake spilling out from between her gaping legs was even at that moment so awfully arousing.

Mr Maddox climbed up on a stool, his chalky hands fluttering about her like a moth’s wings. He measured her neck as if for a string of pearls, her head as if for a hat, the distance between her eyes for a costume mask, and the width of her wide mouth for what she had no idea. Finally, he took up a pair of scissors and cut a lock of her chestnut hair which he tied with a pale blue ribbon.

‘All done,’ he said, stepping down.

He removed his glasses to rub the blood back into the pinched spot on his nose;
pince-nez,
she remembered, and smiled to herself.

‘Grinning now, is she!’ said Mrs Maddox.

Richard had remained motionless in the shadows and Mrs Maddox glanced in his direction as she stood and gave the pad with its list of measurements to her husband.

‘I’ll just be a few moments, Mr Marsham. You’re not in any hurry?’

‘Not at all.’

She waved a stern finger at him and repeated her earlier piece of advice. ‘Don’t spare the rod,’ she said and Greta swallowed as she watched the woman bustle out through the door leading into the house.

Richard ran his hand through his curls as he crossed the room. He flicked through Mr Maddox’s sketches, commenting favourably, the older man shrugging modestly. They ignored Greta and she stayed as still as a shop window dummy, exposed and luminous in the refracted light knowing what was to come, not its precise nature, but the general area to be uncovered. Actually, she thought, it is uncovered, her pink bottom so precise and perfect in two matching and inviting globes. Greta felt certain that if this bottom belonged to someone else, she would want to spread it across her knee, explore all the crevices and pleats and then give it a good walloping.

The men were facing away from her and she cupped the two round cheeks in her palms. They were warm still from the earlier tanning, creamy like extremely expensive knickers, the skin firm, but mobile, each sphere like two parts of an opened peach. Her hands were brushed by the kiss of silken hair as they slipped over the sweet loop of the undercurve. Like a blind person reading braille she ran the tips of her fingers over the uncelebrated arrangement of sensitive curves and hollows where her bottom met the tops of her thighs, neglected for its sheer proximity to the little star of her anus and the exquisite slit of her vagina, but glorious nonetheless.

Greta grew moist touching her bottom, her vulva pressing through her closed thighs, rosy pink, the pink of a momentary flush and gleaming like a ripe quince hanging from the branch of a tree. Bottoms were made to be seen, and Greta understood as Mrs Maddox marched back through the door that they were made for spanking. The big woman strode straight out into the garden wielding a cane with a curved handle, slashing the air like a practising swordsman.

‘Here we are then,’ she said, and the sweat on Greta’s back turned cold as she imagined the cane’s hot icy tongue searing into her yielding flesh.

The two men paused in the doorway and watched Mrs Maddox carving another slice from the still air.

‘Just here will do. I like a bit of space.’

Richard wasn’t smiling. He looked serious, but in an apprehensive way and Greta wanted to do her best. She followed him outside. The sun was relentless, baking her skull, drying her damp back. Mr Maddox clipped his glasses back on his nose and stood at Richard’s side bent like an old tree.

‘Don’t just stand there, girl.’

Greta stepped forward. There was a patch of grass among the rose bushes and rhododendrons where Mrs Maddox was waiting, the pale cane flexed in a bow between her two hands.

She looked Greta up and down, at her pert breasts, the peaks outrageously firm like udders. Her ribcage was trembling with the beat of her heart, her back firm, slightly arched with the pride Mrs Maddox intended to beat out of her. It was degrading to be standing there like this, like a slave girl in some primitive market, yet the waft of her arousal was unmistakeable and she clung to the small pleasure of knowing that she, or more precisely her pretty bum, was about to be exposed to Mrs Maddox’s lurid voyeurism.

Mrs Maddox addressed the men. ‘I’m rather old-fashioned in my way, no props, no benches, just a piece of leather if you please, William.’

‘Leather, Henrietta?’

She drew breath and didn’t answer.

Mr Maddox went scurrying back to the workshop and Mrs Maddox hung the crook of the cane over her arm before taking Greta’s nipple in a vicious, vice-like squeeze that drove the air from her lungs.

‘We’ll soon have you in shape,’ she said, and moved to the other little bud and gave it the same savage twist.