‘Come here. Like this,’ he said.
But he didn’t demonstrate on the goat, he demonstrated on Greta. He took her breast in his weathered hand, squeezed from the undercurve in an upward motion, pushing the flesh towards her nipple, which he now took in his free hand, rolling it between his fingers in such a way that she half expected to see a stream of liquid flowing from her breast.
‘You got it now?’ he asked, and she shook her head.
You are such a slut, Greta May. Such a slapper. You’re incorrigible.
‘Not quite,’ she said, shamelessly proffering her untouched breast.
He leaned over, squashing the taut flesh, rotating the teat until it tingled and the bottomless reservoir inside her leaked, drooling creamily between her legs. She panted for breath.
‘Are you ready now?’
She swallowed hard and nodded.
Greta tried again and this time it worked. A jet of translucent milk squirted from the goat’s udder, hissing as it hit the sides of the metal bucket, and she was thrilled she could actually do it. The animal wriggled uneasily, then settled back and, like her, enjoyed the sensation, pushing its hot udders into her hands. Greta pulled and squeezed and squeezed and pulled, first one, then the other, each squirt strangely sensual. It was like a cock shooting its load and she blushed she was so ashamed of herself.
When the bucket was full, Tom took it and emptied the milk into a large vat.
‘And the next,’ he said.
He stood behind her making a roll-up as she edged the stool beside the next goat, plopping her bottom down and starting again. She squeezed and pulled, the warm milk spewing into the bucket, a fine spray coating her cheeks and hair. The ripe smell of goats and hay and Tom’s cigarette was hypnotic, invigorating. Greta felt mediaeval. She could have been a milkmaid all her life and thought how much better she would have played her scene in Madame Bovary if she’d had more experience, how the actress is born from experience and passion and suffering. She glanced up momentarily at the camera.
Tom emptied the bucket and she worked on number three, the smallest of the goats, a chocolate brown creature with pale nervous eyes. It fidgeted and kicked, squirting Greta’s chest, the warm liquid dribbling down over her belly into her pubic hair. She was growing stained and smelly, her body wet, sticky, perfumed in goat’s milk.
‘Always a bugger that one,’ Tom said as he took the bucket. He emptied the milk into the vat. The Labrador watched his every move.
Tom leaned down to return the bucket and twiddled her nipple affectionately. Greta moved the stool beside the last of the goats, a tall, dignified animal aware of what had to be done and determined to make the most of it. The nanny goat had learned that her purpose was to be used as nature intended, and Greta felt as if she had made a friend when the milking was done and the goat turned awkwardly in the confined space to lick her cheek.
Tom emptied the bucket. The camera hummed, turning on its axis as Greta went to join him. As she crossed the barn, she entered the billy goat’s line of vision and it rose on its hind legs, bucking on its tether and snapping its teeth. He could smell the milk on her and in this place he imagined all the nanny goats belonged to him. Greta froze, covering her breasts, her mouth open, her will consumed by the beast’s savage lust.
‘Bloody devil,’ Tom yelled, raising his hand in a threatening gesture that made the goat back away. ‘Never mind him, girlie,’ he said, yanking her lead.
The billy goat stayed in its stall, hissing and drooling, kicking its cloven hoofs against the woodwork. Greta glanced over her shoulder, the brute’s black eyes gripping her in their lurid gaze, and only when Tom tapped the side of the vat did she pay attention. Her heart was pounding, her breasts rising and falling.
Tom watched, an indulgent smile on his lips. ‘Now then,’ he said, adding a crumbly white substance to the vat of milk before handing her a long wooden paddle. ‘That’s the live culture, work it in,’ he instructed. ‘Nice and easy.’
Greta stirred the milk, turning the paddle using her two hands. Tom reached for a jar and added two tablespoons of powder.
‘Vegetal rennet,’ he told her and he glanced momentarily at the billy goat as she looked up. ‘Everything organic, girlie,’ he added.
They moved to the side wall where the scrubbed counter contained rolls of muslin and numerous knives and tools.
Greta was studying one of the cheese moulds when Richard stormed into the barn with such a furious expression even the he-goat stopped bucking against its tether. Richard was wearing breeches, a full white shirt and in his hand he carried a riding crop which he used to slap the side of his black leather boots. His hair seemed more lush, and his blue eyes sparkled with fury.
Ohmygod, it’s Heathcliffe, she thought.
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ he said softly, in his nice voice, turning and marching off.
Tom followed, grabbing Greta’s lead, the Labrador joining the parade, the peacocks calling, the hens squabbling. Delilah and Thunder were tied to the rail marking the end of the yard and they turned to watch their progress. Richard strode into the stable and stopped at her stall. He kicked randomly at the straw.
‘You’d better get this cleared up,’ he said, directing his instructions at Tom. Greta opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. When she noticed the bowl with cereal and a big glass of orange juice on the table at the end of the stable she realised she was hungry. It had been left for her and just seeing it placed there so carefully made a tear jerk into her eye.
She glanced back at Richard. Passion has a dark, violent, tumultuous side and Greta saw its face in his features. She gazed at him, trying to make him look back at her, but he turned on his heels and marched out. They followed him to the fence where the horse and pony were tethered. Grace barked, a short, sharp bark of uncertainty.
‘Shush, there, shush,’ said Tom.
Richard was standing at the low gate. On the wooden posts there were four hooks, two at the bottom on one side, two a little higher on the other. Richard threw a horse blanket over the top of the gate and Greta didn’t need to be told what to do. She had made a mess of her sleeping quarters and deserved to be disciplined. Tom spread her legs and Greta wasn’t completely surprised as she bent forward that the rings on the leather straps around her ankles and wrists fitted exactly over the hooks.
She made herself comfortable, her breasts hanging low on one side of the gate, her spread bottom on the other, the taut smooth plain of her hips tapering to her waist. At the top of her thighs her vulva pushed out from the curly dark hair with its ferment of semen and goat’s milk, the sun reaching parts of her body that before had always been hidden. Richard ran the side of the crop between her gaping lips and she could see the leather slicked and shiny as he took it away.
She wondered why there was a delay and, leaning forward to peer between her legs, she observed Tom making his way back laden down with a tripod and digital camera. He gave them to Richard as if with distaste for such gadgets and Richard focused the lens directly up her bum. She gave it a wiggle, even though she knew full well that you should never react to the camera.
The Labrador silently watched, its pink tongue lolling from its mouth. The horse and the pony seemed to have lost interest and gazed into the distance as if in anticipation of a gallop across the fields. Greta lifted her head. The long meadow dipped and then rose steeply to a knoll of trees, the blue sky beyond. Except for the hum of insects, the air was still and she could think of nothing more splendid than her own submissive body displayed for punishment on a summer’s day in England. Her bottom was open, winking lasciviously, her labia throbbing, moist with the ooze of feverish arousal.
‘Six each, I think, Tom,’ she heard Richard say, and a shiver ran through her.
‘Yes, that should do it.’
Richard began. She glimpsed him for just a second before closing her eyes. He had been slapping his palm with the riding crop and now brought it down with a heave across
the bare cheeks of her trembling buttocks, the pain of that first lash painting a red line across the firm silky flesh. She opened her mouth to howl and her voice vanished in all that space. The dog barked, softly, deep in its throat, and she heard Tom shush her again.
She tensed up and the second stroke wasn’t as painful as the first. She howled anyway. It was expected. She pushed her bottom up to meet the third, absorbing the stroke, transmuting the pain inexplicably into pleasure. Richard paused for a second. Tom blocked her view but she was sure he was adjusting the camera. He returned, swiping the air with the crop and the sound was worse than the lash of it crossing her skin.
She clenched her muscles once more and her hips jerked involuntarily as he administered three strokes in quick succession, three lightning strikes so quick she had not been expecting them. One, two, three, swish, swish, swish, and the fire raged across her flesh raising crimson welts so immaculately painful it was both a surprise and a relief when Tom suddenly tossed cold water from a bucket over her jutting backside. She imagined this was how they did things in the country and was glad of a moment’s repose while Tom took the crop and Richard fussed again with the camera.
Her bum still blazed. Water dripped from her pussy and ran down her legs. She had taken six strokes with a riding crop and closed her eyes tightly as Tom stepped up to apply the second set.
‘Are you ready, girlie?’ he said.
But it wasn’t really a question. The crop came down like the strike of a red hot sword, like a hammer against an anvil, cutting deep and sending waves of pain down her legs and up her arms, so fierce she almost pulled the hooks from the fence posts. Richard was broad and muscular. But Tom had a countryman’s strength and seemed to relish his task, the crop meeting her scolded flesh in a fresh wallop that made liquids spring from her nose and eyes and tortured pussy, a great seepage of spittle, sweat, drool and tears. Her clitoris was sparkling, obtruding from its cowl of pink inner lips, the channel of her pussy slippery wet, warm and creamy.
Number two. Number three. Number four. Number five. The same pause in between, the same solid whack that numbed her and sent her body into wild shuddering spasms. Her eyes were glued shut; her breath was laboured. She was counting the strokes off to herself, biting her tongue, howling like a beaten dog, like a lost soul, her insides turning, her body smelling of goats and sperm, running with sweat.
The sixth came down like its five companions. Her arse was a roaring fire but the pain like a breaking wave rolled over the flames in a steamy crescendo like nothing she had ever known before, her body erupting in a strange ecstasy that left her slumped over the gate spent and delirious. She didn’t scream, she didn’t howl, she felt the contractions pumping out her orgasm and the feeling was luxurious.
Tom brought it to an end with another bucket of water, tossed at her rear as you would pitch water over two mating dogs, and she thought she would have a word with him about that at the appropriate time. Richard was behind the camera, recording everything and she felt so comfortable stretched out she was almost sorry to be unhooked from the fence posts.
She turned. Richard was walking away. He climbed on the grey mare and rode off without looking back.
Chapter Fourteen – Wildchild
TOM STOOD there, hands resting on his waistband, a look of admiration about his leathery features.
‘You did all right,’ he said, taking her lead, and the faint air of pride she felt made her breasts swell as she followed him back to the stable.
On the shelf was a wooden pot in the shape of a barrel with brass rings and an ill-fitting lid. It contained a sticky unguent that Tom scooped out and slapped over her bottom, working it in, running his fingers into the crack. The fiery glow soon faded and, when he was satisfied, Tom did something she had not been expecting: he planted a kiss on each of her bum cheeks and she thought what is it about men and arses? They want to kiss them, lick them, spread them wide and, most of all, they want to spank them. Wallop them. Give them a good thrashing. They want to see a girl’s buttocks glowing pink, striped in red weals and slicked with moisture. Then they want to kiss them and lick them and nurse them with creams, preparing them for another spanking.
Weird. But at least she had learned her lesson: no more peeing in her own bed.
Greta squirmed, arching her back, deliberately pushing out her bottom, but Tom had done with her bum for now and produced a broom of the sort witches fly around on in fairytales. His glance along the stalls made it clear that she was to sweep out the entire stable and she took a deep breath as she set about the task. Her body after the thrashing was damp and the dust coated her skin in a fine gritty layer. The flies were devils buzzing around her wet parts and no matter how many times she swatted them aside they made their way back again.
Tom left with Grace trotting along at his side, and returned carrying a fresh bale of hay on his shoulder. He had taken off his shirt and the waft of male sweat was so heady it made Greta’s breasts noticeably perky. She watched him break open the bale with his bare hands, muscles rippling, his stomach flat above a broad belt and she remembered her first taste of leather gagged and tied to Richard’s bed. She cast her mind back and it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Greta worked methodically, starting from her own stall, then moving into Thunder’s stall, which was rank with pony dung and she thought that was unfair because it was much messier than her own. Greta – Greta the foal, that is, not Greta the girl – watched, fearful and fascinated as she swished the broom around its legs and the animal did a little dance as if she were playing. Greta put her arms around its neck to blow in its ears, the baby nuzzling all furry and warm against her shoulder.
‘Come on, girlie, no rest for the wicked,’ said Tom.
He was following behind, spreading fresh hay in the stalls. She worked faster, flicking the broom in the corners and sweeping the pile out the door to the wooden container at the side of the building. There were two scoops with short handles like dustpans, and although she was careful lifting the soiled hay, flecks of dung turned to pale streaks on her arms and chest. She tried to brush it away but that only made it worse.
Grace had followed her out of the stable and as Greta watched her quaffing water from a bowl, she ran her tongue over her own parched lips. She rubbed her tummy when it rumbled. She was dying of thirst and starving hungry. She had milked four goats, shed simply gallons of liquids being cropped and worked up a sweat sweeping out the stable. Greta watched the Labrador as if in a trance and only came to when a cart rumbled noisily into the yard. The driver teased a whip over the flanks of a sleek golden brown mare clopping along the path.
‘Whoa, there, whoa,’ she heard, and at that same moment Tom appeared at the stable door. He didn’t speak, but indicated with his thumb and she hurried back inside.
Tom was setting her food down on the floor. She wasn’t sure why the plate and glass had been moved from the table; why the spoon had been taken away. She didn’t really know why she’d been thrashed, aside from the general obsession with her bottom. Richard must have known she would need to pee when he secured her to the leash and what it all suggested was that she should just accept everything and see where it led her.
Tom collected a brown glass bottle from the shelf and shook out a yellow pill with V400 on the surface. He placed it between her lips and she swallowed it down with the orange juice; at least it was in a glass, and she couldn’t recall anything ever tasting quite so delicious.
Bits of dung where she had tried to wipe her body clean clung still to her fingers and although it was tempting to pick off the strawberries and mango arranged on the top of her cereal, she chose instead to go down on her hands and knees and sucked them up between her teeth. The cereal was awash in goat’s milk and she lapped it up with her long pink tongue. Each mouthful was so yummy she wanted to bury her face in the bowl and did just that, chewing and licking at the same time. Tom watched and when she was finished, he patted her head and she gazed up at him with big green
eyes full of contentment.
He didn’t say anything, but tousled her hair and then led her out to where the cart had stopped by the gate at the bottom of the yard. It was stacked with turfs, row upon row crammed tightly together and taller than the tall man waiting there with an unlit roll-up jammed between his teeth. He was a younger version of Tom and wore a leather waistcoat over his bare chest, grass-stained jeans and boots.
Greta had completely forgotten that she was naked and didn’t feel at all self-conscious as the man watched her approach, his grey eyes running over her curves, her legs, her breasts standing out from her chest, the pink buds smugly rigid. Grace was trotting along at her side and Greta enjoyed being out in the fresh air with the sun warming her skin.
‘This is the first lot, then, Tom,’ the driver said and lit his cigarette. His eyes still on Greta although the inspection wasn’t at all like the lustful stares of men on the Underground, more a countryman’s regard for a prize pony.
She flicked her mane obligingly and he grinned.
‘Don’t know why he don’t just seed it,’ said Tom in response, gazing at the turfs.
‘Ours is not to reason why.’
‘Aye, Alex, ours is...’
‘... to go and have a pint... or two,’ said the younger man, interrupting. ‘Bradley’s just opened the bar.’
‘So there’s more to Alex Caldwell than meets the eye, is there?’
‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ the younger man said and ran his hand through the coins in his pocket.
Greta looked from face to face. Their words sounded oddly like dialogue. She didn’t speak. This was role play, it was amusing, and she kept up the game when Alex stepped down from the cart, bent over and slapped his hands, calling her to him.
‘Here, girl. Come on now.’
She bounded over, Grace still at her side. Alex stroked the dog before turning to her. He twisted her nipples, as if testing them, and she let her tongue hang out obligingly. He ran his hand through her bush, then rubbed the tips of his thumb and first finger together.
A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel Page 16