Old Farmhouse - La Vielle Maison de Ferme Pt. 01

The weather was stifling; so hot and so still. The heat just hung in the air as Françoise made her way through the long grass, brushing the tall standing flowers with their attendant buzzing bees. Her dress floated around her, barely touching her skin beneath, but even so it felt just so hot. Turning at a clump of gorse she made her way along the old track, barely a footpath now but thirty, perhaps more, years ago a busy cart track to the various farms that had dotted the hillside. No more, there was not the money in farming and so many of the young people had headed for the city and its bright lights and easier money.

Françoise turned again and then again, climbing once more but no longer on a track though certainly with a clear destination in mind, into the shade of young trees that would never have been permitted to grow there in the past, the shade pleasanter, cooler and out of the sun. Stooping, a little further on, she made her way on her knees through brambles on a path she had cleared by herself through a thicket of brambles. It had been an afternoon's scratchy work with many a sucking of fingers and thumbs as the pinpricks of bright red blood had come.

Her goal was the old farmhouse she had seen and been looking towards ever since she had come out into the long grass; an old ruinous farmhouse sitting in what had been a field seemingly walled off from the outside world by the thicket of brambles growing all around it. Years of bramble growth showing all green with white flowers to the outside world but inside a twilight tangle of new stems and dry, brown old growth, all with sharply pointed thorns. The earthy smell beneath the bramble cover and the layer of shed dried leaves almost made her sneeze before she reached her goal: she climbed up and over an old window sill and through an open shutter into the house.

All was quiet and still, just as it had been when she had first made it, weeks before, through the brambles to the window with its loose shutter and into the abandoned house - her house now: not that she lived there or could live there. What would her parents have said, what would the village have said if she had set up home there? Quite impossible. It did not even belong to her family, abandoned or not.

But it was hers; Françoise's discovery; Françoise's domain; Françoise's house.

The loose blue dress that had accompanied her slipped to the floor. It was cooler in the shade of the house but nonetheless hot and Françoise had no need of clothes; she revelled in being naked and alone. Shoes kicked aside, underclothes dispensed with, Françoise climbed the old stairs without a scrap of material on her body. Solid enough. Abandonment had not led to the roof falling in; the place was well built and still almost habitable.

One naked foot on one tread and then the other on the next and Françoise moved upwards leaving her clothes behind. At the open window of the front bedroom, the bigger one, Françoise stood unashamed at her nakedness, revealing all to the valley, only she knew with the bright sunlight pouring down even someone in the field could not see her, the window opening would appear dark against the white of the stone walls. She would be invisible, seemingly revealed but not revealed. Françoise leant against the side of the opening looking out, feeling a hint of a breeze but knowing it was just the movement of air drawn in that one window and out another. Not a real breeze but cooling on her skin, even so. Françoise closed her eyes feeling happy and peaceful. The afternoon stretched ahead of her. Time and more to enjoy being naked and alone; free from the requirements and constraints of family and village; free to be herself and let her thoughts roam.

Her fingers touched her left breast, stroked across the nipple. Françoise with her eyes still closed, smiled. Why did that feel so good? A bead of sweat trickled down her side. That felt strangely good too. Normally it would have been an irritation but now the sensation seemed magnified and pleasurable, a gossamer like touch to her skin. Françoise raised her other hand and touched her other breast. Exciting to do that in open view, even if it was not. If she opened her eyes she could see for miles but she knew no one could see her. There was no one to see the young girl fingering her own breasts.

A long sigh, as her fingers moved down her stomach. Lovely to feel her fingers on her sun warmed skin. She opened her eyes and regarded her hands. What, she wondered, would another's hands feel like? Rather different and better was her expectation. She had certainly thought of sharing the old farmhouse with another, imagining being there with another girl, both leaving their clothes below and climbing naked together to the upstairs window. Perhaps sitting either side in the opening, perhaps even daringly with one leg each dangling and touched first themselves and then each other. Making each other feel so good. Perhaps, again and better, being there with a boy, perhaps sitting either side of the window and touching... touching... Françoise felt a surge of excitement. One thing to touch a girl and feel another touching her as she touched herself: rather another thing altogether to have a boy touching her and she touching his, his...

Françoise settled herself into an old chair just by the window. A simple wooden chair, perhaps one of many the farmer or the farmer before him or the farmer before him had bought, or made, and used. It was the best of those left in the house. She liked the feel of her bare bottom on the rush, liked the way she could sit with feet and ankles on the window sill and with legs spread touch herself where she got wet.

She did just that as the sun poured in at the window, making her breasts and hips hot yet with her head in the shade. Her fingers moved from stomach to curls. Funny how hair grew there in a wide curly, dark triangle. It had not been like that once, but now, all of eighteen years old, there it grew thick and luxuriant. Hair on her head, hair under her arms, hair around her... but nowhere else. Why? Men were different.

Françoise touched. So soft within the hair - and so wet, as she had known it would be. That had been coming ever since she had started walking through the long grass. Anticipation. She had known what she would do. Françoise closed her eyes and surrendered to the feelings.

Satiated in a very female way, for a time, Françoise set to work at her self-appointed tasks, not really making the farmhouse ready for occupation again. That was rather too much but at least starting to clear away years or decades of dust and decay. She worked with a will. The work was after all her own.

Dust smeared and perhaps a little sweaty - or a lot - from her exertions, not that there was that much to see from her efforts, Françoise drew water into a pail. The old hand pump worked after a fashion and still could draw water up from the well deep below and bring it splashing out crystal clear and cold. Despite the heat it was still a shock to empty it over her head and do the same again, the water cascading and bouncing on the old brick floor. Damp but clean the girl ascended the stairs once more to dry in the sunshine of the window, luxuriating in her nakedness and ready to play again, her parts refreshed and glowing from the sudden splashing of cold water.

Plenty of time still to touch and arouse herself. Plenty of time for her fingers to tease her nipples, mould her breasts, swirl around her tummy button before seeking between her thighs. Once upon a time she could barely get a finger in herself but now, when her excitement rose, it was all four fingers. Françoise was a country girl, a girl used to farm animals, she knew just what she was pretending to do and what her fingers were pretending to be when she pushed them in. After all that was what was in her mind. A little cry, enough to disturb the peace surrounding and in the old farmhouse, as Françoise came again.

Another week under the scorching sun went by and, again, an afternoon found a girl walking through the long grass. Françoise had returned for another afternoon in her secret place, her farmhouse, the place where she could be naked and alone. A turn at the gorse bush, an approach through the saplings and then into the hidden tunnel through the brambles, up and over the window sill and into the cool of the house; everything just as she had left it.

Ritually she dispensed with her clothing as she entered her secret place. Dress, shoes, underclothing discarded. Her hands touching her breasts straightway, her budding, growing breasts with her already hard nipples.

Lovely to feel so free, unhampered by clothes. It was a summer feeling of course. It would be quite different in the winter. She would not be coming to her house then, neither taking her clothes off nor sitting in the window gazing out over the country as the wind blew, still less dousing herself with the cold water from the pump. 'Non, certainement!' But, for now, it was lovely. So good to ascend, see her window framing the countryside and walk towards it and look out. Françoise could see her path through the long grass. She would like really to walk, nay run, through the grass naked but for her hat, feel it brush against her. Perhaps throw herself down and open her legs to the sun. But she dared not. So unlikely anyone would see her, but you never knew. Safest to play only in her house, where it was secret and no one came.

Up the hill, when walking, she had always felt herself alone but there could so easily be someone sitting or watching from the shade of a tree. Perhaps a man and what might he do if he saw a naked girl running through the grass? She knew about men. Her mother had warned her to be careful. 'Keep your eyes averted, be modest, do not inflame their lusts.'

She had been warned against men young and old and particularly against the village blacksmith. Her mother had said he had a 'reputation' but had not enlightened her more. A dark and swarthy man with a gold earring, massive and strong with flashing white teeth. She could see he was attractive to women. She felt it herself. Had thought of him stripped to the waist - or more - perhaps at his forge beating at metal. Strong and male, sweat gleaming and 'things' swinging. Yes, she had thought of 'that' too.

The idea of being out on the hills naked so tempting, but she dared not. She could only be herself in the safety of her hidden house, naked and sexual.

As she liked to do, Françoise sat in the window, knowing she was invisible against the darkness of the room. More risky to let a naked limb dangle; someone across the valley or nearer to might see it hanging there though, perhaps mistake it for brambles or the limb of one of the young trees growing close to the house. In her mind the blacksmith. What would it be like to have him with her there and naked? Her mother had warned her but what if Françoise had been a witch, able to avoid the dangers of men, control them whilst - what had been her mother's phrase, 'inflaming their lusts.' Perhaps physically binding the blacksmith or just having him unable to resist because of the spell she had cast. A toy for her to play with. What would he look like stripped naked? What would his manhood look like? Big and hairy she thought. She would like to feel.

Being there, being naked and her thoughts were having the effect she desired. She could feel the wetness coming but it was not yet time to touch. She had something new to try first. In her basket her flask of water. A swig, and then she reached for the other bottle, stoppered with a cork. A small bottle of fragrant, green olive oil. Her thought had been to pour and rub it into her skin. Back at her window she did just that, un-stoppering the bottle she poured it between her breasts and watched the oil run down over her stomach and into her lower hair. Re-stoppering she put the bottle down and began her play. Before her breasts had been slippery with sweat, or water from the pump but the olive oil, as she had surmised, added a whole new slippery, sliding tactile experience. In her mind soon came the thought of oiling a man, making him slippery and shining. Perhaps the blacksmith, indeed. And what would she particularly like to oil!

Her fingers soon found their oily way to her sex, moving easily around, stroking, pulling, pushing - it was no difficulty at all getting first one and then two and three fingers into herself, her entrance relaxed with the oil and her own very natural lubrication. The thought in her mind of a nicely oiled pénis going in, not that she had ever seen one in its tumescent state. She could only imagine from what she had seen of her young brothers in the bath or the animals in the field. She had certainly seen those of the animals in that state. What it would be to cast a spell over the blacksmith and find out - with oily hands indeed!

The splish, sploshing sounds of fingers going in and out of her - perhaps just the sounds men and women made together when copulating - overlaid the buzzing of the bees from outside. Françoise swivelled on her bottom on the sill and opened her legs wide, letting the sun's rays really warm her open sex as her hand worked. Françoise knew she was invisible against the black window, but she felt she was showing her sex to the whole world. A shudder, an increased flicking with her thumb at the lovely, ecstatic feeling came, all shivering like, through her body.

"Phew!"

Phew indeed. What a release. Not that she would not still have been happy to have played with the spell bound blacksmith. She knew what the male did in intercourse, knew about the male climax, knew about the passing of semen from bull to heifer, ram to sheep, dog to bitch, man to woman but really... coming from the same orifice as urine? What was it like? Did it come like urine? Thinking of which...

It was clearly a bad thing, not something she had thought of before but positioned as she was no difficulty to just release and watch her own flow rush out in an arc, sparkling in the sunshine to fall down to the brambles below.

Françoise turned, her voiding complete and paused. A frown came to her. The chair she had sat in the week before with feet on the window sill was not where she had left it. She was sure, well pretty sure. And, down below in the dust on the floor what were those marks as if someone had spilt milk, not a lot, just a few dried drops spreading outwards across the floor. A chill went through her. Had someone else been in her house?

There was nothing, though anywhere else to suggest she was not the only person who came to the old farmhouse. Nothing in the other rooms. It disquieted her for a time, but the more she thought, the less likely it seemed. Why would anyone come to the old farmhouse? The brambles prohibited entry and she had been careful to hide her tunnel entrance. She had not thought the tunnel had been disturbed though she would be careful to lay a few tell-tale pieces of dried bramble behind her so she could see if they had been moved when next she came.

It did not prevent her having a second play before she left for the day. A play begun with her skin almost stinging from the cold water from the pump. A play when she moved from her chair to being naked on all fours on the floor imagining herself like the heifer and bull, but with the blacksmith, his golden ring through his nose rather than his ear, climbing onto her back, acting the big bull, pressing her down as his big pénis (her fingers bunched in fact) pushed into her. It was a second good 'feeling' leaving her slumped on the floor and needing another dose of water to wash away the dust. It was a pink and shining Françoise that emerged into the field and the sunshine, having set old bramble sticks as a tell-tale and covered up her tunnel. The coldness of her dousing lasted a few metres only before she was feeling the heat of the late afternoon sun warming her once more. Half way down the hill she was perspiring again and thinking of that pump, her dress sticking to her once more.

Françoise was thinking of the pump again when she toiled up the hill the next week. Toiled was not perhaps the right word as the effort was so very much worth the effort. Her thoughts of being naked once more and pleasuring her body in the privacy of her farmhouse. She was being daring. Her underclothes had been left behind. There was nothing under her blue dress and it gave a remarkable feeling of freedom; nothing between her thighs. She was almost tempted to pull the dress over her head and walk the last few metres before the turning in just hat and shoes. Almost...

Her worry about the tunnel being disturbed was quickly assuaged - there was no disturbance to the hidden entrance or the carefully placed sticks. Françoise even drew in the hiding brambles behind her. Inside nothing had changed. Despite thoughts of the pump and the cooling water as she had walked up the hill, she left it alone, wanting to check the whole house first. The chair was where she had left it in the bedroom and even the scuff marks in the dust from where she had pretended to be a heifer the week before were undisturbed. She could even see marks where she had dripped in her excitement. She would shortly be dripping again!

Relieved Françoise looked at the other rooms. A smaller bedroom looked up the hill, Françoise stood for a moment or two and then slipped her dress off. Normally she left it downstairs, an almost ritual disrobing as she entered. This time she would leave it and her shoes in the smaller bedroom and close the door. Wherever she went in the house she would not see her clothes. She might even venture outside down the bramble tunnel and walk free for a few metres. Without sight of her clothes it would be as if she was really without them. A rather exciting thought. Françoise simply naked.

Should she visit the pump or just sit and play? She chose play. As was her habit she sat with her naked bottom on the window sill in the large bedroom looking out. She let her left leg hang from the window feeling the warmth of the old stone wall against her skin; her hand dropped to her sex and lightly stroked. How good to have the whole afternoon stretching ahead of her; no one to disturb her; to be naked, aroused and so free. Gently she touched her 'little button.' It was not yet really wet or standing. It would be. Françoise smiled, it would be for most of the afternoon. She would see to that, all wonderfully alone.

All at once, down below, a sound came up the stairs and through the doorway, the sound of the pump being worked. Never before had she heard any sound from the house. It had been a house of hot, sultry, dusty silence. The only sound from her and insects without. Françoise drew in her leg and in a continuous fluid movement was on her feet. The sound coming to her ears of splashing water. Françoise was out of the room on bare, silent feet and into the small bedroom to her clothes. She pushed the door almost shut. Luckily the hinges were silent. No sooner was she inside than she heard footsteps on the wooden treads of the old staircase. A feeling almost of panic rising within her.

Françoise could see it was a man ascending the stairs, his body wet and shining from his dousing with water, a wash like she often took before coming up the stairs. He was young and, moreover, completely naked. Françoise's eyes were wide and not just in shock. At the top of the stair he paused, his eyes looking past where Françoise was peeking through the crack in the door, his eyes focused on the front room and the window, towards where the sun was streaming in, now that, of course, Françoise was not obstructing the light. Françoise stood completely unmoving, not making a sound. Two people standing completely still, both stark naked perhaps a metre apart, but only one aware of the other.