(MF, teen, rom)
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 feathery look. But don't be deceived — those whiskers are sharp. Brittle and sharp-edged. If you (just as a f'rinstance, you understand) got some inside your pants 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 17. 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 — no apparent connection with Joe's departure — but soon we could 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. We were happy as pigs in clover with 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 cunt keeps driving me 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 my ardour 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 — teeth-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."
"Silly bugger," I smiled. "I've been going off my box wanting a decent fuck ever since the rain started. Go on, get after 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.
© Bronwen 1998