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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: {Bronwen} NEW "Barley Legal Teens" (mf, rom)
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As some may know, Mary Anne Mohanraj's anthology of erotica by Usenet
authors has been iced by Masquerade. This is the story of mine she'd
accepted - but as it won't be needed now I'm posting it in this hot
summer - it won't keep. It's a hot summer story...
But it's still my story - Usenet or no usenet. Copyright BronwenSM
1998. No use or reposting without permission. And don't read it if you
shouldn't - you're under age or you think sex is beastly, that sorta
thing....
Everyone else is welcome to read freely, download a copy for private
enjoyment, and naturally dear Elijah can archive it.
--- Barley Legal Teens ----
by Bronwen
@--}---}----
The people who send adult site spam may be junk marketing experts but
their spelling stinks. 'Awsome Site'; 'But-fucking'' -- maybe you
recognize the genre? Their unintentional surrealism often tickles me.
Is but-fucking, I wonder, something you do when another, preferred
activity is out of bounds?
I was about to delete a bunch one morning when yet another spelling
error caught my eye. It said "Barley Legal Teens."
@--}---}----
My eyes close involuntarily. The office fades, and in a moment
I am far, far away. I smell again the long grass and the flowers.
Even the sweet pang of torn, aching membranes returns as a physical
memory. I was sore all that summer. Have I ever fucked that hard, that
often since? Though of course the barley has to take *some* of the
blame.
If you don't know much about barley, it's like wheat but each grain
has its own long fine 'whisker'. It gives a deceptively soft, feathery
look. But those whiskers are brittle and razor-edged. If one
accidentally got into your pants, for example, you wouldn't forget in
a hurry. I'm smiling at the memory. No. You wouldn't forget in a
hurry.....
As I'm proving. I haven't forgotten. Don't suppose I ever will.
Me, Laura, today. Someone's mother, someone's wife, the odd
white hair. But I read those words -- "Barley Legal Teens" -- and I am
back in the field with Joe. Back where we lay all summer -- twenty
summers past.
@--}---}----
We were just 18. At that age you get a lot of private study time. And
in fine weather our classmates could be found by the tennis
courts, behind the chapel -- scattered loosely over the grounds of our
big private school.
Who could possibly account for a single student's
whereabouts at any time? So simple just to slip away. And we
did. But we had to go on foot. No cars or bikes allowed during school
terms.
There were woods nearby. But where would you look for illicit
young lovers if you were a suspicious schoolmaster? In the woods.
Kids went up there to neck, to pet, but most of our fellows were still
virgins. If they got caught -- so what? A red face, a scolding. But
Joe and I were that schoolmaster's worst nightmare. We were 'sexually
active'. We were lovers. We were shagging the arse off each other
every chance we got.... So we didn't go to the woods. In fact we went
entirely the opposite direction.
It was Joe who found the place. I can still remember the terrible
glee on his face when he told me. The sheer wicked fun of rule-
breaking -- of stealing our freedom back -- united us in triumph. In
happiness. All that year we couldn't meet each other's eyes without
wanting to fuck. Even hearing someone talk about him made me
lubricate. At last we were free to gorge ourselves, to drink our fill
from the other's mouth.
Ten minutes or so out of school a long high hedge hid a wide
field of tall ripening barley. The hedge hid the field from the road,
the barley hid lovers from the world. Better and better, we could
reach the field after leaving school via three different routes from
the village. Perhaps only in England could so many tiny lanes lead
to one place.
Joe could wander down Bridge Street and innocently disappear.
A few minutes later I could saunter up Church Lane in the opposite
direction -- no apparent connection with Joe's departure -- but soon
we would be locked in each other's arms. We might be young, but we
weren't stupid. Sneaking off together every day would eventually
arouse suspicion -- if not downright moral certainty -- of what we
were up to.
We flattened a small circle for ourselves in the barley. A love
nest. On the grounds of both ecology and security, we picked our
way to it carefully, leaving no trace, changing routes every day or
so. Joe hid a couple of rugs under the hedge. Hidden as hedge sparrows
and carefree as rabbits: that was us in our field.
God, it was lovely. Around us the white and yellow stalks
swayed. Lying on our bellies we'd watch long-legged harvest spiders
pick their way through the tall blond grass. Ladybirds settled on our
forearms, our naked shoulders. And all around the rustling,
never-still barley shivered and settled in the heat.
Each day sweltered. I'd lie back afterwards, my hard young
breasts straight up in front of me, and listen to the skylarks. And
there were lots of afterwards. We fucked and wrestled as only kids
can. Seven times in a day was our record. The brilliance of the
sunshine, the bluest, highest sky. Light covered us, our vision sharp
and skin perfect. Could I bear such scrutiny now? I break into a wide,
easy smile. I'm not the same girl any more. But I must have been
lovely then.
*He* was lovely. I can see him now, standing in the bright
sunlight, hand on his hip. He mimics perfectly the pose of
Michelangelo's 'David'. His black brows are arched and he's wagging
one finger at me. He's telling me my theories about 'Antony and
Cleopatra' are "Bollocks. Absolute bollocks!"
And I jump up laughing, protesting, with apple breasts a-jiggle,
and fling myself round his waist in a tackle. Caught off balance, he
topples, and we tussle on the blanket. Soon we are kissing,
great long, dripping kisses as we bring all that fresh, tousled
passion to a love we believe eternal. And with the minimum of
foreplay, with the reckless drive of a boy, his hard white body covers
me.
So young -- and my memory now so drenched in romance. His
long arching cock is demanding entry. I raise and lift my thighs, I
wrap my legs round his neck. My hands clutch his arse, his face
furrows in agony. His lips have hardened like the mask of tragedy as
he blurts his semen endlessly within my pale belly.
And afterwards we lie gazing wordless into the sky. As our
breathing steadies, we continue our debate. 'Imagery in T S Eliot';
the nature of tragedy in 'Anthony and Cleopatra'. That's the one we
always fall out over.
I chew a barley stem. My pussy is sore and sticky. I complain
about it, half playfully. "You batter my poor old cervix so hard I'm
beginning to wonder if you want to get in!"
"Back to the womb," he grins, like Pan, crisp curls and slightly
pointed ears. "Not such a bad idea. Can't have you out of
action, though. Let me give you some TLC."
He half sits up and rolls over to kiss my mound. Stretching, I
open my thighs to give him better access. His tongue traces across my
pubic fluff to slide, with pointed tip, down the tender skin between
the outside of my labia and the top of my thigh. Reaching the
bottom apse of the lips he pushes the tip of his tongue between them
and runs it upwards, parting my swollen sex. It is sticky, sore,
reddened by constant fucking, day after long sunny day. The semen is
already starting to crust and dry.
I know by now I must be smelly, to say the least -- after all, this
is third fuck we've had since lunchtime. But I also know that Joe
finds my cunt intoxicating whatever its condition. He likes me dry, he
likes me wet. He likes me drenched in cum. He likes me bleeding.
That one took a little while to sink in. But now I relax and enjoy his
total adoration of my female core. He loves me. He loves inside my
head and inside my knickers. Clean or dirty. And I have no shame as I
sprawl under a midsummer sky.
His licking makes me float, loosens my limbs. I am very peacefully
drifting apart. I wouldn't be at all surprised if my arms and legs
gently drifted away on that breath of air that shuffles the barley.
I am drugged, heavy-eyed, limp with satiety.
Then, as time drifts effortlessly past us, I feel the tongue he's
been using to soothe my battered membranes take on another role.
Gentle dabs and soothing strokes start to hold horny purpose. He
flicks it past my clitoris, avoiding the bud itself but caressing the
folds from which, nun-like, it shyly peeps its veiled head. He presses
his tongue along the tiny shaft he can feel within my flesh. My grin
breaks slow and easy. "Not again, Joe?" I scold, laughter
bubbling through pretend exasperation. "You can't want to again. We've
only just stopped, you animal. You're some sort of freak."
He raises himself on his forearms. "It's your gorgeous cunt,
slattern." Joe struggles to sound remorseful, but a giggle lies
beneath his serious tone. "It's not my fault. It's biological.
Pheromones. Your pussy drives me constantly wild with desire. And
you'd better take advantage of me now. After all, I'm in my
sexual prime. Yours isn't until you're 40. By the time I'm that age
it'll be all downhill for me. Just remind me to hide under the bed
when you reach yours!" and he laughs at me, his white canines glinting
in the sun.
"Perhaps it would cool me down if I moved my attention to these?" he
teases, gesturing vaguely at the firm round pads of my reclining
breasts. My hard little nipples, achingly erect, seem to strain up for
his attention. Which they get. His cool mouth closes over the sharp
pang that is my nipple. My other breast feels lonely. I shut my eyes
against the light, see sun flashes through my eyelids. Everything is
moving towards the frantic pounding of yet another teenage coupling:
nothing held back, so much to learn....
Once again, we are enmeshed, sweaty, stinging. The grass is
full of tiny insects. The sun burns bare damp skin. His neck smells of
hair and spunk. In fact everything that doesn't smell of barley smells
of spunk or my own juices. In our own secret place -- in this
harvest world -- we join yet again, his first triumphant arching
thrust moving like a great tusk of pleasure deep up into my belly.
Pleasure, pleasure and more than pleasure -- jaw-clenching, toe-
tensing ecstasy. I meet his eyes, his black fun-filled eyes, and I am
lost in aching love.
Afterwards, yet another afterwards, our afternoon is ending.
The light has changed, the barley looks more gold, less silver. We
dress ourselves, helping each other find garments among the stems,
under the rugs. I will need a shower before I talk to anyone in
authority, but I look OK from a distance.
Then, as I rise, I feel it. A gasp of pain. Exquisite pain. A tiny
razor cut deep inside. Like a paper cut. Or a whisker of barley
driven deep into the folds of my vagina by my darling Joe.
And so began our weeks of torment. Amazingly, Joe had forced the
barley into me without slashing his cock but the glass-like
edges had sliced a thin deep cut inside me.
*Adults* would have simply waited for my poor abused slit to
heal. But we -- well, we were the barley legal teens. We just couldn't
wait. We tried the next day. We tried the day after that. He stopped
as soon as I winced. Then we swore we we'd leave each other well alone
until my poor cunt had recovered. But we couldn't. We wouldn't. Even
when I had to bite my lip with pain I couldn't resist him. I had a
need to be penetrated by his body only matched by his hunger to
penetrate mine.
We lay in the barley, and kissed for hours. We talked, recited
poetry and tried alternatives. I would suck his hard, quivering
penis until his cum spurted over my young breasts or in my
greedy mouth. He would bury and twist his face between my thighs as
if it were an escape tunnel. But nothing worked. For both of us the
only true end of sex was the earthy, mindless frenzy of full-tilt
fucking. And as neither could restrain ourselves from fucking yet
again, my cut never seemed to heal.
In the end, it only got the chance when a downpour lasting
several days made our field impossible, forcing us to allow
nature time to do her stuff.
The first day back in our nest after the rain was special. I lay
back on the damp rug, tensing myself a little. I was half-longing,
half-dreading his entrance. It had *really* hurt sometimes
during these last few weeks. His anxious face loomed over me. "Shall
we give it a go, Laura?" he asked. "We don't have to, though."
"Are you crazy?" I smiled. "I've been thinking about nothing else
since the rain started. Go for it, sweetheart. Go for it!"
And I can still remember the incredulous happiness on his face
-- and on mine I assume -- as that first slow, nervous thrust held
nothing but pleasure. Inside I was whole, slippery pink flesh.
My barley cut had healed. Joe grinned at my ecstatic squeak. "I'm
better, Joe! I'm *better*!"
My body relaxed for a moment, then tensed again but
differently. As Joe's thrust followed thrust, growing ever more
confident, my legs moved up until they wrapped possessively round his
hard waist. I pulled him into me, my cunt muscles clutching at every
least part I could engulf. I wasn't about to stop until his boots were
inside me.
Then, mysteriously, as we moved towards screaming intensity
we slackened our frenzied pounding and lay almost motionless,
twined and inseparable, both burying our faces in the other's neck. It
was as if we were both just letting something happen.
Orgasm was a silent thing, a slow mushroom cloud of sensation. It
dropped on both of us in the same moment, like the gentle rain from
heaven. Like mercy.
@--}---}----
Somehow, my terminal is here again. I'm in the office, blinking
wetness from older eyes. That was the day he asked me to marry him.
Not that I did, of course. We were just kids. Barley legal teens.
Memories soften my face even as I delete the message. Other messages
aren't so easily erased. Yours never were, Joe. They were worth
keeping.
@--}---}----
If you enjoyed this, please let me know (bronwen@anon.nymserver.com)
Remember Celeste's blow-job principle! <grin>
Some of my other stories are up at http://www.cyber-mall.com/Bronwen,
courtesy of Joe Parsons. Thanks, Joe!
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