Thursday, October 05, 2006

Black sheep in the hay

No, I told Fiona from my mobile positioned out of the bathroom window; the only place for a signal in my country retreat, I don’t know much about my thatcher, but then I’m not planning to set up house, home and hearth with him either. He’s there for a reason, and that reason, Reader, was well worth exploring.

Fiona is surprised at me, for sure. I’ve taken her advice of getting back out there and have run with it naked and free. She didn’t count on that and now she wants to come to the country for a few days herself. Do I want to share my new-found rural activities? I think not. Being the only city dweller round here is quite a novelty to the locals and I’m a bit of a posh bird. Why dilute my appeal? I told Fiona to stay where she is, for now.

Back to the thatcher. I found him perched on the top of a nearby roof, pitching and tucking the bales with such expertise it was a joy to watch. Tanned with hair as golden as straw, he toiled, flexing muscles and wiping his brow when he spotted me, standing below on the cobbled street in my new garb of summer flatties and floral dress. He waved and, tucking his shirt into his jeans a little self-consciously, jumped over planks, down the slope of the roof, to be by my side. We chatted, briefly, but it was obvious our minds soon returned to the previous night, rudely interrupted by my sis Del, who proceeded to harangue me long after I’d dropped off unashamedly, drunkenly giggling on her sofa.

Thatcher, whose name I now knew to be Chad, invited me up to see his work. Having no head for heights, he showed me an easier method of ascent, up a sturdy ladder round the other side. Up I went, knowing his eyes were trained on an upskirt opportunity and, loving it, I sashayed as much as my balance allowed. At the top, it was incredible. Panoramic views of hills, fields and thatches, many of which Chad pointed out as his own handy work. The air was fresh as I sucked it into my city lungs gladly. I was shown to a flat, level and secondary area of the roof where we sat and devoured his packed lunch of doorstep granary bread, hunks of explosive cheese and warm beer. Then all at once he was on me, under me and in me. Strong hands under my shamefully virginal country dress, moving up my thighs, squeezing bruises into my flesh as he went. Sucking madly at my neck, he sent shivers all over like no man had before.

Unlike last night when he’d used his fingers, this time he was plucking a condom from his lunchbox before I could turn round and sliding it onto his – huge, Reader, huge – cock, inching steadily into me from behind. I clutched at handfuls of straw as he ventured further, producing delighted gasps from me. Sheer physics prevented him from entering me fully – I felt an easy extra two inches whilst I was reaching under to cup his balls as he propelled me back and forth again and again. When he came, he expelled such a loud groan from his throat as he grunted my name “Cami-i-i-i-lle !”, it whistled through my swinging hair. One extra effort from his massive muscle made me wince in pain and surprise as I had no choice but to reach a throbbing, shuddering climax myself. Laying me flatly down as he did it, he again sucked on my neck and squeezed my breasts as he indulged my orgasm, which seemed to go on for ever. I groaned, grinding against him, Reader, with each convulse, sighing, dare I say even whimpering.

Oh, the joy of a good, hard fuck! Soon after, in the midday sun and, still locked together, we slept like the newly born.

This evening, there’s a barn dance thrown by a local gent farmer to attend. Hmm, RSVP, Dress code Sleepwear. I brought some baggy, brushed cotton jarmies with me for this draughty old cottage, so I’m wearing those. Do not despair, though, Reader. I’m not stupid. If all goes well, underneath is a sheer, pink and fluffy baby doll with tiny triangular tie-at-the-sides ribboned silk piece purporting to be knickers. Slightly smudged, inky, black mascara, dodgily outlined sixties glittery, pink lipstick, carefully messed up hair and a musky scent will add to the sleepy effect.

One simply must fill a sense of occasion, mustn’t one? I shall judge the occasion as the evening progresses and if my senses are, well, filled in shall we say, I’ll fill you in next time, dear Reader...

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Anonymous robin h said...

Camille, it's been almost a month since your last post, what happened next at the Dance ?

2 November 2006 at 09:54  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Some of us are waiting for the next thrilling instalment!
It's nicely written, please keep going.

3 November 2006 at 21:14  
Blogger nobody said...

hi Camille here, how exhausted am i !! But in a good way... I thank Anonymous and Robin for their kind comments and will be on to the next posting just as soon as i can pick all the hay out of my hair. My apologies for not having posted, but please do stay around. That farm dance was a hoot. And Reader, there's more... Hope to post in next couple of days. Much love darlings,

7 November 2006 at 00:25  

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