Oggbashan Stew Pt. 02

"What are we going to do?" I asked tentatively. "Abandon this route and plan somewhere else?"

"Don't be so pathetic, Graham. We don't have to give up. We just have to get this path cleared. As long as it passable from the other end as far as the bridge this obstruction can be removed. It ought to be. It is a registered Public Right of Way. The Council and the landowner have a duty to keep it walkable. Back to the pub. You can drive us round to the other end and we'll see how far this mess extends."

Helen strode off back the way we had come. I trudged along behind her. Even her swinging buttocks couldn't lift my spirits. I knew that Helen would expect me to do things about the footpath.

At the pub I squelched into my car's seat and drove several miles to where the footpath next reached a road. Helen's planned route avoided roads, using footpaths, crossing roads instead of walking along them.

As I shut my car door I could feel my trousers clinging clammily to my legs and dampness around my neck. The rain had stopped but the wind was still keen.

Helen seemed happier as we saw a newly painted footpath sign and a recently renewed stile. She was over the stile and yards down the path while I was still struggling into my wet jacket. She turned round to wait for me but I could see that she was impatient with my slowness.

We walked along a well graded path with a thick hedge to the North and a newish fence to the South. I could appreciate that later in the year the views Southerly from this footpath would be spectacular as the hills of the South Downs rose from the river's floodplain. The path brought us gradually down towards the river. Its normal course could only be appreciated from the line of trees along its bank because it had flooded the water meadows on both banks for about fifty yards.

The footpath ran across the water meadows on a slight embankment. The flood water was only two or three feet below our feet. The bridge over the river arched well clear of the rushing water, ending in brick revetments. Across the bridge the path was less well maintained and the embankment was flanked by indistinct drainage ditches, clogged with debris. As the path left the water meadows it became more difficult to negotiate because of overgrowing trees and unkempt hedges that had spread across the ditches still running either side. Eventually, about fifty or sixty yards from the place where we had intended to turn off the track, the overgrowth became impossible to get through.

"See," Helen said, "it's only a short distance that needs clearing. These ditches need re-cutting and the hedges trimmed back. If that can be done this walk is still feasible."

"But how, and who...?" I asked tentatively.

"First we try the council and if they'll tell us, the landowner. If not, we'll have to do it. The group could do with some more exercise. Most are amateur gardeners. They have gloves, secateurs -- that sort of thing. Many hands make light work..."

I think I know our members better. If there is any suggestion of work they'll run a mile particularly if Helen is organising it. She can be a hard taskmaster and they protest that they have retired to enjoy life, not to wear themselves out.

Story 023

Futanari Doll

My wife Helen and I were sitting side by side in front of the wide screen monitor. I was scrolling through advertisements for plastic sex dolls. I had been curious about how realistic modern ones might be. Years ago, in my early twenties, I had seen one at a friend's house. It had belonged to his widowed father who had been disappointed with it. A few months after ordering the doll he had found a very accommodating widow. The doll was deflated and thrown away. My friend had retrieved it from the trash and had made it an ornament in his bachelor apartment. All of us who had seen it were struck by how crude it was. It didn't seem attractive or sexual, just a big balloon of pink plastic.

A pop-up advertisement had appeared while we were looking at porn together, seeking inspiration for a joint-authored story for Literotica. That advertisement showed a much more realistic doll. Was it actually more realistic? Or was the photo enhanced? We were intrigued and searched for more, both female and male dolls.

"Why are we doing this, Jake?" Helen asked a quarter of an hour later. "The prices are horrific. We have each other. Do we need a doll or dolls?"

I looked at Helen.

"Probably not," I said, "and not that those prices, but..."

"But?" she queried.

"I'd like..." I was reluctant to continue.

"You'd like? What? To make love to a doll?"

"No, Helen. To make love to you, pretending to be a doll."

"Who would be pretending to be the doll? You? Or me?"

"I hadn't thought that far, Helen. It's something we've never tried or even thought about before now. It has possibilities. Whoever is the doll would be submissive and passive. We've done that both ways. But a doll would be helpless, perhaps really constrained into immobility."

"OK, Jake. The evening meal is nearly ready. Shut down and we'll eat. I think we should sleep on the idea and perhaps talk about it tomorrow night. OK?"

"OK, Helen. Thanks."

I shut down the computer. We had to go to work tomorrow. We would have time for some lovemaking in bed, not too much because we had to sleep, but we enjoyed each other's bodies even if we just hugged and cuddled before going to sleep.

We had satisfying but normal sex that night.

+++

The following evening was a Thursday. We sat down to our evening meal.

"I've been thinking," Helen said. "Several things. Firstly, I'm not interested in Lesbian sex. I know you are, to see on screen as porn, but if you met real Lesbians they wouldn't be interested in you. So, if you are going to be a plastic doll I want you to have a prick I can use. OK?"

I nodded. My mouth was full.

"Secondly, during my lunch break I drove to the Sex Shop near my office. I looked at their range of sex dolls. If asked, I was going to say I wanted one for you while I was away on a residential course, but they didn't ask questions. They just let me browse. The cheapest ones are useless. But at about fifty pounds they are reasonably sturdy and I think our do-it-yourself skills could modify them so we could be inside. It isn't easy to buy one in my size. Most have ridiculously tiny waists. The largest one would do if I cut the feet off. They do have a giantess range, not in stock, but delivered within 48 hours, that would be large enough to fit your waist and chest measurements. The height might be a problem. I think I know how to get around that. And we would have to fit zips or some form of closure. I think we could."

"You have been busy," I replied.

"I haven't finished yet," Helen retorted. "Thirdly, I had parked outside a charity shop that is closing down. They had had a bridal department. I looked. They had a gown in a massive size they hadn't been able to sell. I bought it for five pounds complete with accessories. I bought a few other things as well. Everything is now in the spare room. I think, if you are inside a giantess plastic doll you could wear that wedding gown. You could be my futanari bride."

"Futanari bride?" I queried.

"You know, the Japanese Manga characters that are female but with a penis. Some of them are drawn as giantesses. You would be a female giantess with your erection protruding through the plastic doll."

We agreed that Helen would buy a doll in her size. Until we had worked on that we would delay an order for a giantess doll. We would need some zip or other closures, some plastic sheeting and plastic glue, and several hours of work. I wasn't sure that we could modify plastic dolls to get inside. We already had zentai suits including hoods. We had enjoyed making love as anonymous lycra-sheathed models. The idea of turning ourselves into plastic dolls was arousing -- if we could do it.

Helen bought the large size doll on Friday. The giantess version could be available for collection two working days after placing the order. I bought several types of plastic glue. We had to order pink plastic sheeting in a similar thickness online. We had decided against zips and would use Velcro strips stitched and glued to the opening.

+++

It was two weeks later before we had the first attempt at a plastic doll that Helen could wear. She was in pink pantyhose and a sleeved pink leotard. We had cut the doll's feet off and inserted a Velcro closure in the lower part of each leg. She fed her feet through the doll's legs and stood up. I pressed the Velcro together from halfway up her calves to her ankles. We had to smooth the plastic legs upwards to remove wrinkles and creases. So far we had left the plastic hands on the arms. It was a wriggle to get her hands and fingers inside.

"Jake," Helen said. "I think we might have to cut the hands off too, and modify the arms like the legs. This is taking too long."

"You could wear long satin gloves," I suggested. "They would conceal the absence of plastic hands."

"That could work. My hands are in now so let's do the rest."

I pulled, tugged and heaved the plastic torso until Helen's shoulders were inside. It took a long time to get the back seam together and gradually close the Velcro fastening from below her waist up to her neck. From neck to ankles Helen appeared to be a plastic sex doll. The pink pantyhose appeared to be part of the doll if I didn't look too closely.

"This is tight," Helen said. "There is no give in the plastic at all. I can breathe but not deeply. I feel as if I'm wearing a tightly-laced corset, but more extreme because it is from ankles to neck. Now try the head, but only for a few seconds at first. Don't close the zip. I'm not sure I can breathe with it on."

I picked up the doll's head. We had cut the mouth so Helen's lips would be visible, punched holes through the nostrils and eyes, and fitted a short zip at the back under the fake hair. Helen tried to help. Her plastic fingers were too stiff.

"Take it off!" Helen's muffled voice said urgently.

I hadn't even begun to ease the back down. I pulled the face away quickly. Helen's face was flushed.

"Get me out of the doll -- now! I'm too hot."

Unlike the twenty minutes or so it had taken to dress Helen as a doll, the removal took less than a minute. Her pantyhose and leotard were damp with sweat. As soon as she was free she went to the bathroom and had a shower, talking to me through the open door.

"That's impossible," she said. "Once I was sealed into the body I became warm and then hot. While my head and feet were outside the plastic it wasn't too bad. As soon as my face was covered -- I was panicking. I could have had heatstroke if it wore it for longer."

"Does that mean we've failed?" I asked.

"No. Maybe. Total enclosure is too much and risky. I think we could compromise. How much, or how little, do I need to appear as if I'm a plastic doll? The face -- obviously. If my hands and arms are in long satin gloves, they don't need to be in plastic. Legs? Again, if I'm wearing opaque pink pantyhose the missing plastic on the legs won't show."

"We hadn't changed the crotch," I said. "The doll still had its fake vagina. The pantyhose would conceal you to the waist. If we cut a hole..."

"Yes, Jake. That would be better but I think we should sit down and discuss the possibilities before we cut the doll around too much. We've worked hard to get this far."

"We know what we can do, Helen," I said. "Even if we wreck this doll completely it wasn't expensive. The giantess? We wait to order one until we have found how on the smaller doll."

+++

Story 024

Hairy

Marie has glossy light brown hair curling below her shoulder blades. It is always in wonderful condition, probably because Esther, her younger sister, is a professional hairdresser.

One thing about Marie's hair used to puzzle me. Sometimes it hung lower down her back, sometimes higher. I could have understood that if it happened over weeks or months but the difference in length could be seen on the same day. Once I asked her about it. She replied that it depended on the curliness. She said that if the weather was damp or humid her hair would uncurl and appear longer; if it was sunny and dry the natural waves would be tighter and therefore her hair would look shorter. I thought that seemed to be a reasonable explanation.

At the time I asked about her hair Marie was just one of my group of friends and she had a semi-permanent boyfriend. Several months later she had apparently parted with the boyfriend. I hadn't noticed until she asked me to take her to our local nightclub next Saturday when our group was going to celebrate a twenty-fifth birthday.

"What happened to what's-his-name?" I asked.

"John? He went away." Marie replied. "Will you take me?"

"Of course. What time shall I collect you?"

"Eight o'clock. Is that OK with you, Simon?"

"Yes, Marie. I'll be outside your flat at eight exactly. That do?"

"Thanks. I'll come down at eight."

We would be meeting outside her apartment building because she lives on the third floor and there is a security system for entry. One of the neighbours was very nervous about any unaccompanied visitors after her flat had been burgled and trashed. If I were to use the entry phone that neighbour would rush to her front door ready to dial for the Police if she didn't recognise the caller. All the flat owners were very careful not to alarm her unnecessarily so had agreed to escort any visitors.

+++

Story 025

Harry Christmas Host

"Harry needs a home".

I was startled when the family solicitor read those words at the start of the proceedings to settle Great-Aunt Ruth's estate. We knew she had left a substantial amount and that it would be spread among her younger relations, but she had left a long letter with her will. After introductory greetings her letter started a list of explanations of her bequests with those words.

"Harry needs a home".

It was true. Although I earned a serious income as an investment banker I didn't have a home. I had been living in various rented properties in London, Dubai, New York, Frankfurt, Hong Kong and wherever. I didn't have a UK base. When I returned to the UK I usually stayed with relations or friends, or even hotels for a few weeks before renting somewhere new.

The whole assembled family turned to look at me. Why? All of those present would inherit considerable sums from Great-Aunt Ruth. That bare statement meant nothing yet until the solicitor gave us the details of her will. My accumulated capital meant that I could buy myself an apartment or house if I wanted to. So far I hadn't thought it necessary but I was now thirty years old. Perhaps I should settle in one place even if that reduced my income.

"Harry needs a home".

By the end of the morning Great-Aunt Ruth's intentions were clear. She had left me her large seaside house with a single condition. I must host the family Christmases for the next five years. Great-Aunt Ruth had done that for decades. Her house was large, with nine bedrooms and what she called her 'barn' that had been the tea room when her house had been a hotel in the 1930s. The 'barn' had a large, part-covered terrace overlooking the sea with direct access by steps or a wheelchair ramp to the promenade and beach.

+++

Story 026

Hay Barn

Hay can be expensive. Its price changes with the weather and demand. I found out the hard way when I started at university two years ago. The hay for my horse was costing me more than I could afford with the rent of my flat in the university town. Sadly, I asked my father to sell the horse.

The next summer there was a spate of arson attacks on hay barns. The teenagers responsible were eventually caught but there was a real shortage of hay in the winter. When I had an unexpected windfall of a few hundred pounds from a great-aunt's will I thought that I could make a profit from hay.

My grandfather owned the farm. By the 1950s he had known that it would be too small to make a decent living for his only son, my father. Grandfather persuaded other local farmers to form a company and merge their farms into a much larger unit. He sent my father to college to learn accountancy, and my father became the accountant for the farm company and for many other rural businesses.

The family still owns the land but leased it to the company. We kept and used the farm outbuildings, mainly for small businesses run by my extended family members. The hay barn stood empty. It was too far from the farmhouse and the other buildings. It was vulnerable to arsonists because it was out of sight of other buildings.

Even so, I thought I could use it. The peak time for rural arson is the long school holidays when I would be at home from university. If I could sleep in the barn I could protect it, or at least call the fire brigade promptly. I had other ideas too. If I slept alone in the barn, away from our crowded family home, I could have overnight visitors, female visitors. That appealed to me even more than making money.

At one end of the barn was a cottage that years ago had been the cattleman's quarters. From there he could keep watch on the cattle particularly when calving. It hadn't been occupied for fifty years but I thought I could make it habitable if only for a few summer weeks.

My father agreed to rent the barn to me for a nominal fee. I started work on the barn itself during the Christmas break, replacing some of the corrugated iron roofing sheets, rebuilding some of the half walls, repairing the access doors. I worked hard for a couple of weeks but by the end the barn was usable even if the cottage wasn't.

During the Spring break I repaired the cottage. I replaced the window glass. I swept the chimneys, lit fires in the living room and in the kitchen range. As the cottage began to dry out I thought I could make it weatherproof at least for summer use. It needed rewiring and some basic plumbing. The painting inside and out could wait.

Unluckily for me, my girlfriend wouldn't wait. She was so fed up with the amount of time and money I was spending on the barn and cottage that she left. She soon found another student with more time and money. Although I missed her, I sensed that I had been fortunate. If she couldn't stand the work I was doing, how would she have been when I was starting my own business? I needed a girlfriend who would help, not one who demanded attention.

Perhaps I was unfair to my now ex-girlfriend. She is a city girl and didn't really appreciate the slow pace of life in our village. When my friends and I were working on the barn she tried to fit in, but she and us were on different wavelengths. She couldn't understand our enthusiasm for the project and didn't have any DIY skills, not even painting.

I did have help from my friends in the village. They could see the advantage of a place where we could meet that wasn't a parental home, the church, or the public house. Though we were in our twenties, most of us were still living in our parents' houses. There just wasn't anywhere for us to move out. Even the smallest village house was beyond our means.

Thanks to my grandfather's foresight, the small cottage still had current planning permission for residential use by a farm worker. It wasn't suitable for a family. There were two downstairs rooms, living room and kitchen and the lean-to scullery that I wanted to convert to a toilet and shower cubicle. Up a ladder from the living room was space for a single bed on a platform. That had a small door, giving access to the upper level of the hay barn. In that door was a window so that the occupant of the bed could see across the top of the barn.

The major task was the water and electricity supplies. Before I could install water I needed a cess pit. Even with help from my family and their farm machinery that cost a lot from my budget. The water came from a link to a cattle trough's supply fifty yards away. The electricity had to be laid in a hundred yards of armoured cable. With all three, I could install the toilet, shower and replace the old cracked sink with a modern kitchen sink unit from freecycle. The solid fuel cooker worked when cleaned.