by Peter Birch
The girls’ pace immediately increased as he sprinted ahead, reaching the massive gates and wrenching the heavy iron stops free even as the triplets came through. He slammed the first gate, then the second, shooting the bolt home even as a body crashed against it. The girls were disappearing through an arch at the far side of the old stable-yard he had entered, Croom followed.
Furious cries of “Through the house!” and “No, around the back!” reached him from beyond the gate as he fled.
Chapter 7
In Which a Climax is Reached
A mile away Jeremy and Susanna had been halted by a truculent gamekeeper. After his initial surprise he had insisted that they go back the way they had come, ignoring Jeremy’s reasoning and Susanna’s pleas despite taking an obvious delight in the sight of her naked flesh. He was a big, burly man and furthermore was holding a large spanner with which he had been working on his Landrover. Jeremy realised that there was nothing they could do and was ready to turn the cart and seek an alternative route when the keeper put one oily hand to his beard and scratched thoughtfully.
“‘course,” he began, “about this time of day, I usually takes a pie and a bottle of stout down at the Cock’n’Feathers. So happens I’m a bit short this week though.”
He paused, looking meaningfully at Jeremy.
“Ah,” Jeremy replied, “of course I’d be delighted to put a little something towards your lunch, only you see, I haven’t a penny on me.”
“That’s a shame,” the ‘keeper replied, nodding sagely. “Still. . .”
Susanna suddenly became acutely aware of her exposed body, particularly her breasts on which the ‘keeper’s eyes were riveted. She blushed, wishing her hands were free so that she could at least make an effort to cover her mud smeared pussy and nipples.
“Seeing as how. . .” the keeper continued, addressing Susanna. “Not to say that you aren’t a nice girl, but seeing as how you’re in your birthday suit, and as how you’re hitched to that contraption, and as how you’re covered in cow shit and the Lord knows what besides, I don’t suppose you’re too particular.”
“Sorry?” Susanna queried.
“Well, seeing as how you’d like a favour from me, and as how you might not be so particular as some young ladies. . .”
“What did you have in mind?” Susanna asked nervously.
“Well, O’m not asking to have you or nothing. That’d be wrong, what with me being married and all. Besides, your cart would get in the way. Something else though. . .”
Susanna paused, glancing at Jeremy who returned a hopeless shrug and indicated his watch. Susanna took a deep breath.
“OK, I’ll toss you off,” she offered, hardly believing what she was saying.
“Make it a blow-job, and you’ve got a deal,” the gamekeeper replied.
Susanna hesitated, biting her lip.
“OK,” she answered hastily.
“That’s my beauty,” he drawled, drawing his fly down and pulling out a large, heavily hooded penis, his hands leaving blotches of grease and oil on the half-stiff shaft. Susanna took a couple of paces forward and went down on her knees in the mud. She gulped once, pushed her bit down to allow access to her mouth, shot a final glance at Jeremy and took the man’s cock in. It tasted of oil and salt, that and greasy texture making her gag slightly. His hand closed on her pony-tail, pushing her face onto him so that she was obliged to take his penis right to the back of her throat.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” the gamekeeper said, motioning to Jeremy.
“Oh, sorry,” Jeremy said, turning away from the hypnotic sight of his wife sucking on the man’s penis.
Susanna closed her eyes as she sucked, his cock quickly swelling to thick, meaty erection. Her own excitement built rapidly, but with her hands strapped to the shafts, she could neither play with herself nor masturbate him into her mouth, making her at once frustrated and increasingly turned on. She began to suck in long, smooth strokes, pursing her lips for him to penetrate then letting his cock slide all the way in to the back of her throat. She heard him groan, felt his cock begin to spasm, and suddenly her mouth was full of warm, salty cum. The hand on her pony-tail pulled her head back, releasing his prick from her mouth and into his hand so that the second spurt caught her full in the face and the third splashed over her breasts.
He groaned in pleasure and sank back against the Landrover. Susanna swallowed her mouthful and looked around for something for something to clean herself with.
“Oh, sorry my dear,” the ‘keeper said, quickly reaching for a rag and wiping her with it before she could protest. The grease sodden rag merely made things worse, smearing spunk and oil over Susanna’s face and boobs. She looked down at her filthy body, feeling utterly soiled and incredibly horny.
“You can finger me if you like,” she whispered.
“Beg pardon, Miss? ”
“Put a finger in my cunt, you bastard!” she demanded.
“Bloody hell! ”
“Take the whip to my bum, Jeremy,” she begged as the gamekeeper’s callused finger opened her sex lips, probed, quickly found the hole and slid up her.
Susanna stuck her bottom out, bring her clit into contact with the hard skin of the ‘keepers hand and starting to rub herself against it. Jeremy stood back, fascinated by his wife’s utterly wanton behaviour, then came to a decision and brought the riding whip down hard across her bottom, leaving a long, red welt were the white flesh showed through the smears of dirt.
“Again,” she begged, “ow! Harder! Ow! Yes, I’m coming, yes! ”
The whip came down hard and caught Susanna right across the crest of her buttocks, she screamed as her orgasm hit a peak, sobbing and gasping out her ecstasy to the feel of the rough finger on her clitoris and the pain of her bottom. The two men watched Susanna come, both surprised and delighted at the strength of her response. Her shudders subsided, leaving her slumped forward with an expression of sleepy bliss on her face. Her bottom was up in the air, the crack wide open, vagina and anus showing bright pink amid the tangle of mud caked hair, four sets of scarlet welts showing clearly where the whip had caught her.
“Well, er. . . fine,” Jeremy ventured after a pause. “I, er. . . don’t suppose you could tell us the best way to Steeple Dunning? ”
The keeper paused, obviously thinking carefully.
“You’ve got two choices,” he said as Susanna got unsteadily to her feet and began to clean herself up ineffectually with the ‘keeper’s rag.
“Yuk, just look at me!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t you worry, my dear, there be a pump in the square,” the keeper suggested helpfully, “right outside the Cock’n’Feathers, you can be getting a scrub down there. Now, as I was saying, there be two choices. Shortest is to cut down here and take a left at the bottom, through Farmer Bellingham’s pig farm an’ you’ll be out just by the church.”
“Not pigs as well!” Susanna protested.
“There’s that,” the keeper agreed, “and if old Bellingham sees you, he’ll put a charge of bird-shot in your pretty backside, like as not. Cussed old fool, he is.”
“And the alternative? ”
“You takes a right, and the track joins the back drive of Bournefields House. A left there and you’ll come out on the green. It’s twice the distance, mark you, and there’s some sort of goings on at Bournefields, and Constable Eggwood’s likely to be sitting outside of the George, the weather being nice and hot and all. Still, maybe it’s better than old Bellingham and his pigs.”
Susanna and Jeremy exchanged glances. There was only one choice.
“We’ll risk the pigs,” Susanna said, and slipped the bit back into her mouth.
“Good luck!” the keeper called as the cart took off again.
“Mad as March hares,” he added to himself. “Still, she
was fine.”
As Jeremy and Susanna emerged from the wood, open fields spreading before them, the tall steeple of a church was clearly visible beyond some trees. Both felt a surge of excitement, Susanna’s exhausted body filling with new energy. Jeremy quickly got back into the cart, fearful that they might be seen by Miss Chertsey and loose despite all their effort. A little way to the left a cluster of farm buildings had to be Bellingham’s pig farm. Susanna pulled towards them, hoping that the farmer’s reputation was exaggerated.
Jeremy opened the gate, shutting it behind them silently. They were in a big concrete yard, littered with straw, mud and pig dung drying in the hot sun. The silence was unnerving as Susanna trotted softly across, not so much as a sparrow chirping. The gate at the far side stood invitingly open, the lane beyond it clearly going towards the church. A faint squealing made her start and she sped up, gaining the lane safely and steeling herself for the final sprint for the church. The squealing sounded again, ahead of them where the lane sank between tall hedges, deep shadows making it impossible to see clearly.
A movement caught Susanna’s eye, then another, then suddenly the lane ahead was full of pigs, four abreast coming at a fast trot.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a coarse, aggressive voice roared from the shadows.
Jeremy swore under his breath as Susanna pulled the cart to the side to avoid the first of the pigs, its side rubbing her leg as it passed. The owner of the voice emerged from the shadows. He was short, in fact he would have looked short beside the gnomish Sir Osmond, and wizened, with a tangled red beard obscuring most of his face. Under his arm he held a double-barrelled shot-gun, un-cocked.
“We do apologise, Sir,” Susanna tried. “It’s a long story, but if we could just pass.”
The man ran his eyes down Susanna’s body, taking in the mixture of grease and spunk on her face and breasts, the mud and cow dung in her thick tangle of pussy hair and down her legs and the streaks of sweat that made patterns in the filth. His expression was one of utter disgust.
“Get out,” he ordered curtly.
Susanna pulled forward gratefully, accidentally hitting a pig with the side of the cart. The pig squealed and barged into another, which turned on the first and bit it. In an instant there was chaos, pigs running in all directions, squealing and grunting, the farmer cursing and trying to restore order with his stick. The cart was clear though and Susanna broke into a desperate run.
“Damn you!” Bellingham’s voice roared behind them.
Jeremy looked back and to his horror saw the man stuffing cartridges into his gun.
“Duck!” he yelled, but there was nothing they could do as the barrels came up, pointed right at them. A pig hit the back of Bellingham’s legs, the shot-gun discharged into the air and the herd’s panic redoubled. The cart gained the shadows, took a corner into another lane, and there in front of them was the church-yard, the roof of the lich-gate clearly visible at the far side. Susanna surged forward, took one corner of the churchyard, then the final one to leave a mere fifty yards of straight run ahead of her, Miss Chertsey standing by with her clipboard in one hand, the two horse-boxes drawn up outside the Cock and Feathers opposite. Jeremy gave a cry of victory, only to have the triplets appear around the far corner, Croom lashing them on like a demon.
Croom had made it clear of the Bournefield Estate, still pursued by an assortment of clerics but with a good lead as he entered Steeple Dunning. Constable Eggwood had, as the gamekeeper had predicted, been sitting outside the George and Dragon and had lost no time in adding himself to the pursuit. The triplets had torn into the church square with two hundred yards to spare, Croom offering up a quick prayer when he saw that Miss Chertsey had the motorised horse-box parked with the ramp down, then changing it to a curse as he saw his rivals.
Susanna made a desperate lunge, putting every ounce of strength into her legs, wrenching the cart forward. Jeremy’s whip cracked repeatedly against her bottom and she could hear him urging her on, mingled with Croom’s yells and distant shouts and squeals. Her eyes locked with Arrabella’s, each girl just ten yards from the lich-gate, then five, then none as they collided. At the last instant Susanna angled her body to the left, her greasy flesh slapping into Arrabella, then Christobel and she was falling, the cart turning as Jeremy was hurled forward, pony, cart and rider ending in a tangled heap beneath the lich-gate.
“Sir Osmond’s team wins,” Miss Chertsey intoned casually, making a mark on her clip board.
Susanna dimly heard Miss Chertsey’s voice, a curse from Croom and the triplets panting. Above her the sky was partially blocked out by the roof of the lich-gate and the branches of the massive yews that flanked it. She lay panting in the sunlight, her thighs spread, oblivious to her nudity, oblivious to what she must look like to the people sitting drinking outside the pub, oblivious to the grazes that she had added to her already abused body, conscious only of the fact that she had won.
Then Jeremy was helping her to her feet before hastily unfastening the bonds that held her to the cart. Jeremy and one of the triplets, Christobel she thought, were running her across the road and into Croom’s horse-box while he shouted at them to hurry. Croom’s cart was pulled in and the tailgate slammed shut, plunging them into darkness. A soft female bottom sat down heavily in her lap as the box lurched into motion.
The engine screamed as Croom dropped the clutch and wrenched the wheel hard round, tearing past the lane to Bellingham’s farm even as the three dozen terrified pigs erupted out of it.
“Made it!” he exclaimed with relief to Jeremy.
In the back, Britannia put her arm around Susanna’s shoulder and hugged her.
“That was brilliant,” she sighed, “and you were superb.”
Susanna lay back in the girl’s embrace.
Sir Osmond Cranstone-Vine wiped his hands on the towel provided by the landlord of the Cock and Feathers for that purpose and strode out of the gents’ toilet, glancing at his watch as he did so. They should be here soon, he surmised, though with little hope that he would be the winner. He left the pub, just in time to see the back of Croom’s horse box disappear around the side of the church.
“Grace?” he called stepping into the middle of the road, but the lich-gate was deserted. Only his black pony-cart stood there, covered in mud and scratches but with neither pony nor rider. He walked over to it, wondering what had happened.
“That must be one of them!” a voice called, and he turned to see a burly constable bearing down on him, accompanied by what appeared to be thirty of so ill assorted priests.
“Eh?” he began.
Behind him, a herd of maddened pigs hurtled around the corner of the churchyard.
Also Available
