The Pack Ch. 02

One of the difficulties of living in the countryside is that being forced to use the facilities of the local village means that it becomes impossible to keep out of the way of people you wish to avoid. Certain folk learn your routines and habits. The housewives who have strayed or like to misbehave from time to time need to have a thick skin and no shame as, almost on a daily basis they come face to face with their lovers, often while in the company of their unsuspecting husbands.

I know that I'm not that shameless yet as I still tremble inside and feel fear when the men whom I named 'The Pack' pass us in the street as I go about my business or smirk at my husband and I from the bar in the pub.

There are other villages of course, and I have taken to travelling further afield or into the larger towns to shop, so avoiding confrontations. Steve refuses to be intimidated thinking that the antics of the men are caused merely by the disagreements he had with them when they worked on our property. I cannot insist that we stay away altogether without causing suspicion.

"Do you miss us?" whispered one of the men as I passed him the other day. "Do you ache for us?"

I had to tell Steve, my husband, that I preferred to try other stores, explore the villages and compare quality and prices. Particularly, I would avoid the butcher, no longer wanting the man to deliver to my door on a quiet afternoon.

It was while I was on one of those shopping expeditions in a nearby town that once again I fell into yet another bizarre situation. Hurrying to the car, loaded up with bags I almost ran into the arms of a man, not just any man, but one with such a familiar face, a member of the Pack. Two of my bags went spilling out onto the pavement.

A woman ought to be grateful when a man comes to her rescue - but not this woman, this time. I froze and stared at the grinning country yokel, not one who had 'visited' me with the butcher, thankfully.

"May I have my bags back please?" I asked staying calm.

His grin widened, "We're not going to start that again are we missus, not like when we took your coat and clothes in them woods!"

The thick country accent made him sound like a retard – perhaps it was because he seemed out of place amongst the hustle and bustle of a big town. I wasn't going to cause a scene in the middle of a busy street, or give the man the pleasure of seeing me upset; instead I tried to turn the tables on him.

"Come on then, I suppose walking behind me and carrying my bags for me probably shows your true capabilities – your vocation in life. Is that all you are worth?"

I sauntered along toward where my car had been parked expecting the man to either dump the bag or walk off stealing it though it seemed a small price to pay, and I would be rid of him.

"I'll buy you a coffee missus," he said.

"Look you animal!" I screamed as I turned to face him, "You and your pals have assaulted me, threatened me, and..." I stopped before I mentioned rape, "And you expect me to socialise with you and sit chatting, drinking coffee?"

The man smiled, "Yes," he answered.

"What sort of a fucking moron are you?"

The man lost his smile and looked forlorn, "I only wanted to buy you a coffee missus!" he said.

Suddenly, I felt in control. This pathetic man no longer seemed a threat. Could he really be one of the men who had humiliated me in the farmyard, who had laughed along with the others as one of their compatriots stood pissing over my body? He really was an animal in the sense that he had no social graces or neither understood common decency or acceptable behaviour. Should he not have become angry at my insults? What was it in me that compelled me to want to know more about this throwback?

"We'll take these bags back to the car first," I said quietly, watching him shuffle his feet like a naughty child.

He brightened up and smiled again, his big torso looming over me, taking more weight from my hands, his rough fingers grabbing the handles of the remaining shopping bags. Like a servant, slave even, the man silently walked behind me carrying my possessions.

"Do you and your friends treat all women like you did me?" I asked as we sat down inside a small café.

"You gave us signs ma'am," he replied as he watched me take off my coat, focusing on the tight v-neck top I wore that showed plenty of cleavage.

"Signs?" I asked incredulously, confused by his form of reply.

"That you like it – like men missus, even though you is married and that, you like some extra."

I was lost for words, seeing no point in entering into an explanation or discussion of why I had not got these men locked up. More so any discussion would be essentially about my own sexuality – how would I answer this man's simple but direct questions that went right to the point? "So did you not like being pissed on?" he might ask!

There was a silence then, mainly due to the moron who munched on a large piece of cake. Watching him I almost felt pity wondering what this not unhandsome man might have become had he been educated and brought up in a more sophisticated environment, one superior to animal husbandry.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"George," he answered stretching out the first syllable. Then he threw me, "You have very nice tits missus, you causes a stirring in my loins you do!"

Shocked by his comment I could only give a laugh before scolding him, "George, you can't go about using such language. Do you not care what people think about you?"

"I've met most of the folks I'm ever likely to meet in these parts ma'am – and they already knows me and what I'm like."

What logic!

Hoping to God that no one I knew would walk into the place I quickly finished my coffee and even paid the bill.

"George, I must go now. After this I expect to be treated with a little more respect – tell your friends too. In fact, it's better if we all just ignore each other – things have gone far enough. My husband and I will not be bullied and pressured to leave – tell your friends that too!"

"I was hoping you wouldn't be leaving me to catch the bus back missus. As you is going to the same place I was hoping you would be friendly like and give me a ride back to the village."

There was no reason why I should have shown consideration to this man – but after a moments thought with a gesture of my hand I signalled that he should follow me out.

I know I should not have left off my coat while I drove; I knew how much cleavage was on display and that it might inflame the passions of this overgrown moron. In my very small saloon car I could almost feel his hot breath as his eyes wandered over my body. We had gone but a few miles when I felt his hand on my thigh.

"George, please take your hand away!" I said nervously but firmly.

The brute did take his hand away – but only to unfasten the zip on his pants.

My God, George!" I hissed between clenched teeth, "What the hell are you doing?"

It was too late now to stop him as from the corner of my eye I snatched a glimpse of a very thick pole, stiff and pointing up in the air, the top a red bulbous swelling that forced back the wrinkled skin.

"I is just looking at you missus – just pleasing myself while I admire your delicate soft skin."

I turned to look for as long as I dared take my eyes off the road to see his fingers clasped around the shaft, slowly pulling the loose skin back and forth. The situation seemed unbelievable, driving along the carriageway, while beside me a man, a dubious stranger, who had already been one of a group who had sexually assaulted me, sat exposing his penis, masturbating. My requests for him to desist went unheard, him blaming me for 'causing the stirring in his loins'.

I tried to concentrate on the driving and maintain my cool.

"Bet this is bigger than your husband's missus," he gloated, "This would fill you up, give you satisfaction. Bet it could make you scream for more! Has you always had to look for other men to fuck you proper missus?"

"I don't – I haven't!" I told him.

"You are what they call 'in denial' I think. There's no one else here to see you enjoy my big rod missus, if you so fancy."

His hand again felt my inner thigh and I snapped my knees together before he reached my crotch. That did not stop him from folding up the hem of my skirt, to show just an inch of gusset.

"George, please stop!" I said calmly.

"I is just looking missus," he answered quietly, leaving his hand on my upper legs.

I needed to concentrate on the road now, as the traffic was fast and busy. Maybe he would be content with what he had and spare me further anxiety – I would let him alone, to feel my thighs and masturbate.

"George, don't do anything else – I need to concentrate on the traffic."

We would be turning off the main highway soon, and on the country lane I would be able to stop and insist he get out. His big finger was trying to find it's way between my closed thighs, managing to touch the very top of my vaginal slit – a place that for me like most women is very sensitive.

"Yes, missus, I see how you keep looking to watch my cock swell up – do you like it missus, do you want to hold it?"

"George, no...!" I broke off the sentence thinking what was the point of reasoning with the man.

It is impossible to drive an old vehicle like mine, one with a manual gearbox – with thighs tightly clasped. Approaching the turn-off it was necessary to operate the clutch, pressing my leg forward and releasing the pedal – letting the big rough finger massage my vagina, gain better access, the movement of my hips and thighs were doing most of the work, creating sexual feelings. Now there was a 'stirring in my loins' too!

"You like that missus? That's okay – you enjoys yourself!"

"George – stop it!" I shouted to no avail.

The narrow country road was winding with no space to stop safely, feet moved over pedals, pressing, fingers moved over now damp panties, pushing cloth into slit. I was stunned and confused – why didn't I just stop here and demand he get out?

There was a red light ahead – road works, temporary traffic lights, those infuriating things that make you stop even when no vehicles are coming the opposite way. I slowed and pressed my foot on the clutch reaching out for the gear stick. The gear stick was hot and thick, with wetness over the swollen head. George had most delicately guided my hand that bit further to grip not the plastic topped metal of the expected device but his own stiff shaft, holding my fingers in place, sliding my hand down to hold him around the girth – to masturbate him.

"Please, don't do this!" I said desperately as he held my hand firmly, encouraging the movements.

The car had stopped now at the red light and George returned his spare hand back to my crotch to tickle and probe around the hem of my panties.

"Just enjoy it missus," he whispered.

My eyes could not help but focus on his cock then between my own legs – we were sat mutually masturbating each other. I murmured, sobbed, made some strange, but what I imagined were sounds appropriate for a poor damsel in distress but felt guilt from knowing that I was not bothering to struggle too hard. What caused a start were the loud piercing hoots of a horn from an impatient driver who unbeknown had crept up behind, the light having turned to green, he was anxious to get on his way.

"If you want to fornicate pull off the fucking road!" shouted the man as he pulled past us.

"That's fair enough," laughed George as I frantically slipped the car in gear, "We'll have to pull off the road."

"No George, we won't!" I growled, driving off before the lights decided to change back to red.

My skirt was still bunched up round my waist and George's cock swayed to and fro as I negotiated the bends looking for a place to stop and dump him at the side of the road. It wasn't ideal but a small grassy verge seemed just about big enough to stop without causing unnecessary attention. I could have simply stopped and screamed – but then I would have to explain so much to many people, especially my husband; our reputation would be ruined – George and his pals didn't care about theirs.

Pulling up sharply I turned to the big man.

"Right, get out, now!" I snarled.

He straightened up, undid his seat belt. Was it going to be as easy as this? Was he going to go quietly? Sure, he did seem sheepish, disappointed, and sulky even, like a spoiled kid curling his bottom lip.

The true response came fast and furious as he lurched over my body that was still restricted by my seat belt. A hand grabbed my hair turning my head to face my attacker though I had no time to focus as his mouth covered mine, his tongue forcing its way past my lips. Now I felt the belt slacken and heard the tinkle of the metal buckle but there was no freedom as the act was done solely to make it able to lift up my top and uncover my breasts.

"Now you be a good girl for me; I has other things to do today beside give you a good fucking! Hold my cock – wank it for me!"

This was the other George – not the simple minded giant without social graces – the brute, the bully, who uses his strength to get his own way – to demand, like an animal, that his sexual appetite be quenched – a woman, in his eyes, has one use only. I submitted to his will.

"That's better," he said when he knew I had lost the will to fight, "Don't know why you bother struggling and complaining when another man's cock is what you crave. Your husband isn't enough for you then?"

Should I tell him what he wants to hear? Will that make him 'cum' quickly – then he'll let me go home? I thought many things, pondered on many different options. It seemed better to fake enthusiasm, to compliment him. My hand was eagerly pulling on his foreskin.

"Do you like big cock's missus?" he whispered, lewdly.

"Yes!" I answered, breathless with fear, though he thought it passion.

"Your husband doesn't do enough for you then?"

"No!" I whispered, as he unclipped my bra and groped my tits.

"What do you like – tell me?" he asked between sucking in my nipple then plunging his hand down my panties.

"I like lots of cock – other men – with big dicks – I like to be fucked."

"What about sucking?" he whispered, "Sucking cock?"

My stomach turned, I knew what was coming next; but what could I do?

"Yes, " I said softly, lowering my head before he hurt me by forcing me down.

The bulbous head seemed bigger now I had to accommodate it in my mouth and I had to open wide to take it in. Licking underneath to relieve the aching of my lower jaw my nose took in the musky aroma of a rough working man, mixed with the salty taste of drops of pre-cum that leaked from the tiny hole. I should not have been finding this experience erotic or arousing but maybe it was the big hand that had reached over me tugging up my skirt so one of those thick fingers could alternately invade my pussy and then, when wet and lubricated could find its way up my anus. If it wasn't the finger fucking then maybe it was just the way I am, submissive, finding pleasure from being forced into these dirty acts, from being dominated. Taste the sweat; lick the dirty dick, breath in the odour of stale piss, prepare to take his fluid in my mouth, to swallow it down. Wasn't this the true reason why I had willingly spent the best part of the day with this monster?

My arse moved rhythmically against his fingers while my hand pumped hard, my lips sucking. Just then the passing vehicles brought me back to reality.

"Oh God!" I cried, shooting up straight, "Someone will recognise the car – no, I can't do this!"

It seemed George possessed some sort of rationality and compassion.

"Start the car up and drive down the road," he ordered.

I hurriedly adjusted my clothes and sobbing moved off. We drove for no more than a few minutes.

"Turn off just here," he instructed.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked alarmed.

He laughed, "You mean where are you taking me?" he said, "You are doing what you promised to do – I live down this lane – you are giving me a ride home."

The bastard lived less than a quarter of a mile from where we had stopped! I could have kicked myself, as it seemed that if I hadn't have stopped on the road invoking his anger by telling him to get out then within minutes he would have been home and probably have got out peacefully.

"You come on inside," he said as the car pulled to a stop.

His dick still dangled outside his trousers making me fear of what acts he would be capable of should he trap me inside his ramshackle house.

"I need to go home George!" I pleaded.

Telling him to fuck off or dismissing him would not work – he would only become angry and drag me inside.

"Come inside for a few minutes – you can see my mother."

He gave one of his smiles that showed him to be a retard. Mother? Maybe I would be safe, as he surely wouldn't sexually assault me in the presence of his mother?

"Just for a minute then," I agreed.

George put his cock away – which was a good sign.

The musty dismal rooms had a depressing air about them. The hallway, led to a creaky door beyond what was the main living room. Glancing around the dark dusty furniture and well-worn carpets it lacked evidence that a woman resided there.

"Mother is upstairs," George told me. "Is she bedridden?" I enquired sympathetically, hoping to keep George in a soft gently mood.

He gave a strange giggle, "You might say that missus, come and see her."

Every step creaked as I climbed the staircase, my heart thumping, feeling uneasy. We reached a dark landing with several closed doors either side. George, walking behind me held my waist and turned me toward the farthest door reaching over to the handle. Pushing the door open he gently pushed me inside the room. Looking around what must have been the master bedroom, at least when the house had been at its best I noticed the heavy curtains and old wooden furniture, noting the large old fashioned bedstead placed against the side wall. A large mirror was opposite, fastened to the brickwork; there was no sign the room had been recently occupied.

"George, there is no one here!" I said, rather obviously and with a growing feeling of unease.

The big man giggled, "Yes, there she is – on the dresser."

His hands, which had remained on my hips, were already moving to my front, rising up to my breasts; he pulled me back against his body, letting me know his cock was hard.

There was his mother true enough – in the sepia toned ragged photograph in a broken frame, a picture of a good-looking young woman, George's mother when she was young. Now my body trembled as I felt like I was in the company of Norman Bates, not the set of the film 'Psycho' but the real thing. I hoped a little psychology would make George behave.

"Your mother wouldn't like this George – she wouldn't want you to do this."

He unclipped my bra and with his hands under my top gripped both my breasts, "She's dead!" he whispered, "She can't complain!"

I was pushed toward the bed, lost for words knowing any attempt to reason or rationalise with this man would be fruitless. In seconds I was naked above the waist, with George admiring, groping and mauling my breasts, sometimes kissing or sucking on a nipple. He had made me face him almost side-on, so my hand could easily close around his big shaft that he had pulled from his pants. It was surely best, safest, to go along with his wishes so I slowly drew his foreskin back and forth, masturbating him.

"George, what are going to do, you must promise not to hurt me?" I told him.

"I don't want to hurt you missus, " he said, almost sounding hurt and insulted at the suggestion. "I just want to fuck you before you goes home. You can enjoy yourself, get what your husband can't give you – have George's big cock inside you, pleasure you missus."