English Pub Landlady Ep 19

Sweat ran down my back and into that gully at the base of my spine. It lingered there for a fraction of a second before finding my bum crack and heading southwards to my asshole only to be joined by other bodily fluids as it trickled into my fanny. Why was I sweating? My skin couldn't breathe. The fresh air that made my nostrils feel intensely alive wasn't reaching my tits and back. Wasn't reaching my quim.

But still, I felt invulnerable. Nothing couldn't penetrate my armour.

All eyes were on me. I stood before the Great Hoss. King of the Whole World.

My subjects gathered. The sky watched us all approvingly. It willed me to perform the ancient ceremony. I knew every face but not one name would come to me.

My breastplate caressed my massive tits. Each cup, fashioned to perfection by the master smith, had a small pool in the base of it. The minge piece, that passed between my legs, was made of finest gold and was riveted forward and back to the chest armour.

Any Roman Emperor would be proud of my crimson plumed helmet. The ornamentation on it mirrored that on the breastplate.

The great sword hung from the wide studded strap at my waist. I was the two thousand and first owner of this mighty weapon. All the way back to Beowulf.

The banners of my ancestors hung from where the walls should be. The mighty cross of St. Wite proudest of them all. The rumble of what sounded like an oil well kept a steady rhythm in the background.

Upon the Great Hoss, the evil witch was strapped for our pleasure. My subjects shouted with one voice,"No Mercy! No Mercy!"

Helen's green skin glistened in the light of one hundred torches. He fanny twitched, between massive buttocks that were like bedouin camel saddles.

On and on, through the night and through the morning, brave knights approached the Great Hoss, climbed the marble steps and thrust their mighty phalluses into the evil pit. Their bollocks, the size of a bishop's head, unleashed their bubbling lava. It flowed into and then gushed out of Helen's canyon. As each chivalrous hero stepped back, every last ounce of noble spunk used, so the green witch screamed out for more. And more. And yet more.

All eyes were upon me. The very soul of the village depended on my next action.

I, St George, of ancient repute, must do my duty.

My giant penis swung from side to side. It felt so very strange but yet somehow familiar. As I made the long trek to the marble steps, my monster cock grew in size with every stride. Grew more scaly with every stride.

My feet pushed on, even though it felt like I was wading through wax.

Everyone was expecting me to satisfy the evil green witch, Helen. I didn't know if I was up to the task but I did know that I would die trying.

Onwards up the steps. More steps than any knight had faced.

I stood before my foe. Boiling spunk still frothed as it dripped from her.

"Do you fancy breakfast in bed? Oh sorry, I thought you were awake." I could hear the voice but I wasn't sure if it came from the sky or from the witch.

Reality flooded in. I was in my own bed. I was relieved. I didn't have to fight my nemesis. I was disappointed. I wasn't king of the world. The loss of the giant scaly penis was a mixed blessing.

Harry took my mumbled 'Fuck Off' as an indication that I didn't require breakfast in bed.

-

Some dreams leave without a trace. Some dreams leave but slight traces remain. You know you're had one but you can't recall the details. Most worrying are those where they could almost have been real. I'm told that some lucky, or unlucky, people don't remember any of their dreams. I wouldn't like that. I've had some epic night adventures over the years. So much so, that I've been really angry when I've woken up. But, there have been some nightmares where I've been bloody glad to awaken.

No prizes for guessing what my best ones have been about.

At first I think, "Where on earth did that spring from?" When I think about it, events of the previous few days have usually combined and found their way into my twisted brain.

I have no doubt where this latest one has come from. Helen has been giving me earache about being the only one of our group who has not been fucked on the Hoss.

"Imogen has had two goes. Come to think of it, you've had two goes," she whinged.

Parts of the dream originate from the fact that I know organising something suitable would be immensely difficult. Helen has had some right royal fucks over the years. She would need a completely bonkers scenario to make it memorable; or would it simply need to appeal to her sense of the bizarre?

I'll gloss over the giant scaly penis, King of the World, St George, suit of armour, green witch, Beowulf and my subjects parts of the dream. Sigmund Freud would be hard pressed to sort that lot out.

-

I finally met up with Imogen. I hadn't seen her for weeks. Over lunch in Dorchester we had a good catch up. The subject eventually got around to her and Geoffrey's work.

"We've moved," she stated.

"You're not at the County Museum anymore?" I asked.

"Not location, historical period," she laughed.

"We have a research grant for the same mucky areas but in the late Victorian and Edwardian era. The source material for the more ancient stuff has either dried up or is non-existent."

I was quick to say, "You're still not getting your hands on the Yew Tree Farm book."

"I know," she said, "I can wait. You old folks won't last forever.

"Anyway, I have other areas in which to poke my nose," Imogen added.

"Such as?" I asked.

"Well, Ted let me have Violet's email address. He gave me permission to contact her to find out if she had any tales that had been passed down to her," she said.

I wasn't sure how I felt about her seeing Ted behind my back. I'm sure there's something wrong with me. I never used to be possessive.

"How are things in Oz?" I asked.

"Violet says everything is dinkum so I guess she's OK. I wish I'd met her. She sounds like fun," said Imogen.

"I asked her if any stories came to mind. She said that Ted's mother had told her that Ted's grandmother had a friend whose mother-in-law had a brother whose grandfather-in-law was a lazy bastard. He didn't want to work on the farm so he tried to get a stall at Dorchester Market. He thought he could just sit there all day. In those times the charter restricted how many licences could be issued for each sort of ware."

"Vi does love a long preamble to her stories, doesn't she," I piped in.

"Not half. There's a lot more to come. The only thing he was allowed to sell was Blue Vinney Cheese. Not the nice stuff that they make over Sturminster Newton way these days, it was the olden day shit that nobody wanted because it was produced from milk that had every last drop of fat taken out of it to make butter to send to London."

I yawned.

"I know, I am getting there but the context is important," Imogen said.

"He used his wife's bit of money to set them up. She was older than him and by all accounts as ugly as sin. He only married her because she had this little nest egg. No-one knew where it had come from as she was as lazy as him.

"Twice a week they sat there and hardly sold any Vinney. Like I said, nobody wanted it. Unless they needed a new wheel for a wheelbarrow, or something.

"The bloke had to have a rethink. He rigged up a curtain at the back of the stall. Behind that was a second screen. He would take thrupence from any of the young farm men. Then he'd send them behind the curtain. The second screen had a hole cut in it. He told the lad to put his dick through the hole. His wife was sitting behind it ready to wank them off. He knew for certain that if they could see her they wouldn't pay the thrupence."

"God bless free enterprise!" I cried.

"No but," continued Imogen, "remember she was as lazy as him. She soon got fed up with this. As you know, wanking can be hard work. She found it easier to turn around, lift her skirts and back onto the waiting cock. That way, they paid their thrupence and then did all the work. She just had to brace herself against her chair. The man was happy, he didn't have to do any work. The old lady was happy, it was the only way she was going to get fucked; and all with minimal effort on her part."

"Violet is a reservoir of dirty stories," I said.

"I hope so," said Imogen.

-

"Who makes the bread pudding?" I asked.

"Two of the W.I. ladies," replied Helen.

"That would explain why sometimes it's brilliant and sometimes it's atrocious," I responded.

"You could always try making some," Helen said.

"Fair comment," I concluded.

Then she took her opportunity, "We all need to stick to what we do best. Speaking of which have you.........."

"Don't go there. I have something in mind but it's just an idea at the moment. Just don't keep banging on," I said.

I had played my Midsummer Night's Dream over and over in my head. Helen is my friend and I love her dearly but, judging by what my subconscious had thrown up, there must be some of the old feelings still lurking.

Stripping out all the negative bits from the dream, I had found a germ of inspiration that I could work with. But it was all held by a single delicate thread.

As you know, I'm not a great fan of the new technology but the internet was going to be my only hope of finding the one piece of information I needed.

Four hours of my life passed by without any joy. Not even a trace of what I wanted.

I was about to give the whole thing up as a nonstarter when I remembered the glove compartment of the car. Sure enough, there was the telephone number I was looking for.

I made the call. I crossed that burning bridge.

-

"How do you want this Hoss thing to go?" I asked Helen.

"Dirty and different," she replied.

"Well, you must remember when you're strapped to the Hoss there are a limited number of options," I told her.

Helen's face lit up, "That's just it, I don't want options. I don't want 'how would you like it this time dear?'. I just want to be used."

"Good, just what I hoped you'd say. You're on in two week's time," I said.

-

"We've been offered a grant to restore the village green and duck pond by Historic England," Colin told me.

"We don't have a village green and duck pond. We've never had a village green and duck pond," I informed him.

"Do we not?" the Vicar said.

"You are still quite new here, aren't you? There is a stream that runs behind the old forge," I added.

"I thought all English villages had a village green and a duck pond," he said.

"You and Historic England both, by the sound of it."

"I don't know how true it is but I have heard that it was quite a source of embarrassment in the Middle Ages. While all the other villages hereabouts were ducking their wise women in their ponds, to see if they were witches, we had to make do with a bloody great leaky barrel," I finished with.

"Good grief! " said the Vicar.

-

What should she wear? I'd thrown away the black leather corset and thigh boots; the stains were never going to come out.

Anyway, Helen has slightly larger feet than me. I know this because, when we were on Glenda's Hen Weekend in London, she had to have a wee in an alleyway and got her shoes wet. The cheeky mare only tried to borrow mine.

But, despite all this, the black leather thing was entirely the right outfit for what I had in mind.

I decided to go for the same but much more so.

The boots had higher heels and were covered in studs. Goodness knows she didn't have to walk anywhere in them.

The corset that I ordered was even more restrictive and also was studded all over. Even the suspenders were studded. It had handles that left no doubt what the corset was designed for.

Worry not; the tit cover was still minimal.

New fetishistic seamed nylon stockings completed the dirty bitch look.

I was going to take a chance and not surprise Helen with it until the last minute.

-

The barn wasn't over decorated but there was a trestle table with beer, sandwiches and other refreshments.

I needed Ted's permission to use the barn, so he wanted to watch. I didn't need Harry and Gerald's help, but they still wanted to watch. I definitely wanted to watch.

We took our places in the hay-loft. The air was warm and dry with the occasional soft breeze passing through.

I had taken nearly an hour to prepare Helen. I wanted her to feel that sense of deferred gratification that always makes things more exciting. By now she was boiling.

Luckily, the outfit was just right on her.

The last thing I said to her was,"No Mercy?"

"No Mercy," she replied.

-

We all waited.

It was twenty minutes past the agreed time. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the goat milker.

Then I heard the almighty roar in the distance.

Slowly, it crept closer like a giant beast scattering its foe before it.

Soon it was in the lane outside the farm.

Any second now and it would be in the yard. I knew what it was but the almost subsonic growl was sending a frightened thrill through my fanny.

In her vulnerable ignorance Helen must have been excitedly terrified out of her skin.

The noise was deafening as over a dozen Harley-Davidsons swept into the farmyard and pulled up in front of the barn.

After spending all that time on the internet fruitlessly trying to find contact details for some Motorcycle Club, who wanted to keep their activities a secret, I suddenly remembered that Gloria had written her mobile number on the back of a scrap of a Mr Kipling Manor House Cake box and given it to me. She told me that if I ever wanted to become a motorcycle slut to give her a ring. Out of politeness, I had stuffed it in the glove compartment.

Gloria and I had a lovely chat. She didn't call me 'an uptight prissy middle class old whore bitch' once; which was nice.

She was quite excited by my idea. The 'mild bunch', as she called them, were always looking for different ways to act out their mid-life crisis fantasies.

Gloria had to be careful because, technically, they 'owned' her. She would have to make them think it was what they wanted.

As well as the 'Over the Hill M C', she knew a woman who was owned by another Motorcycle Club. They often met up and borrowed each other's woman.

Gloria said that the 'Greybeard M C' had a slightly younger average age than OtHMC. The youngest was 42 and the oldest guy was 63. Surprisingly, they all had at least some grey in their beards.

I asked her if their woman was married to one of the men.

She laughed. Not exactly, she told me. She is the mother of the youngest guy, Reg. She is sixty and retired from the civil service last year. After three months, she complained to her son that she was bored and didn't have any hobbies.

Reg took her to the next club meeting and gave her completely to them to use as they wanted. He didn't ask Maureen and he didn't give her any choice in the matter. She says it was the best day of her life. Reg was pleased too. Now that she wasn't, in theory, his mother anymore he could do what he's always wanted to do to her and she couldn't refuse.

Gloria said she was quite pleased as well, because when they used to lend her to the Greybeards, she would come back spunk covered and frazzled. Then her guys would want to fuck her too. Now they borrowed Maureen while she was gone.

"Right you lot, show No Mercy! No Mercy!" Gloria shouted as she burst open the barn doors and the bikers rushed in.

The men said things like, "Fuck me!" and, "Will you look at that slut? or even, "You kept that fucking quiet, Glo."

Maureen strode majestically into the barn last. God!, she looked good for sixty. She wore the same biker slut uniform as Gloria. Black leather high-heeled boots over the knee, stocking tops above the boots and black leather skirt above the stocking tops. Like Gloria, she wore a slinky black vest. But unlike Gloria she was braless. Either her tits were outstanding for her age or she has had work done. It really didn't matter which.

Gloria told me that it always gave her a thrill when they passed through a town. The men would leer and the women would glower at her dressed as she was. They all knew exactly what her role was in the club.

I looked at Helen, strapped to the Hoss. I swear she was shaking. She didn't know exactly what she was getting but I assumed she thought it was going to be a rough ride.

One biker went straight towards the Hoss. He wore leather chaps over his greasy jeans. His cock was free and swinging before he reached Helen.

Some of the others made for the refreshment tables. I guess there was some sort of pecking order (forgive the pun). I hoped it wasn't based entirely on dick size. The first guy was OK but Helen probably expected more abuse than that. Fortunately, in the true spirit of the Hells Angels, he went straight for her asshole.

Gloria and Maureen were quickly on their knees preparing the follow up men. They obviously knew the pecking order. These cocks were more impressive. I thought that I recognised one of them from my encounter with the Over the Hill boys.

As each guy took a turn with Helen, the girls screamed abuse at her. It turns out that the 'uptight prissy middle class old whore bitch' that Gloria called me was almost a compliment. These girls had obviously been practising. The worse the things they called her the more Helen appeared to like it.

I thought that with Helen strapped securely to the Hoss, the bikers would only have the choice of her spunk bucket A or her spunk bucket B, but just whipping it out and shooting all over Helen's bum proved almost as popular. So I called it option C.

Nearly all of the guys took a turn. The only exception was Reg. He made Maureen brace herself against the Hoss while he shafted her from behind. I presume that the novelty of fucking his mother at will hadn't completely worn off yet.

Ted, Harry and Gerald all looked at me. They couldn't quite understand why he didn't go for Helen. Once I explained the situation to them, they considerately kept me facing the action while I received three very nice fucks.

As the bikers were all leaving I heard Gloria say, "Shall we unstrap the slut?"

"No, leave the scabby old whore to soak in it for a few days. Maybe someone will find her when she's dried out enough to be fucked again," was the reply.

When the boys and I had made our way down from the Hay-loft, Gerald said to me, " Should I release Helen now?"

I said, in a loud voice, "No, leave the scabby old whore to soak in it for a few days."

"Well, maybe half an hour," I added quietly.

-

Later, when I was helping Helen to get cleaned up she said, "I was fucking terrified when I heard all that noise. I wasn't sure what they were going to do to me. You hear such stories about those biker gangs."

"I was shaking like fuck.

"But it was a bloody massive turn-on too. Once I knew I wasn't going to piss myself and the men started pumping me and those women were shouting vile abuse at me, I just kept cuming and cuming. It was unbelievable.

"For a lady publican in a little village, you know some really dodgy characters."

As far as Helen was concerned, she had been ravaged by a mob of vicious homicidal thugs and she loved the thought of it. She hadn't actually seen any of them.

I knew that she was never in any real danger.

The only clue that they were a bunch of middle-aged men and women acting out their senior fantasy was the fact that there wasn't a single chocolate biscuit left on the refreshment table.