Bouquet of Bamboo Read online

  Title Page

  BOUQUET OF BAMBOO

  by

  SARAH STEEL

  Publisher Information

  Bouquet of Bamboo first published in 2002 by

  Chimera Books Ltd

  www.chimerabooks.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and published by

  Andrews UK Limited 2010

  www.andrewsuk.com

  New Authors Welcome

  Copyright © Sarah Steel

  The right of Sarah Steel to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

  Advisory Note

  This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Hammer and Tongs

  Teddy Carmichael cursed as the slice of fried bread slipped from his leather-gloved fingers. Retrieving it from his lap, he tossed it down onto the spotless white tablecloth and once again attempted to top it with the entrails of a pheasant. His efforts to spread the purplish-brown offal were game, but futile. ‘There’ll be precious little hunting this season,’ he grumbled, ‘and the cost of stabling is soaring.’

  Seated across the table, Lady Maycott averted her gaze from her husband’s useless gloved hand. The sight of Teddy – only a year ago her vigorous lover – now unable to execute even the simplest of civilised tasks filled her with anger; not with pity or compassion, but with an impatient rage. She took a small forkful of white pheasant breast and sank her teeth into its succulence even as her eyes darted back to the gloved hand. Once that same hand firmly cupped and squeezed her naked bosom. Once it spanked her bottom so very harshly. Once it held her cunny so dominantly. A tide of colour crested in her cheeks as, swallowing the meat, she remembered the way it used to be. Flickering her green gaze once more across the highly polished silverware, she watched the gloved hand gripping the fork, spearing the fried bread and guiding it unsteadily to the open mouth above. This time, there was no mistake. Teddy nodded his satisfaction, chewed noisily and continued his one-sided conversation.

  ‘There’s talk of the few remaining farriers being pressed into service,’ he remarked. ‘Just imagine, old girl, not a blacksmith to be had.’ He then turned the subject to mechanised warfare and the rumours of tanks replacing the horse.

  Lady Maycott closed her eyes. The war was such a bloody nuisance. It had the effrontery to begin on her twentieth birthday. Give the Kaiser a sound hiding and home for Christmas. How hollow those boasts sounded now. In the Spring of 1916, Teddy took her in his Rolls to the edge of the rolling chalk downs. There, with the fat tyres slowly sinking into the soft sedge, they listened to the sound of distant gunfire travelling across the Channel. ‘Softening up the Hun,’ Teddy observed, and later, as the sunset darkened into the violet light of dusk, he took her with his customary brutal tenderness. Facedown, her naked breasts crushed into the sumptuous leather upholstery of the spacious car, he ripped her panties down and bared her buttocks. He tongued her cleft searchingly, and then bit her plump bottom cheeks before harshly spanking their soft round ripeness…

  Swallowing another mouthful of pungent game – the cock pheasant had been well hung – Lady Maycott shuddered with pleasure, remembering…

  Teddy knelt behind her, so assured, so masterful. Thumbing her spanked cheeks apart, he eased his length into her bottom. Her throat tightened remembering the hot plum of his glans stretching her open. He withdrew slowly, raking the heat of her cleft before bringing his hardness back to her sphincter. She remembered the feel of his pulsing shaft tap-tapping at her tight, resisting anal whorl, his hot breath at her neck as her cheeks suddenly clenched and her coy denial enflamed his lust…

  ‘And the French are proving quite useless,’ Teddy’s voice broke into her reverie, his tone echoing the despair of his Whitehall masters. ‘Absolute shambles! But there’s some progress in the air war, it seems,’ he crowed. ‘We’re putting up Sopwith Camels for the next offensive. Might prove decisive.’

  She closed her eyes and remembered… remembered his ardent vigour that April evening on the downs. Pinned into the leather, her mouth and nipples crushed into the sleek hide, she remained tense and dry despite her excitement, tense and dry and difficult to penetrate. Teddy snarled his frustration, and Lady Maycott’s grip on her heavy silver cutlery tightened as she recalled his carnal grunt echoing around the spacious Rolls as he knelt, his hard thighs straddling her soft flanks, in the dark warmth. He teased her anal whorl a little before attempting to prise it open, but even the hot juice from her pussy failed to grease her recalcitrant ring. Cursing softly, he reached back into the darkness and snatched a silver flask from the walnut cabinet. Using his teeth to unscrew the top, he forced the flask’s neck down between her buttocks, pouring the trickle of brandy into her sphincter. The alcohol seared, causing her tight hole to pucker in response, and then open somewhat. How she shrieked as the raw spirit burned her sensitive flesh, but lubricated at last, she accepted his thick shaft with smothered squeals. He filled her rectal heat urgently, and she vividly remembered the warmth of his sac as his balls slapped her wet slit with every thrust.

  He pumped harder, deeper, faster, filling and stretching her ruthlessly. The springs of the venerable Rolls squeaked as he rocked over her with increasing frenzy, crying out obscenities more suited to the hunting field than the marriage bed. Gripping her blonde mane as fiercely as he would the reins of a bolting hack, he rode her superbly, finally slamming into her with a soft yell as his seed flooded her. Her own cry of raw pleasure drowned out his deep moans as they came together in the darkness of the brandy-fumed luxury car…

  ‘Bloody politics!’ Teddy ranted, his words muffled by the glass of claret pressed to his greasy lips. ‘Anarchists, socialists, bloody Bolsheviks having a field day. We’re doomed, old girl, mark my words. When this show’s over, our kind won’t count for much. We’ll be a class without a voice.’

  Lady Maycott sharply dismissed his pessimism by tossing down her napkin. She had thought of a bread-and-butter pudding for dessert as an economy measure, but bridling under the constraint of shortages, she had instructed the kitchen to send up an apple charlotte instead. Teddy tucked in with gusto.

  After coffee, she intended to ask him to pleasure her. He had returned from Verdun severely wounded, and she had been able to do nothing except watch his tortuous recovery. He still possessed a mouth, however, and she watched his teeth flash now as he spooned apple charlotte unceremoniously between his lips. She watched his teeth, and imagined them at her nipples as he chewed unselfconsciously. She imagined his mouth at her moist pussy, his lips sucking while his teeth nipped and his flickering tongue searched her silky depths.

  ‘Teddy?’

  He looked at her, bringing his one remaining gloved hand up to pass his napkin over the custard on his unshaven chin.

  ‘Teddy,’ Lady Maycott repeated in a fervent whisper, her green eyes glistening with excitement. ‘After coffee, do you think we… we could?’

  ‘Could what, old thing?’

  ‘Ride. Ride out with the hounds, like we used to.’

  The napkin dropped from his l
ifeless gloved fingers. ‘B-but…’ he stammered.

  She rose from her chair, palming her thighs and then clasping her hands together over the mound of her pubis. ‘It has been ages since you’ve ridden me, Teddy, and taken the crop to me. You must be aching to get up in the saddle, my dear.’

  Across the white tablecloth, the crippled officer trembled impotently in his wheelchair.

  Up early the following morning, Lady Maycott gazed out through the lead glass of her bedroom window. Naked, she took a perverse pleasure in the chill of the crisp, frosty dawn. Pressing her firm breasts against the cold pane, she gazed out over the chocolate-brown of the ploughed fields and the faded gold of the November stubble. Good hunting weather. Capital for a keen, hard ride. The crisp going was perfect for the chase.

  She sighed. Like his French allied forces, Teddy had been quite useless last night. After coffee, one- handed, he attempted to satisfy her by knuckling her pussy with a limply clenched gloved fist. Utterly useless, no appetite for the sport, and this morning between her clamped thighs her desire still smouldered. At the window she pressed her plump breasts against the cold glass, gently crushing their ripeness and raking her proud nipples into pleasurably painful peaks. Warm juice coated her labial lips as it flowed slowly from her inner heat. Bugger the war! The useless gloved fist had merely managed to awake, but not slake, her appetite.

  Moving slowly across the carpet, her naked buttocks rippling sensuously, she paused before her full-length cheval looking glass. Her hands rose to her breasts, and savagely palmed their soft warmth. Within the clutch of her whitening knuckles the captive flesh burgeoned. Thumbing her already stiff nipples, she inched her thighs wider apart. In the dull glass her golden maiden fern sparkled and the wet pink slit below winked at her. Closing her eyes tightly, Lady Maycott groaned as her longing wept freely from her smouldering cunny.

  To horse! A good gallop was required, she decided. Rummaging feverishly, she snatched out a crisp balconette from her chest of drawers and, facing the cheval glass once more, she dragged the delicate garment up over her belly, and then eased her breasts into the waiting cups, filling their cool void with her bulging warmth. In the cheval she studied the proud swell of her tamed bosom, fingering her nipples as they dimpled the taut silk. With mounting excitement she wriggled into a crisp blouse, buttoning it tightly down from her throat to her belly with slightly fumbling fingertips. Disregarding her cami-knickers and the kiss of their satin cloth at her cleft, she rummaged frantically in the darkness of her wardrobe for her cream jodhpurs. Barely keeping her balance, she flexed her knee and guided her prinked foot into the tightness of the whipcord, relishing the fierce embrace of the stretchy fabric as it sheathed her upper thighs.

  Turning, she glanced over her shoulder. In the glass she saw each of her ripe bottom cheeks clearly delineated, cupped, bunched and squeezed within the stretchy jodhpurs. The taut seam bit into her cleft with a soft, sweet pain as it swept up between her thighs to her belly, dividing her outer labia with a fierce pressure and causing her innermost sex lips to juice. Facing the glass again she carefully thumbed the waistband to ease the whipcord away from her sensitive pussy, which kissed the taut stretch farewell, dampening the jodhpurs. Then her fingers flew around to her buttocks to pluck the material away from her aching cleft.

  She struggled into the suppleness of knee-length leather riding boots, a tight and pleasurably arousing fit. The smell of leather pleasantly filled her nostrils and her eyes sparkled as they gazed directly into their own reflection in the clouded glass. The tang of polished hide haunted her, deliciously stirring her memory and her bowels.

  She selected a bottle-green fitted riding jacket, and then patted a velvet bowler hat into place on her head. Snatching up a pair of yellow kid gloves and a riding crop, she paused once more to study the effect in the looking glass.

  The pert bowler sat tipsily on her piled-up golden hair. On impulse she plucked it off, and skimmed it across the carpet into a shadowy corner of her bedroom. She dropped the crop and impatiently began forcing her left hand into a tight yellow glove. She lowered her face, biting into the edge of the glove to pull it on, and her wet lips left a dark stain on the bright hide. Stooping, she plucked her crop up off the floor – twenty-two inches of whippy bamboo sheathed in closely stitched leather with a cruel little ox-blood loop at the tip.

  Swish! Lady Maycott cracked the crop down against her right boot. Teddy’s prediction rankled in her proud mind. So we will count for nothing, eh? One hundred years ago slipshod grooms or light-fingered pantry men would have felt just such a crop across their bared buttocks.

  Swish! The leather lashed down once more, snapping loudly against her boot with a satisfying crack. One hundred years ago servants cringed before the Maycott lash, and they would still be trembling one hundred years hence.

  The stables once held fourteen hunters, six hacks for carriage work and assorted ponies, but now there was only a box for Ramilees, her bay gelding, which he shared with the apple harvest. The ripening fruit gently perfumed the darkness, competing with the bittersweet reek of dung.

  Lady Maycott tightened his martingale before leading Ramilees out into the brisk autumn air to saddle up. She selected a light shallow Spanish saddle with a stout silver pommel rarely seen in the shires. Mounted, she walked him on with a gentle kick of her heels. As they passed through the gates a startled jay flashed down with a shrill cry from an elm tree, and the flash of colour caused the gelding to shy. She pressed her knees into his sides, and golden sparks flew up from his hooves as Ramilees trod the frosted cobblestones skittishly. She showed him the whip. He calmed down at once, steadied, and then sprang forward into a gentle canter. The surge of the gelding between her tightly jodhpur-clad thighs brought Lady Maycott’s pubis up against the pommel, and as the horse quickened its pace her pouting labia pressed hard against the silver knout, kissing it through the wet stretch of her whipcord.

  Her mount headed down the rutted lane at a brisk pace, skirting Home Farm before settling down into a steady gallop along the mossy path stretching beneath denuded beech trees. As her pubic mound ground into the hard silver pommel she decided to take the left fork through the spinney. Ramilees responded obediently to the light touch of the crop, cannoning through the undergrowth. The trimmed birches and ash trees greeted her thighs with stinging caresses as she plunged through the dense copse.

  She emerged at the far edge of the spinney feeling hot, wet and savagely aroused. Reining the gelding up sharply before the iron fence, she dismounted. Ramilees dropped his head to nibble the turf as Lady Maycott peered through the tree tops at the distant red brick chimney stacks of Marlton Manor. Sliding her crop beneath the Spanish saddle, she tested the springy turf with the toe of her mud-flecked boot. At the black iron railings of the boundary fence she erased a rime of silver frost from the length of cold metal with a yellow leather fingertip, and then casually destroyed a spangled cobweb, which shivered and shrivelled at her touch.

  Marlton Manor. The Elizabethan red-brick chimney stacks, gaunt and spindling, rose up through the distant encircling trees. Once a bustling county seat – Boxing Day hounds would meet there to mire its manicured lawns – the manor now served as a nursing home requisitioned for the care and cure of wounded officers. Not physically wounded soldiers like Teddy, but dotty ones gaping and staring through wide, unfocused eyes. She grew somewhat melancholy at the thought of those wasted young lives, virile young men who now remained indifferent to the charms of the pretty young VAD’s nursing them.

  Several months ago, in a brief bout of petulant boredom, young Lady Maycott toyed with the idea of offering a supervisory hand at Marlton Manor. Disciplining those delicious little uniformed VAD’s would have proved enjoyable war work; severely reddening their pert little bottoms for the slightest misdemeanour would have given her great pleasure. But with papa sleeping through the war years on the back benches of the Lords, and mama sending whi
te feathers to pacifist poets and artists, their right honourable daughter was obliged to remain in charge of the family seat.

  She gazed across the recently harvested barley field. How times had changed. Was Teddy right? Would her class enjoy no privileges after the war? A generation since, her robust and eccentric great aunt personally supervised the harvest home astride her grey mare. Whispered gossip in the servants’ hall informed Lady Maycott when she was a girl that any lusty village lad who caught her great aunt’s fancy was summoned to the Hall after the harvest supper to wait upon her pleasure. Her great aunt’s pleasure… Lady Maycott pressed her whipcord-sheathed thighs together as she conjured up the image of her great aunt being pleasured by a lusty village lad, his darkly-haired chest rasping her quivering pink nipples as, his clenched buttocks pounding and jerking, he rogered her mercilessly, filling her hot cunny with a glutinous squirt of yeoman’s seed. Yes, by God, those were the days, the days when her noble line had a voice that carried clear across the county and beyond, a firm voice accustomed to commanding.

  Once again astride Ramilees and nestling her wet pubis against the silver pommel, Lady Maycott guided the gelding back through the spinney at a slow trot. Bending, she ducked to avoid the leafless branches reaching to clutch at her hatless golden hair. Breaking free of the dense copse she rose up in the saddle to view the patchwork of arable, autumnal countryside stretching out before her in the early morning sunshine. In the far distance she spied the square Norman tower of Marlton Parva’s parish church. The tiny golden cock of the weather vane glinted in the sun. Marlton Parva was nine fields away. Nine stone walls, hedgerows and wooden fences, with the occasional dry ditch, lay between her and the graveyard beneath the golden cock, with crowded, lichen-covered tombs. A cracking ride.

  Ramilees galloped smoothly, taking fields of ploughed loam and rough pasture equally in his sure stride. Rising up to each hedge, wall and fence, the gelding cleared them all with bold, brave leaps. Pounding her pubis into the pommel, Lady Maycott’s pussy was ablaze, but the violent orgasm she hoped for eluded her.