Bouquet of Bamboo Read online

  As she slipped down from her mount at the low wall surrounding the graveyard, her jodhpurs showed the spreading seep of her warm juices. She teetered into the chill of the early morning graveyard, lurching as if drunk from stone to stone. Beneath a deep yew she struggled to peel her jodhpurs down. Snatching off the single rope of pearls always gracing her neck, she worked the shining beads with her gloved fingers, forcing them up into her cunny, and then threading the remainder of the rope against her crease and up between her cheeks, securing it in her sphincter.

  She shuddered and squirmed as her rectal warmth tightened, her inner muscles gripping the cold pearls. Her left thigh spasmed, causing one of her leather boots to skid out in a sharp arabesque of fleeting ecstasy. Bending over, her swollen breasts straining within the balconette’s bondage, she tugged her jodhpurs and eased them carefully up into her cleft, anxious to keep the rope of pearls in place. Patting her pubis, she stumbled out of the graveyard into the lane and mounted Ramilees again, spreading her buttocks with a moan as she straddled the gelding.

  The ringing clip-clop of his slow pace echoed around her in the frost-sharpened air as she walked him through the village. The rolling lurch of his motion rhythmically forced the pearls deep into her wet cleft, and her plump, tingling cunny-lips chewed with a savage hunger at their hard sheen. The slippery beads ravished the warm juice flowing in her crease, causing wave upon rippling wave of pleasure to tighten the muscles of her belly. Deep inside the tight delight of her anus, the pearls stretched her painfully, and fourteen paces down the high street, Lady Maycott climaxed violently.

  Minutes later, recovering her poise outside the shuttered windows of the post office, she patted her pocket with a gloved hand and extracted a silver case. Thumbing it open, she plucked out a dark cheroot. She snapped a match down the silver pommel. Ramilees trod nervously at the sudden spurt of orange flame and the stench of sulphur as she lit the cheroot, and exhaled slowly. A curl of smoke unwound, rising up from the glowing tip, and she gazed at it through pleasure-clouded eyes. In the middle distance she saw a darker plume of smoke curling up into the still air from a red brick chimneystack. The village forge. She frowned. The smithy had been deserted for over a year now. Removing the unfinished cheroot from her lips and tossing it away, she squeezed her knees into her mount and urged him on.

  The sound of a hammer striking the anvil rang out like muffled evensong bells from a distant church.

  Ting, tang! Ting, tang!

  Lady Maycott dismounted, deliberately raking her juiced cunny against the supple leather as she slid down from the Spanish saddle. Tethering her gelding securely, she patted Ramilees as he nibbled a clump of sweet dock. Striding out across the wet turf with silent footfalls, she approached the open door of the village forge.

  At close quarters the hammer sounded harshly as it rained down upon the anvil. Pausing at an open window, she peered into the blacksmith’s domain. All was dark inside except for the fierce heat of the furnace. Her eyes narrowed, focusing until the darkness within became visible and she caught a slight movement… a shape moving before the open furnace… a man. Then she saw him more clearly and realised with a shock that he was naked! Naked and glistening!

  No, he was not utterly naked… a leather apron was lashed tightly below his belly and around his hips, the knotted thongs dangling down over the slight swell of his sweating buttocks. Smothering a gasp of pleasure, she steadied herself at the open window and stared inside.

  The young farrier was stretching. Sweat gleamed on his muscled arms and shoulders and his naked spine rippled sensuously. He bent down, his right arm reaching for the bellows, and as he pumped the furnace the cleft between his straining cheeks widened. With a soft roar the furnace became an intense glow flooding the darkness with its crimson blaze. Silhouetted against the dancing light, the silhouetted skin of the sweating blacksmith seemed to be etched with gold. Her nipples tightened as a slow ache bloomed in her breasts. Flicking out the tip of her tongue, she wetted her lips, her eyes narrowing as she gazed at the swathe of the leather apron stretched below his belly.

  He was naked beneath it. She knew that beneath the apron’s dark hide, his superb cock lay coiled and potent. A thick, yeoman’s cock. She bit back a moan as she imagined the apron dropping away, revealing a swollen and erect shaft, erect and nodding ponderously, raking its bulbous helmet between her cunny-lips and nestling its cruel hardness deep in her moist warmth. She gripped the stone window ledge as her knees betrayed her by buckling. She cursed silently, hungry for the farrier’s meat.

  Wiping fresh sweat from his eyes, the naked blacksmith grasped his hammer, weighed it judiciously, and then rained it down repeatedly on a molten horseshoe pressed upon the anvil by dark tongs. Red and silver sparks danced and the blazing orange metal dulled to a crimson glow. The flashing hammer beat yellow and gold sparks out of the cooling ore, and as he worked, the smith’s leather apron became taut against his thighs. The outline of his cock and balls was unmistakeable and unavoidable to her greedy green eyes.

  She drew the tips of her gloved fingers up to her lower lip, dragging the soft flesh down to reveal neat, cruel white teeth. She swallowed as she stared at the bulge beneath his leather apron. Her tongue darted out to lick the leather at her lower lip, thrilling to the tang of the hide. Leather… a feral, brutal taste…

  Spreading his thighs wide, the naked, sweating farrier resumed punishing the anvil with his hammer, and watching him, Lady Maycott felt her belly implode with a divine warmth as, deep down inside her, the slippery pearls churned.

  The gallop home was as breathtaking as it was breathless. Lady Maycott gulped down choking mouthfuls of the raw November air as Ramilees charged across the fields and ditches. Barely able to see through her tear-filled eyes, she gave the gelding his head, gripping the reins tightly. Squeezing her jodhpur-sheathed thighs into his warmth she crouched low in the saddle, grunting softly as the silver pommel punished her pubis.

  Ramilees cantered into the yard, clattering on the cobbles. Panting, she dismounted and unsaddled him. Then, plucking away the wet whipcord from her seething cunny, she staggered indoors. Upstairs in her bedroom she peeled off her boots and riding habit and eased the pearls out with a grimace of mingled pain and pleasure. Then she locked herself in the bathroom and collapsed across the cool linoleum floor. Only her hammering heartbeats were audible in the silent stillness. Stretching out slowly, her legs parted, she tossed her crop and gloves aside and closed her eyes.

  Gradually her racing pulse decelerated. Outside in the elms rooks were calling loudly. She must have him, have him all to herself, and soon, bloody soon. She must have him in the darkness of his forge. With the furnace flaring, bathing the darkness in a golden glow, she would be stripped naked and coupling with the farrier, demanding he pleasure her, ravish her, again and again, until she collapsed in the straw writhing and exhausted.

  She drew her thighs together firmly. The crisp wisps of her pubic bush crackled gently, and she shuddered. She squeezed her thighs tightly together, and then slowly inched them apart again. The chill air of the unheated bathroom caressed her wet heat and her pussy tingled in response. Her breasts quivered, her nipples darkening as they peaked, the gloom of the smoke-filled forge filling her fantasies. Her fingers sought and found her breasts, teasing their creamy flesh. She gasped softly as she conjured up the hiss and roar of the pumping bellows, the orange glow of the quickened furnace blazing behind her tightly closed eyes. Her fingertips paused at each nipple, worrying the stubby peaks, and then tweaking and pinching them with savage tenderness.

  Lady Maycott felt the power of her rank and privilege surge through her veins and flood her body as potently as lust. She knew exactly what she wanted to do with this strapping young yeoman, all but naked in his supple leather apron. She tucked her knees up against her breasts and lay on her side. The dark opening between her thighs widened as she sighed, imagining the blacksmith kneelin
g before her, his head bowed submissively; kneeling before her, his eyes clouded in fearful dread as she stood over him, her thighs spread, her gleaming boots astride. She would level the tip of her crop at his chin and force his face upwards a fraction in order to stare dominantly down at him. Then the little loop of leather at the tip of the crop would rake down to torment each of his nipples. She would make him hard, as hard as the iron he hammered at his anvil. Lady Maycott squealed softly as she pictured the leather apron bulging as it betrayed his thickening response, a cock as hard as iron.

  Her imagined control over him aroused her fiercely and left her inner thighs glistening. The thought of dominating this mere farrier, of exercising her rank and privilege over him, sharpened her keen sexual arousal. He would be hers absolutely to command and control at her whim. Naked, her crop raised, she would be able to dictate in explicit detail how she wished him to satisfy her desires. She would drag the tip of her cruel crop down across his belly to tap-tap the concealed bulge of his erection. Hard meat. And as the crop dominantly addressed the supple leather, the trembling farrier would shut his eyes and groan, terrified to obey her commands to pleasure her, but even more terrified of disobeying her instructions to do so. And she would relish his distress, whipped if he did not ravish her then and there, and with even worse penalties to pay should his deeds ever be discovered. Yes, she longed to have him naked and trembling in her absolute thrall.

  She moaned aloud and raked her thumb-tip against her hot cleft. She imagined the farrier quivering as her crop dominated the bulge at his leather apron, and shivered as she heard his groans soften to moans. Then, dragging the tip of her crop up his glistening torso, she would press it firmly into the softness of his sweat-soaked throat. Her domination of him now complete, she and she alone would decide when he could swallow.

  She rolled over onto her back and drew her fingertips down to the base of her belly. At her golden bush she plucked up stray strands until her flesh stung. Her soft bottom cheeks, pressed against the cool floor, clenched in response to the brutal punishment of her coils, and her plump outer labia, now sticky and slippery with a creamy rime, peeled apart hungrily. She skimmed the exposed inner lips of her sex with her thumbnail as she pictured herself lowering them against the obedient blacksmith’s waiting mouth. In her heated imaginings her thumb-tip became his tongue, a thick yeoman’s muscle flickering and probing, and then plunging deep – hard and deep. Her spine arched off the linoleum and her buttocks clenched, imagining…

  Suck. The innocent word sounded like an obscenity as in her mind she heard herself give the blunt command. Suck. She shivered at the sound of her own assured voice, a voice accustomed to being obeyed, as she demanded to be pleasured by the blacksmith’s lips and tongue. Suck. Obediently he would drag her moist flesh lips into his rough mouth. She quivered as she imagined his lips, and then his tongue, becoming busily subservient. Forcing herself down over his face she would thrill to the feel of his unshaven jowls rasping her exposed flesh. Then, swaying her hips sensuously, she would dominantly roll her cunny across his up-tilted features, smearing them with her warm juices.

  Cowering, he would shrink away, no doubt amazed and frightened by her aristocratic excesses and her ruthless dominance. A swipe from her crop, she resolved, would still and steady him instantly, bringing his face back between her parted thighs. Then a second stinging lash would bring his tongue forth into her eager warmth. He would be hers absolutely – utterly hers to control and command.

  Out in the elm trees the rooks grew increasingly raucous. Lady Maycott rolled over and crushed her breasts into the hard surface of the bathroom floor. Grinding sinuously against it like a snake sloughing its skin, she kissed the cold linoleum passionately with her nipples, belly and pussy-lips. The frenzy of her slow, deliberate gyrations increased as she inched her buttocks up. She gripped them, her fingers dimpling and whitening the plumpness of each peachy mound as she pulled them apart, exposing the shadowy valley between.

  A thread of spun sugar flowed down from her smouldering pussy and the warm ache between her buttocks became a delicious discomfort. She rehearsed ordering the blacksmith to kneel against her thighs, his supple apron slapping her proffered bottom. She imagined the fierce presence of his iron-hard rod poised at her tight sphincter, her young bull of a blacksmith erect, and less than an inch away from her feral heat. She could almost hear him gasping in fear and confusion. And in the darkness of the forge, her puckering anal whorl would glint in another sudden golden glare from the furnace. Impatiently she would scream out her command, her passionate cry as ragged as a rook’s. Yet still he would deny her, deny her and refuse to use a titled lady in so depraved, so disgusting a manner.

  A perverse light shone in Lady Maycott’s sea-green eyes as she rolled sensuously from thigh to thigh across the hard linoleum. She paused with her breasts down, and began rubbing her labial lips into the floor’s polished sheen with short, sweeping thrusts of her hips, spreading and splaying her plump pubes as they nuzzled the floor, dulling its shine with their wet heat. So, her farrier would prove shy, and stubbornly so, she mused darkly. Well, all the more sport for her. He would prove shy, stubborn and disobedient, but for well-nigh over six hundred years her noble ancestors had dealt with stubborn disobedience. For well-nigh over six hundred years, the Maycott’s had held the whip hand.

  The whip hand… she masturbated slowly, deliberately approaching her climax as she paced her self-pleasuring. She would, she decided, slowly thumbing her erect clitoral bud, administer the riding crop to the disobedient farrier’s naked bottom. Yes she would, and the mere thought of the cane’s deliciously satisfying hiss, and of the cracking sound it would make followed by his smothered yell, were enough to make her come right then and there.

  Sitting up and addressing her cunny determinedly, Lady Maycott slipped into a reverie of pain, pleasure and punishment. She saw herself pushing the disobedient farrier’s head down to pin his neck into submission and surrender beneath her polished boot. And as his bare buttocks rose so would her tightly gripped crop, which would come down with a whistling crack. Entering fully into the reverie of her chastisement of the naked blacksmith, she could almost sense the jerk of his whipped cheeks as he writhed beneath her boot. Swish, crack! Again her pinioning boot absorbed the spasms of the whipped man. Swish, crack! Just as she imagined the crop slicing into his punished buttocks, she nipped her clitoris savagely. Swish, crack! Again relishing his humiliation and pain, she ravished her love-thorn…

  Seven imagined strokes later, Lady Maycott was rolling across the bathroom floor, and her threshing nakedness collided with the cold iron of the bathtub. Brutally brought out of her reverie, she rose to her feet and shuffled awkwardly towards a looking glass. In the mirror her eyes met their reflection as her nipples kissed their hard counterparts. Hugging the oval glass between outstretched arms and shoving her nakedness into the unyielding glass, she ground her wet cunny into her own reflected flesh and climaxed, shrieking loudly as she pictured flicking up the blacksmith’s apron to glimpse the smear of his spurted seed creaming the dark hide. She imagined plucking the leather apron up so his spent semen slithered down to glisten on his belly, and trickled down into the forest of his dark pubic hair. Then she would lower her head and take his stiff shaft between her lips…

  A second orgasm ravished her mercilessly, her wail of carnal delight escalating into a primal scream of joy and scattering the rooks from the elms outside.

  ‘No claret sales this winter,’ Teddy grumbled, wrestling with his buttered crumpet. ‘Dashed if I can see the sense of it.’

  Lady Maycott nodded absently. She had been aching all day with a hunger no buttered crumpet could ever fill. For Teddy it was all about shortages; the war had become little more than an impertinent inconvenience for him.

  ‘Damn war,’ he muttered for the hundredth time, his mouth full and spitting crumbs. ‘And they say the Tenby and Grafton Hunt are having to shoo
t all their horses to feed their pack. Just imagine. Shooting prize chasers to feed the bloody hounds! Next season there’ll be no sport for us at all,’ he speculated morosely, pawing at the butter-knife with his gloved hand. ‘And why? Because they’ll have shot all the bloody hounds, that’s why.’

  The clock winking in the lengthening shadows whirred softly as it struck five, and the tinkle of Cambridge chimes instantly took Lady Maycott back to the forge, reminding her of a silver hammer raining down on a silver anvil. Beneath the spotless tablecloth and between her tightly squeezed thighs, her cunny grew as hot and slippery as Teddy’s buttered crumpet.

  The forge reeked of hot iron and sweat. Blinking, Lady Maycott pressed a lavender-drenched kerchief to her nostrils. The powerfully muscled young farrier continued to ply his hammer rhythmically, ignoring her presence completely.

  After several of her crisp commands remained unanswered, she stamped her booted foot impatiently. Her face grew hot and angry as she shouted above the din of the anvil.

  Unconcerned and unresponsive, the nearly naked blacksmith continued with his work, the soft leather apron stretched across his loins.

  Reaching out, she flicked his bare buttock with her riding crop.

  The hammer paused in mid stroke above the molten horseshoe below. Slowly, he turned his face towards hers, his eyes flashing fire fiercer than the flames in the furnace.

  Lady Maycott, having unbuttoned her riding jacket and blouse to bare her cleavage, stepped forward boldly. Her soft breasts quivered, the cleavage deeply shadowed by the hot coals. But suddenly confronted by the farrier’s sweaty torso and stern frown, her arrogant assurance deserted her. She cracked the riding crop down smartly against her leather boot. No time for discretion or decorum now, she chided herself. Now, at last, here in the heat and the darkness, her longed for prize was only three paces away and hers to command.