Soaed to the Sin

Hannah rode her bicycle back up the gravelled drive following tea with Sir Hugh and Lady Lyanthe. She was in a happy mood, whistling to herself. She had enjoyed a lovely afternoon. Croquet, a walk in the woods and good conversation both with Sir Hugh and Lady Lyanthe. She had also been somewhat sexually satisfied. Hannah was really enjoying how often she was having something firm between her legs, having Sir Hugh and, indeed sometimes, Lady Lyanthe's hands roaming so freely over her body. She liked both the exercise of riding her bike and the sexual exercise. She smiled to herself. Hannah was sure Sir Hugh would tell her all about how sex was good for toning muscles, might go off into some long Freikörperkultur description of Germanic maidens and, most probably, young men exercising naked, stretching and running on the spot in a field, sweaty and hot, before the young men engage in press ups upon the young maidens.

Hannah was thinking of the strict Frau insisting all exercise was done in unison, serried ranks of young men and women engaged in synchronous copulation; taut male bottoms rising and falling; legs and backs straight and rigid, and lovely, equally, rigid penises going in and out of wet young vaginas. She was riding along, thinking of all those connections when it happened.

Hannah came off her bike all of a sudden. Perhaps it was a skid upon the loose gravel, perhaps her foot slipped on a pedal, but she was over and on the ground in a trice, right by the entrance gate. She lay momentarily winded and confused, knowing there would be quite a bruise to leg and buttock. Had she done any more damage?

All at once over her a shadow. Hannah looked up, squinting. It was Bradshaw the gardener, reaching to help her to her feet. She was not too worried at what he had seen, her dress had certainly become pulled up and she had been lying in not exactly a dignified way. He would have seen everything!

"You've hurt yourself, miss. Your knee. Anything else?"

Hannah felt herself all over. Her dignity and composure and her joy at cycling had taken a bit of a battering, as had her bum and knee, but nothing was broken and her head had not hit the ground, she thought. No concussion then.

With a scooping motion, Bradshaw picked her up and carried her to his lodge. She had just had tea but, inevitably, the kettle went on. Tea, warm water and Dettol, the antiseptic making the water go cloudy like milk and the smell coming clean and soothing to her nostrils.

She sat with one knee up, foot on a low stool, so Bradshaw could bathe and clean her knee. He had told her to sit like that. Knees are used to being grazed. It happens a lot to children. A younger Hannah, having been a bit of a tomboy, had had permanently grazed knees, sometimes covered with half peeling Elastoplast - sometimes not. In that position her dress had ridden half-way up her thigh. She was aware, very aware, the old gardener already knew she was knickerless. Would he ask why? They were still in Sir Hugh's pocket.

Despite large and calloused hands, Bradshaw was surprisingly gentle with Hannah's knee. A fair bit of blood staining the cloudy warm water in the bowl, as he dabbed and washed with a cloth. Dried and only bleeding slightly he peeled the paper from a large Elastoplast and smoothed it over the graze.

"There's we are, miss." He bent and kissed the plaster just as her mother might have done when she was a little girl, his curled beard brushing and tickling her skin, his hand resting upon the smooth skin of her thigh, well above her knee. Hannah was not at all sure the movement had not been to bring his eyes down and take a peek up her dress. "Accidents happen," he said rising to his feet, "let's see how it supports you, miss."

Hannah was surprised to find that whilst she could walk, she had a bit of a limp.

"Come, lean on me and we'll go for a little walk. Do you good."

And so, Hannah found herself being given a tour of Bradshaw's domain whilst leaning upon him. She was sure the old boy was taking great pleasure in having a young girl leaning against him; he even had his arm around her waist by way of support. Only thin material between her tummy and his big hand.

The old potting shed, brick and pantiled, had a strong earthy smell when they stepped inside.

"Here's where I does me potting on and seed plantin'. Good strong seed in fine steamed loam with a light covering o' compost; or taking them young plants by their leaves and easing they into fresh good compost. Used to be several men back in Sir Hugh's grandfather's day. Aye, woomen too. Best to be potting with a wooman."

"Really, why?"

There was not that much light in the shed or perhaps it was because the light had been so bright outside, but Hannah saw Bradshaw's teeth flash. "Ah well," he said, "those wpomen were a bit free and easy with their favours, you might say. Catch a young gardening lad in here for an afternoon's potting and..." the teeth appeared again. "Had me first - ah, well, yes - right here. Mrs Sowerby, she the head gardener's missus, bent herself right over the potting bench and told me to 'do me best.' She was a right one. Mind you, so was he with them young maids up at the hall!"

"Oh... really, Mr Bradshaw. And did you, um, do your best?" The sudden revelation had caught Hannah a little off guard.

"I'd been taught well," again the teeth, "You's need to learn a lot in gardening. Theory and practice. T'other gardeners had told me all about the theory - I just had to put it into practice!"

"What sort of theory, Mr Bradshaw."

"Don't go a' it like bull in china shop for one; pace yerself, treat the lady with respect; like you let a wooman go through a door first make sure she do come first!"

Hannah laughed. She had very much warmed to Bradshaw. Was he about to bend her over the potting table and 'pot' her?

Out again in the sunlight Bradshaw took her to the vegetable garden; like so many old country houses it was walled and delightfully sheltered. Hannah was delighted by the profusion of strong plants. She asked about Bradshaw's secret and how to make the garden grow.

"Shelter and good compost." He went into quite an explanation of compost making taking her over to see the compost bins. They were old and brick built. "Regular turning and plenty of urine. Good, sweet compost for the garden."

"Urine?"

Bradshaw explained about the importance of nitrogen whether from nitrogen fixing plants like beans or from other sources. "I always pees on the compost. All they old gardeners did."

"And the women?"

"They just climbed up and... thar's the thing about skirts, preserve modesty even if we men get todgers out."

But it was not like that, not at all for Hannah when she climbed up atop a compost heap. Plentiful tea had brought on a natural outcome. Tea with Lady Lyanthe and more with Bradshaw. Her pose caused her dress to ride up her thighs and she knew she was as exposed in her raised position as she had been when she fell from her bicycle. Bradshaw was looking right up her dress at her open thighs. But she wanted to pee. She felt very much like the music hall song about 'I sits among the cabbages and peas.'

Bradshaw's eyes were bright as he watched the sudden appearance of the tinkling stream. It was a pretty full one.

"Ah, yus, tinkle tincture. Thars good for compost!" And Hannah watched wide eyed as Bradshaw fumbled with the buttons of his corduroys and brought out his 'todger.' It was substantial in his hand. Was it always like that or... As Bradshaw's stream started, he took his hand away and both of them were peeing freely. Hannah's splashing down before her and Bradshaw's... well the stream was rising up the compost heap, gaining height - and Hannah could very much see why. The old boy's cock was erecting before her very eyes - as he peed it was lengthening, thickening and rising up. Where her pee and his pee were hitting the compost were coming closer and closer together until Bradshaw's stream was splashing in the same place upon the heap as her own stream. Two hissing streams meeting just like two lads might do together, but this was a man and a woman. It was strangely sexual. Not least because Bradshaw's cock had grown and firmed Hannah wondered if this had been a ritual in the garden from long ago. The gardeners standing with their todgers out and at the ready seeing who could shoot the highest. Or maybe the women squatted upon the compost heaps drew up their skirts rather more than needed to display their charms and enticed all those 'todgers' into high fountaining.

Bradshaw gave a shake to his now stiff penis. It curved impressively far forward. It was not a small one - it had been nurtured with good compost, no doubt; kept warm and sheltered and encouraged to grow. He saw Hannah looking closely and took his hand away, "If your rhubarb's far too forward, simply bend it back!" He helped her down from the compost heap. She felt a lot more comfortable now.

In a corner of the walled garden, a series of greenhouses. Bradshaw opened a door for her. It was hot in the greenhouse and she said so.

"Yus, I often works naked in here. Very hot. Best for growing all sorts o' fruit. Exotic fruit. Melons - I likes me melons plump and juicy. I remembers the girls workin' in this very glasshouse stripped t' waist. Fine pairs o' melons and cherries!"

Bradshaw had not put his penis away, perhaps it was difficult whilst erect. Her eyes kept dropping to it. It was so very there. A pink cucumber - to stick with the fruit similes; a 'ridge cucumber.' she thought. She had heard the term and Bradshaw certainly had a very pronounced ridge all the way down the very visible underside of his erection. She might well have a bit of a swelling where she had hit the ground falling from her bicycle. Bradshaw had no such excuse, but he certainly had a very substantial swelling.

It was not just vegetables and fruit growing in the greenhouses but exotic flowers - cut flowers to decorate Mumble Hall.

"They're beautiful," she said, "what a scent in the air."

"I likes to poke me nose between petals 'n sniff t' perfume. So feminine, so pleasin'. They blooms there in them pots be good uns too." Bradshaw's hand swept his hand downwards in the direction of a whole row of pretty pink flowers growing strongly out of the terracotta pots set upon the damp stone flags. There was a sudden tenseness in him. An anticipation.

Hannah knew just what would happen when she bent to smell the scent of the flowers. She knew the old gardener would be unable to resist. She felt, really, she was encouraging him - and why not? Hannah bent at the waist bringing her nose right down to the clay pots and the beautiful flowers there upon the greenhouse floor, knowing that her flower would bud and blossom between her legs as she bent. Her petals would open, and the way would be shown clear. It would not be a bee or a moth taking sperm from his stamen to her pistil - it would be the mammalian way of penis inside vagina. Hannah knew just what would be pushing between her petals - something very much more substantial than a bee or a moth. And, of course, she was right.

Perhaps it was the way of gardeners. Perhaps the ways of gardeners in that garden and greenhouse - or just men at Mumble Hall. Sir Hugh had penetrated her earlier that afternoon and it was happening again. Her vagina was all at once filled by a substantial penis and it was not holding still. Firm, calloused, hands on either side of her hips, holding them through her dress, perhaps giving her extra support given her weakened knee. The reality she now had no less than seven points of contact securing her from falling - her feet on the flags, her hands holding the low brick wall of the greenhouse beyond the pots, Bradshaw's two paws upon her hips and, of course, his cock inside her.

It was not an unwelcome entry. It was not really forced. Not at all. Hannah closed her eyes and let herself become lost in the feelings emanating from her sex, the lovely scent in her nostrils and the repetitive wet, squelching sound of human sexual intercourse. So good to feel that transmitted pushing and pulling moving her clitoris. Would it be impolite to assist by touching herself - jilling a little with a finger or two on her protruding little button? She could spare a hand.

The rugged old cock kept up a steady rhythm, corduroy touching her bottom and then moving back and away, only to return again. What would her mother think of her, allowing two rather mature men to have their ways with her, all in one day. Hannah, though, was loving it - being well poked. Moreover, she felt her orgasm building - the one she had missed when she had, and she had liked that, emptied Sir Hugh's penis into her mouth in the stream. The pain in her knee - and elsewhere - forgotten, the sexual feelings and pleasure acting as a pain-reliever. Indeed, above her, Bradshaw started talking about a 'balm.' Whilst he had put 'Germolene' on her it was a rather different product he was applying to her cervix. Hannah could tell not only by the exhalations of pleasure but could feel the 'balm' spurting - being applied. She smiled - he was certainly being generous with the stuff.

When Hannah rose to her feet, Bradshaw had already tucked his penis away in his corduroy trousers - it was presumably now a lot easier to do that than it had been at the compost heap! As her dress fell around her hips there was nothing to show what had just happened. Indeed, neither she nor Bradshaw referred to the sudden act of copulation - it was as if it had not occurred; only there was a rather lot of the old gardener's stuff up inside her. And what goes up must come down.

Hannah said she needed to be going, needed to get back home. Bradshaw insisted she visited him again as there was more to see and he would wish to check upon her knee again. Hannah was sure there would, indeed, be more to see - and was sure there would be more than her knee Mr Bradshaw would wish to inspect. She could not imagine she would not end up naked in the greenhouse with Bradshaw at some point. Plums might not be in season, but she rather suspected he might have a couple stored away, perhaps rather wrinkled but considerably larger than raisins. And he might show her how to squeeze melons to see if they were ripe. And were those not aubergines she had seen further into the greenhouse, smooth and glossy, with squeaky skin, purple and swollen - undeniably phallic? Hannah was sure she would be seeing Bradshaw's aubergine again - certainly swollen and with the knob undeniably purple!

Bradshaw waved her off at his door, hoping his ministrations had been of assistance. Hannah assured him of her gratitude and went to pick up her bike. She had even gone so far as to thank him for his 'special balm.' It had made her feel better. His face, or as much as you could see beyond his beard, cracked into a multitude of wrinkles as he beamed with pleasure, his white teeth evident once more.

There had been a lot of 'balm' and Hannah felt it doing just what semen does - some of it was coming out and not only keeping her very moist but was running down her legs. She had thought it a considerable ejaculation - it was now evidencing that it clearly had been just that. Hannah did not want her dress, her red polka dot dress, getting semen over it, perhaps if she draped it over the saddle rather than sitting upon it... but even so... , she took a quick look around but Bradshaw had disappeared, so she put her hand between her legs and scooped up what she could. She had not handkerchief, no little packet of tissues or anything, so she did rather what she had done with Sir Hugh - she pushed her fingers into her mouth and sucked and licked ensuring - like Sir Hugh's semen - it went down to her stomach. She repeated the act a few times, even pushing fingers up herself before sucking on the bunched fingers very much as if they were a penis.

Behind the curtains old Bradshaw watched, even drew his penis out from his corduroys again but despite the erotic sight could not get any sort of swelling. His teeth appeared again in a wide grin. He would most definitely find the opportunity to push his cock, suitably erect and firm, into that lovely young girl's mouth another day, and let her swallow his cum. It would be good to see her lips wrapped around it - his big banana!

It was the very next day that Hannah returned to the hall, at the invitation of Sir Hugh and Lady Lyanthe, of course. Upon her knee a fresh sticking plaster. Naturally, Sir Hugh asked about it; what had happened and was suitably commiserate as he poured tea. Hannah had explained how Mr Bradshaw had been kind enough to help her; had washed and dressed her knee. Hannah even raised the hem of her yellow stripey dress to show Sir Hugh her bruised thigh and bottom, lifting the back of her knickers upwards to show the bruise. It was dark; the yellow would come later. It was not really a pretty sight - unlike the matching yellow striped knickers which Hannah thought very nice. So did Sir Hugh! Hannah felt that as Sir Hugh had seen her naked before and indeed had copulated with her not a few times, it really did not matter showing him her knickers and bottom.

"Did Bradshaw see?" It was the knowing way Sir Hugh looked at her that caused Hannah to look down at the floor and then reveal all about the encounter, not least the penetration of her by the gardener and her own orgasm. Sir Hugh was amused by her description of what had happened at the compost bins and Bradshaw helping her down after her wee, with his big penis curving up out of his trousers.

"And what did you think of Bradshaw's cock? I presume you did rather see it."

Hannah's eyes dropped, "Yes, Sir Hugh, it was rather fine - like yours, of course." It was true both Sir Hugh's and Bradshaw's rather put some former boyfriends to shame. Sir Hugh said nothing, and she rather thought she needed to go on, say something more about the gardener's penis. "Err, it does rather curve upwards and has quite a ridge underneath - I thought it was perhaps a ridge cucumber!"

"Ah, Bradshaw would like the comparison. He is proud of his produce."

"He's got a large knob, a big plum indeed, with a pronounced ridge at its edge," she giggled, "all purple like an aubergine!"

"Ah, you did look closely at his cock - excellent observation - the coronal ridge. A feature of the human penis. A fine architectural or aesthetic feature, I suggest, but it does also have a particular function, or so a theory would have it."

"Really?" Hannah had the feeling, or rather certainty, Sir Hugh was about to lecture her again.

"If you would be kind enough to bring out my own penis, we shall take a look."

Hannah was not loath. Ever since her meeting with Sir Hugh when she had first seen his penis - an almost accidental sight when they had been drying their clothes having got, literally, soaked to the skin - she had found herself almost fascinated by it. She was suspicious, in some way, Sir Hugh had hypnotised or tampered with her mind, but it was all so nice to visit Mumble Hall, take tea with Sir Hugh and Lady Lyanthe, and - do things - that she really did not care at all. She was now familiar with undoing Sir Hugh's buttons and extracting his penis. It had already firmed somewhat, and it was a matter of a little fondling and a few judicious strokes to bring it to full stand. She squeezed the shaft accentuating the knob and making it darken. Hannah could not help moistening her lips. She was finding Sir Hugh's - indeed penises generally - were doing that to her. She wanted to suck them. Her finger traced around the bottom edge of Sir Hugh's knob, a darker band where the penis overshot the shaft - the edge of the German style 'Coal Scuttle' helmet. A delicate touch, it swelled the more in response.