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Hogshead Farm

Brunette

The Pub

———-

Mark was more than ready for a few swift drinks down the Dog and Pheasant, the pub near the outskirts of town he frequented as it ‘wasn’t full of kids blasting out their toons,’ as he’d put it. It had been a long and tiresome week at work, too many needy folk not capable of helping themselves demanding his attention. He looked more dishevelled than usual: his stubble was longer, five o’clock shadow darkening his cheeks, and his jeans and checked shirt had taken on that lived-in look about them. Regardless, he didn’t think he looked too bad for a man in his mid forties, which is high praise as he’s usually quite modest. He worked out several times a week and watched what he ate – it took a lot of effort but was finally paying off. His hair was starting to recede at each temple, and both his hair and goatee were flecked with salt and pepper highlights, which Mark hoped looked more distinguished than old!

Finally, drink in hand, he wound his way carefully from the bar to a table someone had left a newspaper on, looking forward to reading whilst enjoying his pint. Crunch! A significant amount of his pint made a bid for freedom over the rim of his glass and over a poor woman sitting close, who froze in surprise as she took a direct hit. The young lad that had crashed straight into Mark, just continued on his way as if nothing had happened.

‘Stupid wanker,’ he uttered under his breath, watching the lad join is friends by the pool table.

‘Definitely a tosser,’ agreed the lady, not taking as much care to say it as quietly.

She was now on her feet wringing larger out of her now stained and soaked through t-shirt, which Mark had noticed gone a bit semi-transparent in places revealing her bra beneath, but didn’t want to make matters any worse than they were already. Her hair was wet all down one side, making it hang in clumps and begin to curl, and a large wet patch had darkened the crotch of her jeans which looked suspiciously like she’d wet herself had the rest of her not looked wet also.

‘I’m sorry about that, are you okay?’ said Mark,’

‘Apart from feeling wet, cold and my clothes sticking to me. even my bra and pants are wet, other than that, great thanks,’ she said, understandably not in the best of moods.

‘Can I buy you a drink, if you want one that is?’ Mark offered, ‘You do know your bra is showing through your T-shirt?’

She looked at her T-shirt, sighed in resignation and said, to Mark’s surprise, ‘What the hell, I’ll have a pint of Orchard Thieves if you insist.’

*

Jenny was in her late thirties, was short, had an athletic build and an outdoorsy look about her, like surfers get after spending a long time at the beach: natural and a little bit tomboyish but feminine, nonetheless – her tight, larger soaked, jeans were showing curves in all the right places. The dry side of her hair was shoulder length and dirty-blonde, with lots of highlights from long periods in the sun, and was dotted with the odd grey or two. Jenny was decidedly Mark’s type: he wasn’t overly keen on girls that feel the need to put their markup on with a trowel, or are so bothered about their appearance they’re not prepared to do anything. Jenny, thankfully, didn’t look like either.

They sat chatting for some time, Jenny’s clothes drying out nicely, occasionally interrupted by a trip to the bar for more drinks. They enjoyed each other’s company and discovered that they were both single, surprising considering their age. The conversation was flowing as freely as the drinks, and they both felt a bit tipsy. Jenny ribbed Mark for being such a town boy – she couldn’t have been more different, living in the country next to a farm. She joked that the countryside was way too dirty and interesting for a boring towney like him, and bet that his favourite icecream flavour was vanilla.

Not wanting to appear completely dull, as his favourite was vanilla, Mark revealed that he actually has a bit of a thing about getting messy, much to her surprise. Jenny seemed to find this genuinely interesting, so he described what he’d openly admit to being a fetish: slippery stuff, soap, foam, foods like: custard, cream and melted chocolate; then progressing onto dirtier stuff like clay and mud, and that his dirtiest fantasy was getting filthy on a farm.

‘But why does that float your boat?’ she asked, not seeing its appeal.

‘I guess it stems from being nagged endlessly as a kid – wash your face, clean your teeth, tidy your room, straighten your clothes, don’t jump in the puddles you’ll get dirty. It was all about being or staying clean! So now it feels really naughty to get dirty, and, as you probably agree, dirty sex is “way” better than vanilla, so I guess its kind of escalated from there and taken on a life of its own,’ explained Mark, thankful that Jenny was engaged and interested in what he was saying rather than screwing up her face in horror or disgust.

‘How dirty is dirty, exactly?’ she asked, it’s not every day you get to quiz someone about their darkest fantasies. Jenny watched as Mark izmir seks hikayeleri took out his mobile phone, unlocked it, twiddled about with it for a few seconds before spinning it around to show her the screen discreetly. On it was a person covered from head to toe in a thick coating of mud. The more she looked, the more detail she recognised beneath the mud, first realising it was a man by the shape of their chest.

Jenny said quietly, ‘Is that you? It’s so thick, what is that?

‘Yes, it’s just clay – you know, the type that potters use,’ he replied with a smirk.

‘Wait a minute, are you completely naked? No way!’

Mark laughed, which she took as ‘yes’.

‘What’s the deal with mud then, and why a farm?’ she asked.

Mark pondered for a second and said, ‘Well, it looks really dirty, which is arousing by itself. But it also assaults all of your senses: the earthy smell hits you first, before you do anything else; when it’s smooth, the feel of rubbing it all over your body is literally breathtaking; the squelching and sucking noises kind of tells you how sloppy and deep it is underfoot, therefore building the anticipation a bit like the smell; and nothing tastes like mud, but that’s more of consequence than something intentional – to be fair, it doesn’t bother me as much now, I’ve kind of got used to it.’

‘It looks really funny, but you couldn’t do that on a farm, you’d absolutely stink!’ exclaimed Jenny. Mark didn’t say anything, and looked embarrassed. Mark’s blush hadn’t gone unnoticed by Jenny, ‘Well, women’s mud wrestling is definitely a thing for lots of men, so I’m guessing it’s more common than you think,’ trying to make him feel better.

She looked into Mark’s grey/blue eyes and said, ‘I like that you feel comfortable enough to tell me about your kinks, it’s sexy. It’s not just men, women have kinks too,’ she explained, ‘but you’ll need to take me out to dinner to find out mine, and I still probably wouldn’t tell you, a girl needs to have a few secrets,’ she laughed.

The Restaurant

————–

Mark arrived at the restaurant with plenty of time to spare – he didn’t like the idea of Jenny waiting by herself: people always assume they’re friendless. Mark had never been to this restaurant before, but a colleague had said that this was the place to go on a date. As Mark entered, the Maitre D’, a short man with his hair slicked back to his head and a thin and equally oily moustache turned up at each end, eye’d Mark from top to bottom, wearing a disapproving expression.

‘Can I ‘elp you?’ he queried in the worst French accent Mark had heard in since the copper in ‘Ello, Ello’.

‘Err..’ Mark said, managing to swallow a laugh, ‘I’ve a table booked for six o’clock,’ he squeezed through his contorted lips.

The Maitre D’ ran his finger down his book and stopped on Mark’s name. ‘Shange of plan? The booking ‘ere is for trois?’ enquired the Maitre D’, looking disgruntled.

‘Trois?’ said Mark incredulously, ‘I’m sure that’s three! I only booked a table for deux. Is it okay to wait at the table?’

‘Of course, Monsewer, follow me,’ he replied in a subservient voice, and becond Mark to follow him. He showed him to a small table next to the toilet doors. It wasn’t exactly romantic but it was going to have to do.

*

It wasn’t long before Jenny arrived at the restaurant. She walked through the doors and headed towards the reception desk when she spotted Mark waving from across the restaurant.

‘Hope you’ve not been waiting long?’ Jenny asked, as she took off her coat and took her seat. ‘Ooo, something smells nice!’

‘I’m sorry about the smell, the waiter doesn’t like me, so this is where he’s seated us,’ apologised Mark, guestering at the toilet door.

‘I meant your aftershave,’ laughed Jenny, taking in the ambience, including the toilet door. ‘At least it’s not far to stumble if the food doesn’t agree.’

‘You’re looking very nice, by the way,’ said Mark, just as the Maitre D’ returned with menus.

‘Oh shit! Do you read French?’ he asked, trying to not let the Maitre D’ overhear him.

Jenny replied, ‘a little in school, but nothing since then,’ Jenny said, feeling a bit put on the spot.

‘Oh no, I corrected his French earlier,’ Mark groaned.

‘You can speak French?’ said Jenny, now confused but hopeful.

‘Not really, not unless all the meals are the numbers one to nine, like a chinese takeaway,’ he replied.

Jenny concentrated on the menu and, whilst she could pick out bits and pieces, it was clear that nearly every meal had at least one thing on it that was unrecognisable and couldn’t be guessed.

‘Is there a burger on there somewhere? Le burger?’ Mark asked hopefully.

Jenny giggled at his appalling attempt at French. She gazed at the menu for a short while, then lifted her head and replied, ‘I don’t think it’s “that” kind of place. It looks like fine dining – you know, fancy food.’

‘Oh…’ said Mark, physically deflating, sinking into his chair.

Jenny looked at him, down at the menu and then over at the Maitre D’, who was taking an old couple’s order at the other end of the restaurant, and said, ‘He’s not looking, we could run for it, there’s a clear path to the door?’

It took a couple of seconds to sink in, before Mark glanced over to survey their chances. ‘Seriously, you don’t mind?’

Jenny grabbed her coat and beckoned Mark to follow, and pulled out her phone and pretended to be in mid-conversation. Mark just followed, he couldn’t pull his phone as that would look suspicious. The Maitre D’ raised his head as they neared the doors and Mark was at a loss to know what to do or say, so he shot him two birds whilst walking backwards out of the door. They waited until they cleared the doors before bursting into laughter. Jenny held onto Mark’s arm for support as she laughed, which he liked.

‘Sorry about that, I didn’t realise it was that fancy,’ said Mark, ‘I could murder some chips, but that’s not very romantic, sorry.’

‘The chippy closes early on a Friday, the best I can offer is a bag of frozen “Salt & Pepper” chips back at mine?’ Jenny offered, not appearing to mind.

‘I don’t know, zay sound a bit fancy,’ Mark mocked in a bad French accent.Jenny gave him a ‘that was crap’ frown.

‘They sound great, I’d love to,’ replied Mark, realising that he needed to give a proper answer.

Chip Supper

———–

Jenny lives in a small cottage on the outskirts of town, on a winding lane that just shouts countryside at you. Mark could see the odd house dotted here and there through the window, as Jenny drove, but when they finally got there, her cottage seemed a long way from anywhere. The only thing closeby was a gateway with a faded blue sign reading ‘Hogshead Farm’. As they passed, Mark peered up the drive and could make out farm buildings in the distance. However, Mark knew there was a farm there as he smelt it as they drove up the road.

‘You weren’t joking when you said you lived in the country,’ Mark said, choosing not to mention the smell as they pulled up, ‘Do you even have electricity out here?’

‘Ha ha,’ Jenny said sarcastically, having got out of the car and was rummaging in her bag for her door keys. ‘Most folk comment about the smell. Are you trying not to think about that in case it gives you a hard on?’

‘What, no…’ Mark spluttered in defence.

‘You’ve told me EVERYTHING, remember?’ Jenny said enjoying watching him squirm.

Mark had to concede, ‘Okay, yes, I had noticed the smell – it’s really strong, you can’t really miss it!’

Once inside, she walked straight over to the oven and turned it on. ‘Feel free to take your shoes off or leave them on if you want, it’s up to you, I’m not a neat freak as you can probably tell,’ she shouted from the pantry whilst hunting through the freezer for the chips.

‘Do you want anything with them? I’m going to pop on some fish fingers,’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t say no to some fishy fingers,’ said Mark, immediately regretting it.

Jenny shot him a ‘that was really corny’ look as she slid the now filled baking tray onto the worktop, then opened the fridge and pulled out an unopened bottle of wine.

‘It’ll have to be white. It’ll be a short while until the oven’s hot enough for the food,’ she said, rummaging in a draw for a corkscrew.

‘White’s fine, I’m not really into red anyway.’ replied Mark.

It didn’t take long for the bottle to be emptied and another opened. They sat chatting, drinking wine whilst eating their chip supper.

‘This is so much better than fancy French crap,’ said Mark, through a mouthful of food, clearly wanting to share how much he was enjoying it. Jenny pinched the last chip, did a victory wiggle, and then used it to mop up the remaining salt on her plate.

‘So, what’s holding you back then?’ asked Jenny, pouring another glass of wine and returning the conversation back to Mark.

‘I don’t know, I guess I’ve just not had the opportunity to, or it’s not been the right time. I don’t get aroused by every bit of mud I see and feel the need to jerk off!’ He explained. ‘I’m not lucky enough to live in the country, where it practically grows on trees.’

‘Whilst we lack some things, electricity clearly, we do have lots and lots of sensual mud. and smelly animal shit of course,’ Jenny said, continuing to bait Mark who was already a little flushed from all the wine.

‘I’m not sure why you’re teasing, we’re on a date. It’s not like I’m going to nip into the fields and pleasure myself, is it!,’ laughed Mark, trying to put it out of his mind.

Jenny made eye contact and said, ‘I’m more of a no time like the present kinda girl. It’s warm outside, we’ve access to the farm next door and it’s rained for the last two days so it will be really muddy. No one will be there apart from us, and there won’t ever be a better time than this.’

‘What are you saying? Mark asked, dazed.

‘This could be your lucky day if you’re brave enough,’ she challenged.

‘Of course I want to,’ explained Mark, ‘But, I’ve not really done it with an audience before, nevermind someone I’ve only just met and I really like.’

Jenny popped out of the room and came back, a minute or so later, having changed into jeans, an old sweater and a pair of knee-high green wellies, carrying a rucksack over her shoulder. She had tied her hair back completing the transformation into a country girl. She crossed to the back door, swung it open, and beckoned Mark to follow.

The Paddock

———–

The kitchen door led to the rear of her cottage. Mark followed Jenny outside. The air was thick with the smell of animals, or to be more precise: their excrement.

‘You weren’t joking about the smell. Is your cottage part of the farm!?’ exclaimed Mark, taken aback by its strength.

‘You get used to it when you live in the country,’ Jenny replied, continuing to lead him down the winding path that weaved its way through several large bushes, until they reached a wooden gate. Jenny pushed it open and Mark got his first glimpse of Hogshead farm. The evening sun was close to the horizon, making shadows long and intense but it was still quite bright. Beyond the gate lay a large grassy paddock that sloped downhill towards a gateway at the far corner, which had been heavily used, as the green grass had given way to brown earth that was scared by deep ruts and puddles next to the gate. This made Mark’s heart race a little faster, as he’s played in mud before so had a fair idea how filthy it might be. The paddock was enclosed on all sides by a thick hedge, with a bunch of farm buildings poking above the hedge at the bottom of the hill and visible through the gateway.

Mark had only taken a few steps into the paddock when he noticed that the grass had hoof prints along the hedgeline, a tell-tale sign that cows had been here recently. The further the hill dipped towards the gateway, a natural hollow, the softer the ground got: the hoof marks became deeper and some of the grass had been churned into thick mud. Further down still, it became more mud than grass, the odd tuft of the grass here and there, and the mud looked deeper and softer. They continued to make their way down the hill to where grass gave way to mud. It had become earthy and thick, with deep footprints near the edge. They had stopped short of where it got much wetter, where puddles of water filled the footmarks.

‘You don’t look as confident now!’ Jenny said, seeing the fear build in Mark’s expression.

‘It stinks! And I’m not exactly dressed for it,’ Mark replied, starting to make excuses.

Jenny looked Mark in the eye. ‘Wasn’t being naked the whole point?,’ she asked. Jenny took the rucksack off her bag and said, ‘Right, if you don’t want your clothes totally ruined you best put them in this bag.’

Mark looked apprehensive, he’d never stripped outdoors and with the intention of getting filthy in front of anyone before.

‘Don’t be scared,’ Jenny said softly.

This seemed to give him the bit of encouragement he needed. Mark pulled off his shoes and then his socks, tucking them into his shoes, and then pulled off his top. Jenny smiled approvingly at his naked top half, which was nicely toned and muscular. He had a fair amount of body hair, inevitable for a middle-aged man, but it was neatly trimmed and under control – more flesh than hair, so definitely more man than beast. Mark opened his fly and pulled his jeans down to his knees, doing a little dance on the spot to kick them off his feet before passing them to Jenny. She hadn’t been this close to an undressed man for a while and was enjoying the show. Jenny wrapped his shoes in a plastic bag and pushed them and his top into her rucksack.

‘You missed something… your pants!?’ she said, pointing out the obvious.

‘Right,’ Mark said, trying to summon the confidence needed. He pulled down his black boxer shorts and handed them to Jenny to go in the bag. The breeze felt fresh on his genitals and anus, which weren’t used to being exposed outdoors, although it wasn’t particularly cold. His bum was whiter than his legs making his hairs look more darker and visible against his skin. Mark had a mixture of greys and whites mixed into his pubes too, but he had kept it quite short and tidy.

‘There you go, standing absolutely naked in front of a beautiful lady, if I don’t mind saying so myself, and, if I’m not mistaken, you’re starting to get excited. Is that my beauty or because you’re standing next to a mass of stinking filth you want to do unspeakable things in?’ Jenny remarked.

‘I’ll go with a bit of both,’ Mark said grinning.

*

Mark looked down at the mud and took a few tentative steps in, waving his arms about to maintain his balance. His feet slowly sank and disappeared up to his ankles, the mud pleasantly squishing between his toes as he walked, making it look like he was wearing a pair of mud socks as each foot pulled clear of the surface as he walked. The mud was thick and claggy, and felt smooth, wet and cool against his skin. Jenny squealed with laughter at the vision of Mark, naked apart from his pair of mud socks. It gurgled and slurpled every time he shifted his weight or moved his foot, and they felt heavy due to the mud caking them.

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