5 comments/ 64660 views/ 7 favorites Consent By: geronimo_appleby The knocking at the door persisted and eventually penetrated the layers of sleep. The rain had stopped and whoever was out there wasn't going away. A number of possibilities came to mind, none of them good. It had to be connected to the girl. Her father; her mother; a boyfriend ...? I've always been a glass half empty kind of bloke, a pessimist. My accommodation was a static caravan, the place I'd come to bash out the fourth in a series of novels, and escape out of a back door was impossible, simply because there was no back door. I didn't fancy the ignominious prospect of being seen by a neighbour, no matter how transitory their stay at the holiday camp might be, so shuffling my middle-aged arse out of a window was a non-starter as well. No, whoever it was wasn't leaving, not judging by the insistent knocking that had reached a level which began to vibrate the shell of the van. Pulling on yesterday's jeans and shrugging into the shirt I checked the clock as I half-stumbled to the door. It was later than I'd thought; the night had worn me out. I usually begin the day with a kick start of caffeine and its close relative nicotine but was to be disappointed this mid-morning. I opened the door expecting the worst, and it was far worse than I'd imagined ... *** She'd appeared suddenly. One moment, when I looked up from the Word document on the laptop screen and searched futilely for inspiration from the beaten pewter immensity of the North Sea, there had been nobody in sight. Next I looked, after inserting a comma and then immediately deleting, there she was. "Hot in't it?" she said, cheeky, precocious and stunning. "Got a cig?" she asked without waiting for any response to her statement. The girl rested her elbows on the railing that formed a three-sided square around an upraised platform which served as a patio at the seaward end of the caravan. My body reacted immediately. It was instinctive. Desire swelled my cock with a visceral surge of lust that clamped me by the balls and actually caused a flare of griping in my guts. Light grey eyes above a straight nose and coral-pink lip gloss twinkled impishly at me. Albeit beautifully packaged in jeans and a pink bikini top, with shoulder length blue-black hair cut in a precise, level fringe, I recognised trouble when I saw it. With the wisdom of hindsight I know what I should have done, the problem was she was too succulent to ignore; trouble I could handle ... I thought. Leeds or Wakefield I put her accent to be, West Yorkshire anyway. Not that I gave a shit about where she came from, she was here now, right in front of me ... Using her elbows the girl pushed up off the fence. Through the slats, spaced evenly like a toddler's playpen, I could see the skin of her tummy, flat, flawless and impossibly smooth, with the glint of the obligatory jewel in her navel. "Got a cig?" she repeated, moving along the railing to the little gate in the centre. Without waiting for an invitation the girl confidently pushed open the gate and stepped onto the decking planks. Those jeans were a work of art, faded to wafer thinness and moulded to the cock-stiffening body beneath; slung so low in front that I knew, with absolute certainty, that her pudenda would be shaved bald as an egg. She stood there, hip cocked, head tilted, and stared a challenge, smirking when she caught me perving at a place a good four inches below her belly-button. "Well?" she demanded truculently, eyebrows arching upwards. I indicated the packet on the table in front of me. "Ta," she said. I held my lighter out for her and she took a step closer, touching the back of my hand with hers as she lit up. "What you doing?" she asked directly. "Writing," I replied and wiped my forehead with a flannel I kept to hand for that sole purpose. She moved closer to me, standing at my side as I sat there and concentrated on not licking the tanned and sweat-slippery skin between her jelly-mould tits. She leaned forwards, squinting at the lines on the screen. I leaned back in the canvas camping chair, precariously balanced on the rearward frame, and simply boggled at the sight of her perfect denim rump. "What you writing about?" she asked, standing upright. I told her. "Fookin' 'ell ... Really? You any good? Like famous or owt?" I admitted to some minor renown, having been recognised occasionally from dust jackets on the three precious Detective Inspector Ralph Regan novels. "Not been on Jonathon Ross or Graham Norton," I offered and gave what I hoped was a self-deprecating grin. "Do you put anything mucky in it? Any dirty sex?" Her eyes gleamed and she drew on her cigarette. "Wow, a proper writer," she went on without waiting for an answer. Her hand went to my shoulder as she leaned again, even closer than earlier, to the laptop and tried to read. As the girl peered at the screen a group of a half dozen or so lads walked past. Instantly identifiable by their Geordie patois, a dialect of North East England that was almost incomprehensible to me; weekenders on the lash and on the pull, sniffing for hen parties or jaded divorcees, out for a laugh. I recognised the stereotype -- tribal, loud and fearless. Either bare-chested, lurid tattoos resplendent, showy peacocks strutting for a mate, or wearing the black and white vertical stripes of 'the Toon' -- Newcastle United F.C. I imagined their easy banter as they recklessly drove white transit vans or hefted scaffold poles during the workaday week. "Gerraloadahur," I heard one young man say; which I interpreted as: 'get a load of her.' "Fuckin' fit or what!" I had to agree with the coarse sentiments. The girl was sublime. "Could you put me in it?" The question brought me back from my study of her posterior. "The book, could you put me in as a character?" For her? Of course I could. We exchanged names and a potted history. A quick calculation told me that I'd been thirty when she was born. Fifty-three now, but I'd gone through two divorces and had been working for the paper when she'd first arrived. Her father owned several of the caravans on the site, they were down for the August bank-holiday weekend, making the most of the summer and checking that holiday residents hadn't totally wrecked his investment. "Make her really sexy," the girl continued, talking about her fictional character. "Really sexy and hot ... And make sure she gets some cock. Maybe two at the same time ... Or have her take it up her arse ..." I admit I was shocked by such a profane outburst from such a divine mouth. But even the surprise didn't stop the image I had in my head of this beauty in such a scene. There she was, in my head, legs in black stockings, perhaps a pair of thigh high boots -- shiny black leather or PVC of course -- suspender belt and all the trimmings ... A picture of her kneeling on a sumptuous bed, derriere aloft while she reached back to part her buttocks and reveal the muddy stain of her sphincter was etched in my brain. Her pink crevice would gape with heavy-lipped insouciance, frothing and dribbling with desire as she looked back at me, hair in a severe pony tail, while depraved and sordid commands slipped from her mouth. That was the fantasy, and it could only be fantasy, the girl was Premier League, while I was in the pub leagues, on a Sunday, and the B-team at that ... Lost for any appropriate response, flabbergasted by the girl's candid demeanour and apparent lack of modesty, all I managed was a creaky, "You're a very provocative young lady." "Provocative," she repeated, moving the word around her mouth, testing it. It seemed she liked the taste for she nodded, grinned approval and said: "I've never been called that before. I think it suits me; might have a tee-shirt printed up; if I ever become famous I could have a perfume named after it." She left me then. After dropping those images in my mind she grinned again, waggled her fingers, and bade me a cheery, "Tata." *** The next time I saw her she was wearing a denim skirt, a short, faded example that flattered her long legs, to whose length she'd added by about six inches by her choice of shoes. Writing had been impossible that afternoon. Every time I started a paragraph all I could think of was the girl's suggestions for a carnal-based plot. In my head she assumed the role of femme fatale with a penchant for Greek style. Concentration became impossible and I fell back on a favoured trick of writers since the obsession began -- I went for a drink. The route I took paralleled the precipitous cliff edge with a view of the vast and primal sea to my right, while martial ranks of caravans paraded in open order to the left. Hopeful gulls wheeled and fought and squalled while the ever-present and sibilant sigh of the waves sounded two hundred feet down below. A couple of hundred yards beyond the camp edge was a purpose built commercial centre, all the immediate amenities were there; a small supermarket with bread, milk, canned goods, all of the usual available at an exorbitant, inflated fee. There was a fast-food chipper, a pub, and even the ubiquitous Starbucks, all the essentials for modern living. I headed for the pub, one of those faux olde world places -- plastic and full of false beams, burgers, chips, pizza and ersatz bonhomie. Patrons gathered around picnic tables in a chaotic mix of the geriatric, the middle-aged, and harassed younger couples on the cusp of domestic violence while their feral ran riot. Inside the pub it was relatively peaceful; there was football on the big screen, a few leathered die-hards perched on the stools at the bar, while behind the demarcation line of the counter a blowsy and bored-faced slattern with dyed blonde hair ignored me with impressive devotion to her craft. Eventually, after an eye roll and a gargantuan sigh the barmaid donked a sullen pint on the counter-top, demanded payment equal to the price of a small economy car, and switched her expression back from downright hostile to merely surly. I wasted an hour and drank three pints before leaving the unsmiling barmaid and her desiccated and bent-backed customers perched like vultures atop their stools. After picking up a half-a-dozen cans from the shop I wove my way back along the cliff-edge. The girl, thoughts of her, filled my head as I walked into the coming gloaming. The frank disclosure of her inner thoughts, the suggestions of depravity for her character in my novel fired my imagination and I craved carnal knowledge of that lusciousness as I'd not experienced for a decade or more. Agitated and nervy as an addict I lurched homeward. With the bag of beers resting on the steps at the door of the caravan, with the key hovering in front of the mortise, I turned to the sound of click-clack, click-clack and saw the girl striding over the cracked and uneven paving slabs. She came closer and smiled as she halted. I noticed the shoes immediately; her legs, lithe and finely sculpted seemed to stretch impossibly long in those heels. They, and the skirt, which fell to the barest limit of modesty, caused that same primitive clamp of lust in my guts. Her eyes glinted with devilment and her lips, slightly parted, shone moistly in the little of the daylight that remained. "Hiya," she said, flicking her hair, which she now wore in a severe pony tail. I had to force down the urge to go to her and kiss that mouth. It took a couple of attempts for me to get the key in the lock. Eventually I fumbled the thing a quarter turn clockwise and yanked the door open. The girl tottered unevenly up the three steps and followed me straight into the kitchen-cum-living room of the caravan. She stood, knock-kneed on her stilts and surveyed the interior of my erstwhile hermitage; she being the first visitor to cross the threshold other than the daily maid service since I'd owned the place. "Through there," I said, pointing to the door to her right after I'd flicked on a table light and she'd asked for the toilet. When she was gone I opened the fridge and pushed the cans inside. Before I shut the door, bent forward and my hand hovering over the tins, I called: "Drink?" The toilet flushed and she reappeared. Taking a can the girl popped the tab and sucked at the foam that bubbled out. "Got a cig?" she asked as she all but fell onto the stiff cushion of the long bench seat below the window. Taking my eyes off her legs I grabbed a packet off the ledge by the van door. I don't usually smoke inside the caravan, there's the fire risk for one thing but I also didn't want the lingering rank odour. In this case I kept my mouth shut. I didn't want anything to put this girl off. It was difficult enough to believe she was actually here, never mind allow myself to imagine what might be on the cards. If she wanted to smoke she could smoke; if she wanted to squat and piss over the soft furnishings I'd not have objected. The sight of her thighs as the skirt ruched up to an indecent level was compensation enough and more. Those legs crossed and the shoe aloft jerked in time to an invisible bass drum while her eyes regarded me and my guts melted. She smoked and stared at me. The silence ballooned. Deafening. My heartbeat lubbed in my ears as I looked first at her face and then, when I could take the eyes no longer, down to her midriff. The man's shirt knotted under her tits exposed her smooth stomach and I could see the rack of her ribcage as she leaned back into the cushion with her arms spread cruciform along the top edge. The skirt rode higher which dragged my gaze down to the soft skin of her inner thigh as she uncrossed and then re-crossed her legs. I took in the lean muscles of those long thighs and examined at some length her well-sculpted and tapering shanks. "I reckon I've got ugly feet," she said, stretching one smooth shin and turning it this way and that as she inspected her feet with a critical expression creasing her face. Looking at her toes I could see no reason for her to be displeased. She set the foot on the floor alongside the other and, leaning forward, sucked at the cigarette before blowing a grey-blue stream at the ceiling and swigging at the can. Then she stared at me again in silence, with her hands hanging between her knees, the cigarette clamped between her fingers. I sipped at my own beer, rendered mute by her sheer sexual allure. "Do you fancy me?" she asked eventually. Unable to speak, my throat was so dry, I nodded. She smiled at me then. Looking back it could have been malicious, but all I saw was pearlescent teeth and an opportunity that would never present itself again. A memory of Amsterdam and a gorgeous beauty in a window came to mind. Under normal circumstances, any social setting, pub, wedding reception, office party, she would have been unattainable for a man of my paunch, hairline and advancing years, but a quick muttering of a business arrangement and she was mine for thirty minutes. What sullied the transaction for me, despite the young woman being a superb example of feminine pulchritude from a purely chauvinistic point of view, was that the entire affair was totally devoid of feeling; there was an absolute freeze of intimacy. In a bizarre reversal of roles it was I who felt like a slab of meat as, with dull-eyed disinterest she stripped and revealed her body, gave my genitalia a cursory fondling -- enough to get me semi-erect -- before rolling a condom over my cock and, to my immense distaste, attempted to suck the rubber-coated stalk. In the end, after she'd piled on the chagrin by sliding lube over her opening in full view, I climbed aboard and fucked into her ironing board style, absolutely no kissing allowed, until I squirted my dissatisfaction into the johnny. I'd only just dressed and slammed the door behind me before she was back, perched on her stool, ready to snare the next aging lothario with a hundred euros in his wallet. The girl crunched the fag end into the top of the beer tin and dropped the butt inside. She stood and casually untied the knot of the shirt front. The garment gaped and gave occasional glimpses of her breasts as she slowly moved. Dispelling any thought of unsatisfactory arrangements with Dutch prostitutes the girl came to me as I sat gawping on my own bench seat. She hitched the skirt up around her hips, knickerless beneath, straddled my lap, her knees denting the unforgiving foam under the scratchy fabric, and lowered her mouth to me. She tasted of cigarettes and alcohol and I devoured her. Her skin felt so soft and perfect under my fingers as I pushed my hands under the shirt and ran my hands up the narrow flanks of her back. She gasped into my mouth when I lifted her tight tits with my thumbs and cupped them both before sucking each precise, round and pebble-perfect nipple in turn. "Oh ... Dear ... God," I muttered when, after she rolled off my lap to sprawl awkwardly across the narrow cushion, she opened her legs and invited me to touch the sodden mush of her sex with my fingers. "Touch me, touch me, touch me," she implored, both breathless and strident at the same time. "Oh yeah, touch it. I want you to touch it. Finger me. Finger my cunt." I heard a strange noise and then, to my surprise, recognised the sound as a growl coming from my own throat, an atavistic voicing of desire. Sliding to kneel like a supplicant on the thin carpet, I unceremoniously gripped the girl's waist and hefted her into a position where she rested on her lumbar balanced on the cushion edge. Her body was jack-knifed at an almost ninety degree angle with her chin on her chest and she stared down along the frontage of her body at me as I hooked my hands at the back of her knees and splayed her legs high and wide. Her sex pouted in a hot and scarlet maw of lust with the piss-flaps hanging like weighty rinds of flesh; I'd never seen anything so fucking wanton in my life before. My cock stiffened to a tensile rod as I slurped and slobbered like a hound at that glutinous ooze. Her hands replaced mine as she held her legs apart and I tongued her slit from apex to rectum. Using my fingertips I parted her buttocks and dabbed at her sphincter as best I could in that awkwardness. In response, the girl pushed me away with a curse. She stood up, tottering precariously on the heels, and rucked the skirt to a rope around her waist. The shirt was flung across the room and I gaped with an expression of slack-jawed amazement at her unblemished body, a superbly crafted example of divine art. The girl narrowly missed giving me the Trotsky treatment as she hauled a leg and a heel as murderous as a mafia hitman's blade in a high parabola over my head and knelt on the bench seat while her palms rested on the wall. With her cheek pressed to the cushion and with her looking down at me under an outstretched arm she hefted her buttocks towards the ceiling. It was the attitude I'd imagined her in only a few hours earlier. The surroundings were less salubrious, but the subject was far superior to the two dimensional image I'd envisioned. "Lick my arse," she muttered, her voice dark and treacly as befitted my mood. My tongue squirmed deep into her rectum after I splayed the girl's cheeks with my thumbs and got at the tight and puckered dot. She blurted a sob and babbled about what I was doing to her being lovely, dirty, and so fuckin' mucky ... Primordial urges surged through me. I wanted to unzip my jeans and just plunge my cock into the scarlet core of her sex. Instead, somehow controlling myself, I used first a forefinger and then its neighbouring middle digit inside the heat of her opening. Wriggling and curling the fingers I hefted myself to a crouch as I traced a snail trail of licks and butterfly kisses along the track of the girl's spine. At her neck, as she lowered her head in an attitude of prayer and exposed the vulnerable nape to me, I grazed my teeth over the skin before taking a vampiric, and what would prove to be evidential, taste. Consent On the year I turned eighteen I explained to my mother that now I was legally an adult I wouldn't bother to go with them to the country for our annual holiday. I'd stay home for a change. I could look after myself so there was no need for her to worry. My mother looked at me thoughtfully and told me to make sure I packed a decent jumper. I'd forgotten the previous year. On the year I turned eighteen I explained to my father that now I was legally an adult I wouldn't bother to go with them to the country for our annual holiday. I'd stay home for a change. I could look after myself so there was no need for him to worry. My father looked at me thoughtfully and asked me if my mother had reminded me to make sure I packed a decent jumper. I'd forgotten the previous year. So once again I was heading off with my parents for two weeks of tedium, which would be interspersed with periods of screaming boredom. We got to our little home away from home and the parents settled down to relax and I settled down to sulk. After a couple of days I'd had it. Long walks that didn't take you anywhere. A cute little village that you were leaving as soon as you entered it. A small general store. A very small, very general store. The place was a shining example of how to store lots of useless things in a very small space. After three days the parents were starting to think that they'd have been better off leaving me at home. Dad, in sheer desperation, came up with a suggestion that made a modicum of sense. I used to like riding. Why didn't I visit the local riding school and rent one of their horses? Anything was better than nothing, so I did just that. They had a couple of horses that they hired out, and after I'd proved my proficiency they produced this lovely little mare for me to ride. I soon found out why this little sweetheart was their renter. She had two gaits. Slow and slower. Still, it gave me a chance to amble around without having to expend my own energy. So that day and the next were relatively pleasant. It would have been about the sixth day of our holiday when I rolled up to the riding school to hire my horse again. Settling onto her we trotted off, heading down a path I hadn't yet explored. Alright. I'll correct that. We ambled slowly off, heading down a path, etc. After I'd headed down this path for a while another path joined up with us, and so did another rider, his horse also not in any great hurry. He pulled up alongside of me and introduced himself as Barry. Fiona, I let him know, and we ambled along together just chatting and flirting a little. Barry was older than me, probably in his early twenties. He was blonde and tanned and seemed to be reasonably fit and healthy. And while I was subtly checking him out I could see he was doing something similar. All of a sudden we seemed to run out of path. The track we were on just seemed to peter out, leaving us facing this great big meadow. It must have covered several acres, and was just rolling grass, except for a small clump of trees in the middle of it. Barry and I pulled up and looked at the expanse of grass. I remembered the woman at the riding school telling me they had a large training area down one of the tracks. This must be it. Barry looked at me, grinned and tossed down the challenge. "Race you to those trees," He said. "On the count of three. One, two, three!" And we were off. Barry surged a little to the lead in the first few steps then kept increasing the lead with each additional step. I wasn't on a horse. I was on a blasted slug. Barry was waiting when I finally arrived. He'd dismounted and was standing there, laughing. "What kept you?" he asked. "I had to wait for the blasted horse," I said, dismounting and looking at the animal with disgust. "That's Black Star, isn't it?" Barry observed, indicating the black blaze on her forehead. I nodded. "Thought so. She's got the reputation of being the slowest horse in the state. A well deserved reputation I believe." I just gave him a look. If he knew the horse then he knew that it hadn't been a race. It had been a farce. "Well," said Barry. "Seeing the mighty snowdrop won the race for me, you have to pay a forfeit." "Snowdrop?" I queried, looking at his horse, brown without a single spot of white. "And what's this about a forfeit?" "He likes to eat them," explained Barry. "And if a challenge is made and lost then a forfeit applies. Everyone knows that." "Oh, do they just. And just what sort of challenge are you proposing?" "Drop your panties and I'll show you," came the smooth reply. I'm like "What?!?" "I said, drop your panties and I'll show you," repeated Barry. "You're not seriously suggesting that I should have sex with you?" I asked, scorn dripping from my words. "Why not? You lost the race." "Why not? I don't even know you. This is the first time we've met. Why the hell would I want to have sex with you?" "Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to be alone with a mysterious stranger and have him remove your clothes, stretch you out naked upon the ground and make love to you. Knowing that this might be the only time you ever met. This one moment of naked passion living forever in your memory with the feel of my hard cock slowly penetrating you a measuring stick which you will use to grade any future lovers. All you have to do is consent and this daydream will be yours. You'll feel my lips on yours. You'll feel my teeth biting lightly on your breasts, teasing the nipples and lifting you to heights undreamed of. And all this will take place before my hot cock plunges into you, taking you to paradise. Say yes." I felt deliciously squirmy low down. Of course I've dreamt of romantic interludes, but there's a hell of a difference between a day dream and letting some bozo pull down your panties and fuck you. I'd give it a pass. "You make it sound almost irresistible," I murmured, "but the keyword is almost. I'll pass." "OK. Fair enough, I guess. Perhaps you'd rather go with no consent, where the handsome stranger pins you to the ground and peels off your clothes while you wriggle and struggle in vain. Then once he's got you naked he pins you down, and all you can do is watch helplessly as his mighty cock descends upon you, penetrating you and slowly ravishing you, having no regard to your feelings but bringing you to a climax anyway. So, would you like me to force you?" "No," I shrieked, aghast at the idea, and trying to ignore the squirming that had intensified deep inside me. God, he made rape sound attractive. "Anyway," I said, picking the flaw in his logic. "If I said I wanted you to force me I'd be giving consent, now wouldn't I?" "True," Barry said, still smiling. "So why don't you consider the options. Consent and allow me to have my wicked way or don't consent and don't allow me to have my wicked way." Really, the choice should have been an easy one. I didn't even know who he was. Barry, he had said, but that doesn't mean that was really his name. To allow an anonymous stranger to have sex with me? It didn't bear thinking about. But I was and I'll admit it. The idea of a little wildness was so horribly tempting. I could just see it. Me lying on the grass with no clothes. Naked beneath the sun while he slowly stripped, exposing his manhood and then gently taking me. Or taking me not all that gently, for that matter. I felt a little shudder run up my spine. Before I could tell him no, Barry tossed another firecracker at me. "Before you say no, you should realise that when you do I'll just go ahead and take you anyway. It will just be without your consent. The handsome stranger will still divest you of your clothes, and then inflict his unwanted attentions upon you, driving you to despair at your sheer helplessness beneath him." "Hey, wait a minute," I protested. "You're saying that if I agree you're going to have sex with me, but if I don't agree you're going to have sex with me anyway?" "Correct." "What about option three? The one where I don't have sex with you?" I snarled at him. "Oh, that went by the boards when you challenged me to a race and lost. One must pay the forfeit or all would be anarchy." "I didn't challenge you. You challenged me." "Same principle. After all, if I'd lost I'd have had to pay the forfeit. I'd be the one who'd have to consent to you making my body your plaything. Think of how I'd feel, being ravished by a pretty young woman, helpless to resist." He had to be kidding. Win or lose the silly race and I'd have had to beat him off with a stick. But there weren't any sticks. So what did I do now? Say yes, and go for it? Say yes reluctantly, and put up with it, or say no and have to try to stop him ravishing me anyway. I ran my eyes over him again and promptly decided that I might try but there was no way I would succeed. No meant getting raped. Full stop. I closed my eyes, holding my head, trying to think. Almost as soon as my eyes closed they popped open again. There'd been a tug at the front of my jeans. Bloody Barry had just popped the stud and was now sliding down the zip. "Cut it out," I snapped, pushing at him. "What do you think you're doing? I haven't said yes or no yet." "Helping you," came the innocent reply. "It doesn't really matter at this stage what your answer will be. Either way we're going to have to take your clothes off so I thought I might as well start." With that he pushed my hands away from my jeans and started tugging them down. If I hadn't grabbed my panties they'd have gone with the jeans. "Will you just stop that?" I yelled, furious. "No," says he, as casual as you please. He grabbed the bottom of my top and just lifted it up. It was either lift my hands and let it go or see it get torn. It was a well-worn old top, one of my favourites, and any rough treatment would be sure to tear it. I'm standing there in bra and panties with my jeans bunched at my knees and Barry is looking me over. With approval I might add. A little frisson of excitement ran through me as he checked out my figure. Then he grabbed my jeans and jerked them even lower. Ha! You try to move with jeans wrapped around your ankles. I tried and the next thing I was falling. I finished up sitting on my bum while Barry promptly took advantage to haul my jeans over my feet. He couldn't do it and it serves him right. The ankles of the jeans were far too narrow to fit over the shoes I had on. The jeans were jammed until I could get my shoes off. I sniggered at Barry's frustration, which might have been an error. He just looked at me, smiled, shrugged and reached for my panties. "No way," I squealed, holding on tight. "Just leave me alone." "Ah. Does that mean that you've made up your mind?" I hadn't, but now I did. I wasn't going to roll over and play dead just because some guy was attractive and wanted me. Uh-uh. Not me. "It does," I stated firmly. "I am not going to give you my consent, as you so formally put it. The answer is no and will you please go away." Bastard just laughed at me. Then he planted a foot firmly on my jeans, right next to my feet. I wasn't going anywhere while he was standing there and we both knew it. He stripped. Fast, too. He peeled his top and singlet off with one motion and tossed them to the side. That's when I realised he was wearing tracksuit pants. A jerk of the bow in front of them and they slid down, along with his undies. And they didn't get caught on his shoes, either. I was a little surprised that they didn't get hung up on that great big dong he had sticking out in front of him. I took a single look at his erection and wanted to scream for mother. I will concede that there was the possibility that I wasn't exactly a virgin, but I'd never had a cock like that threaten me before. And it was a threat, rather than a promise, I assure you. He knelt next to me, and I was horribly aware of that cock bobbing up and down next to me as he moved. And I was feeling excited, but just a little bit. I was trying to concentrate on Barry and what he was doing, what he was saying to me but a little voice was whispering to me, saying things like, "Did you see the size of that? This is going to be interesting, isn't it?" Then a couple of fingers snapped in front of my face. Startled I looked at Barry. "If you can drag your eyes away from my cock for a second, I'd like you to take off your bra. I could do it myself, but they're fiddly things, so you'd better do it." Cheek! I hadn't been looking at his cock. Not really. OK, I'd glanced at it, but what girl wouldn't when something like that was waving at you. I hadn't been staring at it. Almost snarling at Barry, I reached around and undid my bra, and then reluctantly let the straps slide down my arms as I took it off, spilling out my breasts. Barry was all smiles as his hands covered my breasts and then he pushed me back, making me lie on the grass. Then he dragged his hands away from my breasts, moving them slowly along my body, moving really slowly, right up to the moment he grabbed my panties and jerked them down. I didn't have a chance of stopping him and he knew it, the smiling jackass. I was lying there, naked. You could really count a pair of jeans and panties connected to my ankles as clothing. Barry had one hand on my mound, massaging me, his fingers already trespassing where they shouldn't. His other hand was playing with one of my breasts while he was busy chewing on the other one. Well, if not exactly chewing, kissing and sucking and teasing the nipple with both tongue and teeth. It slowly dawned on me that I was supposed to be fighting him, trying to stop him from doing the things that he was doing. Not just lying there, feeling all those odd feelings that were surging through me while I kept one eye on his cock, wondering when it would strike. OK, already. I admit it. I was looking at his cock. Be reasonable. He was going to put that thing inside me. No wonder I was watching it. His fingers touched certain spots inside me and I felt this wild rush of something rushing through me. I bucked and squealed and decided the time had come to fight. I hit out at him, but about all I could do was bounce my fists off the top of his head. I wanted to punch his nose but his faces was buried in my cleavage as he suckled on my breasts. I did get one round-house swing that got him on the ear, but that was it. That was the first and last punch that I got in. He gave a yelp, sat up and rolled me onto my tummy. Then his hand came down very firmly on my bottom. And I mean very firmly. This time it was my turn to, not so much yelp, as shriek. That spank had hurt. He calmly rolled me back onto my back and said, "No hitting," very firmly. I can take a hint. With hitting out I was reduced to just wriggling around, trying to remove my body whenever he touched me. He seemed to consider it a great joke and I could hear him laughing softly as I wriggled. What was even worse was all that futile wriggling was exciting me, getting me all worked up. I eventually sagged back and just let him get on with his touching. That was just as bad, as he seemed to know all the right places to touch to have me squirming again. Finally he seemed to decide I was ripe for the plucking. (Over-ripe if you asked me. I was practically at boiling point.) Barry pushed my legs further apart and then he was lying between them, his cock finally menacing my innocence. (And no-one asked you to wonder on how innocent was my innocence. I was innocent enough to be menaced.) Barry started easing his erection into place but I now had some leeway. I jerked to the side. He tried again with the same result. He glared at me, telling me to stop fooling around and just hold still for a moment. I smiled and continued to wiggle away from his treasure. I couldn't win, and I knew it, but I could cause him some frustration. He finally made a growling sound and just lay on me, pinning me to the ground. I could feel his hand resting on my mound, a pair of fingers holding my lips apart. I tried to wriggle but couldn't move, and the head of his cock nudged against my lips and then squeezed past. Now that he had his edge, Barry relaxed a little. He lifted himself up off me, and I was free to wriggle and try to shake him. I couldn't draw back away from his cock but I did my best on clamp down on it so he couldn't move. I found out that a steady pressure will overcome tensed muscles. Barry wasn't trying to force his way into me as such. He just leaned into me, his cock pressing firmly into my passage. And my muscles couldn't sustain the pressure. I'd be squeezing, and he'd be pressing forward, and I'd relax for just a moment and he'd slip further in. All things considered, it was probably the best way there was for him to take me. I think I've already hinted that I considered him a little large in that department. As it was this slow edging advance gave my passage plenty of time to stretch to accommodate him. I'd relax, he'd advance, my passage would stretch that little bit more and then I'd be trying to stop him once more. We were both watching each other's face, and we probably looked equally determined. Barry was almost fully inside me, much to my frustration, when he suddenly gave me this evil looking smile and held up one finger. I probably looked puzzled, but I wasn't puzzled for long. He reached down and jammed that finger under my ribs, right where I'm ticklish. I gave a squeal and a spasm and relaxed and he gave a hard push and he was home, smirking at me. That effectively put paid to any resistance I could put up. All I could do now was wait for him to do whatever he wanted. It turned out that what he wanted to do was drive me crazy. He started doing these tiny little strokes inside me, his cock barely moving. But that barely moving was still enough to stoke the little flames of excitement already burning within. I tried to just lie there, but it wasn't possible. Slowly but surely my body was starting to resonate with his, moving in time to those tiny little rocking motions. I was squirming and writhing under him. Barry still wasn't taking me the way I had expected him to, and all this soft movements he was making were busy fanning the flames he'd ignited. Damn it all, I was burning up and it was his fault. He should be doing something about it. I could hear myself muttering rude words as I squirmed under his exquisite little touches, none of them doing much by themselves, but adding up to a storm of need in me. I groaned with relief when I at last felt him give a full bodied thrust. He suddenly pulled right back and then drove down hard, with my whole body jerking eagerly up to meet him. So much for struggling or passive resistance. He started on me, using me as his toy and I responded, wanting to be used. For the duration I was his, and we both knew it. Seeing I had no choice in the matter, I reluctantly cooperated. By reluctant cooperation, I mean I made no suggestions as to what he should do. I didn't suggest that he try a different position, but that didn't stop him rolling me onto my tummy and re-entering me from behind. I didn't tell him to place his hands on my breasts and slowly massage them until my nipples were so tight I thought they'd burst. Neither did I try to make him move faster, but merely met each and every thrust he made with the same driving need to take him deep. None of this reluctance seemed to get through to him. Barry was like the blasted energiser bunny. He just kept going and going, and I was almost screaming as he ravished my reluctant body. Let's not kid ourselves. I was screaming. I was also gasping and swearing and squealing. The only thing I wasn't doing was telling him what to do. Consent Not that he needed telling. His experience far outshone mine, even if I was learning very rapidly, and he was putting all his experience to work. I have no idea how long this went on. I was feeling limp, totally drained, while at the same time my nerves were screwed up tight and I was as tense as a cat waiting to pounce. And Barry still wouldn't give me any release, just holding me at a point that he must have worked out with cruel calculation. I was literally wailing with need when he rolled me over on to my back again. He seemed to hover over me for one timeless second and then he was driving down hard, crushing me beneath him, while the world went up in flames around me and I was swept away by the storm. I lay there on the grass, staring at the sky, feeling life slowly stealing back into me. Barry was just sitting next to me looking amused. "Better get dressed," he murmured when he saw that I was watching him. "You have to watch out for sunburn, you know." Easy for him to say. He wasn't the one who had to try to take off a pair of shoes that were jammed inside inside-out jeans. It took me a good five minutes to get my feet free before I could even start to get dressed, and Barry sat there watching the entire time. I could just tell he was laughing at me. I was finally dressed and I headed over to get back on Black Star, ignoring Barry as being beneath my notice. Once mounted I turned towards the path and geed Black Star up to the faster of her two gaits, slow rather than dead slow. It took Barry moments to mount and be riding next to me, but I grandly ignored him. "A suggestion you might like to listen to," Barry said when he reached the point where our paths diverged. "What? Don't ride with strangers?" I snapped. "No. It's just an idea. Ask the riding stable for a faster horse. That way you have a chance of winning tomorrow's race." He was laughing as he headed off down the track, leaving me there simmering. Faster horse indeed. Black Star suited me fine. "And if there is another race?" a little voice whispered, but I ignored that. That little voice didn't know what it was saying. Consent "That's it," she panted. "Tell me ... tell me what you're going to do ..." "When I'm ready," I snarled, "and when my cock's wet with your bubbling cunt, I'm going to take us to the bed and I'm going to lie with my cock upright and you can watch your arse stretch around it as you slide down." A sob burst from her mouth. "Would you like that? Would you enjoy watching your sphincter being stretched?" "Oh fuck ... Yes!" "You'll be able to see your whore's cunt gaping and dripping. Would you finger yourself while my cock's jammed up your dirty hole?" She whimpered her agreement while her fingers clawed uselessly at the glass. My lubricated erection slid into the dark part of her without restriction. When fully embedded, deep inside her body, she squealed with a mix of delight and fear when I hefted her bodily into the air by first her thighs and finally by hooking my hands under the hinge of her knees. "Look at that," she mumbled. It was better than I'd hoped. Even in the relatively dim light from behind us, as I peered over the girl's shoulder I could see her anus wedged tight with meat. "You like to see it, don't you?" "I love it. It really makes me squirmy seeing that." The reason for all this could wait. I hoped to see the girl again and would be able to interview her as to how she'd come to this particular fondness. And again, why with me? As I stepped back to maintain our precarious positioning, my calves hit the edge of the bed and down we went onto the mattress. The girl cursed as we temporarily disengaged and she scrambled over my prostrate form. A few seconds later, positioned above me, she sighed as once again, she lowered herself onto my stalk. We settled into a flesh-slapping rhythm of exchanged expletives. I couldn't see what aroused her so much, but the girl kept up a foul-mouthed litany of description. She hovered above my recumbent form, leaning back over me and resting her weight on her outstretched arms while her long hair brushed ad swayed across my face. Eventually tiring, and with a desire to masturbate, she lowered her body heavily across mine and rolled onto her side. This movement caused the condom to slide off my stalk. I was in such a fever-pitch of arousal that I no longer cared. The problem was that she hadn't noticed my sudden state of undress, and I was in such a desperate and urgent state of mind that I concocted a hasty and foolhardy plan. I manoeuvred close behind her as she rubbed at herself and urged me to put it back in her arse. "What are you doing!" she cried when she felt my cock head against her labia. "Not in there. Not in my cunt. Put it back in my arse!" "Just got to get it slippery again. I want it to just glide in ..." The raw heat of her engulfed my cock as I slipped inside her opening bareback. "Oh shit," I grunted. "You're too beautiful ..." The surge swelled and I couldn't stop it. There was nothing I could do to halt the inevitable tide. To compound the crime I leaned in and bit her neck hard. The girl squealed and wriggled and then she began to shout as she felt the sting of my teeth and my pulsing cock. "No!" she screamed. Her nails rent bloody gauges along my flank where she clawed at me. "You bit me ... And you're coming in my cunt ... No ... no, no no ..." "I'm sorry," I moaned even as the stuff squirted out of me. "You're too beautiful. The condom slid off. I was going to put it back in your arse but I just came when I felt you naked and hot around me ... I'm sorry. Please ..." "You fucking pig," she spat, eyes aflame. "You bit me." She rubbed the purpling on her neck. "And I've got spunk dripping out of my cunt. Why did you do that?" "I ..." I began but she was already stalking from the bedroom. I'm sorry," I whined. "I didn't mean to do it. I'm really sorry, but you won't get pregnant. I've had the snip. I've got no swimmers. It'll be OK. I'm clean too. You won't get anything nasty off me. Please don't go. Not yet, not like this. Please!" The door slammed and she left me naked, ooze dripping from the eye of my cock. I'd find her in the morning. I'd ask around and find her, talk to her. Hopefully when she'd had time to cool off she'd begin to understand. *** "... Arresting you on suspicion of sexual assault ..." They let me dress properly, put on socks and shoes. Then they clamped the handcuffs on me and led me to the car. " ... You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court ..." My brief told me that it wasn't her father that owned the vans, it was her husband. Her going back to him, filled with spunk and bruised about the neck ...? She came out with the first thing she thought of.