I was a journalist on the local paper and one day I had to go out into the countryside to interview a woman about costumes for a folk dancing event. You get a lot of thrilling assignments of that sort. But the thing is, you never know who you’re going to meet.
This woman was called Gill and she was big. Not tall, not fat exactly, but stout. Solid. If she had been a man you’d have called her burly. Not to be messed with. I knew her husband, who was a weedy sort of guy. Very intelligent, full of nervous energy and not what I would call masculine. Maybe that was how they worked as a couple; he had the equipment but she had the masculinity. I don’t know. They were both aged about forty and had been married for a long time, so something must have been right.
This particular morning Gill was alone. “He’s out on his tractor,” she said in a booming voice, making it sound like a toy, rather than a farming machine. She sat at the head of the kitchen table, bolt upright, making the best of herself. She had none of the soft femininity that is so often regarded as being essential for a woman to be attractive. Her face was unsubtle. Bone structure didn’t come into it. She had ruddy, fleshy cheeks, slightly bulging dark brown eyes and heavy eyelids. Her wavy brown hair was combed, but she clearly wasn’t keeping her local salon going by her regular appointments.
We flicked through the pages of pictures of costumes and I tried to get into some sort of zone where I could write about this convincingly, and decide what the photographer (who was late) should shoot. At that moment there was a knock on the door, and it was him, the photographer, Jimmy. He was a good friend of mine and I liked the way he would assume enough responsibility while accepting my suggestions, or telling me why they wouldn’t work if he was sure they wouldn’t. Gill let him in and they shook hands. When she turned round to get another book he gave me a look that said “Shit, I wouldn’t want to get too close to that.”
The three of us went across the yard to a barn where the costumes were kept and we went through the racks of old dresses, skirts and hats. Gill pulled an old bonnet onto her head and smiled theatrically. It was a rather grotesque smile, but quite touching, because she was doing her best in an area that wasn’t her speciality by any means.
Jimmy picked out a gingham dress that went well with the bonnet and asked Gill if he could shoot it. She said fine, and held it in front of her.
“Can you wear it?” he asked politely. She looked at it intently and shook her head, but reached into the rack and pulled out a similar one that was a lot bigger. Then she walked around behind the rack and pulled her top over her head, laying it on the rail. Then her trousers. She grabbed the dress and stepped into it as Jimmy and I tried to communicate without speaking or even looking at each other.
She came out looking like a milkmaid and we took some pictures outside in the sun, with the timeless farm backdrop. She found another outfit and started taking off the gingham dress before she had got behind the rack. Jimmy and I pretended not to notice.
With the pictures done, we left in something of a hurry. I was halfway back to the office when I realized I hadn’t got enough material for a story. I pulled over and rang Gill. She said she thought it had been a bit brief and she was about to have lunch with her husband, but would be free at 2:00 p.m.
I had a sandwich and a drink with Jimmy at a little café and told him I had to go back and see Gill again.
“You want to watch her,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“She’s obsessed with sex,” he said solemnly. “Seriously, I know somebody who used to work with her and he said she talks about it all the time.”
Back at the farm, Gill was sitting in the same chair at the table, but she now had an alice band in her hair and smelled of shampoo and shower gel. I took out my notebook and she told me about how important it was to preserve the local heritage, re-enacting old ceremonies and doing the dances. She spoke of the old tradition of ‘worming’, in which young men and women would go out into the fields armed with forks and spades and dig holes, searching for worms. I looked at her blankly.
“And what do worms look like?” she said. I shook my head.
“Penises,” she explained.
“Oh. Okay,” I said, thinking she must have seen some pretty sad penises.
“Would you like to see the special stuff?” she asked with an impish smile. Again I looked blank. “The top quality costumes that I keep hidden away,” she said.
“Sure,” I said, and once again we went to the barn, but this time we climbed a ladder into a sort of loft which was set up like an old bedroom, with an iron bedstead, a bed pan and two large wardrobes full of grand clothes.
“As worn by the gentry,” she said, sweeping her hand back to introduce the stuff. The dresses were all black, but some were silk, others satin, and they looked expensive.
“All the old ladies wore black,” she explained. “It’s dignified. But these days it’s the colour of sex. Would you like me to model one?”
“Okay,” I said, and she quickly took one from the wardrobe.
“Ooh, no changing room,” she said. “I’ll just step behind the wardrobe door.” She did that and I stepped back to give her more privacy. She took off her top and threw it over the door so that it landed on the floor. I picked it up and hung it over the door. Beneath that finely crafted slab of wood I saw her trousers hit the mat, and she teetered on her feet as she stepped into the old frock.
“Damn,” she muttered. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Come round, don’t be shy,” she said breezily, so I ventured behind the door, where I found her desperately trying to get the dress up over her hips. She turned away from me and said “You pull up at the back and I’ll do the front.”
She was wearing big, old-lady knickers, not for effect but, I surmised, because that was all she had. They were a sort of beige and her bra was white. We both heaved at the dress but it wouldn’t budge.
“No," she said eventually, “We’re going to break it.” She pushed it to the floor and stood close to me.
“Now what shall we do?” she said furtively. “Why don’t we re-enact an age-old ritual?” Her hand moved to my trousers and she took hold of all my male organs. “Do you think an old farmer’s wife would be forward enough to do this?” she asked.
“Probably not,” I said, stepping back.
“No,” she agreed. “She would wait for the man to make a move. But she might sit on the bed,” she continued, sitting on the bed and taking off her bra, so her pale, heavy breasts fell like grapefruit in a bag. She looked me straight in the eye and parted her legs a little, before lifting her bottom off the mattress and removing her pants. “Come on,” she said impatiently, showing me her hairy crotch from behind as she placed the pants under the pillow. “Get into the spirit.” I walked to the bed and stood in front of her, stroking her hair.
She unzipped my trousers and pulled my swelling cock from my pants.
“She probably wouldn’t have sucked you,” she said. “But she might have done this,” and she wrapped her hand around and began to wank me. I stepped out of my trousers and underpants. She grabbed me around my waist and pulled me on top of her, then pushed me onto my back. Reaching under the pillow she took her pants, opened them so she could see the crotch and rubbed it into my nostrils.
“Oh fuck it,” she said lustily. “Fuck the authenticity,” and placed her big, agricultural mouth around the head of my cock. Then she turned around, keeping me in her mouth as she did so, and placed her substantial mid section on my face.
“She certainly wouldn’t have done this,” she said, rubbing her slit down my face. “Or this,” and she forced a finger into my anus.
“No,” she said, extricating herself and lying on her back with her legs wide apart. “She would have lain like this and waited to be penetrated. Come on, then. Penetrate me.”
I lay on top of her and tried to imagine being a 19th century farmer. Deciding that he would have little or no finesse, I spat on her face and rammed my cock inside her.
“Christ,” she said. “You are a reincarnated son of the soil.”
“Yes,” I said, “and I’m going to fuck you as fast as I like and cum inside you and I don’t care if you have a good time or not. You are here for my pleasure and satisfaction.”
“Oh, do as you will with me, master,” she said in what she imagined to be an old farmer’s wife’s accent.
“I’m going to fill your hole with my spunk,” I said, ejaculating into her.
“Dirty man,” she said happily. From somewhere she found her pants, put them behind me on her finger and ran it between my buttocks, before going to her entrance, which I had just vacated, and mopping up the semen. She put the pants in her mouth and sucked them.
“Any time you fancy a fuck,” she said. “You know where I am.”
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<a href="http://www.lushstories.com/stories/straight-sex/a-19th-century-farmers-wife.aspx">A 19th century Farmer's Wife</a>