Dirty Country GirlbyAdrian69702006©
Written specially for publication on Literotica, this short story takes us out of the present and into the past. I hope you enjoy it. Please note, however, that if you don't like stories involving bodily functions it's probably not for you.
Anne settled on the grass of Appleyard's Top Acre field. It was April 1982 and, home from uni for Easter, she was glad to soak in the open spaces and fresh air of her home village which contrasted so sharply with the congestion and claustrophobic conditions of urban Cambridge. Nineteen years old, she was two thirds of her way through the first year of a three year course which, if she worked hard enough, would hopefully lead to a good BA. It was easy to take the spaces and the privacy afforded by the countryside for granted – except when they weren't there.
A satisfying feeling of fullness down below and the escape of an unplanned fart, informed her that sometime soon she'd have to take a dump, but not just yet. One of the pleasures of country life was that one could take an alfresco shit in the woods or the corner of a field without anyone knowing or minding. In fact just the thought of naughtily emptying her bowels in the great outdoors turned her on, more so indeed than contemplating her new boyfriend, or the massive pendulum which hung between his legs. Squeezing a hand inside her jeans, Anne began to stroke her pussy in anticipation of what she had planned for later.
Suddenly, an instinct caused her to stop what she was doing, and she looked up. A vicious looking bull, which must have been hidden behind some bushes when she first entered the field, was glaring angrily at her, head lowered and horns at the ready, looking as though it was preparing to charge. Fortunately close to the hedge, Anne ran with all her might towards the big metal gate over which she'd clambered earlier. Always good at athletics, Anne had never imagined that she'd ever have to vault a five bar gate at top speed but there was a first time for everything! The next few seconds were a blur but, after what seemed like so much longer, her feet hit the ground by the roadside, assuring Anne that she'd reached safety and would live to see another day.
A tingling sensation ran down her spine and a firm, warm sensation surrounded her bottom as Anne realised she was shitting herself. Wetness followed as, frozen to the spot, she began to pee, the warm wetness cascading down her legs and soaking her jeans. Damn! This wasn't what she'd planned at all – in fact it was something rather different. Trying to be philosophical she consoled herself with the knowledge that home wasn't more than five hundred yards away and on the right edge of the village for where she was. At least she wouldn't have to walk through the village in sodden, messy jeans. Also Mum was normally at the Institute on Tuesday afternoons, singing 'Jerusalem' and swapping jam recipes with her friends, so Anne thought she stood a good chance of getting home and cleaned up without anyone being the wiser.
Waddling rather than walking, Anne stroked the front of her jeans, turned on by the sheer naughtiness of what she'd done. Approaching the house she could see no obvious signs of life but, to be on the safe side, decided to creep round the back and enter by the rear door which led into a passage adjoining the kitchen. It had the advantage of being close to the stairs so that with any luck she could slip upstairs undetected.
Once inside, Anne glanced quickly around her and prepared to creep up the stairs. Unexpectedly, and without warning sign to suggest her presence, Anne's mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. Elizabeth Glenning could not fail to notice the sodden state of her daughter's jeans, the guilty expression on her face or the pungent but unmistakable aroma of freshly discharged turds. A thunderous look crossed her face.
"What on earth have you been up to?" she demanded.
Her face crimson with embarrassment at having been found out, Anne realised she had no choice but to tell the truth. It wasn't the sort of mess which even someone of her creative imagination, could 'invent' an explanation for.
"Sorry Mum. I'm afraid I've had an accident."
Anne noted with trepidation that her mother's face was turning white. It was never a good sign.
"An accident? I don't believe it. For goodness sake Anne, you're nineteen years old! Nineteen year old girls don't have accidents. I bet you did it on purpose, didn't you?"
"No Mum. It was a genuine accident. I was in Appleyard's Top Acre and....."
In no mood to hear her explanation, Anne's mother interrupted before she could say anything further.
"I don't want to know, young lady. You're in enough trouble as it is without spinning me any daft yarns. Go to the bathroom straight away, get yourself cleaned up and, have a good shower whilst you're about it. You'll find some clean knickers in the airing cupboard and I think there's a spare of jeans in your wardrobe – or at least there was. Don't think, however, Anne Glenning, that I've finished with you because I most certainly have not!"
Sulkily, Anne ascended the stairs and headed for the bathroom. Never the most even tempered of people, her mother had certainly 'got one on her' today. At forty seven she'd reached an age that could be difficult for a lot of women and Anne suspected that her mother's anger was as much down to a hormonal imbalance as genuine disgust at her younger daughter's behaviour. Surveying the damage, she unbuttoned her jeans and carefully emptied her soiled knickers into the toilet. They were past saving but the jeans, if soaked in that special solution her mother kept for tough stains, might live to see another day. Relieved that there was a full toilet roll on the holder and two more on the cistern, Anne set about the task of cleaning herself up. Prepared for a messy job she was resigned to the inevitable prospect of getting some shit on her hands and having to wash them several times before the smell would go away. After what seemed like half a mile of toilet paper and six flushes of the loo later, she was content that the best clean up job possible under the circumstances, had been accomplished.
After all that wiping, stepping into a nice warm shower was absolute bliss. Lathering herself with that expensive soap her mother liked to buy, Anne relaxed as the lovely warm water cascaded around her, savouring every moment of the experience. Although less than an hour had passed since the unplanned wetting of her jeans, Anne parted her legs and peed as hard as she could, her amber fluid mixing with, and finally being washed away, by the water that cascaded from the shower. For her, peeing was a vital and indispensable part of the showering ritual. She just couldn't shower and not add her own fluid to that provided by the water board.
Clean at last, she towelled down and found the clean clothes. Tidy after a fashion, she crept down the stairs, hoping to slip out again unnoticed. As she strode past the kitchen door, hoping to escape without detection, her mother's voice boomed out, shattering the spring afternoon stillness.
"And where do you're think you're going, young lady?"
"Just out. I won't be long."
"Oh no you're not – not yet at any rate."
"Can't it wait, Ma?"
"No it can't. I want a word with you young lady, if you please."
"Don't come the innocent with me, my girl. You know very well what it's about. Don't let me ever catch you coming in with wet or soiled pants ever again."
Anne glared at her mother in frustration, sensing that a confrontation was brewing yet not wanting to back down either.
"Mum, I've already told you twice it was an accident."
"Why should I believe that? Healthy young women of nineteen don't foul themselves. Julie doesn't and I didn't when I was your age."
"But nothing. I read a magazine article the other week about grown men and women who get some sort of twisted sexual pleasure out of fouling themselves. To be frank with you, reading it made me feel quite sick. Look me in the eye, Anne Glenning, and tell me you're not one of them."
Anne stared hard at her mother.
"And would it be such a big deal, Mum, if I was?"
"Yes it's a very big deal. Do I have to spell it out to you? It's filthy, disgusting, antisocial and shows a complete lack of self control. That's not how your father and I brought you up. What's more no self respecting young man is going to look twice at a girl who fouls herself, is he?"
"As it happens Mum, I've already met someone – at uni."
"What's his name? You might at least have said something."
"He's called Brian and it's early days yet. We've only known each other for a month."
"You must bring him home with you sometime. You'll sleep in separate rooms though. I know what young people are like these days and I'll not have any nonsense in this house."
Anne cast a defiant glance in her mother's direction.
"If you must know we've already done it!"
"We've already done it. If you want to know, he's got a whopper too."
Elizabeth beheld her daughter with disdain.
"You stupid girl! You've no control or self respect. If you get pregnant that'll be your studies up the spout. What's more you could some disease or other if he's been sleeping about."
"Don't worry Mum. We took precautions. Things are different nowadays. What's wrong with a bit of sex if there's a chance to get laid? You're only jealous because Dad's past it and you can't get any."
"Wash your mouth out girl! I've never heard such nonsense and loathsome nonsense at that. Julie would never do anything like that and I don't see why you should either."
"Mum, you don't know the half of what your precious, 'butter wouldn't melt' Julie gets up to. My guess is that right now she's having the arse fucked off her in some fucking hayloft by that youth from the Five Bells."
Elizabeth slapped Anne's face hard.
"Don't you ever let me hear you using foul language in this house again! Go straight to your room and stay there. I'll call you when supper's ready – if I think you deserve any."
"Don't worry, I'm going."
With that Anne fled up to her room, locked the door and flung herself on the bed. Being sent to her room was a punishment she'd once have hated but nowadays there were compensations. Unbuttoning her jeans she discarded them and slid her right hand inside her panties. With two hours to go before supper there was time for some serious masturbation. She could fantasise either about her new boyfriend's cock and imagine it entering her or, better still, indulge her favourite pooping fantasy. Either way, the choice was hers.