by Penny Birch
For some reason, the incident made me feel braver, and also more inventive. As I ordered my second brandy, a new line of enquiry occurred to me. The barman was a big, bearded man of about sixty with the look of someone who knew everything that had happened locally for the last half-century. He was also garrulous and clearly disposed to chat to me.
‘Have you lived in this area long, then?’ I asked with all the insouciance I could muster.
‘All my life,’ he replied with evident pride.
‘It’s very beautiful,’ I continued. ‘I come out here to walk quite often. It would be great to live here, but I expect all the best houses have belonged to local families for generations.’
‘Some,’ he agreed, ‘but there’ve been more newcomers recently.’
‘I passed a wonderful-looking estate near here, the other day,’ I said. ‘By the footpath that runs up to the plain. Dense woods, no neighbours at all and it shows a lake on the map. I’d love to live somewhere like that. Do you know it?’
‘That would be the old Linslade place,’ he answered, his voice carrying a hint of confidentiality. ‘Nobody lives there now. The house burnt down. In around sixty-eight, if memory serves me right. Old man Linslade was too mean to insure it properly and couldn’t afford to rebuild it.’
‘Who owns it now, then?’
‘His son, Arthur, but he lives at the farm out along Broadheath way.’
‘Oh right, that’s sad. I suppose it goes to show that things aren’t always as idyllic as they seem. It’s a nice walk that way, anyway.’
‘That it is,’ he replied and turned to serve another customer.
I walked back to my seat feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. The man I had seen had been thirty or so, which might fit the age of Arthur Linslade. A quick browse through the local phone book and I had the address of the farm, which was no more than four miles away.
With the brandy nestling warmly in my tummy and adding greatly to my confidence, I set off towards Broadheath, turning onto a convenient footpath after a mile of country lane. As I walked, the delicious feeling of naughtiness that I had had the previous week began to return. The route I was on was pretty lonely and I kept remembering now nice it had felt to stretch naked in the warm air and bathe in the stream without a stitch on. It also occurred to me that if I was going to succeed in my venture it would help to look as attractive as possible.
Attractive, yes, but also harmless, as it wouldn’t do to antagonise the girl by appearing to be a threat. Fortunately, being five foot three, lightly built and with my hair cut in a practical bob, looking unthreatening is something I am naturally good at. Besides, I’m always being told I have an innocent face, even if it generally is by men who are hoping to see it wrapped around their cocks.
I stopped and considered how I could best rearrange my clothing to best advantage. The obvious step was to take my bra off and stuff it into my rucksack, leaving my nipples just discernible through the cotton of my blouse. I then undid all the buttons and knotted the loose ends between my breasts, hopefully showing them off nicely and also leaving my midriff bare. Nothing else seemed practical, given that my jeans were already tight over my bottom and slightly caught between the lips of my pussy.
I carried on walking, presently passing a group of young male hikers and noting with satisfaction that every one of them turned his eyes surreptitiously towards me. I resisted the temptation to look back when they had passed, but as I turned a corner I caught a comment that I suppose was complimentary if unexpectedly rude.
The path passed through a long stretch of scrubby woodland, punctuated with small fields. The heat of the day was still building and that and the alcohol were beginning to make me feel drowsy when I came out onto a ridge that looked down on a farm. Beyond it, the more open chalk downland rose in a steep scarp, and I realised that this had to be the Linslade farm. The footpath joined the farm track and I turned towards the buildings, determined not to back out now that I had come this far.
There was nobody visible, just an ancient dog lazing in the sun. It didn’t even bother to bark as I approached, merely opening one eye and watching me with a minimum of interest. I crossed the yard and knocked boldly at the front door, standing back with a lump in my throat. There were noises from inside and then the door opened, revealing a heavy-set man with a brush of dirty blonde hair and a ruddy complexion, about as different from the man I had expected as it was possible to be.
‘Yes?’ he asked, with a hint of irritation that utterly deflated my expectations. Still, it was too late to back out now.
‘Are you Arthur Linslade?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he repeated, no more friendly than the first time.
‘I’m sorry,’ I continued, feeling completely ridiculous.
‘I think there’s been a mistake.’
‘What do you want?’ he demanded. Another man appeared behind him, younger and taller but also definitely not who I had been expecting.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, searching desperately for something to say and feeling incredibly self-conscious. I hesitated for a moment, both men looking at me as if viewing a particularly stupid child, then inspiration struck me.
‘You don’t own a red Rover 800, do you?’ I asked.
‘Only I accidentally knocked into one the other day in the car park at the King Billy and someone told me it belonged to you. The guy left before I could get a chance to speak to him, but he was tall and had dark hair, so I must have got it wrong.’
My impromptu story was pretty garbled, but it seemed to make sense to them as Arthur Linslade turned to the younger man and spoke.
‘That’d maybe be Michael’s car?’ he suggested.
‘Sounds like it,’ the other replied. ‘He didn’t say anything about a knock.’
‘It was only a nudge,’ I said, ‘but a bit of paint came off so I thought I’d better speak to him.’
‘He lives down in Broadheath,’ Arthur Linslade said, now more friendly. ‘He’s in Swindon, today. Perhaps you could leave a name and number.’
I complied, not really having a great deal of option and reasoning that I might eventually get to speak to him.
‘Is he a relative?’ I asked when I had dictated my name and number to them.
‘Our brother-in-law,’ the younger man told me.
I thanked them and left, feeling thoroughly embarrassed as I walked away up the track. I knew they were looking at me and felt intensely self-conscious, not daring to turn round until I had reached the shelter of the woods. When I did, there was no sign of Arthur Linslade. The younger man, who I took to be his brother, was walking down the track with an armload of wooden stakes.
Feeling rather muddled, slightly drunk and in need of sorting my thoughts out, I left the path and went a little way into the wood, then sat down on the trunk of a fallen beech. On reflection, it didn’t seem likely that the man called Michael would ring me. After all, there was no damage to his car. In fact, I had no reason to think his car had been in the pub car park, except that it would have been the best place for them to have had a drink before going up to the old park. I did feel quite pleased with myself for having had the guts to ask and knew that if I could do that, then I could probably ask Michael about his erotic sport if I ever managed to find him.
The copse I was in was rather like the place where I had dried off after my little bit of nude bathing the previous week. Dappled sunlight came through the canopy and a thick understory sheltered the clearing left by the great beech. The buzz of insects and the occasional distant bleat of a sheep on the slope up to the downs were the only sounds, creating a drowsy atmosphere. I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, looking at the pattern of orange and red where the bright sunlight came through my eyelids. I exhaled slowly, enjoying the gentle warmth of the air on my skin, spoilt only by the less comfortable sensation where my clothing covered me.
The temptation to strip off and sit nude in the sunlight was considerable, especially when I had
done it the week before and got away with it. In fact I had got away with a lot more, masturbating to orgasm in my private place, virtually nude and with the small maize cob up my bottom. The thought of what I had done sent a deliciously naughty thrill through me and I began to wonder if I could repeat the experience. There seemed little chance that anyone from the farm would come my way, but I was too close to it to feel really comfortable. I took out my map and began to study it, feeling thoroughly dirty as I searched for what might prove a safe place to strip and play with myself.
The area I was in was a maze of little fields and woods running along the base of the downs. A river and a railway cut through it, creating a long thin piece of no-man’s-land which looked promising. To get to it, I would need to run across a railway bridge; but that meant that, once I was on the other side, the chances of being disturbed would be close to zero.
Ten minutes later, I was scrambling down the railway embankment into the shelter of a stand of willow. The ground was boggy and the shelter less good than I had hoped, but I persevered, moving along between the tracks and the river in the hope of finding somewhere better.
I didn’t have to go very far. After not more than a hundred yards, I came across a brick shed at the base of the railway embankment. It looked like it had been built as something to do with the railway but it had obviously been out of use for a long time. Behind it was a pile of old sleepers, high enough to form a convenient seat and completely sheltered from all angles. It was perfect, the very realisation of which increased my excitement. Despite this, I felt the same pang of guilt and uncertainty that I had before. Could I really be so dirty? Was the place really as secure from intrusion as it seemed? I climbed to the top of the sleepers, looking around and straining my ears for any sound, one hand already on the knot that held my blouse closed over my breasts.
There was neither sound nor sight to cause me concern and I realised that I really was going to do it again. In fact, I knew I couldn’t help it; the memory of how much I had enjoyed it before made it an urgent need. This time, I would strip first and enjoy being nude for a while, before starting to masturbate.
I was tugging at the knot as I climbed down. It came open and the blouse fell aside, baring my breasts to the warm air. My nipples were already hard as I took a small breast in each hand and began to caress them, the firm little mounds of dark red flesh peeping through my fingers as I squeezed. It felt wonderful, more so when I had shrugged my blouse off and the daring feeling of being topless in the open was added to the physical sensation.
I undid my laces and kicked my walking boots off; my socks followed and then my jeans, leaving me standing in just my panties. I folded my discarded clothes neatly, making a pile on top of the sleepers, forcing myself to take it slowly and not rush. There was plenty of time to work myself up before getting down to the messy bit. I decided to keep my pants on for a while, knowing that doing so would enhance the thrill when it finally came to exposing my pussy and bum.
I sat down on the sleepers, relishing the feeling of being nearly naked and occasionally stroking a nipple or the front of my panties. Stretching luxuriantly in the warm sunlight, I decided not to take off my pants until the next train passed. When it did, then I would have to, creating a new sense of anticipation and irresponsibility. As I waited, a fantasy began to form in my mind. I imagined I’d been hired to strip for some sort of railwayman’s do. Afterwards I’d been persuaded to come back to their hut for a private performance and was now waiting outside in nothing but a pair of over-tight white panties. They’d soon be coming outside, one by one, for promised blow-jobs. One by one, their cocks stiff in my mouth, then coming in it…
One hand was on a nipple, the other pushing the damp cotton of my panties in between my pussy lips. I desperately wanted to pull down my pants and finish off, but was determined to wait for the train.
In my mind the first railwayman had me on my knees in front of him and was holding me by the hair, guiding my mouth to the enormous erection sprouting from his trousers. I took his shaft in one hand, my fingers not quite meeting around it, starting to tug at him as my mouth opened expectantly…
A sharp crack brought me instantly to my senses. There was the unmistakable sound of a footstep on gravel from the far side of the shed. I grabbed at my clothes, but only succeeded in knocking them down the far side of the pile of sleepers. Panicking, I threw myself flat against the shed wall, praying that whoever it was would carry on past and knowing damn well that they wouldn’t.
There was a pause and then the younger Linslade brother appeared around the corner of the shed. I froze, covering myself as best I could and feeling utterly ashamed and embarrassed. Fear quickly supplanted that feeling. He was a big, powerful man and had caught me next to naked in a really remote place.
He shrugged, spreading his hands in a gesture that conveyed more sympathy than anything and giving me a lopsided grin that was anything but threatening. I relaxed a bit and tried to return his smile, acknowledging that the embarrassment of the situation was not only on my side.
‘I’m sorry,’ he began, after a moment’s silence. ‘I didn’t realise…’
‘Could you pass me my clothes, please?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, of course,’ he managed, grabbing up the garments from the ground and passing them to me. ‘Um…Sorry, I did want to talk to you, though.’
‘Right, er… could you go away while I dress?’ I replied, managing at least a touch of assertiveness now that I was sure he had no intention of interfering with me.
‘Yeah, sure,’ he said, disappearing behind the shed, his voice then continuing from the far side of it. ‘I’m really sorry; I just thought you wanted a walk where you could get a bit of peace. I needed to talk to you, so I followed.’
‘What did you want?’ I asked as I pulled my jeans on and felt at least some of my embarrassment go.
‘You were looking for Michael…’ he began rather slowly, as if testing the water.
‘Yes,’ I replied cautiously.
‘You say you saw him last weekend?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I repeated as I began to do up the buttons on my blouse.
‘Was he with a woman?’ he continued. ‘Quite tall, honey-coloured hair, in her mid-twenties.’
‘Yes,’ I admitted, continuing with my buttons as I realised where his questions were leading. Evidently he was sounding me out, and presumably he was wondering if I’d seen Michael and the woman in the park. I felt a thrill of excitement. Surely that had to be what he was getting at?
‘That was my sister, Virginia,’ he was saying. ‘I’m Matthew, by the way, Matthew Linslade. Look, it’s hard to know how to put this, but let’s say that we both know that Michael and Ginny weren’t at the King Billy.’
His tone was eager but uncertain, the same tone men use when they’re about to ask for some sexual favour but feel guilty about it and aren’t sure if you’ll agree.
‘That’s true,’ I admitted. ‘I’m called Penny; hi.’
I’d heard the same tone many times before: ‘‘Would you let me come in your mouth?’’, ‘‘Can I put it up your bottom?’’, ‘‘Can I tie you up?’’. He knew full well what I’d seen.
‘You can come round now; I’m decent,’ I added as I straightened my blouse.
‘And I’m sure you didn’t scratch their car,’ he said as he came back to where I was. Now there was a new tone to his voice, as if he’d caught me out — which he had.
‘No,’ I said, unable to prevent myself blushing as he looked at me and smiled.
‘So, Penny, why did you want to find him?’ he asked.
My cheeks flushed hotly and I found myself looking down at the ground. I’d already been caught by him in just my knickers and he must have guessed I’d been playing with myself. Now I was going to have to admit to him that I’d been peeping at his sister and brother-in-law. My main feeling was of utter abashment, but there was a lump of excitement in my throat that went with it.
‘
I… I wanted to find out more about what they were doing,’ I stammered.
‘And what were they doing?’ he asked in an amused tone.
‘You know full well, don’t you?’ I asked, unwilling to be further manipulated into humiliating myself by describing what I had seen.
‘Yes, but tell me anyway,’ he insisted.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ I retorted, giving him a dose of his own medicine.
‘Did you want to do it yourself?’ he asked, dropping his attempt to make me put it in words and reverting to his hopeful ‘‘I’d like to do something rude with you’’ tone.
I nodded, the knot of sexual tension tight in my stomach.
‘Would you… with me? Be my pony-girl?’ he asked, now really hesitant.
I nodded again, looking up at him. The word ‘pony-girl’ doubled my excitement, putting a name to my fantasy. It was a beautiful way of putting it. I found myself thinking of what could now be reality. I’d be stripped, put in harness, a plug shoved rudely up my bottom, tied to a cart, my bare cheeks smacked with a riding whip, used as a pony-girl…
I could see that he was excited, too, partially by the tension in his body but mainly by the bulge in the front of his trousers.
‘I …’ he began and then swallowed hard. I knew exactly what he wanted. Me, on the spot.
He took a step forward and I lifted my face to accept his kiss. His arms went around me, one hand stroking the nape of my neck and the other in the small of my back. I responded eagerly, feeling the swell of his cock pushing against my belly. My hand went between our bodies and squeezed his shaft through his trousers, searching for his zip as he cupped my bottom.
His other hand had moved down from my neck and began to fumble for my bra catch, clumsily in his eagerness to get at my breasts. Suddenly it went and he was pulling my top up, exposing me even as I freed his cock from his trousers. I pulled back a little, wanting to see the lovely thick cock I was holding in my hand. It was fully erect, looking fit to burst as I pulled up and down on the loose skin of the shaft.