English Pub Landlady Ep. 06

It was one of those English autumnal days, you just think that the old country is slipping slowly into winter and then she hits you with a few really hot sunny days.

Harry was off playing golf. No, I still don't get it.

I was relaxing in the garden when the first stirrings of my medical condition buzzed in my knickers. I thought, "I don't want to be in the village when it takes me over completely. God knows who I might have to get to put out the fire."

I got into the car and drove. Fortunately, there was a carpark, about ten minutes away, that was famous locally as a haunt for people looking for casual sex. And today that was me. The more casual the better.

When I got there I could only see one other car so I parked right next to it. No point in being subtle. As I pulled alongside a smartly dressed youngman in a suit got out. I think he thought that I'd come there for some stimulating conversation because he started to tell me he was a Rep for a Fire Extinguisher company. I know, but I assure you it was pure coincidence.

Before he could tell me his life story I undid his trousers and made sure that his cock was rigid. I had him sit in the passenger seat of his car with his legs facing outwards. Hitching my skirt up, I pulled my drawers to one side. Then I sat on his lap and impaled my minge on his prick. He put his hands on my hips and helped me bob up and down. He came pretty quickly but I just kept my rhythm going even though he was trying to push me off him. Some men are funny like that; when they've had enough they've really had enough.

When I stood up he said, "That bloody hurt."

As I turned around he was holding his cock gingerly. As well as appearing wet and sticky, as I expected, it had quite a vivid scarlet line down one side. Maybe I hadn't pulled knickers out of the way as much as I thought.

"Oh, sorry!" I said.

I started to doddle back to my car but I noticed that there was a van parked a little further off. It must have arrived while I was getting my prescription filled. Two men were sitting in the front and had been watching the show.

The carpet fitters got out (How do I know? It was written on the side of the van, silly!). They came towards me both unbuttoning their jeans. One of them bent me over and pulled my drawers down past my knees; after what happened to the man in the suit he was obviously practising safe sex. He slipped his cock in me while the other guy put his dick in my mouth.

They quickly had a rhythm going. Pushing and pulling me back and forth. I was really enjoying it. As I always say, at my age, any attention from young men is welcome. I think that they must have been football fans because they changed ends at half-time. Their generous donation of spunk was just what I needed to put out my fire. Evidently, they were there most lunch times if I ever needed sorting out again. Very kind of them.

I guess that the man in the suit must have gone off to get medical assistance but I didn't see him go.

-

When I got back to the pub I resumed my position in the garden. I poured myself a long gin and tonic.

I was contemplating the state of my knickers, some women can't abide spunk left up them, but I'm not one of them. I thought I would shower before changing that evening.

Suddenly, there was a loud banging on the side door of the pub.

I thought, "It can't be Rita, I didn't see her but I'm sure that the bar has been cleaned already today. If Harry's forgotten his keys again I'll shoot him."

I opened the garden gate and peered around to find a young woman standing by the door. I say young, she was about forty with short dark greasy looking curly hair. She had spectacles with thick black rims. The sack dress she was wearing was made from a material that I suspected she had woven herself from wool she had found in the hedgerow. The pair of Galilee Water Waders on her feet just about finished off the academic hippie look.

She had a pretty face, with red lipstick, and she may well have had a decent figure but, if so, she was hiding it well under that hideous dress.

"We're closed," I shouted.

"You don't understand, I'm looking for the landlady," she said.

"That's me but we're still closed," I replied curtly.

"You don't understand. I'm Doctor Imogen Barnes," she shouted back.

"No one called a doctor. There's nobody sick here," I barked at her.

I didn't think she would be interested in my medical condition.

"You don't understand. I have a PhD."

"Well that's what happens when you sleep around," I snapped. I can do ignorance when I need to.

"No, you don't understand, I'm a researcher at the Dorset County Museum."

"What's that got to do with me?"

If she told me that I didn't understand one more time I was going to clock her one.

"I know about the Yew Tree Farm Hoss," she said smugly.

I was stunned. Since I'd put it in my safety deposit box I hadn't given the book much thought.

I didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then my my first reaction was to suggest that she fucked off. But then I didn't know what she knew. It was obvious that she knew something but what? I was intrigued.

"You had better come in," I said, opening the gate wide.

As she entered I pointed to one of the garden chairs and she sat down.

I could see her looking at my G&T. I said, "Would you like a drink?"

I just can't suppress the landlady in me.

"Could I have a cider, please. I want to be authentically Dorset," she said.

I didn't like to tell her that this part of the county was always Beer. You had to go further north and west to be in Cider territory.

I went into the bar and poured her a pint of the rough stuff. Some people like it but I only tried it once. I could feel my blood drying out after the first mouthful. But she wanted to be authentic.

Before I went back into the garden I reached under the counter for the bottle of Chanel No 5 that I keep there. I dabbed a little between my legs. I didn't want her thinking that my preferred fragrance was spunk and fanny juice.

I put the cider in front of her and she took a swig. Her face looked as if she had been sucking lemons.

The woman said, "That's very good."

"What did you say your name was again?" I asked.

"Imogen Barnes," she replied.

"You were saying something that I didn't understand about some farm."

She explained, "Like I said, I am a researcher at the County Museum and I did my PhD thesis on 'The Secret Erotic Customs and Rituals of Nineteenth Century Rural Dorset'."

"I can't say that I've read it, did they make a film of it?" I said, playing the ignorant card again.

"Hardly," she replied, "but recently I was reviewing some newly uncovered material that included a veiled reference to the Yew Tree Hoss and the Wages Ritual. It suggested that there was something very sexual involved."

So she knew fuck all really.

"So why are you here?" I said, acting puzzled.

"I went to Yew Tree Farm. I spoke to an obstructive old man there who swore he knew nothing about it.

"I wasn't going to let him get away with that sort of attitude so I kept badgering him until he admitted that he did know something.

"After I chastised him for about an hour he finally told me that you had a book.

"I demand to see that book," she said.

I don't know what angered me more, the fact that she had harassed poor Ted or that she was trying to do the same thing to me.

I hate bossy women.

I stayed calm and said, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Have it your own way but I could go to the media and tell them about it. I can just imagine the headlines in the tabloid press. Something like 'Pastime Rural Rumpy Pumpy' or worse. They would invent their own version of the truth," she threatened.

"You would be inundated with reporters and television crews and where would your quiet village be then?"

I thought, "I need to buy some time here and work out a plan."

I asked her, "Suppose that I concede that there may be a book. What do you propose?"

"Well, to start with you could let me see what actually went on in this Wages Ritual."

"To what possible end?" I enquired.

"My husband, Geoffrey, and I record and re-enact many of these rural rituals. It's a sort of hobby of ours."

"Husband," I thought, "now there's a surprise."

I said, "I thought that all that re-enactment stuff involved men dressing up in old military costumes and charging up and down. They conveniently forget about the dying in agony, the widows and orphans, and bloody mutilation. Their wives dress up as serving wenches but secretly fantasise about being camp followers and having sex with half the army at tuppence a go."

She said, "Well, I have done that a few times myself. The dressing up bit that is. But what we do is more scientific and authentic."

"I don't think that you would want to re-enact the ones in the book. Some are really quite rude," I said.

She jumped on this and said, "So you do know a lot about it. I can reassure you that we are not easily shocked. In the past I've run naked along Chesil Beach. I've even had my breasts whipped with stinging nettles in Cranborne Chase before. All in the name of authentic historical re-enactment."

I thought, "I'm up for most things but that's going a bit too far, even for me."

"Once you're recorded and re-enacted these things they would be out in the public," I stated.

Imogen replied, "When things like this are of a sensitive nature we agree to keep the record in the Restricted Archive of the Museum. They would only be released when all the parties concerned are deceased."

"OK, let's suppose that this book does exist and that this ritual is in it. I could talk it over with the man at Yew Tree Farm. You could come back here in a week's time and we could discuss the way forward. Would that stop your threats?"

"That would be terrific."

"Now drink up your cider and leave," I said.

You know when you don't like someone and I didn't like Dr Imogen Barnes. I wanted to cause her extreme discomfort and my mind was racing with ways to do just that.

-

The next day I went to see Ted.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. She just wouldn't stop going at me," he said.

"In the end the only way I could get shot of her was to tell her you had a book. I didn't tell her what was in it."

"It's OK, Ted. She was like a piranha with me too," I told him.

I spent a long time telling him what I was planning. I only intended to show her part of the pay-day ritual and try to persuade her to re-enact it. I thought that she was stupid enough to go for it.

"If it all goes to plan you may get the opportunity to take your revenge with her on The Hoss, would you like that?"

"Oh, yes please," said Ted.

-

Sure enough, the following week Imogen turned up again. The more typical Autumn weather had returned so we spoke in the bar. The open fire gave a pleasant glow to the room but I was still frosty towards her.

"This is a take it or leave it deal," I explained.

"We will meet at Yew Tree Farm on an agreed day. I will let you see the page concerning the Wages Ceremony. You will copy it out. After that I will give you ten minutes to decide if you want to continue with the ceremony and take the part of the farmer's wife. If you don't, I will destroy your copy and you will leave and never bother us again.

"If you want to proceed, you and your husband will sign certificates stating that you both fully consent to take part and then the ceremony will take place exactly as it is written. Afterwards you will leave. Your copy will be placed in the Museum's Restricted Archive as we agreed. You will never bother us again after that.

"Do you understand?"

"I understand," agreed Imogen.

"Do you have any questions?" I asked.

She asked, "As this is a Pay-Day Ceremony, will we need some Agricultural Workers?"

"Yes, I will supply them."

"Good, I want everything to be authentic. Can Geoffrey be one of the workers?"

"Oh definitely," I said.

I knew that I needed to go to the bank.

-

The next day Imogen telephoned me to arrange a date for a week's time.

That evening in the bar I pulled one of the younger farm workers to one side. I chose him in particular because I remembered that I had been especially impressed when he fucked me on the night of the lock in. His other quality is that he is thick as shit. I mean that in the nicest way, I don't think that he could spell devious let alone be it.

"How are you, Trev?" I said.

"So, so," he replied.

"And how's your love life?" I enquired.

"Well, truth to tell I ain't had none since that night I can't talk about."

"I may be able to help you there," I reassured him.

His eyes lit up.

"I'm ready when you are," he said.

"It's not for me, it's for a good cause," I told him.

"Do you know if any of your mates have dicks like yours?"

"Donkey boys, you mean? Well there were a few blokes I was at college with who got comments in the showers."

"Do you think you could round up 6 or 8 of them?"

I outlined what and when I wanted them for. He was a bit disappointed when I told that I probably wouldn't be on the receiving end. But he was sure he could arrange it.

-

On the day Trev turned up with his mates. He had only managed to get five but I thought that would do. I got them to wait in the farmhouse with Ted. I would give them a signal when I wanted them.

A little later Imogen arrived with Geoffrey. He was dressed like a peasant from 'Tess of the D'urbervilles', smock and all. From the size of him he wouldn't have made a good scarecrow let alone an agricultural labourer. She told him to wait outside while we looked at the book. He did as he was told.

Imogen sat at a table with her notebook. I placed The Book in front of her, opened at the right page. I had a piece of paper placed over the adjoining page. She read and copied each line into her book. Sometimes she would stop wide eyed, pause for a few seconds and then carry on.

This is what she wrote.

AS IS THE CUSTOM

On the Saturday of each week in addition of payments

The Farmer's Wife, or whosoever be charged with the task, shall be held fast to The Hoss

The field workers shall then assemble

The farmer shall make a signal and the field workers shall run around the edge of the small paddock and the duck pond

As each do return to the barn he shall take his place behind the farmer

The farmer shall approach The Hoss first

Then each field worker in turn shall approach The Hoss

Before he leaves each man shall thank the farmer for the use of his Hoss

With the exception of the farmer no man shall approach The Hoss twice

When Imogen had finished writing she just sat there staring into space for some time as if taking in the full implications of it all.

Then she said, "Where do we sign?"

I didn't expect it to be that easy. I asked her, "Don't you want to talk it over with Geoffrey?"

"No, as long as it's authentic he will do as I say."

Then she asked, "Do I need to be naked or is there some traditional costume that I have to wear?"

I said, "Well, there is an outfit that I am certain has been used before. What size shoes do you take?"

Luckily, our shoe size was the same.

I went outside and called Geoffrey in. They both signed the agreement that basically said that they agreed to anything that was done to them and that they wouldn't tell. I'm not sure either of them read it. I told Geoffrey to go and wait in the farmhouse and the others would tell him what to do.

As he left he said to me, "This will be authentic, won't it?"

"Oh yes!" I replied.

I asked Imogen to remove her clothes. Under that hideous dress she had quite a pleasant figure.

Firstly, I put the black leather corset on her and pulled the lacing in really tight. Her tits were smaller than mine (some men like that sort of thing, evidently) but as the quarter-cups were only there for moral support, it didn't matter.

She rolled on the fishnet stockings and I fastened them for her. Fortunately, the thigh boots fitted perfectly.

She said, "This is authentic, isn't it?"

"Oh, definitely," I replied. It's a good thing that we didn't have a mirror.

I took Imogen to The Hoss and roughly bent her over the saddle. I pulled the great leather across the small of her back and secured it very tightly. Followed by the wrist and ankle straps. As I did the last of these, I couldn't help noticing that her fanny was twitching slightly. I don't make a habit of looking at other women's private parts.

I flicked the switch on the milking machine and attached the cups to her nipples.

"This doesn't look too authentic," she said.

I replied, "I know for a fact that one has been employed every time The Hoss has been used this century."

She seemed satisfied with this. That's the lovely thing about Historians, most of them don't know about the twenty-first century.

I switched on the main pump and the left right action started. Turning the vacuum up to maximum I made my way towards the barn door.

As I looked across to the farmhouse, I could see an expectant face at the window. I gestured for them to make their way over.

They all wandered in and stood around in a bunch. Ted got them into a rough line.

Then he said, "Ready, Steady, Go!"

They all made a rush for the barn door. A few seconds later the men wandered back in, with the exception of Geoffrey. They formed an orderly queue behind Ted.

About five minutes after that a breathless Geoffrey staggered in. He took a surprised look at the others and said, "I thought I was winning, I must have gone the wrong way."

Then he mumbled something about it not being cricket.

He took his place at the back of the queue.

Ted said, "Better get yourselves ready lads."

They got their todgers out and started to shake them into readiness.

I had the brainwave of rearranging the order of the queue. After Ted, I moved the big dick to the front and the really big dick to the back, in front of Geoffrey. The others I sort of shuffled into ascending order; giving girth precedence over length.

I thought, "That's got to be better for all concerned."

Geoffrey looked a bit lost waggling his old man up and down. It wasn't that small but compared with the farm boys he was going to struggle.

I whispered in his ear, "Are you OK at the back?"

"Oh yes," he said, "I've been dreaming about something like this for years. I always dreamed I'd be last."

"This isn't strictly authentic but I want you to do something for me. When it's your turn, if you find it a bit sloppy, I want you to put your prick in Imogen's bum hole and fuck her. Is that clear?"

"Could I? Wouldn't she mind?"

"Listen, Geoffrey, in here her ass belongs to me. I don't care what she minds, OK? She won't even know it's you. Don't stop, no matter what she tells you."

"If you say so," he said.

I suspected that this may have been a long held dream of his too.

I went back to The Hoss and for a moment I thought I could hear it purring. Then it occurred to me that Imogen had been fully warmed up and was ready for action.

Putting on Harry's Wheater cloak and pulling the hood over my head. I called out, "OK boys, masks on."

Gesturing to Ted to come forward, I moved back a few paces so that I could enjoy the view.

Ted took great delight giving Mrs Bossy Drawers, as he calls her, his very best attention. For an old fellow he slammed it into her pretty well. Imogen made appreciative noises which only encouraged him more.

As Ted flopped out of her and stepped back, I thought, "You really don't know what's coming your way Madam."

The first of my well hung farm boys got into position. Ted had been the pathfinder but this guy was the big guns. As he slipped her the first length, I could hear Imogen gasp with surprise. He didn't stand on ceremony, he just went for it, pumping her like a piston engine. I guess these boys didn't get a lot of nooky because he was like a thirsty man at an oasis. He got rid of months of pent up frustration.