A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel

by Thurlow, Chloe

  ‘He’s found himself a nice wet one,’ he remarked, glancing at Tom. Alex ran his fingers under his nose and then slapped her backside. ‘Bit of a pong though, you want to give her a wash down.’

  ‘Aye, it’s the goats what does it.’

  Tom secured the mare while Alex lowered the tailgate at the back of the cart. Greta noticed another camera set up on a tripod behind the fence.

  ‘Where does he want this lot then?’ she heard Tom ask.

  Alex gestured towards the fence. ‘Piled up here for the time being.’

  Tom turned to Greta.

  ‘Neatly, now,’ he instructed. He unhooked her lead before glancing back at Alex. ‘I’ll just get little Thunder inside, she gets skittish in this weather.’

  ‘You spoil that pony and you’ll ruin her,’ said Alex.

  But Tom just waved over his shoulder and ignored the remark.

  While Tom was leading Thunder back to the stable, Alex filled a bucket of water for the mare. He stood back and watched Greta climb the cartwheel, her legs like scissors opening and closing. He then collected another bucket of water which he placed beside the cart in the shade.

  Greta was tapping her lips with a fingertip, considering the ranks of folded turf and, when Alex stood up from setting down the bucket, he was at eye level with her bottom. He held his palms as if in front of a fire before rubbing them together.

  ‘Lovely. Nice couple of loafs fresh from the oven,’ he said and sniffed the air. ‘Delicious.’

  She smiled. He was funny and had a twinkle in his eye.

  Tom was on his way back. ‘What about that pint?’ he called and Alex patted his pocket once again.

  The men delayed a moment, studying her as scientists would a chimp. Greta leaned forward to balance herself, spread her legs across the width of the cartwheel, and hoisted one of the turfs on to her shoulder. She climbed down, supporting the roll of earth with one hand, and carried it to the fence. As she went back for the next one, the men lost interest and ambled off down the lane. Grace lumbered along behind them.

  Greta repeated the action, stepping up on the cartwheel, shouldering the next turf to the fence and going back again, the work so bracing after the months in a shoe shop she enjoyed flexing and stretching her strong young muscles. The turfs were dry, but her body was bathed in perspiration and the earth turned sticky. Smears of mud slicked her shoulders and arms, her chest, it ran between her breasts, the soil clinging to the creases around her joints and crumbling into her grubby pubes, the verdant smell adding to the whiff of goat’s milk and her own orgasm under the crop.

  She paused to think about the thrashing and had absolutely no idea how it worked, how two men flogging her most intimate parts should produce such deep and abiding satisfaction. Such strange pleasure. Just thinking about it made the flame of arousal flare up in her once more. The breath caught in her throat. She turned her nipples between her thumb and finger and a trickle of sweat ran down her back. Her hair was hanging in knots, her face was streaked and the unguent leisurely applied to her tanned arse was varnished in a fresh layer of mud that drew out the sting. She was naked, natural... ‘I’m organic,’ she declared with a grin, a part of the summer setting. She felt as if she belonged, that she was a piece of a puzzle slotted into the appropriate place.

  Greta gripped her hands behind her back, stretching every tendon, the cute lip of flesh on her tummy growing flat and muscular. At the beginning, carrying just one roll of earth had been as much as she could manage, but with the turfs within reach on the back of the cart, it was just as easy to carry two, the stack as it grew taller beside the fence giving her an air of purpose and satisfaction.

  Not that she was in a hurry. Greta had no sense of time or urgency. She had no appointments. No clothes. She was at one with the rhythms of nature. Even the camera was as much a part of the landscape as the trees on the hillside. The peacocks were still fanning out their feathers and the mare was patiently regarding the view across the fence. Greta admired her nobility and calm. She remembered hard-working, long-suffering Boxer from Animal Farm. If all the creatures had behaved with equine dignity and selflessness, the revolution would have succeeded and they all would have lived happily ever after. Horses, she concluded, were simply the best of all animals.

  Greta stroked the mare as she gazed across the meadow. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Even the magpies on the barn roof had no energy to fly, and the insects had lost the will to be irritating. There was silence except for the hum of the earth, the turning of the sky.

  She glanced along the path. The village was hidden from view. No one could see her. Tom had tossed the lead over the side of the cart. She could cross the fields to the sea, walk the coast until she arrived at Dover or Deal. They couldn’t be far. If she wanted to go there was nothing to stop her and it struck her that it was the last thing on her mind. She was there in Marsham, collared and mud-caked, strapped and stripped of her own free will. She was where she wanted to be. Ever since she was little, Greta had felt the need to run to the mirror for reassurance but that cruel dependency had gone.

  A smile crossed her lips as she considered how far she had come playing the role Richard had created for her, how far and how quickly. There was a part of herself, deep and dark, a tiny seed in a dry fibrous husk that had been thirsting for moisture. Richard must be an Aquarius, she reasoned, the water bearer. He had awakened her thirst with a mysterious elixir. The seed had burst from its wrapping. It was growing, spreading its wings and she wanted to fly high in the clear blue sky and reach the heights of her nameless desires and fantasies, play Richard’s game until she won the prize.

  Greta’s throat was suddenly parched but she decided to finish stacking the remaining turfs before rewarding herself with a drink and worked harder, the sweat pouring from her, coating her entire body in mud.

  The water in the bucket beside the cart was crystal clear, sparkling now that the sun had shifted the angle of shade. She stared at the high piles of turfs and wiped her palms on her bottom. She cupped her hands, but realised as she was about to lower them into the water that they were ingrained with dirt. It crossed her mind to tip a little water out and wash her hands, but it was easier to go down on her knees, lean over and drink from the surface. She was a wildchild and she loved it. She lapped at the water and it seemed to taste so much better this way, on all fours. She submerged her face and swallowed in great gulps, dipping her head deeper into the bucket as she drank.

  She drew back, tossed her hair, the drips glistening like jewels in the sunlight. She stretched on her toes, supported her weight on her hands and wriggled her bottom as she dipped her head below the water. It was so divine she stayed there, holding her breath, and didn’t hear Tom and Alex returning from The Black Sheep. They had stopped to watch her and when she became aware of their presence she felt a flash of embarrassment that she masked behind a smile, staying in character.

  ‘Very nice,’ Tom remarked.

  ‘Can’t think of anything more gratifying,’ said Alex, ‘than the sight of a healthy young creature with its ’ead in a bucket.’

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

  ‘Here we are then, girl. Here it is.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘So I see.’

  Tom laughed.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Alex.

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

  ‘Aye, right you are.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Nice?’

  She nodded vigorously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘There, you’ll do,’ he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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