Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
1 Secrets
2 The Fruit Pickers
3 Sad Malcolm
4 The Birthday Party
5 Real Men
6 Holy Orders
7 Pandora’s Chest
8 Ladies’ Day in the Hammam
9 May Day
10 Soldier, Soldier
11 Strangers on a Train
12 Sweet Revenge
13 Jason’s Mum
14 The Locker Room Incident
15 Indian Summer
16 Stage Fright
17 Open Invitation
18 Blood Relations
19 Turkish Delight
20 Oberon and Titania
21 A Weekend in the Country
Acknowledgement
Copyright
My thanks must go to three wanton women: Mandie, Nadia and Renate, without whose enthusiasm and encouragement I would never have discovered that writing saucy stories is the most terrific fun.
M.R.M.
Sauce for the Goose is a riotous and sometimes humorous celebration of the rich variety of human sexuality. Imaginative and colourful each story explores a different theme or fantasy and the result is a fabulously bawdy melange of cheeky sensuality and hot thrills. A lively array of characters display an uninhibited and lusty energy for boundary breaking pleasure.
This is a decidedly x-rated collection of stories designed for enjoyment and indulgence.
Mary Rose Maxwell is the author of Sauce for the Goose, an X-rated short story collection available from Black Lace.
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9780753528365
www.randomhouse.co.uk
This edition published in 2006 by
Black Lace
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Road
London W6 9HA
Originally published 2000
Copyright © Mary Rose Maxwell 2000
The right of Mary Rose Maxwell to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
SITTING ON HER favourite bench in the park in the pale wintry sunlight, munching her peanut butter and cucumber sandwich, Annette was painfully aware that she was unremarkable and invisible. She would have described herself as dumpy and plain. Dressed for warmth and comfort in shapeless, heavy, tweedy layers, with her medium-mouse, frizzy hair brutally cut just above her earlobes and still uncontrollable, Annette felt as if she had been middle-aged all her life, although she was only thirty-one.
She was not a virgin. That had been taken care of in the fumbling, bumbling attempts of the spotty, bespectacled boy next door many years ago. They had tried several times and her only memory of it was the snorting sound of his blocked adenoids as he breathed noisily into her ear. Each time they tried he had spilled himself – with no noticeable pleasure for either of them – the moment he entered her, after only a brief tweak on a nipple and with all their clothes still on. Eventually she had given up and never bothered again.
But Annette had a secret – a personal, private secret that she had never shared with anyone, nor ever would. Annette’s secret afforded her quite a lot of pleasure and in her mind she thought of her secret as a ‘fetish’, because it made her seem more interesting; and certainly there had been times when those around her would have been deeply shocked had they but suspected. Every day of her life Annette experimented with kinky underwear. Take today, for example. Today it was very tight green PVC which caused her to sweat profusely and itch with both the heat and the hots. If she was very lucky and it got hotter, she knew if she walked around the park for long enough with her pelvis tight and her pudgy thighs sticking together in the damply pinching PVC, she could make herself come, right there in public, without anyone guessing – because no one ever looked at her. She flushed with expectancy and a tweaking thrill clutched at her cunt. After her sandwich, she would go for a walk. As she sat unnoticed, she could feel the clingy PVC causing rivulets between her dimpled thighs. Just one circuit of the lake would do it, and her crotch began to throb at the thought of the warm, coursing glow that would ripple through her and flush her bright pink in the broad daylight.
Once, she had worn a disposable nappy, and that had been a particularly rewarding experience because the train home had got stuck in a tunnel for ages. She had been bursting for a pee and, after hanging on in unbearable agony for what felt like hours, she had quite suddenly realised that she didn’t have to and, blissfully letting go, had pissed herself inside the nappy. The forbidden, self-indulgent release of the warm stream had been so exciting that she had felt a sudden surge of arousal almost cramping her and had crossed her legs quickly. But instead of dampening her ardour, the hard pressure of the deliciously, wickedly wet nappy on her overexcited nub had triggered the unexpected thrill of a spontaneous orgasm, which made her heart pound and her breathing jagged. That had been a bit tricky to conceal but she had pretended to be faint with the heat of the Underground and people had been sympathetic. On ‘normal’ days she just wore men’s underwear: jockeys, Y-fronts or boxers. Sometimes she didn’t bother and wore nothing, no bra or pants at all. Corsets were not her favourite as she wasn’t keen on feeling girly, but she did like the way her large matronly breasts overflowed around them and jutted bouncingly over the top, and the way her privates were so nakedly exposed below.
Her hunger was stirring undeniably now so she finished her sandwich and set off on her walk around the lake, with her thighs clenched and drenched, trusting that no one else could hear the tiny, rhythmic squeaking sounds.
Clive had spotted the frumpy woman on the bench but his only thought had been, Bother, that’s my favourite bench; so as soon as she got up he sauntered over and sat down – or, rather, he would have liked to think he sauntered but, with his short legs and bulging tummy, what he actually did was waddle. He plopped himself down with a grunt and took out a sticky bun and his thermos of sweet, black coffee. Clive was in his midthirties and bald already. Unprepossessing, he walked, or, rather, waddled, with his paddle-feet at ten to two, and his love of sticky buns and gooey burgers ensured that he would never be any slimmer than portly. Faded and colourless, he didn’t expect any more from life than what he already had, which was a daily unremitting routine from home to work and home again. He lived alone, watched a lot of TV and built ships out of matchsticks.
But Clive had a secret which he was ashamed of and would never confess to. In his mind he called it his ‘fantasy’, because that made it seem less real and therefore less shameful. Clive came to work in ladies’ underwear, upon which he lavished a great deal of what he earned. He spent a lot of time in underwear shops and had designed for himself a scarlet corset with lots of black lace above and below and real tie-up laces down the back. He hooked himself into it down the front and loved the sight of his erection blatantly upright and straining in a most unfeminine manner beneath it. He watched in a mirror as he pleasured himself and the gushing spurts of his creamy-white semen against the bulging mountain of shiny red and lacy black was the most erotic sight he could imagine.
Today he was wearing crotchless pink nylon knickers that he had bought in Ann Summers and he knew that, before the day was out, he would have to take a break in the gents and five-finger himself through the fragile gap, his cock hard and virile and aggressive against the pretty, delicate pink. The idea brought a blush to his cheeks.
The following day she was there again, on his favourite seat. Bother the woman. He looked about but there were people on every seat and he had no choice, so he plonked himself down at the other end of the bench and they sat silently munching and avoiding contact.
Under their respectively mild ordinariness, Clive was wearing softly brushed, velveteen leopard-skin and Annette had on an athlete’s jock-strap stuffed with a dildo for realism. During the course of the day she would make use of the dildo more than once. And he had discovered that, with judicious positioning against the shredder as it vibrated, hidden behind the filing cabinet, if he stuffed paper into it for as long as necessary, the softly sensuous luxury of the velveteen was so stimulating that he could reach ejaculation very quickly and furtively with no one noticing.
As the season became sunnier and hotter, it was inevitable that they shared the bench on a number of silent occasions, initially barely noticing each other except to be vaguely annoyed at the intrusion of their privacy but eventually becoming used to the other’s presence.
Finally, one day, to his utter astonishment, Annette said, ‘I’m sick of peanut butter and cucumber sandwiches. You don’t fancy a swap, do you?’
Forward hussy. But no one ever spoke to him and he was, in some strange way, grateful. After a long, confused silence he finally replied, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t like peanut butter, but you can have one of my doughnuts. I’ve got more.’
And she did. She sat there eating his doughnut exactly as if they had known each other for years.
However, it took him several more days to get out the next sentence: ‘Would you like some hot coffee? There’s plenty here but I’ve only got one cup.’
She turned and looked at him, her small, grey eyes puzzled and slightly alarmed but she, too, was grateful. They shared the coffee cup and the sticky, black treacle tasted like nectar.
It was another week before he stammered almost apologetically, ‘We could go to a coffee bar if you like and have some cream cakes. That is, if you want a real change from peanut butter and cucumber?’
Annette blushed crimson. She only had her boxers on today, so she felt relatively normal. He had carefully dressed in a pair of floral white panties so he, too, was quiescent and didn’t feel selfconscious. Unbelievably, she said yes, she’d like that, and they went on the first date either of them had ever had. And continued to do so once a week throughout the summer. They discussed their work and their hobbies – what there were of them – and quite often sat in companionable silence but they never, ever confessed their libidinous and unmentionable secrets. Both continued to indulge them but now they were finding thoughts of each other creeping into their private moments of pleasure and eroticism. For fear of exposure and shame, both were unwilling for the friendship to develop any further, and so it continued until the autumn when it became too chilly to sit in the park. Instead, they occasionally went to a movie and, one day, surreptitiously and hesitantly, Clive took Annette’s hand in the dark and held it silently throughout the movie. Neither of them mentioned it. Both were in a turmoil. If it came down to a choice, neither of them was willing to give up their privately and sensually fulfilling secret compulsion but also, neither was willing to confess and face the ridicule and rejection. And so it went on for several more months.
It was Clive who accidentally changed things. Unable to resist his achingly lonely hunger a moment longer, comfortably familiar with this dowdy little woman who had become his trusted companion and friend, he put his hand up her unattractive woollen skirt and encountered … leather. Leather?
He withdrew instantly with an audible gasp, unable to comprehend the enormity of his discovery and Annette sat in frozen silence, dully sure she had lost him for good. But as he sat next to her, his cock was potently alert, thrilled into instant tumescence and hugely interested.
He began to sweat. He had no idea how to proceed, so he did nothing, but his aroused prick was lurching and twitching with an urgency such as he had never experienced. The desire to explode left him speechless. He knew without any doubt whatsoever now that Annette was all he would ever want: the perfect woman, the partner of his dreams – if he had ever dared to have any.
They parted silently as he saw her on to the bus as usual and, noticing that she was almost in tears, he squeezed her hand especially warmly and pecked her on the cheek. He needed to think.
She could barely believe and hardly dared to breathe but that reassuring pressure on her hand gave her a glimmer of hope, so she waited.
After a few days he phoned her. ‘Let’s go out to dinner tonight, somewhere special.’ Then, after a very long pause and a deep breath, he said, ‘Wear whatever you want,’ and put the phone down.
Annette felt faint and had to sit down suddenly. Of outer garments she had no alternative: tweedy skirt, jumper over her lumps and bumps, flyaway hair and brogues, as usual. But underneath she had decided on her Victorian grandpa-drawers, which covered her from her shoulders to her knees like a bathing costume. The woollen drawers were genuine, with a slash-slit in the front and a capacious buttoned crap-flap behind.
She was being conservative. She didn’t want to go too far too soon. This was the most terrifying moment of her life. She had never dared to imagine that she could ever share her secret, her ‘fetish’, with anyone, but she had become utterly dependent on the easy company of this fat, pale, stodgy little man, who hadn’t run away and didn’t seem to despise her for her sordid weakness. Her heart was pounding.
They went somewhere very special and expensive and Clive’s pale eyes were bright and feverish. The conversation was stilted and embarrassing until suddenly, without warning, Clive blurted out, ‘Annette, will you marry me?’
She trembled all over like a leaf in a storm.
‘Oh, Clive, will you have me – knowing – what you know?’
In a flurry of uncontrollable desire he begged her, ‘Let’s go home. Please. Now. Please. Will you come with me?’
And so they went back to his flat, where they could barely speak to each other in their mutual terror. He approached her gently, placing his hands up under her skirt to the chastely thick wool and, discovering the gap in the front, with a long shuddering moan, ferreted his way inside and placed his plump, warm palm under her quivering bush, electrifying her loins.
Never one to rush, he held it there for a few moments, stirring lightly with his fingers, and she felt a surging heat blaze through her nether regions, pounding furiously against his gently cradling hand. He withdrew his hand and slowly, clumsily, began to remove his own clothes.
Annette’s eyes grew wider and wider as she gradually realised what was being revealed to her enraptured gaze. He stood, sheepishly, plumply, shyly erotic in his scarlet corset with suspenders and black stockings, his penis fully erect in its palely curling fuzz, the veins swollen and pulsing beneath the black lace. She stared breathlessly, her blood thumping in her ears and her groin awash with waves of searing desire. His cock leaped towards her under his lovely, fat, corseted tummy and without further hesitation she fumbled hastily for her own buttons and zips, impatient to remove all womanly accoutrements and stand bountifully overflowing before him in her man’s Victorian drawers, with easy access.
Now they couldn’t move quickly enough. He slipped her shoulder straps down to her waist, freeing her abundant, deeply cleavaged, bouncing bosom. Grasping it in both hands, he plunged his face into its buxom depths, turning to kiss and suck at the full moons of her large, pink, stiff nipples. She clasped him to her, feeling the satined bones beneath her hands and running them joyously up and down the tightly laced sheen constraining the rolls of his fleshy back. Unable to wait any longer, he took his pleading cock in one hand and, ripping her crap-flap in his haste with the other, guided it into the open gap.
She was dripping wet from years of spinsterhood, her labia swollen and throbbing. She placed one short, stumpy leg around his thigh, sliding her foot up and down the silky black stocking, and then they were on the floor, carpet beneath them as he placed his savagely engorged knob inside her cunt-lips and rubbed it around gently to encourage relaxation and flow, but Annette was in no mood for niceties. She ground her powerful hips against him and, thrusting her bare, mountainous buttocks upwards, she forced him to enter her tight, wet warmth deeply and fully, sucking and pushing in a timeless, ageless rhythm that needed no practice.
He groaned painfully and she cried out sharply as her clutching, slippery tunnel fully enclosed him, and then their lust took them over and they bounced and bucked and heaved about on the floor, pounding and pumping, lips and tongues fastened together, him still encased in his tightly laced scarlet and stockings and her with her ripely full hips and thighs still swathed in woollen drawers. The molten rush of their mutual climax was swift and simultaneous, cresting and crashing in great gushing spasms of unbound joy as, with one final juddering thump hard into her, he released his pent-up semen in torrents.
She shuddered several times and then sighed a long, grateful, welcoming sigh. He collapsed beside her, spent and satisfied.
After some tenderly silent moments, she turned and nibbled his ear-lobe. ‘To think all this time – both of us – and we never knew. Did you – you know – every time we met?’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘Yes, every time.’ She grimaced. ‘What a waste of time. Well, we won’t waste any more, will we?’ And, as she turned and cuddled into him, kissing his dear mouth, she scratched lightly and teasingly at the pale chest hair peeping cheekily over the black lace of his corset.
On the day of their wedding they walked hand-in-hand to the registry office, a colourlessly plain, uninterestingly fat and dull couple that no one noticed, and no one would ever have suspected that the bridegroom wore a beautiful one-piece in white lace with a frothypetalled, lacy rose delicately and strategically placed over his crotch so that he would arise from its centre like Venus from the foaming briny, or that the bride wore an elegantly simple two-piece in plain white leather, which featured three flaps, two long metal chains and a padlock with a tiny key which she would furtively give him as they exchanged wedding rings. Combustion upon the contact of lace on leather was guaranteed, but that was their secret.
THE FRUIT PICKERS were all young: mostly college students from the city, taking advantage of the harvesting season coinciding with their annual summer break, but some were locals on their school holidays or temporarily unemployed.
Belinda was in her third year at university and this was her third season fruit picking. She preferred to be independent of her parents and it helped with those extra expenses not covered by her grant. Besides, she liked the added advantages of spending all summer in the sun and keeping fit. She knew most of the others and found them easy and stimulating company.
Garth was the exception. He was a local lad who found seasonal work on the farms throughout the year: shearing, milking, hedge trimming and haymaking, as required. He was field-hardened, sun-ripened, ruddy and rather liberally freckled. His manner was bluff, direct and rather hearty but, by his irrepressible cheerfulness and good humour, he had charmed his way into their company. He was refreshingly frank and his vigour and lack of sophistication gave him entertainment value.
Belinda found him somewhat irritating but harmless.
They didn’t see much of the other locals, who were younger and went home at the end of each day, but no one seemed to know where Garth lived; he did not appear to have a home to go to and remained behind drinking with the students in the village pub each evening after work.
It was hard work. There were acres of strawberry beds as well as rows of fruit trees, mostly apples, and it took a week or two to get into the rhythm and adapt to the physical requirements.
Like all the other girls, she wore small, tight, bluedenim shorts, frayed at the edges, and a floral cotton top tied in a knot under her breasts. Her naked midriff was taut and golden-smooth. She did not wear a bra as her breasts, while perfectly rounded and as firm as oranges, were not large and did not require support. They nestled comfortably in the fold provided by the tight cotton knot.
Her legs were as fine and strong as a racehorse’s, with the same narrow ankles and long, firm shanks. She was a thoroughbred, her skin never darkening to more than lightly gilded and her blonde hair very short, with a feathered fringe. Her accent was neutrally correct and regionless. Her subject was archaeology and she hoped eventually to combine it with travel. She liked company and relaxed confidently in the evenings over a pint with the others, sharing experiences and philosophies.
Garth was always there and, although naive and untutored, proved to be not unintelligent. He had theories to share and surprised them all with his unconventional and original slant on current politics and policies. He was revealed as being thoughtful and articulate behind the brash blokiness. His presence expanded them and they learned not to judge him by his rough manner and simple forthrightness. He was also generous, offering assistance without arrogance whenever his physical prowess was advantageous – carrying ladders, or hefting heavy boxes – and he never seemed to begrudge an extra few minutes to show someone a trick of the trade or a short cut.
Although she still found him irritating, she respected his presence among them. The group formed a social closeness, as sometimes happens in such intense environments.
One afternoon, exhausted from the heat and effort, Belinda took a moment’s break and leaned against the trunk of an apple tree, with her eyes closed. Without warning, she suddenly felt two large, powerful hands slip inside her top and place themselves warmly over her breasts, covering them comprehensively and kneading them, tweaking the nipples teasingly. She jumped, insulted and offended, and opened her eyes sharply to look straight into Garth’s grinning freckled cheerfulness.
He removed his hands quickly, holding them palms outwards in front of his chest and, before she could speak, he said, in his broad rural accent, ‘Sorry. Just couldn’t resist. Too tempting, stood there all pert and perky.’ And, still grinning, he strolled off nonchalantly to the other side of the orchard.
Dumbstruck, she remained rooted to the spot, the firm, warm pressure of his hands still imprinted on her naked skin. Bloody cheek. Still, no harm done, and it hadn’t been an entirely unpleasant experience. She decided to ignore it. Apparently, so did Garth, for he treated her just as distantly as usual in the bar later and she forgot him. She did not mention it to the others but, that night in bed, she could still feel her skin prickling and tingling at the remembered touch and her nipples became tightly aroused. Damn the man. She didn’t need this.
Several days later, just as she had put it out of her mind, she was standing stretched upwards at the top of a ladder in an apple tree, picking down the elusive fruit just barely within her reach, when the unthinkable happened. After a slight wobble of the ladder, she felt a strong finger slide straight up inside the leg of her shorts, right past the side of her knickers to insert itself deep into the personal, private sanctum of her cunt. She gasped and clenched her thighs together in self-defence. The abruptness of the unsought intrusion left her feeling vulnerable and unprotected. The assertive finger probed and wiggled.
She yelled and nearly overbalanced the ladder. ‘Get the fuck out of there unless you want to become a soprano!’ she screamed at him, helplessly clinging to the ladder and trying to kick his face at the same time.
With a hoot of laughter, he withdrew and leaped off the ladder. He stood below her, looking up, sniffing at the offending finger then licking it, and she felt naked and exposed above him.
‘You can’t blame me, now, can you? You’re very tasty and it was right there in full view, ripe and juicy.’
Cheeky bloody pervert! This was unpardonable. She was speechless with rage. Her pussy, though, was open and awake, and she could feel the warm thrill of arousal rushing around her pelvis. Her legs trembled and she climbed shakily down the ladder and sat on the ground to put out the flames. She felt dampness between her thighs and was furious. He was obscene.
But his presence became a magnet and she was newly aware of his power and potency, his hard body, his rude virility and now, as well, his availability. In the bar that evening, she did her best to ignore him, turning her back towards him, but his magnetism called to her as if they were the only two in the room and she could sense without looking that he was grinning. She hated him. Pervert.
For the next week she did her best to avoid him and generally succeeded, though erotic images which included freckles and a wide grin were pervading her dreams. She threw herself into the work. In order not to have to see him in the orchard daily, she went to work in the strawberry beds – where she did not have to climb trees and she felt a little safer. Kneeling and bending all day was back-breaking but she was fit and didn’t mind. She was alone between two rows and had just about reached the end when she leaned back to rest her aching muscles – and there right in front of her eyes, just a foot away at the end of the row, he was standing with his naked dick erect in front of him, poking fat and hugely upright above the waist of his shorts. He put his hand around the base of it and jiggled it at her.
Her fanny jerked awake and an electric shock wave shot through her. She bit down hard to deny it and gritted between clenched teeth, ‘You’re obscene. Put that disgusting thing away before I tell someone.’
‘You won’t tell.’ His cheeky, dappled face grinned at her. ‘You want it. I can tell. I bet you’re all juicy. I’ve never seen anyone so fruity and fragrant. You’re ready to be enjoyed, all lush and full blown. No one else makes me hard like this. I can think of nothing more delicious than plucking you.’
How dare he? This was obscene.
‘Piss off!’ she hissed at him. ‘You disgust me!’
He chuckled throatily. ‘Yes, and I think you like being disgusted,’ he mocked her.
Then he was gone and where he had stood there was an empty space. She stared at it for a moment, hearing his cheery whistling as he disappeared among the rows of strawberries. She was beside herself with fury but her body was quivering and dissolving with a yearning desire that she was not glad of.
He obsessed her. She couldn’t stop thinking about him and every evening in the bar his cheeky, knowing grin taunted her. He was waiting, she knew, as if she were a mare about to come on heat. He was sensing out her readiness and his instincts would be true. He would know exactly when to pounce. He knew her better than she knew herself and she was determined to make him wrong. What an animal! What a crude, uncivilised peasant! She was far too good for him!
But she had to masturbate every day now to control her lust, in the hot showers or furtively under the bedclothes in the dormitory when the others were asleep. Even during the day an aching hunger would overpower her and she would have to excuse herself and go behind a hedge for a quick relieving wank. It did not satisfy. Every time she thought of him, her cunt pulsed and became moist, and her knees would give way.
She was alert now, never knowing where or when he might spring upon her next, both terrified and expectant, not knowing which was worse. The sight of that stiff, hungry rod jumping about in front of her would not leave her alone, and she ran her imagination over his solid, sinewy thighs and his hard-etched, swelling biceps. His laughing freckled face with the loose, wild curls hanging around it floated into her near vision; his mocking lips fluttered over her breasts and played about in her valleys and crevices with a touch like electrical currents.
She supposed he would have hair all over his chest and stomach. Ugh! How bestial!
She was in torment. She had become naked, base lust and her hunger was rampant, but she was determined to stay in control. After all, she was educated and refined, not a farmyard animal in rut. She made sure they did not meet and attached herself firmly to the sophisticated young men that she was familiar with, whose careful manners, even if suggestive, could be easily managed and deflected.
She engaged earnestly in philosophical conversation and debate which did not, however, occupy her attention. Such men held no interest for her. She was at all times acutely aware of where Garth was and that he was watching her, observing her minutely from the other side of the room. The tentacles of a ravenous desire had begun to wind their way around them both, bonding them in its heat and suffocating them with breathless longing. She was surprised that no one else had noticed.
One of the other girls from the city, a wanton hussy who had gone through all the boys in their group and was now bored with them all, had begun to flirt with Garth. Her behaviour was a little bold, as they had all had rather much to drink, and she was standing intimately close and pouting provocatively up at him. She lifted a leg and wrapped it seductively around his thigh. He stooped and took her open mouth full in his, pressing hard upon her lips and crushing her to him in a vice-like semblance of passion.
Belinda felt a hot flush like a fever rush through her with a violence she was unprepared for. Totally overwhelmed by this floodtide of engulfing desire and rage, she banged her glass down on the bar and rushed out into the night.
She didn’t know where to go to vent herself and eventually ran into the open door of a barn where hay was being stored. She screamed her agony into the empty barn.
‘Bastard! Bastard! Fucking bastard!’ She grabbed a wooden handled pitchfork that was leaning on a hay bale and drove it again and again into the hay as if it were him, grunting loudly.
Suddenly, he was there with her, battling with her for the pitchfork, hay flying in all directions. ‘It’s you! It’s you! It’s you I want, not her!’ he was yelling.
She was sobbing and screaming and beating her fists upon his chest, ‘Bastard! bastard!’
And then they were on the floor among the bales, tearing and pulling and yelling at each other. Her shorts came off, her cotton shirt and her panties; his shorts and shirt and shoes went flying, and without preamble he was shoving his angry, swollen cock deep into her like a weapon, thrusting and grunting, and she was opening to him and thrusting back with fury, thumping her hips savagely against him, biting him hard on the neck, the chest and the arms, drawing blood. He pushed her so hard against the hay bale that the sharp stalks dug holes in her flesh, scratching welts like fingernails as they pounded and plunged, bucked and reared like wild animals locked together, grunting and yelling their rage and lust in passionate fury.
Their mutual climax was swift and violent, breaking over them like a red-hot torrent bursting from a dam and wracking them with shuddering tremors of black oblivion. He lunged powerfully one last time, crashing against the neck of her womb with a juddering thump, wanting to punish by uniting, unleashing torrents of hot, thick semen deeply inside to claim her, and she clung to him, quivering with satiation. They collapsed upon the hay, still clinging to each other and rocking together in a hard, close embrace. Belinda was sobbing.
He stroked her hair with his rough, calloused hand. ‘Ssssh. You’re mine now, mine: just as I always knew you should be. I don’t want anybody else.’
She clung and sobbed, still trying to fight him with her willpower, but surrendered within. She knew there was no going back now and his animal power frightened her. She felt abandoned, helpless and out of control.
It was not entirely unpleasant.
Over the next few weeks, they could not keep their hands off each other. He would appear at the end of a strawberry bed, grinning cheekily, his ever-ready cock sticking out of his shorts, and she would take him in her mouth and relish the brutal force of him as he pumped himself in and out of her luscious and lascivious lips until he shot his hot, creamy semen down her throat. At such times they had to be quick, in case someone else appeared and caught them at it. She no longer complained when he stuck his long, strong fingers up her shorts and into her wet, sucking cunt as she was picking apples, but squirmed and wriggled against his probing and prodding until the crest of her orgasm broke and washed over her, turning her legs to jelly.
Somehow they still managed to get the job done and to meet their quotas, even sometimes volunteering for overtime so that they could be alone in the orchard. Then he would take her roughly and forcefully, standing up against a tree trunk, which flayed her back and left her bruised and sore. He spurted quickly and voraciously with loud cries of pleasure.
She could not get enough. At lunch-break they would disappear behind a hedge and fuck hard and fast, fumbling with clothing, her shorts and pants pulled aside and ripping, and his cock protruding fatly from beneath the leg of his shorts. It was animal sex, wild and abandoned, lusty and brutal. She particularly enjoyed the times he took her from behind unexpectedly, placing his hands around her waist to unzip and lower her shorts and then cradling her breasts as they swung loose beneath her while he pounded vigorously against her buttocks, his dangling balls slapping softly, all the while watching for the others in case they got caught.
In fact, no one knew. It was, anyway, a totally unlikely match. In the bar each evening they pretended to ignore each other, only communicating in a social way, as if they were no more to each other than working acquaintances. Belinda did not want anyone to know, for she was still not quite comfortable with this raunchy, bestial side of her sexuality. She felt coarsened but at the same time exhilarated and expanded. Freeing the beast within her had confused her and made her uncertain of herself.
Garth was just as confused but in a different way. He was attracted by her earthy passion but only because it was contained in the packaging of sophistication and class. He aspired to her polished refinement and her brittle self-assurance. He did not feel that she was superior to him; it was more as if she brought out qualities in him that his country upbringing could not. He believed they were equals in every way and sought for his passport into her deeper favours. He tried to find a way to reveal himself more fully to her. He could not take her back to his home, for he lived in a caravan, but he searched for a place where he could show her a different side of his character that she did not suspect. He knew that she did not imagine that he loved her, but he did, and longed to prove his worthiness.
Eventually, he got his chance, when a friend left for a trip overseas and asked him to house-sit. It was a lovely country cottage with all the traditional features: dark wooden ceiling beams, hand-painted china, deep pile sheepskin rugs, and an open fireplace. He invited her back for an evening meal, which astonished her. He placed flowers in vases, lit the log fire – even though it was midsummer – and cooked a simple but delicious meal of grilled salmon with fennel, minted new potatoes and home-grown salad. She was agog at this new image. He had chosen a very good white wine; they had got through two bottles of it and, once they were in front of the fire on the soft rug, he had wooed and seduced her lingeringly and patiently.
Taking his time and making her wait, he had touched her gently and caressingly, tracing every curve, slope and valley, searching out her points of pleasure and sensitivity. He had delicately taken her firm, round breasts in his mouth and sucked gently, raising her nipples with his lips and tongue and savouring her slow, wide-eyed arousal. Using his tongue to discover her, he had lapped at her vulva with long, slow strokes, teasing the clitoris to a stiffened bud and licking up her juices from within. He missed nothing, gliding smoothly from her pursed anal rose up the honeyed rift, pushing deeply to explore her slippery depths and sucking on the bushclad mount, drawing from within ripples of pleasure and desire.
Then he kissed her long and tenderly on the mouth, seeking her tongue and drinking her moisture. She was fascinated by this new lover who found her every response and touched her every nerve with his carefulness, stirring up new hungers that came from deep within and creating a slow-burning, empty ache in her core that was unlike the fiery greed she had had for him until now. This was deeper, softer, more intimate, and when he finally penetrated her, gently, hesitantly, lovingly, she felt herself open and expand like a flower to receive him.
They rocked and swayed slowly and lingeringly, in perfect unison, locked in close embrace and, as the rhythm quickened, it was mutually fusing and simultaneous, mounting with a trance-like dreaminess. The crest that finally broke over them was long and slow and breathtakingly complete, fulfilling and uniting them in a new togetherness of gentleness and awe.
When they finally emerged from out of their drugged and semi-conscious state, she prised herself apart and gazed at him with wonder. This was not the man she had fucked to a pulp in the fields. This was a new man, a complete man: many men. This was a lover, one who had the capacity to keep surprising her. Could this, she dared to ask herself, be the only man? Time would tell and she, with her sharp, analytical intellect, was prepared to take the time to find out.
He, with his finely-tuned, earthy instincts, had never been in any doubt.
MALCOLM WAS A dirty little pervert but he couldn’t help himself. The pleasure he gained from his filthy habit was greater than his sense of shame and was the only point to his life, really. In his local neighbourhood there were several telephone boxes and they were always littered with the colourful cards left there by prostitutes, offering sex. Some of them had pictures of a woman with enormous boobs, half-clad, in obscenely inviting postures, and the type of sex on offer was very varied.
Late at night, usually after midnight, Malcolm would slink out into the street to any one of the phone boxes and, glancing about furtively, he would shut himself in and wank himself off while he read all the cards, fantasising about the kind of sex they described. With his long, disguising grey coat unbuttoned, he would unzip his trousers, take out his erect cock and slowly rub himself to rock-hard fullness while he talked dirty to the telephone, as if one of the girls was at the other end. As his mounting ejaculation became more urgent, he would point himself at the phone, rapidly pump himself to orgasm and then splash his viscous streams of creamy semen triumphantly all over it, at the same time calling it a filthy slut and other such names.
One night, plucking up his courage, his hands sweating, his mouth dry and his heart pounding, he had called one of the telephone numbers and tried to talk dirty sex to the girl at the other end: but it had been an answering machine and his efforts had been for nothing, though his prick had been achingly hard and hot. So far, he hadn’t had the courage to try again. The idea of quick, hard, dirty sex with a tart excited him unbearably but, besides having no money and no self-confidence, Malcolm knew he was not particularly prepossessing. He was all skin and bone and sharp angles and he stooped badly; his chest caved in and his head was held low like a turtle. He tried to be as invisible as possible and spoke hesitantly, if at all, with a slight stutter. He wore glasses and his sandy hair was wiry and tufty and unmanageable. His clothes all looked the same: colourless, shapeless and unfashionable.
The only thing Malcolm liked about himself at all was his prick. Slightly darker than the rest of him, it was long and dangly and smooth and when it was hard, it curved up and out in a bow shape with the head fully exposed. He was now in his early twenties, but he had never had sex with a woman; he masturbated obsessively, talking dirty, using all the filthy names and obscene language he had read in the magazines he used to turn himself on. It was the one single pleasure he had in life, besides smoking. There hung about him the lingering odour of stale cigarettes, sweat and semen, and his bedsit reeked of old socks and unwashed armpits and underpants. He worked in a warehouse, stacking boxes on shelves.
Malcolm’s nocturnal habit was frequent, so he alternated the phone boxes, careful to choose the most deserted. He was building himself up to make another phone call. He wanted to shoot his come and his verbal filth at a real voice but he was terrified of being found out and getting caught by the police if the call was traced. He hated attracting attention to himself. Shuffling along to a phone box in his usual style one night, he stopped outside it and checked the empty street.
‘Pssst!’
He looked about him for the origin of the sound but could see nothing.
‘Pssst. Over here!’
He spun around and peered into the dark. He could just make out a bulky shape lurking in the narrow alleyway between two buildings.
‘Come here, you!’ the voice hissed.
He sidled over suspiciously, squinting into the shadows and she came a little way out towards him, where he could see her. She was young and sullen-looking, and very cheaply tarty. She wore a short nylon coat with leopard spots and fake-fur trim, and high white PVC boots. Her full, pouting, sulky mouth was crimson but the dark lip-liner wasn’t quite straight and her black eyes looked smudged. Her wispy, short, straight hair straggled about her face in several shades of red. She looked like a scrubber.
He was immediately interested and felt arousal stirring in his trousers.
‘I seen you.’
‘What?’
‘I seen you jerking off in phone boxes. Lots of times.’
‘I dunno what you’re on about.’ He was stammering and he felt a hot blush flame his cheeks.
‘I been watching you. You talk to yourself while you’re doing it and then you come all over the phone. You’re weird.’
‘I never.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘You’re mad.’
There was a heavy awkward silence.
‘I’ll do you for a tenner if you like.’
Malcolm paused from his crushing sense of humiliation to take in this new direction. ‘Haven’t got a tenner.’
‘A fiver, then.’
‘Haven’t got a fiver, neither.’
‘You’re sad.’ This was so patently true that Malcolm felt it needed no comment.
‘Well, then, would you like to stick it in my mouth? I won’t swallow, though.’ This last bit was said rather aggressively.
Malcolm’s heart was pounding so loudly, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her properly. He looked quickly around at the empty street. ‘What?’ he finally spluttered as he played for some time to digest the full import of what she was offering. Being offered sex was an alien concept to Malcolm and needed some thought. The hard swelling in his crotch was becoming uncomfortable and he squirmed to ease it.
‘Well, do you want to or not?’ She was kneeling on the ground in the shadows and he found himself moving into the alleyway towards her, fumbling ineptly with his belt. With a final quick glance out into the street, he moved deeper into the dark and she took his belt from his tremblingly incompetent grasp, undid it deftly and slid down the zipper. Fingers not his own took firm hold of his ravenously rigid cock and freed it to curve boldly into the night air.
Malcolm gasped at this public obscenity. He’d never done this in company.
‘Oooh, you’re full of surprises. Who’d’ve thought you’d have such a nice big dick, eh?’