One Afternoon In The Country

Paterson pulled out again and, taking a deep breath, held himself steady for an extra second, a mere half-inch of his erection inside her womb. Then, his breath gusting out of his body, he executed the final thrust, burying himself up to the root, his hands dropping from her breasts to her hip-bones, pulling her on to him with all his strength.

This last invasion finally broke Anthea's self-control. The dam burst and, as she felt him swell inside her for the final time, her climax flooded through her. Flinging her hands behind her, she pulled him by the buttocks to lodge his penis inside her as wave after wave of sensation flooded through her. She could feel his body jerking violently as his seed ejaculated into her and his hot rasping breath seared her shoulder.

Then it was over.

Her arms fell forward, again, to support her on the armchair, and she could feel his penis detumesce inside her, until it flopped out between her legs, and he stepped back from her, releasing her buttocks, so that she dropped forward on her knees on the fireside rug.

Despite the roaring coal fire, her body was now covered with a sheen of icy perspiration and her mind suffused with utter shame. Anthea's hands groped, blindly, for her discarded sweater and slacks, tears welling in her throat.

Instead, she felt a handful of paper tissues being thrust into her hand and whirled her head round to see Paterson standing behind her. He grinned down at her, one eyebrow raised.

"I... uh,... I could do with a bit of cleaning up," he said, quietly, his eyes dropping down his body, where, Anthea realised with shock and disgust, his soft penis was dangling from his trouser-fly, shiny and slimy.

"God, no!" she exclaimed involuntarily, shuddering. "You can't expect me to..... "

"Why not?" he asked, coolly. Then he grinned again, evilly, and added - "If you don't get a move on, you'll be licking it clean!"

"At least, wait until I'm dressed," she demanded, with a flare of resistance and stared, uncomprehendingly, as he shook his head.

"I like you better that way," he murmured. "It ain't cold. You can stay like that for a bit. Now, clean off my dick, then I think you can make me a cup of coffee!"

Tears of humiliation pricking her eyelids, Anthea swallowed hard and wrapped the tissues round Paterson's drooping member, even more acutely conscious, now, of her nakedness. Trying to depersonalise the whole operation, she forced herself to think of it as just an unpleasant task to be got over with.

When she removed the tissues, however, she was horrified to see that it had become half-hard again, but Paterson said nothing as he flopped back into his chair.

She stood up, covering herself with her hands, and Paterson laughed as he tucked himself back inside his trousers, with some difficulty.

"I needed that," he remarked, almost casually, then - "and so did you, from the sound of things!"

Anthea's cheeks burned. This was the worst shame of all - to have allowed herself to come to a climax as this hateful animal rutted inside her. And now he thought that she had enjoyed it, that she was no better than the prostitutes and easy women he was accustomed to having his way with. And, in fact, was she?

He was the only man, other than Hugo, to have made love to her - all the way. The act had undeniably been under duress, without her consent, but could she not have resisted more? She had made only a token protest before removing her clothing, hadn't she? And there was no denying that her body had reacted with pleasure and excitement to his hands playing on her breasts, even while her mind was screaming in outraged protest.

Since the onset of Hugo's impotence, some five years ago, she thought she had adjusted to a life without penetrative sex - no longer needed it. True, as his impotent state worsened, Hugo turned to her less and less frequently when he turned the bedlight out - in fact, she was very well aware that their last mutual sexual contact had been more than six months ago.

She was also guiltily aware that her solitary mid-afternoon masturbation sessions were as frequent as ever. Not that they were increasing in frequency - she certainly did not indulge more than once a week - but she was uncomfortably aware that her principal mental stimulus sprang from Hugo's oft-expressed jocular threat, in the early years of their marriage, to call in the guard at whichever camp they were stationed to "give her a good seeing-to".

The idea had sprung from the Roman emperor, Caligula, and Hugo had seemed to find it stimulating, sometimes going into fairly graphic details of which individual soldiers would be summoned, and what a particular sergeant or corporal would be ordered to do to her - more often than not in front of a queue of other ranks, waiting to take their turn.

As a young wife, she had tolerated this harmless fantasising, for Hugo's sake, since it seemed to increase his enjoyment, but, in later years, her solitary sessions of self-stimulation now encompassed mental pictures of herself in a variety of situations in which she was the helpless captive of groups of men with only one thing on their minds....

And now, the imagined having happened, here she was, naked and helpless, at the beck and call of a man who, three short hours before, she had not known to exist.

Paterson's voice broke her train of thought. "I'll have that cup of coffee now," he said, a hint of impatience in his tone.

Her hands still covering her breasts and belly, Anthea whispered - "Please let me dress. Please! You've done... what you wanted. Why must I...?"

"Because I like you naked," he said, flatly. "You've got a great body and I enjoy looking at it. You've got nice firm tits, a good ass and a great bush."

Anthea's face flamed again. Even Hugo didn't use words like that in front of her. To Hugo, "breasts" and "bottom" were the height of daring - what he would think if he could hear this man referring to her in such terms did not bear thinking about.

Turning on her heel, she rushed into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her and, collapsing on a chair, she let her head fall on to her outstretched arms on the kitchen table, and wept in hopeless anguish.

Suddenly, her breasts were gripped from behind, and squeezed. Anthea screamed and sat up as Paterson pulled her back towards him, his hands remaining on her breasts, toying with them. Bending forward, he nibbled her earlobe and whispered - "You'll have your husband wondering what's going on."

"Let me go, then," she whispered back at him, savagely, squirming to free herself. "If you want your coffee!" she added, viciously.

Paterson released her and looked her over, thoughtfully, as her hands automatically returned to cover herself as best she could. She went over to the kettle and filled it, awkwardly, still trying to cover herself. Paterson's tongue ran round his lips, then he said, a malicious grin playing round his mouth – "What's your husband's name?"

"Hugo," she hissed.

"He must be getting uncomfortable – I think it's time he came down and had a cup of coffee, too," said Paterson.

Involuntarily, the woman covered herself as she whirled round to face him, and he laughed.

"Yeah, OK," he said. "You can get dressed first."

She ran from the room and he heard her go into the downstairs bathroom as he ascended the stairs. The man was awake, staring balefully at Paterson as he entered the bedroom. He was clearly in some pain, but just as clearly determined not to show it.

Paterson crossed to the bed and untied the bonds round the man's ankles.

"Now listen, old man," he said. "You're coming downstairs to have a cup of coffee. I'm leaving in just over an hour and, if you behave, I'll leave you both unharmed and capable of releasing yourselves – eventually. But one wrong move, and I'll do serious damage to both of you."

As he spoke, he was rubbing the man's ankles, restoring the circulation, then he swung his feet to the floor.

"OK," he said. "Stand up."

With difficulty, the man struggled to his feet. Paterson was surprised by how tall he was, dwarfing Paterson's own five foot ten – even in his bare feet. He still had a full head of iron-grey hair, with piercing blue eyes and a long patrician nose, down which he looked at Paterson as if he was something the Brigadier had found on the sole of his shoe.

Without waiting to be asked, he staggered a little, then strode towards the bedroom door and down the steep flight of stairs. Following behind, Paterson caught the trailing rope attached to his wrists and, as the brigadier made for the kitchen, Paterson jerked it and pulled him towards the dining-room.

A polished oak table and six chairs stood in the centre of the room and Paterson pulled one of the end chairs from the table and pushed the man into it. He was in the process of tying his wrists to the arms of the chair, having already secured his ankles, when Anthea entered, carrying a tray.

Paterson marvelled at those fucking Brits. The woman had had five minutes at most and here she was, fully dressed, freshly made up, hair combed, bringing in the coffee-tray as if the pastor had come to call. She put the tray down, then addressed her husband.

"How are you, Hugo?"

The man nodded, once, and she smiled thinly, then turned to pour the coffee.

Paterson realised that this must be more than British reserve – there was a tension between those two. Still, it wasn't his problem.

"Listen," he said. "I'm going to take his gag off – just to let him drink his coffee. No talking – right? You can talk all you like once I'm gone, but one word now and the gag goes back on. Understood?"

He looked at the old man, who stared over his head as if he didn't exist.

"Yes," whispered Anthea. "Yes."

Paterson undid the gag, ready to whip it on again at the first word from the old man, but he stayed silent as his wife approached with the cup and held it to his lips. He drank in silence, but could not stifle the satisfied sigh as the hot liquid revived him.

Paterson also drank, feeling unusually relaxed and peaceful. For a second, he wondered about his feeling of well-being, given that, an hour from now, he'd be back on the run, with the most dangerous part to come, then chuckled as he recalled the probable reason.

He studied the woman as she bent over her husband, tipping the cup carefully so that he could drink. You'd never guess she looked so good, stripped, he thought, recalling her firm breasts and the surprisingly dark V between her strong thighs. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair. Maybe he'd get the old man upstairs again and...

It was just then that the brigadier finished his coffee and, as his wife took the empty cup back to the tray, said, in a voice dripping with ice, "I'll see that you are caught and put away for a very long time, you slimy little man. I don't know what you've done, but..."

But what he was going to say next remained his secret, as Paterson rammed the gag between his teeth and tied it tightly behind his head.

Anthea gave a little scream and ran forward, but Paterson caught her wrist and held her away from her husband. Seeing that Paterson did not intend to visit further retribution on him, the woman relaxed and pulled her wrist away.

But Paterson did not let go. She had put some scent on herself during her lightning visit to the bathroom and, as Paterson inhaled it, his groin tightened again.

He pulled her wrist so that the woman was in front of him, facing her bound and gagged husband. Then his penis rapidly erecting, Paterson reached up with his free hand and deliberately squeezed one of the twin mounds at the front of her sweater.

Instinctively, the woman struggled, but Paterson held her tightly and, leaning forward, whispered in her ear, "Now, you go along with it, baby, or he pays!"

He pressed Anthea's hand against his burgeoning erection, behind her back. It was closed in a fist. "Open it up," he said, and slowly he felt her fingers uncurl and close lightly along the length of his tumescent penis.

Paterson released his grip and gently eased her away from him so that he could look straight at his bound captive. At last, the man was meeting his eye and, for the first time, there was something in his expression other than pure disdain and defiance. Paterson grinned at him.

"Well, I don't know about you, Hugo, but I'm in for a little treat before I go!"

He pulled up a chair beside the man and sat down.

"OK, Anthea," he said, quietly. "I think we'll have the slacks first – this time."

Her eyes filled with mental agony, she looked at her husband, pleading forgiveness, then reached for the waistband of her slacks and undid the button at the top.

"She's got a great ass, don't you think, Hugo?" Paterson said conversationally, as though they were two old chums, watching the show at a strip joint.

Anthea's slacks slid down her thighs and she stepped out of the little pile they made on the carpet. Paterson motioned her to turn round and she acquiesced, woodenly.

With her back to them, Paterson said – "Now we'll take in the beaver, I think – don't you agree, Hugo – old boy!"

But his eyes were fixed on the woman. She hesitated, uncertainly, and Paterson laughed.

"Oh, sorry – an Americanism! We'd like to inspect your pubic hair, my dear – panties off, please."

A chill settled over Anthea's heart but, knowing resistance was impossible, she grasped the elastic of her panties and slowly eased them over her hips and down to her knees. Paterson stopped her.

"Come over here," he ordered, and, awkwardly, her panties just above her knees, she came over and stood in front of the two men.

Paterson leant forward and lifted the bottom of her sweater to reveal her belly. The woman's pubic hair was dense and brown, reaching, in a thick V, almost to her navel.

"Part your legs a little, please," murmured Paterson and, head bowed, Anthea moved her ankles apart about eighteen inches. Paterson raised his hand and slowly caressed the inside of her right thigh, gradually inching his fingers upward until he could feel the ends of the long hairs trailing downwards from her pubes.

Then his index finger touched her vaginal lip and, despite herself, she gasped and her head shot back so that she was now staring upward at the ceiling. Paterson ran his finger along the moist entry to her slit and, as he teased her clitoris to partial erection, he was rewarded by a series of involuntary shivers and intakes of breath.

He slid his finger inside, up to the first knuckle. Her vagina was now more than moist and a trickle of discharge slithered down his finger.

"She likes this, doesn't she, Hugo?" murmured Paterson. His cock was now straining painfully at the front of his trousers, but he forced himself not to hurry things. He had to show this old bastard who was boss here.

"Show us your tits now, Anthea," he said loudly, ensuring his earthy language was heard, and working his finger slowly around the neck of her lubricated vagina. He watched as her hands gripped the bottom of her sweater and pulled it up and over her head. Then her back arched as she reached behind herself for the fastening of her brassiere.

She gathered it and slid it forward, off her shoulders, and dropped it to the carpet.

Paterson looked up.

"Look at her nipples, Hugo," he said. "They're like stiff little fingers. Don't you want to touch them? I do!"

He eased his finger out of Anthea's vagina and reached up with both hands. Sure enough, both nipples were rigid. He ran his finger-ends lightly over them, then, suddenly, closed his hands round her naked breasts and squeezed them.

"Great tits, Anthea. Truly great tits!" Then he pulled downwards, gently, and the woman bent forward and slowly sank to her knees as Paterson held on to her breasts.

But her face was turned to one side, towards her husband, with an expression of sheer amazement. Paterson looked at her, then at the silent man by his side.

He laughed. The brigadier's cock was sticking up like a flagpole out of the front of his striped pyjama trousers.

"Well, it's good to see you still turn him on, too, Anthea. I'll tell you what – if I get tired before I leave, I might let you give him a hand job, just to pass the time! But right now, it's time you did something for me."

Her head whirling, Anthea reached for Paterson's zip and pulled it down. She hadn't seen Hugo like that for many years. She knew it wasn't the sight of her, naked, that had done that to him – it was seeing her being stripped and fondled by another man. It was the realisation of his fantasy – his own wife being subjected to the intimate caresses of a stranger's hands on her breasts and strange fingers invading her vagina.

And now, as Paterson's engorged penis emerged from his trousers, she realised he was about to watch her take a strange man's cock – yes, she thought, that was the word –"cock" – into her mouth, to fasten her lips around it and run her tongue over its glans. And, even as she thought it, Paterson's hand took hold over her hair and pushed her head down.

She opened her lips and, for the first time ever, felt the sensation of a throbbing penis against her tongue. The trickles of moisture emerging from it had a salty taste – not wholly unpleasant, she realised. Then, suddenly, she felt her head being jerked backwards as Paterson pushed her away and stood up, unbuckling his trousers so they fell to his feet, followed by his undershorts.

Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pushed Anthea back to the table.

"Get up there and spread your legs," he said, roughly, pushing her backwards and lifting her at the same time. She felt her bottom touch the warm polished wood of the table, then Paterson was forcing her knees apart, splitting her wide open under his gaze.

His head darted down and, with a shock, she felt his tongue lap urgently at her exposed slit, then his hands were gripping her breasts and he was over her, looking down.

Then she felt the slamming invasion of his rock-hard penis, driving into her with a force and urgency that took her breath away. He withdrew, then drove into her again. She felt her nerve-ends tingle and a hot flush suffuse her entire body. In an effort to prevent him pulling out again, she crossed her ankles behind his driving buttocks and she began to moan repetitively, with increasing abandon, as all her sensations centred in the area between her legs and an unbearable tingle built up as he rode her remorselessly.

Her arms were clamped round his shoulders, her heels digging into the back of his thighs, and suddenly a starburst exploded behind her eyes and a long animalistic scream burst forth from her lips as her entire body shuddered convulsively in a titanic orgasm.

"Oh, you bastard!" she shouted. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me! Harder! In my cunt! In my cunt! Yes – right up my cunt – right up – harder, harder, harder! Oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me – you baaaaaaaaaaaaaaastard!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Paterson's own climax happened somewhere in the middle, but went almost unnoticed as the woman writhed in ecstasy beneath him.

Then, saturated in sweat, they collapsed together on top of the long table.

For long minutes they lay, Paterson still on top of her, motionless, the only sound their harsh, laboured breathing.

Then, suddenly, there was the urgent sound of a car horn.

Paterson shook his head, then leapt to his feet. He looked frantically at the woman, then the man, then, pulling up his trousers, he grabbed his jacket and the small valise he had brought and dashed out of the front door.

The door slammed behind him and, seconds later, the throaty growl of a high-powered engine faded into the distance.

Only then did Anthea raise herself, slowly, on the dining-room table. Her skin was sticking to the wood surface, and she eased herself away gently and lowered herself to the floor.