A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (16 page)

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.

‘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.

T
OM 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.

‘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.’