On our Blog Birthday this year I promised that if anyone had an idea for a story I’d write one for them. No, I hadn’t forgotten about it, just got sidetracked. So finally, here it is, Part 1 of the story inspired by Pixie’s suggestion:
The dark brooding clouds rolled and boiled above the grey stone farm house, their ceaseless turmoil seething like the unspeakable brew in a witches cauldron. Indeed Hamlet would have felt at home on the blasted heath above the farm.
The rain had stopped, moments before and Penelope turned to look at the window of her small room. What had been rivulets of water streaming down the glass were now jewel like beads, refracting the sunlight which seemed to burst through the clouds. The storm was over as abruptly as it had begun leaving a world cleaned, refreshed, renewed. The lush green grass of the lower pasture sprinkled with glistening raindrop gemstones.
Penelope felt refreshed too, a bath had washed away the grime of the milking shed and now she had a rare few hours to herself. She had little else to do but walk the boundaries of the farm. That would kill the hours before she was compelled to return to the farm and begin work again.
The footpath to the higher fields, just below the moor, above the farm was steep and slippery from the rain. Penelope trod carefully, practical heavy boots helping her maintain her purchase on the scree-covered path. It took almost an hour to reach the highest point of her land. She stood looking across the broad valley, carved by a glacier in the last ice age. The sky was bright blue, almost cloudless now, but a cold east wind made her turn up the collar of her jacket as it bit at her ears.
The way back was easier, down the track on the other side of the farm. She reached a stile and while astride it noticed the shape of a horse and rider picking their way through the heather. It was that distraction that made her careless and slip on the wet wood of the stile. She fell heavily in her right ankle. “Fuck, fuck, fuck”. She tried to hoist herself up on her left leg, but even the weight of the boot on her right foot sent tingling shock up her calf. When she tried to walk on it she felt sick, saw stars and collapsed onto her hands and knees. “Shit, shit, shit”.
She lay on her side for several minutes, considering how she could hobble back down to the farm on one leg and decided she couldn’t. The dampness seeping through her jeans from the mossy ground reminded her that she couldn’t stay put for long either. The sound of four hooves picking their way through the undergrowth on the far side of the wall posed a question that she had never considered before. What do you shout out in a circumstance such as this? She decided that “Help!” was probably a bit over the top, dramatic and far too girly. “Hello!” she shouted.
The horse and rider stopped.
She tried again, “Hello!”
There was a pause, then the sound of human feet hitting the floor as the rider dismounted. A face appeared over the top of the drystone wall.
“Are you OK?” it asked.
Penelope felt like asking him “Do I bloody well look OK?”, but thought that might be a little ungrateful. “It’s my ankle. Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a ride back down to the farm is there?”
“I don’t see why not. Are you OK while I ride around?”
“I’ll survive.” Replied Penelope. She watched the face disappear and considered the stranger. Obviously new to the area, she knew everyone, and not bad looking from first appearances. She grinned to herself as the now unseen rider trotted off to the gate about five hundred metres away.
Ten minutes later he returned, his handsome grey mare stopping a couple of meters from the prone Penelope. She looked him up and down. He was dressed as a country gentleman from top to toe, not that there were many real landed gentry any more. But he had money, his clothes told her that, from his Saville Row tailored checked jacket to his beautifully made leather riding boots. His trousers were well fitted too, clinging to his firm rump as he dismounted.
Penelope felt a rush of excitement when the square-jawed stranger bent forward to take her hand. “You’ve been on your own too long girl” she thought to herself.
He supported her while she hobbled to the grey and helped her mount. The mare was taller than she was used to at least sixteen hands and with a broad back that spread her legs.
“To the farmhouse I assume?” he pointed down to her home and the collection of outbuildings that surrounded it. “Yes.” She said softly “And thank you for the ride.”
He led the horse across the uneven pasture, expensive boots becoming caked in mud. Penelope looked at his large strong hands holding the reins and imagined him running them through her hair. She slid forward in the saddle, mons rubbing against the pommel. Her mind drifted further, feeling his hand take a handful of her auburn hair and pull her head back, his other hand squeezing her breasts through her shirt.
Penelope’s crotch was getting wet at the thought of him and what he could do to her. The rhythmic steps of the horse and the leather covered pommel added substance to her lustful imaginings. By the time the mare’s hoofs where clip-clopping on the concrete of the yard between the house and the barn the wetness in her pants was spreading, the humidity palpable.
He led the mare into the barn and into a stall. Penelope hadn’t kept horses since father died, she had enough to do looking after the animals that did earn their keep. She swung her sprained leg over the horse’s back and slid into the stranger’s waiting arms.
“Thanks …” She realised she didn’t know his name “… erm?”
“Thank you Chris.” She found herself looking into a pair of dark brown eyes and wishing she was wearing fewer clothes.
Chris helped her into the main barn, sitting her on a hay bail and secured the door of the stall. He found a fodder bag, filled it with hay and hung it from the doorpost for his mount to eat. Chris looked down at Penelope, genuine concern on his face. “We need to get that ankle looked at.”
Penelope’s ankle was not at the forefront of her mind. Chris’s crotch, bulging from his tight trousers and rhythmic tapping of his riding crop against the top of his right boot had her hypnotised. She heard herself speaking “I’ve been so much trouble to you. I’ve been such a bad girl making you trail all the way down here … ” She looked up with doleful eyes and mock innocence.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He said, but she could see from the look in his eyes that he had noticed the intonation in her voice, the plea for correction. He just wasn’t certain, yet.
Chris gently gentle tapped her on the thigh with his crop. “Don’t do it again”
“Oh I’ve been far worse than that” crooned Penelope.
Chris turned and walked to the wall covered in old tack. He reached up and took down a set of driving reins. When he turned back he smiled a knowing smile that fanned the glowing ember in Penelope’s stomach into a burning flame.
To be continued.