A Girl's Adventure - full length erotic novel (19 page)

They were looking beyond her, down into the valley, and as she turned she saw the billy goat as he saw her, her naked body polished like copper, gleaming against the pastel landscape. The he-goat seemed to have been waiting there for her, that this meeting was destined, inescapable. The goat remained motionless, a patch of black with curling horns like daggers. The creature brushed the grass below a cloven hoof and pinned her with its onyx eyes. She was frozen to the spot like a terrified rabbit, her knees shaking, her full breasts trembling, exciting the beast.

It took a few exploratory steps and stopped. It was gauging the distance between them. Cold sweat crept down her sides like a living creature. She glanced back towards Richard but he was out of sight behind the trees. She looked back at the fence. The billy goat had taken another few steps towards her. The nanny goats were getting skittish. She thought about taking off and running back the way they had come, but the he-goat was fleet of foot and would catch her. She looked for a stout stick to defend herself. There was nothing. Her lead was wound twice around her waist. She unclasped it and tested the leather, pulling it taut. There was nothing else.

The he-goat had moved to one side, as if to cut her exit to the gate, and she stepped out of the shade to meet it, moving cautiously down the slope, circling the beast as it circled her. As she left the trees, she noticed Richard. He had tethered the mare and was standing in the field, watching her. Their eyes met and he took a hand from his pocket to brush back his dark curls.

She looked back at the billy goat. Now that she had determined to take on the creature, the shaking in her legs had gone. She was a strapping muscular girl, 19, as strong as she would ever be. She stared into the beast’s black eyes. It scuffed the grass, preparing to charge, a bull in the bullring, and she was the matador. The goat’s pink tongue hung through its yellow teeth. It hissed at her and she scuffed the grass, copying its action. The movement made the animal lower its head and finally it charged, drool slipping from its mouth, its horns glinting in the sunlight.

She stood her ground, feigned moving one and moved the other as the goat was about to strike. It charged again and again, and each time she moved away, and each time the beast grew more furious. He was the hunter. She was the prey. He was in rut and she had been chosen. She was sweating and the smell of her sweat intoxicated the creature.

She knew it was only a matter of time before the billy goat struck her down. She needed a new tactic. She moved closer, inching towards the animal, closing the distance between them. When it charged, she went down on her haunches and dived out of the way at the last moment. The goat turned and reared up, goring the side of her thigh below the hipbone. She fell forward on her hands and knees, exposing herself fully. Smelling blood, sensing victory, the beast nudged her legs apart and roared in triumph as it prepared to mount her from behind.

With its forelegs in the air, the goat had lost its edge. She turned in one swift movement and wound the strap around its leg, just above the hoof, and tied a knot in the leather lead. The goat butted her, bruising her shoulder blades, its forelegs sliding down her back, its hooves scratching her skin. But she took the blows, she gritted her teeth against the pain and wound the strap round its other leg.

The he-goat was spitting, its saliva sliding over her bruised flesh. She pulled the strap tighter and used all her strength to push the animal on its side. It spat and hissed as it toppled over. She swung on to its back and it bucked, trying to toss her off, but she hung on to its horns. It struggled on to its feet, but she clung on as it hobbled along, his back legs locked, tied by the leather strap. Finally, the beast fell, crashing to its side. She stroked its head to pacify it.

The animal’s breathing became even, as did her own. The gore on her leg was painful and she watched with disbelief as Richard yanked off his shirt as he approached and tore the white fabric into strips. He licked the blood from her leg and, as he bandaged the wound, she looked down at his pale body and realised he was all skin and bones. While life on the farm had turned her into a strapping, healthy girl, Richard had grown lined and gaunt. He released the goat from it bonds and, though the animal looked shamefaced for a few moments, it quickly revived its sense of purpose and went chasing after the herd of nanny goats on the far side of the trees.

Richard took her into his arms, it needed all his strength, and carried her back to the mare. He placed her into the saddle and they walked back to the beach where he slowly removed the bloody bandage. She swam in the sea and the cold salt water cauterised the wound.

N
EXT DAY
, the billy goat remained cowering in the corner of his stall and drew back as if into its shadow when she entered the milking shed. Greta was sure she could discern a vague look of satisfaction in the beast’s black eyes and realised all it had ever wanted from her was a show of discipline.

‘Look at him, gentle as a lamb,’ said Tom as he swung the three-legged stool from its place on the shelf.

The nanny goats gave more copiously than ever and, after the milking, Richard was waiting for her by the fence. Delilah was saddled and he held Thunder’s reins loosely in his palms. He was slapping the side of his leather boot with a crop and she wondered for a moment if she had been disobedient and was going to get a beating.

Tom led her out to the paddock. He removed her lead and it came as a complete surprise to Greta when he cupped his hands and swung her up on to the pony’s back. Even Grace was knocked for six. The Labrador remained stock still watching with a confused look in her big doggy eyes and then ran along behind her as Greta pressed her knees into the pony’s ribs and followed Richard out of the paddock into the field.

She adored the feel of her breasts bobbing up and down, her pussy opening like a sea shell as she slid back and forth over the pony’s back. It was the first time Greta had ridden for ages but it is something you never forget and riding bare back came as naturally to her as sitting naked beside Richard in The Black Sheep while he had his lunch. Greta wasn’t sure at first whether this treat was a reward for trouncing the billy goat or whether, as she came to suspect, it was all part of the master plan.

It is fortunate that young healthy flesh heals quickly and in the coming days while the wound on her thigh was mending, every morning after the milking they rode for hours over the fields and along the coast. The mare was much faster than the pony but, no matter how hard Richard rode Delilah, Thunder kept up, forcing its spindly legs to keep pace, the perspiration rising from her coat, her mouth frothing with the effort. Greta hung on for dear life and came to admire the pony’s courage and stamina.

One day they took the path along the shingle and out to the lighthouse. They turned towards the rambling blackberry bushes, jumped the low gate and stopped in the shade of the trees on the lip of the amphitheatre.

‘Come on, fast as you can,’ said Richard, and took off.

He was grinning, his dark hair flying behind him as they chased the mare down into the valley and up the steep incline that led to the row of oak trees on the other side. She was wet and sticky with a ripe pony smell when he lifted her down from Thunder. They made their way through the oaks and came to a halt above a long meadow that sloped down to a manor house with marble columns across the façade.

‘Marsham Hall,’ he said, but she wasn’t listening.

She stared at him for just a moment then turned her attention back to the meadow.

Greta could see in the distance a girl harnessed to a trap with a man clinging on to the reins in the seat behind her. The trap was golden like a chariot, so was the girl. Like a goddess. A primitive deity. It was a scene from Greek myth and she just wished she’d paid more attention during classics at school. It’s true what they say: education education education. Her heart was drumming and a tingle of anticipation shot up her spine.

She glanced again at Richard then back at the goddess. She was running so fast her toes barely touched the ground, her breasts pushed out like the figurehead on the prow of a galleon, the chariot bouncing over the grass in such a way that it constantly seemed on the verge of toppling over, but the man swayed from side to side in such a way that it never did. The sight was oddly moving, the naked girl soaring like the wind, free as a bird, the green hills bristling with trees, the sky above blue and cloudless.

The trap came closer before veering off. Greta first recognised the man; it was Gustav. When she saw that the girl straining in the shafts was Amber, everything that had happened since she first met Richard fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle and she could see the whole picture. It was like looking at a surreal painting and understanding the meaning. She glanced at him now. He smiled but he didn’t explain. Richard never explained. But next day after her work a shiny green trap made of fibreglass was standing in the paddock waiting for her. She was so anxious to give it a try her breasts prickled and she had to give them a good hard squeeze to calm herself down.

Richard watched approvingly as he slid the rings on her wrist-straps over the hooks on the shafts. He attached reins to her bridle and climbed into the seat. She took a firm grip on the rubber sleeves that fitted over the shafts and took off up the hill, her shoulders tensing, her thighs straining, her muscles stretching. Ten weeks in Marsham and she was as strong as Boxer in
Animal Farm.
The bit in her mouth gnawed at the tender flesh of her inner cheeks when he wanted her to move right or left but the whip wedged in the shaft at his side remained where it was. He never used it, not even in fun, and she missed the feel of the lash on her bottom. Isn’t that what bottoms are for?

She didn’t ride Thunder any more but like the pony she tried her best to show the same resolve and resilience, the same good nature. She ran faster every day, pulling the trap behind her and Richard steered her over narrow tracks, through gnarled ancient brambles, across the shingle and up the steep hill to the field overlooking the sea where they would come to a rest like climbers on the roof of the world.

Greta drank water from his cupped hands and she would squat to pee because she knew it was something he enjoyed. She was completely herself with Richard. He had taken her to the limits of her fantasy. She had thought once how being a pony was everything a girl could strive for and now she intended to play the role to perfection.

She was up before the sun and milked the goats in darkness. Tom said he was going to deal with the cheese by himself and when he told her to trot over to the Gate House she couldn’t believe her ears.

It was the first time she had been inside the big house and the feel of the Persian carpet beneath her bare feet was so soft it tickled. It was Mr Maddox who had opened the door for her and when Richard poked his head out from another room he held his nose and grimaced.

‘What a pong,’ he said. ‘Do the best you can.’

‘Aye, aye, skipper,’ said Mr Maddox.

Richard was only wearing pyjama bottoms and the sight of his scrawny chest with all the ribs sticking out made the breath catch in her throat. He really had lost a lot of weight and she had more than a sneaking suspicion that he had been starving himself for her. As she’d grown stronger towing the trap he’d grown thinner to lighten the load. Their eyes met for a moment but then he closed the door and disappeared.

She followed Mr Maddox up the wide stairs. Something was happening. Something big. Everybody in those last few days had been rushing about as if on government business and she wished she wasn’t always the last to find out what was going on.

Mr Maddox led her into a bathroom where the shiny porcelain and white towels seemed like objects in a dream after the simplicity of her place in the stable. She spent ages in the bath and watched the windows glow orange as the sun came up. Mr Maddox was as formal as always, the perfect gentleman, and when she stepped from the bath he avoided her blatantly erect nipples as he rubbed her down with one of the big fluffy towels. He was unable to conceal his erection tapping on her leg like someone at the door eager to get in, and she did the only thing a girl could do and released it from the constraints of his grey flannels. She sat on the edge of the bath and Mr Maddox sighed like an old steam engine as he slipped into the soft tissue of her succulent throat. His withered cock became boyish again and when his sperm stroked the roof of her mouth it had the oddly familiar taste of goat’s milk.

‘Oh my. Oh my,’ he sighed and she drained his cock like she was sucking the dregs from the bottom of a bottle of carrot juice through a straw at Pret.

She tucked the little thing back in his trousers and Mr Maddox’s hunched back seemed much straighter when he reached for what looked like a doctor’s bag standing on the chair in the corner.

He watched as she perfumed her parts and coated her body in baby oil, running her long fingers over every crevice and crease, into the crack of her bottom and down between her toes. Mr Maddox removed from the bag a set of leather straps that she stepped into before he buckled the belt at the base of her spine. Where the straps ran under her bottom there was a metal fixture. To it, Mr Maddox attached a chestnut pony tail and when she fidgeted it bobbed jauntily behind her. He had made the tail for her, matching the colour from the lock of hair he’d taken that day she had been beaten so cruelly, the last time she had been beaten, she realised, and the thought brought a rare smile to her wide lips.

She sat in the chair and Mr Maddox groomed her hair, combing it in the same style as the tail. He tied curls on the crown of her head with green ribbon that glowed like her eyes, like neon, like the pony trap. He buckled her into the bridle, then attached a silver disc to her choker with her stage name: Pegasus.

The steam coating the mirror had gone and she studied her reflection for the first time since she’d arrived in Marsham. Staring back from the mirror, and she made the observation without vanity, was a golden being carved and flawless, the bow of her back in harmony with the lush roundness of her bottom, her full breasts perky and sweet, the verdant garden of her pubic hair soft and curly after the bath, smelling fresh without the whiff of the stable. Her wide shoulders were toned and muscular, her long, strong limbs perfectly formed. Even the battle scar left from her fight with the billy goat had faded. Like Amber, she had become a mythical creature. Would she become a legend?

Mr Maddox studied her studying the mirror’s image and did something so moving she would remember it when it mattered most. He took her hands between his palms, looked up into her eyes and squeezed her fingers. ‘Today you will defy gravity,’ he whispered, and she noticed in the corners of his eyes tiny tears magnified by the glass of his
pince-nez
.

Richard appeared in the doorway. It was time to go.

During all the weeks she had been in Marsham she had never seen more than a few people in the village and couldn’t help feeling skittish when she looked out at the crowds pressing across the green. Garbled messages roared from big loud speakers and when she heard a gunshot she would have bolted had Richard not been there, his hand moving to stroke the curve of her back.

She took a deep breath, tossed her mane and followed him down the steps from the Gate House.

There were butterflies in her tummy and she flicked her long lashes as if by the movement all the crowds would flutter away. She remained a pace or two behind Richard and the people as they crossed the green drew to one side with what she thought were admiring glances. With every step she grew more assured, her eyes focused through the blinders, her chin high over her long neck, her movement a study of elegance and grace. She swivelled her hips and tossed her tresses. Her hair gleamed like polished leather, the sun picking out golden threads in her chestnut curls.

The square was crisscrossed with bunting and ringed with market stalls selling costumes and uniforms, whips, canes and objects so strange she had no idea what purpose they could possible serve. The speakers blared and the magpies looked furious striding over the thatched roofs of the cottages. A naked man tattooed from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet was tattooing a serpent on a girl’s leg, its jaws opening over her shaved mount. She wanted to watch but remembered that day in Camden Market when Richard kept hurrying her along and now she was a well-bred girl who didn’t need to be told.

She saw a nanny dressed as Mary Poppins pushing a pram with a man in a nappy sucking a dummy. There was a submissive on all fours yelping like a dog while his partner beat him with the lead. They were enjoying themselves. People were trussed in chains and zipped into rubber, just their eyes peeking out. A naked woman strapped into a quivering dildo passed by on the arm of a man with so many piercings he looked like a giant pincushion. Many of the men wore tweeds with flat caps and binoculars hanging from their necks. But just as many were clad for S&M, leathered like Hell’s Angels, like sailors, like cowboys, and when she heard two men in big hats speaking in a slow drawl she picked up on their Texan accents and recalled Gustav long ago in Hades telling Richard the Americans were coming.

Men, it occurred to her, were attracted to the theatrical and, while many were costumed, the girls were naked, the way girls like to be, their bare feet on the grass, their breasts bobbing, their bottoms tanned and proud as they moved through the throng. She adored being naked, it was the most natural thing in the world, and was happy that day to see so many girls who thought like her, who dressed like her.

There were girls in collars and leads; girls in ballgags and masks; two girls looking magnificent in red headdresses yoked together in a wooden carriage; so many girls with bushy tails harnessed to every conceivable type of wagon and cart. Horses were tethered outside The Black Sheep where men quaffed jugs of ale and around the green traps rumbled over the cobblestones with girls between the shafts, some of those traps merely functional, others to the delight of the crowd performing bizarre erotic acts as they clip-clopped over the path.

Mmm, she thought dreamily, I wouldn’t mind having a go at that.

Greta took a deep breath and enjoyed the country air, the musty tang of sweat and ponies, the gleam of varnish on the polished carts. There was a whole universe of disciplined girls and trainers, masters and slaves, sadists and masochists, people who had slipped out of their shells and were living their fantasy. She wet her dry lips with her tongue and, as she gazed about her, she wondered if there could be a greater pleasure than being there that August bank holiday in the sunshine.