Bouquet of Bamboo

by Sarah Steel

  Alice repeated her question, this time directly.

  ‘The village of Selston once boasted a beautiful church,’ Virginia explained. ‘Square Norman tower. Magnificent. Cromwell ordered cannon fire on it and left the tower a mere stump. Hence, the Selston team are—’

  ‘Stumpies.’ Alice nodded, enlightened. ‘I see.’

  ‘Heel, you dogs, at once!’ the president of the WI commanded, shaking their leads.

  ‘The Cocks—’ Alice began.

  ‘Langley Parva, please.’

  ‘Our side,’ Alice amended quickly, ‘will certainly look well even if they don’t play well.’

  Virginia followed her companion’s pointing hand. A long clothesline pegged out at the side of The Cock met her gaze. On it, cricket whites danced in the gentle breeze.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Alice murmured.

  The two women stopped. At the end of the clothesline, Susie’s red silk knickers fluttered brazenly.

  ‘Oh dear indeed,’ Virginia Emsley muttered.

  ‘I do think the barmaid ought to be a little more discreet,’ Alice stated with marked disapproval. ‘Red silk knickers up on display like that. Really! I wish she would take them down.’

  Virginia gripped the jangling leads fiercely in her gloved hand. ‘I’d certainly like to make Susie take her knickers down…’

  Back from their knock-up in the nets, the Cocks were downing pints and pies as if they were at their victory supper already.

  ‘Steady lads,’ the landlord warned. ‘Got to keep your strength up for tomorrow.’

  Behind the pumps Susie worked busily, her cleavage deepening invitingly as she bent over her tasks. It was warm work. Perspiration darkened her blouse at the armpits and glistened at the swell of her brassiere-bondaged breasts.

  ‘Bloody odd,’ the opening batsman was heard to remark. ‘Could have sworn I’d packed my gloves for practice.’

  Susie blushed, and between her thighs behind the wispy lace at her pubic bush a deep warmth moistened her pussy lips.

  ‘I found your gloves,’ the Cocks’s opener announced, downing his third light ale. ‘Bit damp and smelly, though. Bloody odd.’

  ‘Scent of victory?’ the landlord chuckled.

  Susie bit her lower lip as she concentrated on pouring out a pint, her face now as hot as her pussy.

  A contented silence settled over the boisterous men for a few moments, and then they began discussing tactics. Selston’s strength was remarked upon. If only the home team’s middle order could stand up to the Stumpies’s mean bowlers.

  A scraping of chairs signalled the departure of several players, and Susie brought a tray of drinks – a round of cautious halves – over to the table. Peter, Greg and Terry had grown morose. The Stumpies, she overheard, were in fine fettle – damn fine fettle.

  Back at her pumps she ate a bag of salted crisps, sucking her red nails after popping each pale cracker into her mouth. The gloom from the cricketer’s table spread throughout the bar. What if Selston snatched the County Cup from her fine boys? The taste of defeat would be sharper than the salted crisps in her mouth. Defeat… she shivered at the thought.

  Later, when a towel covered the pumps and mice, emboldened by the darkness, emerged to nibble at peanuts on the beer-stained boards, Susie stood before her bedroom mirror undressing slowly. Her red fingernails rasped at the straps of her bra, slowly peeling them down over her smooth shoulders. In the glass she saw the cups heave, and proudly watched her breasts spill out of them and quiver enticingly, glad to be free of the strict cotton bondage.

  Shrugging off her bra, she absently thumbed her left nipple, peaking the stubby pinkness in pleasurable pain. Unzipped, her tight skirt slithered down over her nylon stockings to form a soft puddle over her shoes. Stepping out of it, and then kicking it gently aside, she slipped off her shoes and stood before the large mirror wearing only stockings and a garter belt.

  She gazed steadily at her reflection in the glass. The twelfth man… tomorrow she would step in and save her boys. The scent of victory grew strong between her legs as she smiled and mentally went over the tactics she had come up with to secure the Cocks’s triumphant victory.

  ‘But Selston simply walked away with the best village gardens—’

  ‘Cheated! Know it for a fact. Grew everything under glass, and then potted out and planted on the morning of the judging,’ Virginia Emsley muttered, struggling with a tight white corset that bunched her buttocks together fiercely, rendering her cleft a mere crease between her swollen cheeks.

  ‘And their summer jams scooped up gold and silver,’ Alice whined. Already naked, she slipped between the sheets embroidered with pale violet periwinkles.

  ‘No medals for Langley Parva there,’ Virginia agreed, easing her quivering bosom out of the corset’s balconette cups. ‘Not even an honourable mention. But Selston’s was bought gold.’

  Alice gazed devotedly up at the naked woman beside the bed. ‘Bought?’

  ‘Of course, bought. Got it all from the verger’s sister.’ She tossed her rolled up stockings aside impatiently. ‘Romulus and Remus penned up?’

  Alice, inching her thighs open a fraction beneath the sheets, nodded.

  ‘Jolly good. No, Sneesby,’ the president of the WI barked as she tightened the black leather straps of a softly jingling harness firmly across her buttocks, ‘Langley Parva never cheats. When we lift the County Cup tomorrow, it’ll all be fair and square.’

  ‘Mm,’ Alice said, thrilling to the sound of the harness.

  ‘No cheating,’ the president of the WI whispered, deftly guiding the seven-inch ivory dildo into the socket harnessed to her pubic mound, ‘or I’ll want to know the reason why.’

  A few minutes later, spread-eagled facedown on the bed, Alice Sneesby moaned as her anal rosebud puckered and softened. The tiny whorls fluttered, and began to unfurl as her sphincter opened with shy eagerness to accept the ivory dildo’s forthcoming thrusts.

  ‘After all,’ Virginia murmured, fingering petroleum jelly along the length of the gleaming phallus, ‘cheating just isn’t cricket. Now open up, Sneesby,’ she commanded, dimpling the mattress as she straddled the cheeks below her. Virginia eased back onto her ankles, and then lurched forward, briskly gripping and spreading her lover’s cheeks to allow the tip of the dildo entry into the dark little hole between them. ‘Come along, my girl, or it’ll go hard for you. My strap is under that bolster, and if you don’t get your bottom up right now I do believe you’ll be begging me not to use it.’

  Alice cried out softly as, offering her buttocks up obediently, the lubricated phallus slid between them.

  ‘Good girl,’ Virginia murmured, jerking her hips to drive the thrusting ivory deeper. ‘Play up and play the game.’

  By two-fifteen the heat in the tea tent was stifling. The egg and watercress sandwiches already cut and quartered lay hidden under dampened tea towels. Wasps visited the raspberry jam oozing from Victoria sponges. Brushed away by busy hands, they dipped down inquisitively to buzz over the buttered scones. Susie wandered between the linen-covered trestle tables, utterly ignored by the equally starchy women of the parish.

  ‘Trollop!’ hissed the schoolmistress, struggling to thumb open a jar of crab paste.

  In a humid corner of the tent a silver urn steamed in preparation for the production of endless cups of tea.

  The Stumpies had arrived just after noon in a dusty convoy along the rutted, late summer lanes bearing them from Selston to Langley Parva. Losing the toss, the Cocks went in to bat. The openers were stepping up gamely to sky and six the best efforts of the visitors’ bowling.

  Susie was cold-shouldered out of the tea tent. So denied access to the communal ritual of sandwich making and cake cutting by Virginia Emsley’s WI stalwarts, the spurned barmaid wandered away, her cheeks ablaze. Out in the bright sunshine she saw the first wicket quickly
taken, and her white-sandaled feet took her to the steps of the pavilion, where the smell of liniment, sweat and linseed oil greeted her… and the smell of defeat. The Cocks, shielding their eyes from the sun’s glare, were watching their demise in gloomy silence. She skipped up the wooden steps, and an impish gleam lit up her dark eyes. Bending down, her soft breasts nudging their shoulders, she began whispering into the ears of the middle-order batsmen, first Peter, then Terry, and finally Greg.

  As she ran jauntily back down the pavilion steps and glided across the lawn towards the boundary bushes, three pairs of hungry eyes devoured her impudent bottom swaying and rolling inside the tight sheath of her rose-print dress. Despite disaster out at the crease, the Cocks’s spirits and manhoods rose.

  Following the game from behind a thick hawthorn bush, Susie plied the buttered cucumber she’d stolen from the earnest sandwich makers in the tea tent. Kissing before sucking its blunt snout for several minutes, she lowered and levelled it between her parted thighs. Gripping it tightly as she ground her soft bottom cheeks into the prickle of the sedge beneath, she brought the slippery tip of the greased vegetable an inch from her naked pubis.

  Out on the pitch the first of the middle-order was taking his stance at the wicket. The leather whistled softly and the willow barked loudly in response. Something seemed to have stiffened the Cocks’s resolve. Terry, who usually returned a decent eighteen runs, was knocking up a very useful thirty-one.

  Out of sight behind the hawthorn bush, Susie’s pussy juiced and her sticky labial lips parted in a welcoming smile to receive the first four inches of the cucumber. Rotating the thick shaft with a wrist trained at the beer pumps, the dark-eyed barmaid pleasured herself brutally, while on the pitch Terry reached forty-three. Then a ragged cheer rose as his incautious clip was snatched out of the air by an agile Stumpie, but Terry did not walk back to the pavilion. His grass-scuffed boots took him directly to the late flowering hawthorn in the outfield where Susie, aroused by the cucumber’s solid length, received and rewarded Terry for his sterling work at the crease.

  In silence they knelt face-to-face, their knees just touching. He rolled slightly on his padded shins, and reaching across to unbutton his white shirt and tweak his left nipple, she steadied him against her. Her hand dropped to his fly and she slowly unbuttoned it. After teasing out the awkward box and tossing it aside, she fingered out his thickening cock. Lowering her face, she tantalised his shining glans with the tip of her tongue. Swearing softly, Terry stretched out his gloved hand and forced her head over his erection. Electrified by his gloved touch, the barmaid sucked hard as he clenched and unclenched his gloved fist in her hair. Sensing his imminent release she tossed her head back, rapidly bared her breasts, and captured his engorged shaft in her deep cleavage. It twitched, aching for the spurt that would ease its sweet pain, and she bunched her breasts around it. The captive penis pulsed and exploded savagely, drenching her chin and throat. Then the warm semen flowed down into a silver puddle glistening between her heaving breasts.

  She cupped and squeezed them, forcing the puddle of cum to spill down in a slow trickle over her peaked nipples. Terry, muttering a soft obscenity, slumped forward, and straining towards her bunched breasts he moaned as he struggled to kiss their shiny curves. The wet nipples raked his cheek, and he took a pink bud between his teeth, sucking it devotedly. She bit her lip to suppress a cry of raw pleasure, and then he collapsed, utterly spent, against her wet cleavage, his white cricket shirt absorbing his spilled seed.

  Sprawled out on the grass, his head resting on the comfortable warmth of her soft breasts, he squinted up through the sun’s glare at the lovely barmaid.

  ‘And how many sixes did you hit?’ she purred.

  ‘Only two,’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘Then that’s two I owe you,’ she replied, giggling. ‘A promise is a promise.’ Leaning down, she peeled the cricketer’s glove from his right hand and donned it. ‘Doesn’t he want to play?’ she teased, passing the rubber-spiked forefinger firmly down along Terry’s flaccid penis.

  ‘Good for another knock,’ he grunted. His shaft twitched, slowly thickening in response to the rubber spikes dancing along its developing length. Soon the dark glans winked wetly in the sunshine and Susie straddled her mount, catching his thighs between her knees, and he surrendered, spreading his arms wide. ‘Bowl me a leg break!’ he laughed.

  ‘Full toss,’ she whispered, gripping his erection within her gloved fist and pumping him slowly. The soft spikes raked him ruthlessly, and only moments later his muffled shout of delight sent a jay wheeling in alarm from the upper branches of an overhanging elm. His chest heaving, he gazed open-mouthed into the cloudless blue sky as his hot seed rained down, soaking the white shirt over his belly.

  Peter loped from the wicket to the hawthorn with the spring of expectation in his every step. His creditable thirty-seven had included a brace of boundaries, and Susie had promised pleasure for every big hit. Sprinting into the outfield, to the puzzled frowns of the village womenfolk peering out from the tea tent, he skirted the screening hawthorn and tumbled, sprawling, into Susie’s lap.

  Gathering him up and cradling him in her left arm, she guided his mouth to her right breast. The deep pink of her engorged nipple raked his lips like a lipstick as, cupping and controlling her soft orb, she tantalised the spellbound batsman. He buried his sweaty face in her pillowing flesh and nibbled at her teat before enclosing it within pursed lips and sucking on it viciously. She squealed, and tweaked his nipple through his shirt in revenge. He nuzzled a muffled apology into her cleavage and eased his face back a fraction.

  ‘Gently, Tiger,’ she murmured.

  Nodding into her breast, his lips at her hard nipple again, he sucked tenderly this time.

  Deftly fingering his bulging shaft free of his tight white trousers, she slowly palmed the head of his urgent erection as he squirmed. ‘Peter,’ she said in a warning tone, a controlling squeeze of his balls brought him obediently back to her breast, and she sensed he was close to his release.

  ‘Please…’ he begged.

  ‘No, not yet,’ she teased, cruelly denying him his ejaculation. ‘After all, you took your time hitting that first boundary. You may come when, and only when, the umpire signals play.’

  ‘Bitch,’ he groaned devotedly, and his sweet suffering drove him into a frenzy. Taking as much of her right breast into his mouth as he could, he nearly choked on the captive flesh as she knuckled his exposed glans furiously, and silenced by the soft mound filling his mouth, he swallowed his yell of pleasure as he climaxed. His long liquid spurt splashed her face, momentarily blinding her as his sticky seed sealed her eyes closed, so bending she nuzzled his chest, wiping her face on his shirt.

  He remained flat on his back for his second promised reward as she rose and hitched her rose-print dress up over her hips, and then squatting, she guided her naked buttocks down onto his upturned face. She moaned as his nose probed between them, and groaned as she sensed his warm exhale at her anal whorl. She loosened her thighs for comfort, and shuddered as his lips and tongue greeted her hot pussy.

  Kneeling astride her pinioned batsman, rocking gently on her knees and toes, Susie rode his face, gently at first. His cock stiffened, rising to salute this new delight, and his frantic whispers of gratitude tickled her pubic fringe. She squeezed her thighs together, silencing him, and then loosened them again, allowing his tongue to rasp repeatedly at her parted labia.

  ‘You need training, my boy,’ she muttered, her words darkly affectionate. ‘Let’s see how you cope with the seam.’ She began bouncing down onto his helpless face, spreading her cheeks apart with her hands to reveal her cleft. ‘Lick,’ she commanded.

  His tongue strokes were strong and sure, the juice flowing from her cleft shining across his smothered face while at the base of his belly, his cock was as hard as his bat.

  Settling her soft bottom down over h
is features, smothering and silencing his protest, she giggled. ‘Time to knock your bails off, boy.’

  Peter’s grunt was inaudible through the ripe flesh cushioning his mouth.

  Walking two fingers down his chest from button to button, she stalked his quivering flesh-spear. At its base she teased him by scratching her nails gently through his dark pubic hair. She felt him writhe beneath her, his lips protesting under her soft buttocks, and promptly punished him by grinding them down firmly, forcing him to remain perfectly still.

  ‘That’s better,’ she purred, approaching his erection with eager fingertips. ‘Middle stump,’ she declared triumphantly, flicking his nodding glans skilfully six times in rapid succession. He came explosively, showering semen all over his shirt. Her dark eyes gleamed with pride watching the spreading stains. As twelfth man, she was playing well with the Cocks.

  Peter stirred beneath her. His tongue, a thickly muscled specimen, drove deeply up through her sphincter just as it did when she served him a scotch egg with his pint. He would scoop out the salted yolk within the savoury meat in one go, and now, his tongue’s curled tip raked her tight warmth with similar gusto.

  ‘Middle stump,’ she giggled, squirming deliciously down over him, ‘but not a maiden over.’

  In the sweltering tea tent, Virginia Emsley frowned. An egg and watercress sandwich had left dark green leaves between her perfect white front teeth, and she sucked at them in mounting irritation. ‘Sneesby,’ she barked, patting a pocket for her dog leads.

  Alice looked up from the cups and saucers she was unnecessarily rearranging.

  ‘Pity to keep Romulus and Remus penned up on such a splendid day. Slip along home and take them for a stroll.’

  ‘Oh, but the cricket,’ Alice protested peevishly. ‘I shall miss the match.’

  The president of the WI tossed the leads across the tent. Alice caught them, and held them awkwardly against her bosom.

  ‘A brisk scamper down to the churchyard, I think. I suggest you come back across the green along the outfield. Pay particular attention to that hawthorn bush. It would appear it holds some fascination for our middle-order batsmen, don’t you think?’