Country Pleasures (9 page)

‘You forgot something,' he said, pointing at the log-pile. She bent to pick up a few logs, clutched them in her arms and faced him again, unwilling to leave. They stared at each other for a long moment. He took her jacket and held it open, letting his eyes stray down her red shirt again. Her nipples gave a last, lingering tingle.

‘Next time I'll have to exact further payment,' he said.

‘Thanks. For the logs.'

Janie watched as her mystery-man turned and walked back towards the farmhouse. He kicked open the door and disappeared. Silly to expect him to walk her home, she thought. This was Devon, after all, not Dalston. She squelched through the patch of mud and climbed over the fence, then flung her head back and breathed in deeply. She felt invigorated, like she'd been an old suit of clothes hanging in a cupboard, and now he had shaken her out, moths and dust flying everywhere.

Her feet moved faster through the wet grass at the
edge of the field. She was keeping this encounter to herself for the moment, challenge or no challenge. Sally was more than capable of muscling in and taking Farmer Giles over for herself, and Janie wasn't prepared to let that happen. Not until she'd been back for seconds.

She hitched the logs up in her arms, and started to race back across the sodden field towards the glowing light of the little cottage.

Sally lay on the sofa, stroking her stomach. The rain hissing on the window was making her dozy. Her hand was warm inside her jeans, and she lay there happily absorbing the peace after the chaos of the recent weeks. She couldn't remember when she had last been alone. Janie was great, soothing and admiring company, and staying with her was like stepping into a warm bath. But still, Sally wasn't good at being on her own for long. Not even twenty minutes. And she couldn't bear the silence.

She jumped up off the sofa, feeling slightly dizzy, and went to get the wine out of the fridge. She didn't want to wait for Janie. She poured herself a big glass, then paced round the sitting room, peering out of the windows. There was nothing out there; just a grey sky streaked with a kind of livid white as the day began to die. And branches: branches round the window, branches in the distance, branches punching the air as the wind tossed them.

Couldn't live down here for long, she thought. No cars, no shops, no men. She'd never leave the curtains open once it was dark in London – too many weirdos prowling about – but she didn't feel the same fear here. There was no-one for miles and nothing to see if they
did
peer in. Sally drank some more wine. It swirled comfortably round her skull and the delicious, familiar sense of abandon kicked in. She picked up one of Janie's paintbrushes, which were standing in glass
pots, ready for action. Janie may have looked like she was on another planet half the time, but she always had a project going on. Where was she, anyway? Sally wondered. Had she stumbled upon a gypsy woman selling trinkets? Fallen into a cow pat? Got run over by a tractor? How hard was it to pick up a couple of logs? Sally would have gone out and sawn a couple of those stupid branches off a tree, just to be quick. Janie must have been gone half an hour. The grandfather clock in the hall wheezed, started to chime, then thought better of it.

Sally changed the music, selecting some mournful Mahler. Mustn't go to sleep, she thought. Just try to think. She sat down on the sofa and stroked the paintbrush against her cheek. A project. If Janie had a project, even if it was painting this little hovel, then Sally should have a project as well, otherwise she'd go out of her mind with boredom. She needed to think about something more exciting than playing Babes in the Wood down here. She needed to think about the future.

Her waistband felt tight as she lay back on the sofa, and she unzipped her jeans. She'd been out of work a mere couple of weeks, but it showed. She always ate more when she was idle. She glanced towards the window, and pulled the jeans right off. That was better. Her stomach and legs felt free now, and the heaters had warmed the room so it was perfectly cosy to lie there half-dressed. Besides, she still had on Ben's lovely jumper. Sally tickled the brush over her face again, as if she was applying blusher, then she flicked it up and down her neck. Wonder what Janie would use this brush for, she thought. It was quite thick, with a sturdy handle, but the bristles were soft as kitten fur, still brand new. She'd like to help with the decorating, even
if it was just choosing colours. Janie might not be adventurous enough. They could make this cottage over completely; perhaps get
Cute Cottages
magazine down to do a ‘before and after' feature.

She felt a familiar singing in her ears as a possible new business idea germinated. She scrabbled for her mobile phone, then realised there was no signal down here. That summed it up, really: total backwater. She took another slurp of wine. She'd definitely call the magazine later, from outside, where she could get a signal. She flung herself back into the soft cushions and picked up the brush again, twiddling it like a cheerleader's baton through her fingers before taking the handle delicately between finger and thumb. She touched the tips of the bristles to her leg and flinched as they tickled. She did it again, squirming as her skin became accustomed to the hairy touch, then she flattened the brush over her thighs, sweeping it down to her knees and back again, before flicking the stiff hairs up and down the insides of her bare legs. She started to wriggle about on the sofa as she let her hands guide the brush absent-mindedly. Her jumper rode up her stomach as her hands moved about, and the brush flicked over her knickers. She did it again, feeling the ruffle of her pubic curls. On impulse she ripped the knickers off as well and gasped as the cool air kissed the blonde triangle of curls between her legs. She locked her thighs over her muff for a second, giggling to herself, then parted her legs wider to let the brush explore.

The branches scratched at the window and Sally jumped, but she kept her eyes firmly closed. She wasn't about to be scared by a tree. The front door creaked in the wind and so did the floorboards in the hall, but she knew Janie wasn't back yet.

She started rocking her buttocks on the soft cushions, dancing about on her bottom as the music murmured around her and the paintbrush stroked faster and faster up her legs, over her stomach in circles, and down again, but determined to avoid the crucial spot. For the moment the friction of her butt against the embroidered cushion covers was enough. She would hold the paintbrush away from herself for as long as she could bear it.

Her head started to sway and she stuck the tip of her tongue out to glide across her lips like a cat. She rotated her hips on the cushions, her thighs moving further apart as the paintbrush played between them, still only flicking and stroking. With each stroke of the brush her hips rocked more wildly. The sofa was too soft now. She wanted a hard surface, some discomfort. She supported her weight on her elbows and slid off the sofa onto the floor with a thump. Then she slid both hands between her pale thighs and parted her legs wider, reliving her dancing days. She held the backs of her knees and pointed her toes like a ballerina until she was doing the splits, aware that the shocking pink crevice running between her legs was open now. She could feel the damp slick of her pussy-lips as she eased them apart. Damn this godforsaken place! She wished she had a solid length of male muscle to shove in there. She wriggled herself open and closed a couple of times, relishing the sticky sensations. There was no way she could go for two weeks down here with only a paintbrush for company.

Suddenly, Sally heard another scraping sound. She glanced at the window, the breath caught in her throat. Somebody had decided to answer her prayers – or maybe realise her worst fears. Either way, she wasn't alone after all. Someone was out there, watching her.
It couldn't be Janie, because she wouldn't hang around like that in the garden, she would march round to the front door. The music was too loud to hear footsteps. Although the window was steamed up, it looked like a man, standing in the rose-bed, calmly looking in.

It was her imagination gone wild, she told herself, but despite her alarm she was turned on by the idea. She wasn't afraid. There couldn't be anyone really scary down here. It was just some local, coming past on his way back from sheep shearing, or a tourist getting lost. Give them all something to talk about while they get in the harvest, and give myself a treat into the bargain, she thought. She tossed her head, making herself feel dizzy, then glanced up again. The face was still there. It was definitely male. It wore a peaked cap and had a large unshaven chin. Its mouth was moving, as if saying something, and then there was a tap on the window. Sally crooked her finger at the figure, beckoning it in. The man glanced from right to left, jabbed his thumb sideways, but still didn't move.

Have it your way, she thought. You could be the cottage ghost, for all I care. I'm not stopping now. If anything, this feels even better.

She bent her knees so that her toes were resting on the ground, then relaxed her shoulders into the cushions, and closed her eyes. The paintbrush travelled to the top of her legs, up over her smooth, flat stomach, then hovered over the rise of her pubic mound. The very tips of the bristles picked up the tight curls, and she sighed out loud. Sally wondered what he was thinking. She tried to think of him as Mastov, but that didn't work. Mastov belonged in London, and anyway he was already history. This was someone fresh, and new. She dropped the paintbrush. Her fingers waggled over the soft patch of hair. She tried to keep them back,
tried to tease herself for a moment longer, but the foreplay with the brush and the idea of the man watching were too delicious. She burrowed into the curling nest, crowded her fingers in for a moment, then pulled back, her nails tangling in the blonde hair that sprang over her sex-lips. Keeping her thighs open in the splits meant that all Sally's parts felt exquisitely sensitive and exposed. Every tiny millimetre was visible to the man, and anyone else for that matter, but her legs were aching now. She relaxed her thighs a little.

She snatched up the paintbrush and held it like a spear over the inviting target, made herself wait. Made him wait. Let him look for a little longer. Would he be getting stiff, watching the paintbrush which threatened to stimulate her? Her pussy was aching, twitching and contracting like a sponge being squeezed, the tiny muscles puckering to take something in. Anything.

Sally's knees jerked as her hand tired of holding the paintbrush over herself. She gave in. Gently she started to swipe the bristled head up and down the dark-pink slit while her other hand held her lips open. The bristles bent softly into her contours and made small circles round the bud of her clitoris. Her fingers started to follow the movements of the paintbrush, round and in and out, probing until either the brush or her finger – she couldn't tell which – scraped across the hidden kernel of her clit, making it burst into life and start to throb.

Sally wriggled again, throwing herself backwards as her fingers kept guiding the paintbrush, or rather the paintbrush guided them. The conflicting urges were unbearable, to hold back and to plunge in, and her clitoris and everything around it ached with suspense as the brush dipped delicately between her legs. They
felt puffy now with excitement. She snatched the brush away, touched it around her clit for a second longer, then gradually increased the tempo until, like a bolt of lightning, the paintbrush hit its mark. She imagined the man crashing in through the window, grabbing the paintbrush from her, rubbing it hard against her, making it work her into a froth, then taking out his stiff cock, tossing aside the brush, and plunging his rigid cock into her instead.

She couldn't stop herself. She started to work the brush furiously up and down the raw slit, rubbing and circling her burning clit until she could do nothing except raise her buttocks right off the cushions and thump back down again, her knees flopping wide open and her moans coming loudly in her private frenzy.

Sally's hair tumbled across her face, blocking out the room and the wind and the rain and even the man outside as she flung her head from side to side, still holding herself open with one set of fingers while the head of the brush rotated mercilessly. Its bristles stroked every available part of her, as if it had a mind of its own.

She turned the brush round in her fingers, grabbed the thick wooden handle, and started to slide it in and out, her small arm working like a piston as she thrashed about. Heat building through her, crashing and burning, her arm with the paintbrush flexing to push the blunt handle inside her one more time then relaxing as the flood broke and the juice started to ooze out of her.

The CD clicked to an abrupt end and the branches rapped on the window again. The warmth of the brush and its friction subsided, and Sally opened her eyes blearily as she came out of her trance. The grandfather
clock cleared its throat again. She glanced across the sofa towards the hall, and back towards the window.

It had been her imagination; there was no one there. Time to come to her senses, she thought. She cupped her moist sex, nestling between her loose thighs. Her face flooded with heat, and she drew her legs slowly together. Then she sprang across to the window. She banged her forehead on the glass, trying to see out, but there was no sign of anyone. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She reached behind her, and groped about for her jeans. Her heart was juddering. Where the hell was Janie?

‘Evening.'

It was the face at the window, except he was inside the house now, standing in the kitchen doorway. His arms were folded across his chest as he surveyed the sofa, the cushions, the paintbrush and, finally, Sally, hopping about with one leg still stuck in her jeans. He had a dark-green shooting jacket slung over his shoulder, shiny with rain and specks of mud. His trousers were also dark green, looked soaking wet, and were tucked into chunky mud-caked boots. As far as Sally could tell he didn't have a gun, although he looked the type who would take a shot at a person just as easily as a pigeon. He had the ruddy cheeks and unkempt hair of someone who lived and worked permanently outdoors and cared little about his appearance. His stubby fingers looked as if they would be happiest wringing the necks of rabbits. His eyes were pale-blue, slightly too small, but piercing and now fixed on the spot where Sally had been writhing on the floor with the paintbrush.