A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel

by Thurlow, Chloe

  ‘... bitch.’

  ‘Jeez, you can’t get this on the porn channel.’

  Jason shook himself free and Marley like a gent eased her shakily back on to her feet. ‘That’s some pussy,’ he remarked as if it were separate from her, a car, perhaps, or a magic ring.

  Jason was brushing at his clothes. ‘Bitch. Bitch. Bitch,’ he was saying.

  ‘Hey, she’s all right,’ Tyler Copic said, friendly but forcefully. He was the movie director, not Jason. He looked at her. ‘When you’re in LA, look me up, eh,’ he added, and she noticed the miffed look pass across the eager faces of Alex and Gregory.

  Jason was wiping piss from his legs with a handkerchief. He looked like he had something more in mind, not that she could think what, but the others were satisfied and shuffled him towards the door as he zipped himself into his wet trousers. He looked back at her for a moment and she realised they had always been in competition and in this, the last round, she had a feeling she had won yet again.

  Greta liked the sticky feeling in her sated parts and just dried her frizzy locks under the hand dryer. Her cheeks were pink like petals and her eyes were golden and sparkled with light. She found her knickers, zipped herself into her tartan skirt and buttoned her blouse. She slipped her arms into her maroon school blazer and in the mirror’s reflection she had changed from everything the neat clean schoolgirl ought to be to what all the schoolgirls at her convent dreamed of being. Well, all the pretty ones!

  As she turned away, the door opened.

  It was Richard.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  She smiled and he smiled and she liked his good white teeth.

  ‘Are you ready to be carried off to the country?’

  ‘Gagging for it,’ she replied.

  Chapter Thirteen – Marsham

  THE ROAD SLIPPED below the car tyres, the Range Rover rolling through the night like a ship at sea. The lights coming towards them skimmed over the windscreen and Greta felt safe, content, satisfied. Well fucked, actually, she thought, covering her smile with her hand. It had been an eventful week, what with one thing and another, and she was dying to see what Richard now had in store for her.

  As she glanced towards him, he patted her leg.

  ‘There’s a bag in the back,’ he said. ‘You can put your clothes in there.’

  He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone and she imagined they were still playing that game where she must ask no questions and it was best to just do as she was told. Her life before she met Richard had lacked direction. Now she could see signs for Canterbury and Dover. She was going somewhere.

  ‘Shoes as well. You won’t be needing them.’

  ‘Is there a prize?’ she asked in a faintly mocking tone.

  ‘That all depends on you,’ he replied.

  Richard was always so mysterious it was exasperating. She unclasped her seat belt and reached behind her for the bag. Inside the bag, lying at the bottom, was a small maroon leather box. She looked at the box for several seconds and, when she opened it, her eyes filled with tears. Nestling in a bed of blue velvet was her Cartier watch.

  She looked at Richard, then back at the box. She thought for a moment that he must have replaced the one she had lost. But how did he know? She hadn’t told him. She hadn’t told anyone. She had taken a shower in a stranger’s pee and that’s not really the sort of thing you go around bragging about, sordidly intriguing though it may have been.

  The watch showed the same time as the car clock and even in the light of the passing vehicles she could see it was her own watch, not a replacement, but the one her father had given her, the same square face, the inlay of gold, the C on the clasp. She was aching to know how Richard had come by the watch, yet another part of her was enthralled by the mystery, by the flavour of not knowing. She held it to her lips.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’ll look after everything until you’re ready.’

  What did that mean?

  What did it matter? She slid from her school blazer and folded it into the bag. She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled the sleeves from her arms and wrapped the material around the leather box to keep it safe. She unhooked her bra and dropped it on the pile before slithering her tartan skirt under her bottom. She wasn’t wearing any knickers and assumed Jason Wise had taken them as a trophy. It was just the sort of thing he would do. She pushed her shoes down the side of the bag, pulled the zipper and placed it in the back.

  Air from the vent was blowing up her legs. Car headlights scanned her body and she moved restlessly feeling ashamed with the smell of sex wafting from her skin. Five men had deposited their sperm in all her openings and mixed with her own abundant juices the scent was as piquant as a stable, a simile more apt than she realised. Greta’s breasts throbbed, jerking faintly with the movement of the car, her pink nipples turning hard as they filled with blood. She was sure there was something wrong with her. Just her nudity, just her own heady perfume, was enough to send her into raptures. No wonder Richard had sniffed her out on the tube.

  She sat there nursing her nipples, her damp bottom slippery on the leather seat. Richard turned off the motorway into roads that narrowed into winding country lanes. She saw signs for Deal and Sandwich. The view of the fields was blocked by high hedgerows, the night growing darker, the stars more distant. He slowed almost to a stop before turning into an opening that was so constricted you would never find it unless you knew it was there. The bushes formed a tunnel, slapping the vehicle with vicious swipes as they passed.

  The track was several miles long, almost impassable in places, and ended at a grassed square that reminded Greta of the film set for Madame Bovary, a TV two-parter in which as a milkmaid her entire dialogue had consisted of the single word Oui ! The cobbled paths were lit by the glimmer of lamps that must have come from Victorian times and she wondered if they were powered by gas. There were a dozen cottages, squat buildings shaped like loaves of bread with thatched roofs and small windows shiny as eyes behind the flower boxes. They were candy houses from a nursery rhyme, or the house of the three bears that Goldilocks so unwisely entered – eating porridge and taking a nap, indeed! She shook her chestnut curls and felt a delicious quiver run down her back.

  The pub was a larger building under the same nest of thatch. It was called The Black Sheep, the sign crudely painted and moving almost imperceptibly on big metal hinges. To her left, Greta could see a stone trough and, as Richard rolled to a stop, she noticed the place name Marsham painted clearly by the same naïve hand on a wooden board.

  A man leading a horse across the square was approaching and Greta felt so humiliated sitting there with everything on show, completely exposed, and couldn’t believe it when Richard lowered the electric window on her side of the car. She hid her own little triangle of thatch beneath her hands. The man leaned in, resting his arms on the window frame, and studied her dispassionately, clucking his teeth, his astute gaze moving down her body until they came to rest on her breasts.

  ‘Evening, Mr Marsham,’ he said as if addressing her blatantly erect nipples.

  ‘Hello, Tom. Everything all right?’

  ‘Everything is as everything should be.’ He looked up at the sky and then back into the car. ‘God’s in his heaven and this is...’ he broke off and his face wrinkled with confusion. ‘What day is it?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’ he said.

  ‘Not to me.’ The man grinned and glanced back at Greta’s heaving chest. His nose was twitching as he caught the fragrance rising up through her fingers. ‘You’ve got a ripe one here, I see, sir. Quite a handful, I imagine.’

  ‘We’ll soon break her in, Tom.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’ve no doubt,’ he said and turned to the horse as it bucked, tossing its head. ‘Come on, then, whoa there.’

  The fly buzzing around the horse’s eyes and mouth spiralled up out of sight and then with apparent determination shot thr
ough the window into the car and started bothering Greta. She waved her hands and it vanished into the back. She glanced again at Tom as he removed a sugar cube from his pocket and watched the horse lick it delicately from the palm of his hand.

  Richard slid the car into gear. ‘Let’s make a start with the milking, shall we,’ he said in a serious tone and Tom nodded.

  ‘Aye, that’ll do.’ He appeared to pull at an invisible cap and continued towards the trough.

  Greta glanced again at the sign for Marsham and then at Richard. His face gave away nothing.

  He turned off to the right, passing the pub. Greta could see through the leaded windows lots of country types quaffing jugs of ale. The fly was crawling on her bare shoulder and she flicked it away.

  ‘There aren’t too many. You’ll get used to them.’ He patted her leg once more.

  The track pushed through heavy wooden gates and beyond was a house on three floors, a welcoming light behind the windows. Wide stairs led between two columns up to the main door. She thought this was where they were going, but Richard kept on around the side of the building.

  At the back of the house, at the bottom of a long dip, were various pens and outhouses, the moon silvering the rooftops and trees. The night had remained unseasonably hot, the moon three-quarter full and her body shone with a milky glow as she followed Richard across the yard. She could sense the tang of the sea, crisp and salty, not too far away, the smell of cut grass, everything growing and bursting with life. They entered a stable lit by a couple of low-watt bulbs, the smell of horses and fresh hay lush and familiar.

  In the first stall, close to the door, was a grey mare with a foal no more than a few months old, its legs so spindly and fragile Greta wanted to take it in her arms for a cuddle.

  ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, we’re very proud of her,’ Richard said and patted the mare. ‘And you, too, Delilah,’ he added, rubbing his nose against the horse’s nose. It was a sweet gesture and completely out of character she thought.

  Greta stroked the foal. ‘What’s her name?’ she asked, forgetting herself, and he glanced up.

  Above, screwed into the woodwork, was a brass nameplate with Delilah and, next to it, attached in a temporary way by a single tack, the brass disc contained her name.

  Greta?

  Her lip dropped. She looked back at the foal, at the name plate, back at Richard. That’s not fair, she was thinking. She liked her name and he’d stolen it. He watched her, waiting for her to speak, but she showed great restraint in not saying a word.

  ‘Here,’ he said, moving to the next stall where a chestnut pony stared at her with big glossy eyes.

  Her name was Thunder. Greta tickled her ears and the pony pushed into her shoulder. She rubbed its neck and felt in an odd way that she was being made to feel welcome.

  The third stall was empty. The brass plate with the name Pegasus on the wooden beam above was so shiny it had obviously only just been screwed into place.

  ‘Here we are,’ Richard said, and patted her bottom in the same way as he had patted the flanks on the mare.

  ‘But...’ She didn’t complete her question. Richard pointed at the lens of a camera trained on the stall from a fixture on the roof and his look made it clear that this was not the time for questions.

  On the shelf made from the cross spars supporting the back wall were five leather bands, natural in colour, each with a double buckle, a brass ring and the smell of new shoes. Greta remembered the girl in the video wearing exactly the same thing, the leather adornments and nothing else.

  She kept still, aware of the camera as Richard buckled the straps in turn to her wrists, ankles and neck. He used a spring clip to connect a leather lead to the ring at her throat and connected the other end to a metal eye screwed into the side wall. When the job was complete, he didn’t say anything, but ran his palms down her bare arms in the way a mother might her child, very expressive, and she felt oddly content to be in Marsham with Mr Marsham, even if it was all a bit weird. He pointed again at the camera.

  ‘You do not have permission to remove the lead,’ he said. ‘It’s strictly against the rules.’

  With that he turned and made his way back through the stable, pausing to pat Delilah as if to say good night. He switched off the lights and Greta stood in the darkness wondering what to do. She gazed out, wondering if Richard was going to return, but he had left for good and the night was completely silent.

  The stall was carpeted in fresh hay that prickled her skin when Greta laid down. She rolled into a ball, clutching her knees, but just as she was getting comfortable, she felt a tweaking in her bladder and panicked. She had forgotten to go to the bathroom and should have asked Richard when she had the chance. Now she didn’t know what to do and just wished there was someone there to tell her. She was sure there were all sorts of rules but he had told her just one: you do not have permission to remove the lead.

  She pressed the spring clip at her throat. The faintest touch and it opened. She could slip away for a few minutes. It wouldn’t do any harm. She glanced at the silver eye of the camera and imagined Richard watching her on a monitor somewhere in the big house.

  Greta thought if she used all her willpower she could hold it until morning, but the more she thought about it, the more urgent her need to go. The pressure was building like the tide against a sandcastle, pressing in, lapping in waves at her insides, squeezing her intestines. ‘I can hold it. I can hold it,’ she said, and she said it because she knew she couldn’t.

  She writhed and wriggled. Straw slithered up her nose and up her bum. She was naked, her pubic hair no longer a silky fleece but a matted nest. The sperm coating her thighs and slicked through her bottom had dried, the odour of sex clinging to her like a beast in rut. Greta was irredeemably debauched and dirty and Richard knew what he was doing keeping her tethered to a lead in a stable. He was right. She knew that. But she couldn’t hold her bladder a second longer.

  When she finally squatted down at the back of the stall it was such a relief nothing happened. She pressed and pushed. She flexed her muscles, gave her bum a wiggle, and then it came gushing out of her, a single torrent of steamy urine that soaked her feet and wet the straw and dribbled down the insides of her legs. She had been gritting her teeth, holding her breath, and now she let the trapped air out in a long sigh. There’s nothing like a really good piss, she thought, and grinned with satisfaction when she remembered the look on Jason’s face when she peed over his new shoes. Greta wiped away the last drips with her fingers and was tempted to give her clit a little time but not with the camera so brazenly watching.

  She settled down in the straw and through the open door could see the sky pierced by stars, the moon slipping behind the horizon. Greta had no idea of the time but was happy that Richard had found her wristwatch. With that thought in mind, she slipped into a deep sleep and her eyes only opened to the sound of the cock crowing.

  Greta wasn’t sure where she was for a moment. She stretched her limbs and, as she rolled over, the lead jerked the leather collar and she was fully awake.

  Daylight was giving colour to the interior of the stable and as Greta stood, shrugging off the stiffness in her legs, Tom came bowling in whistling to himself. He wore a plaid shirt with a stained waistcoat, his hands thrust in his trouser pockets. He had long exaggerated sideburns, a mop of curly hair and was a good deal younger than Greta had first thought. She was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t Richard who had come to wake her, but Tom gave her a dimpled smile as he approached and she felt oddly contented.

  ‘You’re up then, are you.’

  She nodded.

  He unhooked the lead from the stable wall. He turned her round, brushing the straw from her shoulders and back. ‘Got to keep you looking your best now,’ he said and made particular effort with her bottom, his fingers sliding roughly into the crease.

  She followed him outside where a golden Labrador sat on her haunches waiting. She sniffed Greta
thoroughly and, when she was satisfied she was no threat, she turned her big watery eyes on Tom.

  ‘There you are, Grace, you look after her now, there’s a good girl.’

  He patted the dog’s head and she walked along beside Tom, her gait slow and steady, identical to her master. Greta found herself ambling along the same way and felt silly.

  Across the yard, bad-tempered hens were stamping noisily around their enclosure, waiting to be fed. The peacocks in the adjacent pen sang out shrilly, fanning their tail feathers in displays of male vanity. ‘Don’t mind them, missy,’ said Tom, pulling at the lead, and she trotted along behind Grace.

  At the furthest distance from the stable, the brick shed was occupied by five goats, a big billy goat with curling horns and aggressive beady black eyes, and four nanny goats huddled together in one stall as if for protection. What struck Greta was the smell. Unlike horses, goats had a strong, sour odour and inside the barn it made her tummy churn.

  It didn’t seem to trouble Tom. He was still whistling the same tune. Grace sat obediently in the doorway watching, and Greta noticed that another camera was recording her every move. It made her self-conscious at first but it wasn’t long before she forgot it was even there.

  Tom collected a low, three-legged stool and a metal bucket that was so clean she could see herself vaguely distorted in the reflection.

  ‘Have you done this before?’ he enquired and she wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking but she was sure that whatever it was she hadn’t, not without any clothes on anyway.

  She shook her head.

  ‘You’ll soon get the hang of it.’

  He sat her down on the stool, spread her thighs and pulled the rump of the nearest goat towards her, inserting the animal’s udders in her uncertain fingers.

  ‘Squeeze and pull,’ he said.

  She squeezed and pulled, and nothing happened.

  ‘Like a bellows, evenly, slowly.’

  She tried again and the goat shrieked and kicked its hind legs. Tom spanked the animal’s backside.