Short and Sweet

Nis 14, 2024 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Winter never really came to West Yorkshire in 2017. Or rather, the days rolled around as per always but the bad weather didn’t happen; it was generally mild with not so much rain and the one snow fall only covered the higher hills. In fact it wasn’t just mild, it was occasionally hot. I saw May blossom in the last week of February which was, to my way of thinking, three months early.

Of course the media put it down to “Global Warming”. Well excuse me but that’s bollocks. Way I see it, the globe has been warming and cooling for billions of years. Haven’t there been at least five major ice ages so far? And wasn’t it hot enough in Britannia for the Romans to grow vineyards and produce wine when they were in occupation?

Sorry, I’m starting to rant. Let’s just say I believe Global Warming is a con.

(And let’s also say that at least the unusually warm weather gave the media something else to rabbit on about, instead of flipping “Brexit”!)

Spring that year carried on from where winter left off. March came in like a lamb and went out like . . . well, like another lamb. And anticipated April showers were few and far between. By May the blossom had been and gone and outdoor conditions encouraged T-shirts. That was good news for me because by May a snap election had been called and I’d got roped in as a canvasser.

I am, by the way, Chrissie. I will soon be twenty-two and still haven’t the faintest idea what I’m going to do with my life. I graduated last summer, with honours in English Lit, and I did once intend to teach. But right now I’m decidedly undecided. If I believe what I hear, the UK teaching profession is heading the same way as the National Health Service . . . and the NHS is going down like the Titanic.

Oh yes: and the media says Brexit is going to finish the job for both of those once “secure careers”.

Hedging my bets, since I left uni I have been working as a clerk at the head office of West Yorkshire Bank. The money isn’t brilliant at WYB, but that suits me. I don’t earn enough to have to start repaying my student loans, but I do get enough to rent a place of my own and to chip away at my other debts. Maybe one day soon I’ll wake up with a vocation clear in my head. In the meantime I’m happy to just muddle along as I am.

I’ll leave it at that for the time being. You’ll find out more about me as we go along (as they say every evening on Pointless).

The election canvassing was, I must admit, out of character for me. I hadn’t previously had much of an opinion about general elections and hadn’t even bothered voting in 2015. That was partly due to the place I was born. We’d had a Labour MP for only eight out of the last sixty-seven years. A feeling of inevitability pervaded every new campaign. It had often been said that a scabby dog could win that seat, so long as it wore a blue rosette.

The difference in 2017 was that my friend’s mum had been nominated to stand (not for one of the big two political parties, I hasten to add). Realistically, she had zero chance of winning but could possibly save her deposit. And, in the current climate, if she got a following wind she might even finish second. So it was all hands to the pumps and, along with a dozen other former schoolmates, I was “recruited” to be part of the support crew.

Although I hate to admit it, it was exciting to be involved. For once I could make a difference. For once my voice would be heard. I would become famous by association and be recognized in the street.

Or so I’d thought in my parallel universe.

The reality wasn’t quite the same. I’d expected to be standing on soapboxes, knocking on doors and kissing babies, but our campaign manager had other ideas. Her first “action point” was to have glossy, professionally prepared leaflets delivered to every single home in the consistency. And, as there were a lot of homes and the cost of postage had gone through the roof, that called for hand-deliveries.

While I admired the leaflets (they featured the candidate’s attractive, smiling face and a list of failings at national level by the Reds and the Blues) delivery rounds were apportioned. I only knew Bingley town centre well and assumed all the rounds would be similar: lots of terraces and semis where a few hundred flyers could easily be distributed. Consequently I didn’t complain when I got Micklethwaite.

Big mistake!

I haven’t checked actual distances, but Micklethwaite was a village sited on a long, mostly uphill lane. And by long, I mean “long”. The houses tended to be set apart and as different to terraces as could be. No way could I simply bob from letterbox to letterbox and be rid of my satchel-load in an hour or so. No, that round involved a lot of footslogging.

Still, I was only young and we were meeting up in The Potting Shed for “refreshments” when we were done. A little uphill footslogging would only put an edge on my thirst.

I won’t bore you by recounting my early deliveries and several encounters with dogs, including rize escort a giant Alsatian that fortunately turned out to be soft and sweet. Put it this way, with a lot of garden paths and side roads to negotiate, it took me two hours to distribute about a hundred leaflets, and even then I’d a hundred or more left.

The last place I had to look out for was known as Hunters Farm. I hadn’t a clue where it was but had been told it was after a hairy hairpin bend, right at the very top of the village. Apparently a lot of “new” houses had been built there over the last decade or so, on old farmland. Apparently that was the part of my round when I could speed up and finish in no time.

By the time I neared Ilkley Moor I was starting to think the place didn’t exist. Then, as the lane at last levelled out a bit, I saw a sign off to my right: HUNTERS FARM (without the apostrophe). That side of the road had a thick growth of mature trees on it. The sign was indicating what appeared to be a farm track between the trees. It was a fancy farm track, though; it had been expensively resurfaced.

Confident I was nearing the end of the night’s quest, confident that the track would lead me to lots of homes which I could whizz through, I walked along it. An hour and I’ll be in the pub, I told myself. If I run back down the hill and fall lucky with a bus, maybe half an hour . . .

The track twisted and turned a bit but wasn’t too long. I rounded the last turn and stopped dead.

Oh my God, that wasn’t a housing estate; it was a magical home in the woods!

I blinked as I took in my surroundings. That sign had misled me, I realized. I was looking at what must have been the original farmhouse. Obviously renovated, it seemed to have been set down in a forest clearing. On closer inspection I saw that it was surrounded by a mix of old and much younger trees, the newer ones presumably planted to give added privacy.

‘Bugger it,’ I muttered, ‘the estate must be next door.’

Flyer in hand, I looked at the farmhouse again. It had a stylishly paved forecourt on what had evidently once been the farmyard. Or should that be barnyard? Whatever it was, it was a big one. The forecourt alone could have easily taken ten motors and the unpaved bit was much bigger. Hell, there was even a duck pond away to my right, complete with tall reeds and water lilies.

Anxious to be done, I hurried up to the front door and dropped my flyer into the box. Then I turned and, seeing no obvious shortcut to the estate, set off back toward the track.

A sudden noise alarmed me. It was a blend of honking and hissing and believe me, it was scary.

But the sound was not as scary as the sight of a gaggle of geese charging at me from the direction of the pond.

Or was it a flock of geese?

Whatever they called themselves, they were scary indeed. Instinct kicked in and, ditching my satchel, I bolted to my right. I couldn’t possibly outrun all of them; my only hope was a solitary tree, set apart from its neighbours, actually growing out of the farmyard proper. I had no idea what sort of tree it was, but it was an old, sturdy one and it had low branches.

Sprinting for my life, that honking and hissing closing on me with every step, I made it close enough to dive, grab and swing . . .

Okay, I didn’t even resemble Jane in her early days in the jungle, never mind Tarzan in his prime. But I did somehow manage to haul and scramble myself up in the nick of time, suffering no more than the jab of a beak on the heel of my trainer in the process.

But did those geese give up? Make that a no. I watched from my new position, perhaps six feet off the ground, perched there with one hand gripping the branch and the other desperately clinging onto the tree trunk as they gathered below me. Seven of them, I counted. As if one wouldn’t have been far too many!

Uneasily, I looked back to the farmhouse. Despite the size of the forecourt there weren’t any vehicles parked outside. And the place seemed empty . . . meaning empty as in the owner was out. And surely he/she couldn’t be in; those geese had been anything but quiet.

The little so-and-sos showed no sign of moving on, either. They were hissing more than honking by then; hissing and goose-stepping around the tree, fourteen beady black eyes constantly on me.

I gulped. I’d read that some firms use geese to secure their premises, rather than guard dogs. I could see why that would be. Nobody in their right mind would face up to that magnificent seven.

And what if they flew at me? Geese were great aviators, weren’t they? On closer inspection, those little so-and-sos weren’t so little after all. If one of them took off and hit me in full flight . . .

Luckily, my captors decided I was safe where I was; for the time being, anyway.

*****

Remember that wonderful weather I bragged about earlier? Well that particular evening saw the first big storm of the year. I hadn’t been on my branch ten minutes rizeescorttel.com when the sky suddenly darkened and I heard a roll of thunder. Two minutes after that lightning flashed and I felt a wet splash on the back of my hand.

‘Oh no,’ I groaned, ‘not while I’m stuck up here.’

What’s that law; the one about things that have gone wrong getting worse? That’s the way it was for me that evening. In my wisdom I had gone out wearing a T-shirt, leggings and a cotton track top. And, when the heavens opened and rain came down in stair rods, my clothing just soaked it all up.

Talk about miserable! There were leaves on my tree but, when I looked upward, there was a great big gap in the canopy over me. Precariously balanced as I was, I had no option; I had to take everything that nature sent my way. The choice was like it or lump it . . . or throw myself to the geese.

To make matters worse, the geese had a sheltered area to stand in. While I was instantly drenched and large puddles formed on the farmyard, they stood in a dry circle under a more efficient bit of canopy and kept their beady eyes on me.

And they had their own natural waterproofing! How unfair was that!!

Temperature-wise it wasn’t cold. The rain wasn’t at all icy but there must have been wind-chill; I could soon feel my fingers starting to numb. That was a major concern; I was completely dependent on my grip if I wanted to stay on my perch. And my grip was slowly but surely weakening.

Convinced the end was nigh, sure I would sooner or later lose hold and tumble to my fate, I started to cry. Not that I felt the tears on my cheeks; oh no, the lashing rain washed my tears away before they trickled as much as an inch.

Then, deep into my darkest hour, a piercing whistle split the air.

Hardly darling to believe my ears, I looked toward the track. And I saw salvation in the shape of someone in a bright yellow hooded rain jacket, the sort of gear a trawlerman might wear.

A trawlerman or maybe a farmer!

Determined not to fall at the last, I forced my hands to grip tighter and watched the figure approach. It was the farmer, I reckoned. He had sold his land and stayed in the renovated farmhouse. And now he was on his way to save me from his guard geese.

Surprisingly, a woman’s strong voice suddenly rang out. ‘Doc,’ it cried, ‘you and your gang get back to the pond this minute.’

Six of the geese obeyed her immediately. The seventh kept its wicked eyes on me and stayed where it was.

Okay, I corrected myself; the farmer’s wife is on her way to save me.

‘Come on, Bashful,’ the woman said, dangerously close to my last remaining custodian, well within its pecking distance, ‘you get on your way.’

I’d never seen anything less bashful in my life, lions and tigers included. Thankfully though, it listened to her . . . eventually.

‘On your way,’ she repeated.

Bashful made a new noise, more of a snort than a honk, and then reluctantly goose-stepped off to its pond.

‘I’m really sorry,’ the woman said to me, ‘didn’t you see the notice?’

My tears were still flowing and the rain was getting even harder. I could hear it drilling into the hood of my saviour’s jacket and feel it rattling onto my own scalp. Maybe it was sheer relief but, unable to help myself, I started to sob.

‘I . . . I don’t think I can . . . can move,’ I stuttered.

‘Jump,’ she said. ‘It’s not far and I’ll catch you.’

It took me a while to pluck up courage to let go of the branch. Still clinging to the trunk with my right hand, I reached toward the farmer’s wife. Her fingers were warm as toast and her grip was sure.

‘Jump,’ she said again. ‘I’ll catch you.’

My balance was going altogether and she now had tight hold of my free hand. Rather than tumbling I leaned in her direction . . . and next second I was in her arms, crying like a baby, my face against her chest. She held me closer and made soft shushing sounds. Even in the deluge, it was comforting.

Okay, so I was a big softie but she was strong and she’d saved my bacon. She also didn’t seem to mind my childish display so, abandoning rational thought, I indulged myself.

‘There, there,’ she said soothingly, ‘let it all out.’

Gradually, embarrassment crept in. Finally noticing how tall she was (I tipped five foot eight yet she towered over me), I looked up and tried to smile an apology for my show of weakness. But I could only gasp.

She didn’t look like a farmer’s wife at all. I had genuinely never seen beauty like hers. She returned a far better smile and my heart missed two or three beats. That’s how wonderful she looked. She was probably in her early thirties and, judging by her skin tone and just one visible wisp of jet-black hair, she might have been mixed-race; possibly with some Asian or South American blood in her. Yes, she was beautiful all right, but everything else about her paled into insignificance the moment I’d seen into her eyes.

Oh, those eyes!

I’m probably making up eye colourings, but I swear hers were dark emerald, gleaming with health and good humour . . . and gleaming with something else, too.

Up until that eye-to-eye moment I’d had two firm beliefs: I was totally straight and there was no such thing as lust at first sight.

Well, I thought dizzily, just maybe I was wrong.

My straight credentials had previously been impeccable. I’d had five male lovers and had never even once had a sexual fantasy about a fellow female; when my friends at uni “experimented” I’d taken no interest whatsoever in their “results”.

And, as for lust at first sight . . .

Well, I’d fancied guys on sight before, granted, but I’d never been impulsive. I’d always insisted on a measure of courtship before committing to any form of physical contact. Even kissing had usually had to wait until a second date.

Emerald Eyes was different, though. With hindsight I reckon she bombarded me with pheromones. Or maybe we subconsciously bombarded each other. All I knew was that I wanted sex with her there and then, and gender didn’t matter one jot.

I’ll repeat that to make sure it’s understood: I wanted sex with her there and then. The urge was both instantaneous and irresistible. Logic and past preferences never entered the equation.

Unable to stop myself, I kissed her.

Emerald Eyes didn’t seem shocked or outraged. Coolness personified, her mouth softer than angel’s whisper, she returned my kiss.

A quick peck on the lips might just have been an acceptable response to my rescue, but that embrace wasn’t in the least quick. It wasn’t a mere peck, either. I had rarely put as much passion into a snog as I did into that one.

Then, embarrassed afresh, I broke away.

‘Sorry,’ I murmured.

‘I’m not,’ she replied.

And then she kissed me, injecting a level of passion that put mine in the shade. I would like to say that I coolly accepted her attention but I couldn’t do cool. Oblivious to the increasing torrential downpour, I tried my utmost to match her hunger.

Okay, perhaps I wasn’t totally oblivious to the storm raging overhead, but I was worse than drenched already, wasn’t I? And, although I was shaking like a leaf, I wasn’t at all cold. No, the mercury in my inner thermometer was rising at a rate of knots. And my hands didn’t feel so numb anymore. Gripping Emerald Eyes’ protective yellow jacket wasn’t nearly as chilling as gripping a tree.

Talking about hands, hers were fastened on my bum, rhythmically squeezing me. And her lower body was moving against mine. I really hadn’t a clue about the things lesbians got up to but, if they included kissing, squeezing and rubbing lower bodies, I wasn’t about to complain.

Then Emerald Eyes’ left hand shifted and my heart skipped a few more beats. Inexperienced or not, I had been intimate with enough guys to suspect that hand had an alternative destination in mind. And I also suspected that I’d accept it wherever it went.

Oh yes, I thought giddily. Oh yes, yes, yes.

Not objecting to any degree, I pushed my tongue farther into her mouth, adoring the way she met it with her own, relishing the feel of our oral organs moving on and against each other.

(As you can probably tell, I was quickly getting into lesbian sex! If I had any regrets it was only that I’d left it so long undiscovered!!)

I cannot describe the thrill that went through me when that roving hand gently wriggled its way into my soggy leggings and onto my even soggier panties. My experiences with guys hadn’t prepared me for anything like it. As well as gentle it seemed considerate and caring . . . and not to mention very, very daring.

Gasping out encouragement wasn’t a possibility; Emerald Eyes was sucking hard on my tongue, not letting it free from her mouth. My verbal “yes, yes, yes” came out as a nasal grunt.

Meanwhile that roving hand was stroking me through the wet fabric of my knickers, not seeming to be aiming anywhere in particular, seeming to be content to stroke everywhere equally. Just as content, I kept on kissing and enjoying.

Later, maybe five flashes of lighting later, dextrous fingers pushed my panties aside and brushed over my right-hand labium, repeating and repeating, focusing on that single part of my pussy and ignoring the rest. And I jerkily started to build. I’d never had singular, purposeful attention just there before and trust me, it did the trick.

Not that me cumming stopped the show. Oh no, while I was still reeling and rejoicing those dextrous fingers were inching higher, tracing my folds and taunting my clitoris, touching and tickling it, rolling it and drawing rings around it. Suddenly I was building again, building rapidly upward and the cum right at the top was cataclysmic.

I won’t have mentioned this before, but I’d had problems with orgasms . . . with male lovers, I mean. If alone I could control my timings perfectly, but with a guy I almost always got it wrong. By that I mean I usually came within a minute of penetration and struggled to cum again for at least half an hour . . . if I was lucky enough to get another half an hour, that is.

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