Hardcastle's Farm

Hardcastle's Farm

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All characters are over 18, fictional, and none of it ever happened. Think of it as a grimm fairytale.

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Hardcastle turns from the clergy to farming and husbandry.

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Hardcastle acquired the land from Jeffries.

An itinerant opportunist his whole life, he searched out the valley early one spring on strength of rumours in a farmers' pub. He could always draw out private information from the unwary.

Jeffries, a simple man, alone, without family, never saw value or else was not concerned. So Hardcastle befriended him, was soon his heir, and a week after the will was signed Jeffries died. Hardcastle planted him in an unmarked grave beyond the back ridge.

In the morning he took the will, deed and cash from the tobacco tin in the barn rafters and walked to town. After registering the deed, he left his mark on the community by drowning his sorrow in the pub at the death of his dear old friend. Then he bought a wagon, a gelding, a young filly, and farm equipment.

All year he worked, clearing the woods and wresting pasture and field from the land. Jeffries had no vision, but Hardcastle did. In spring he ploughed the field, sowed his seed, and watched his virgin crop grow.

The land was his, his seed and mark was on it, and his farm pleased him.

But he wanted more.

He took cash from the tobacco tin, harnessed the gelding and drove into town. He paid for a few rounds in the pub to loosen tongues, marked the gossip, asked sideways questions, and learned what he needed. Money well spent.

By dusk he was home with supplies, a good stallion named The Boss, and a young slip of a lass named Claire sitting primly beside him. He acquired both the horse and the girl for a small sum from her widowed father, a dissolute and failing but fecund man.

She was one of two identical twins, eighteen years old, the eldest of nine daughters. Her Pa handed her over with mixed relief and regret, consoling himself that Fawn, her twin, could fill the place he had reserved for Claire.

"One less mouth to feed I guess, though I was was just beginning to enjoy her company of an evening," he grumbled.

He winked conspiratorially to Hardcastle, "But at least now you'll enjoy her company. She'll mind your house and tend to your needs."

He winked again very slowly as he fumbled and fussed around Claire, assisting her into the wagon, his hands everywhere.

"Do as Mr Hardcastle says," was his last paternal instruction as he took his money and gave her over.

Claire was a slight and simple girl, supple and supplicant, easy on the eye, and easy to bid. Her wide eyes, inviting smile, and lithe form would decorate Hardcastle's bed, life and farm nicely.

When they pulled up to the farm he told her to wait inside while he tended to the gelding and The Boss. The stallion had scented Fiona the filly and was restive. She was in heat and her invitation for his attendance had carried to him on the wind as they entered the valley. Hardcastle put Fiona in the home yard and the stallion in the next paddock so they could sniff each other 'till morning.

It was dark when Hardcastle went inside and Claire was sitting quietly, her tiny bundle of few possessions in her lap, her eyes accepting her lot. In a sliver of mirror above the sink he marked her demeanour. He watched her watching him as he took off his shirt, bared his chest, split wood and kindling, lit the fire, put a big pot of water on the stove to heat, and cooked their supper. Knowing this would be her new home, she was wary but attentive, feeling him out like she had her Pa when Ma disappeared.

After they'd eaten, he placed a tin tub in the middle of the kitchen, mixed hot and cold water in it, fetched soap and two towels, then spoke for the first time since they left her Pa's house.

"In my house we are always pure, free and open. Undress and stand in the tub. I will clean you."

Her head jerked up and she looked away, blushing crimson, but rose obediently. Her Pa always said obedience is next to godliness, and not by chance had Hardcastle always insisted on the same moral precept with the bevies of girls he used to train in the nunnery school.

Obediently Claire turned away and did as told. When she turned back she was naked except for cotton panties and two slender fine hands hiding her small breasts.

When she saw him, her head again jerked back but this time she kept her eyes fixed forward. He was entirely naked and from under hooded eyelids she secretly, or so she thought, set to assessing his long, fat uncircumcised penis.

Even flaccid it would be over twenty centimetres long and now it was definitely engorged and getting longer, straighter and more upright by the second. She wondered what it could become if he ever became ungentlemanly with her. She'd never seen a penis but neighbourhood girls told stories behind the barn that made her quiver.

Hardcastle gave her time to assess him. He always found this relaxed and titillated virgins, and he loved how his cock twitched and hardened under their gaze, and they in turn became disconcerted, moist and aroused under his male gaze.

She had a lovely figure, was assuredly intact, and would be a tight delight. He particularly liked her simplicity, modesty, innocence and naivety. It was a special nymphette combination he loved which even by itself could raise his penis to rock-hard ungentlemanly thoughts. He loved being the man to first open the eyes and body of these ingenue nymphs to a new world.

But time for that later.

"Panties," he said finally, with finality.

"Please...I'm...my...my...I'm having...my...monthlies."

"All the more reason. How do you expect me to wash you? Always pure, free and open in this house."

He gently continued, "You must take you panties off."

As she hesitated he added softly, "Or I will!'

She obeyed, but then had to decide where to put her hands. After several trials she spread a forearm and open hand across her breasts while the other hand shielded her little crotch. Seeing her standing, open, offered and unwrapped, yet innocently shy, was more enticing than he had dared envision. She was like one of the those carnal temptations with which he tested himself every Lent in the nunnery school...and...well...he was lost for words.

"Thank you Lord...," he muttered, licking his lips in appreciation and anticipation.

"Damnation is always superior to salvation and purity," remembering how he always yielded to his Lenten temptresses and they to him. "Lent be damned, Dieu merci!"

"Now into the bath," he said quietly, and she lowered her hands and gingerly stepped in.

Hardcastle knelt on the floor and started to gently wash her all over as she stood in the tub before the kitchen fire.

He started with her ears, face and neck, then moved to her arms, torso, breasts, back and legs. He lathered her. He was thorough. He took his time. He rinsed and lathered her again. He returned repeatedly to small blemishes and tiny scars, as if they might be a spot of dirt he had missed, but really he was merely learning all he could about her body.

He dipped his finger in vinegar and a little wood ash and cleaned her teeth. She resisted but a firm grip on her nape and a strict word quickly brought her to hand, and he proceeded to explore her mouth, tongue and teeth with long fingers. When he pushed two fingers deep into the back of her throat he was pleased with her gag. It was a slight but discernible reflexive contraction which a moment later she controlled, and it repeated sweetly and delicately as he worked his fingers in and out. Her throat would be a delight. She was a natural and would train well. Perfect.

He moved behind her so she couldn't see. He leaned in to inhale her scent while he smoothed his soapy hands down her back, over the slightly flared hips, into her buttocks crack, around to her soft belly, and up again to make sure her breasts were squeaky clean. He was pleased. She would do well.

All along she stood with arms loose at her sides, without complaint or reaction, as if used to it.

He knelt in front again, tapped her inner knees apart and she spread her legs as best she could in the tin bath. He didn't use a flannel, only his bare hands to lather every fold and crease and nook and cranny in her crotch. He allowed his finger tips to dip slowly and deeply into inviting holes, to rub her ridged surfaces, massage soft swollen lips, and force entry into the tightest of resistant cracks.

When she sagged against him and murmured inarticulately, he asked, "Are you ok?" and held his fingers still where they rested

She immediately muttered something urgently, so he resumed his inspection until she calmed. But her calm didn't last, and soon she sagged into him again, and this time he did not stop his fingers, palms and strong forearm until her face contorted, her body became rigid, her breath hissed, and she mewled and bit into his shoulder.

Under his ministrations she had left her mark on him, though it was really a mark he made on himself using her body as his instrument. She watched him touch the red streak possessively, and wondered if he would chastise her.

As she recovered he quietly murmured in her ear resting under his pursed lips, "You've done well, Claire. Welcome home."

Her Pa's last words--"do as Mr Hardcastle says"--were rippling non-stop through her mind, but now in place of her memories of Pa's busy hands and flabby embrace she was making new memories, this time of Hardcastle's tall naked hard toned body against hers.

She thought, "Doin wot Mr Hardcastle says is easy."

Shyly, she slipped her tongue through her own slightly pursed lips resting against his neck and tasted his salt.

He felt the touch, read her thoughts, and pressed her to him.

After drying her, he placed a clean rag in fresh panties and, still kneeling, held them open for her to step into. She placed her two hands on his broad shoulders and lifted each foot in turn. Then he pulled them up for her, snugly into her crotch, making sure the rag pressed comfortably against her vagina, the gusset neatly over her pussy, the back pulled not too tightly into her butt crack.

When he was satisfied, he kissed her forehead and told her to watch while he washed himself.

He brushed his teeth with vinegar and ash and a long first finger. He stood in the tub of cool sudsy water and washed himself all over. He took particular care with his nipples and grey chest hair, muscled chest, arms, legs and belly, his butt crack front and back, and finally his testicles and penis.

His penis, of course, was quite rigid and erect in response to virgin Claire. He pulled back the foreskin and cleaned the skin and fat mushroom glans thoroughly, then jacked himself gently. Normally in such a situation he might toss himself off to induce an envious and willing yearning in the girl, but Claire was different. He didn't want to come just yet, but he did enjoy seeing her eyes following his hand. She had a lot to learn.

With an effort he forced himself to stop, then rinsed and dried.

It was time for bed.

"Where do I sleep?" she asked.

"With me."

"Naked?"

"Yes, except when you're bleeding. Then you'll wear panties and a pad."

"Will you be naked too?"

"You ask a lot of questions like a child. But you're a grown girl moved from your Father's house to mine, and it's time for me to mark you."

"What do you mean 'mark' me?"

"It's when I make my body part of yours to show you belong to me. It's just a beginning tonight. Soon I'll mark you in many ways. My body will be in yours as you are in this home, and this home will be yours as you will belong to me."

"Will other men mark me?"

"Other men might touch you if I permit. I'll have my reasons. But you can only be marked once, only the first time, only by one man, and I'm that man. You're mine and I'll be yours for as long as you live, and even after we're dead through the lives of our children and our children's children."

"When do we start?"

"We already have. I was inside you just now, and you've tasted me. You've started becoming mine."

She was silent as he unwrapped her from the towel and carried her to bed, putting her flat on her back, arms relaxed at her sides, legs modestly together, thigh-gap beckoning.

Simple, pure and open, served prim and presented, giving him flash-backs to the nunnery school.

He got in beside her, lying on his left side, her head in the crook of his left shoulder, his left hand caressing the delicate hair behind her ear. He recalled past neophytes. He leaned down and kissed her lips, waited patiently till she opened, then inserted his tongue to her teeth, waited patiently again, until she let her jaw relax open.

They always knew what was expected the first time a hard naked man with an erect phallus nestled against them.

For many minutes he explored her teeth, gums, cheeks and tongue with his long, agile, instructive tongue, while his right hand guided her jaw. He enjoyed the hiss of warm air through her small slit nostrils as he probed the cavity.

He sucked in her little, soft, almost liquid tongue, swirling it on his palette like a fine Easter wine.

Memories of Lenten pleasures in the nunnery school mingled with her taste, like a fine Merlot paired with a delicate Camembert on a fine morsel of lamb's tongue. His blood was quickening.

Her breath was also quickening, and he could smell carnal urgency creeping into her. He felt responsive twitches ripple along her limbs. His felt her torso twist sinuously against his, like the snake around the apple tree when God was using it to tempt Adam and Eve.

He had made himself at home in her mouth, and now she was shyly exploring his with her own tongue. All the while, without her knowledge, her pelvis was constantly rising smoothly and rhythmically, like a saddle mount being trained to walk to hand. She alternately moaned, grimaced, and fluttered her eyelids. He saw the whites of her eyes as her blue irises rolled back in her head.

Quietly and imperceptibly, while she lay gently in his arms, naive and so very, very innocent, he was filling her with need.

She didn't know it was happening but he did, and his cock was now stretched long, hard, thick and urgent. He had deftly trapped it between his hard belly and her side where he pressed against her. His full balls lay pleasantly along her soft thigh, his cock-root was against her little hip bone, and his mushroom cock-head smeared pre-cum on her rib cage around her right nipple.

She was as enticing as any wayward nunnery angel he'd ever trained to pleasure.

It was time.

He reached down and freed his shaft, fisted it and began to stroke. He had waited all afternoon since he got her from her Pa, so it wouldn't take long. In fact he was about to release over her so instinctively and quickly that she would be unaware of his flying fist and her first marking. She was too busy soaking in her new feelings.

When he started stroking she was daydreaming of how deftly he had dealt with Pa, of how he handled the stallion and Fiona, and of his experienced hands washing her as she stood in her tub in her new home. It all filled her childish mind as only an exciting new home and man can.

She could feel his hands, breath and eyes on her, giving her the same tingly tremor she had when she was standing in her tub. He was cleaning her inside and out, purifying her body and thoughts, welcoming her home, simplifying her world.

She remembered him saying she must always be simple, pure and open in his house, and suddenly knew what he had done that made her feel that way, the way he wanted her to feel, the way she wanted to feel, and how he had done it.

Now he was again making her his, making her who he wanted her to be, who she wanted to be. Her blood had risen, heat was spreading through her tummy and between her legs, and an intense bout of the 'dreamy feels' had taken over her foggy brain, swollen tits, hard nipples, and moist cunt.

Beneath his flying fist her belly was warm and her skin tingled. He had turned her inside out, and her inside feelings were on the surface of her outside, coating her like his pungent male sweat was doing.

"This is the super-bestest of all feelings...," she thought with an inner giggle, lost in his hard sweaty body against her, tense and rigid, compelling and possessing, thrusting.

Soon she was as lost as when "that" had happened in the tub, "that" explosion in her belly and between her legs, "that coming from nowhere and going everywhere" thing that wracked her body, her senses and her sense.

When, it finally stopped she had melted into him with his fingers still deep inside her, his body enfolding her, his blood and salt from his neck in her mouth, his soft guttural words creeping into her like a beckoning finger inserted, "You've done well, my Claire. Welcome home."

This memory of her first orgasm flowed through her, flooded her mind, overflowed and flooded her body, and triggered her second orgasm.

Her skin tingled from her scalp to her soles. Her torso arched rigid, her tummy rose off the bed, then reversed and her belly hollowed and her pelvis and cunt curled up, searching. She clutched blindly for something to grip. One little hand found the root of his cock, the other his pumping forearm. She gripped both and hung on.

Then the first rope of semen hit her.

She heard herself scream. Her eyes rolled up and back behind her wide open fluttering eyelids. Her grip tightened on his cock and arm. She wanted it all, yielded all.

Hardcastle never ceased stroking and came without restraint.

He felt like his balls had accumulated a quart of semen over a lifetime waiting to mark her, and he didn't waste a drop. The first rope stretched from her belly to her eyes and triggered her orgasm.

The next rope arched high above the bed, descended, and landed with precision on her left tit as she arched in a full-body spasm. Then countless frothy white ropes spattered all over her, each soaking a new part. He twisted his body and cock this way and that, covering her from head to toe while she drowned in the second orgasm of her young life.

The arcs slowed to spurts, then dribbles, and finally drops which he wiped on her lips. Lastly he rose to hands and knees over her, and thrust his spent cock-head and first four centimetres of shaft between her wet lips to suck and taste.

She had lost consciousness and was not aware of the breeding seed covering her. Her belly, face, neck, thighs, breasts, arms, lips and panties were soaked, every part coated, glistening, dripping and slippery.

As her senses returned the first thing she felt were his strong farmer hands working the warm white cream into her flushed skin, cooling and balming her, sealing himself into her.

"Where is it from?" she asked.

"From inside my cock and balls,. It was in my body a few minutes ago, now it's in yours where it belongs. It'll be part of you for the rest of your life."

At that, she craned up her neck and kissed him, giving him tongue, resting one hand on the back of his neck, the other on the back of his hand, helping rub the lovely cream into her belly. When they finished her skin was smooth and fresh, and he sat back and said quietly, "Simple, pure and open. As you should be. Now off to sleep."

She barely heard. Her young eyes had drooped, her little head lolled, her light grip on his cock relaxed.

Rolling her onto her side facing the wall, he spooned her from behind, hugging her into his belly with his fat turgid cock comfortably filling her butt crack and pointing up her spine. His left arm curled protectively around the top of her head, her head pillowed on his bicep, her scent filled his lungs, and his fingertips caressed her twin acorn breasts.