Sheafs

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This pornographic story, in which a cute goth girl takes her adventurous friend back to the lonely village where she grew up, features repeated recreational drug use, altered states of mind and awareness, male partners of a wide range of ages, dubious yet enthusiastic consent, simultaneous penetrations, lots of cum, and friendship.

Frances' face was a blitz of freckles. Her very pale skin had barely managed to tan, but a pointillistic smear across her nose and cheeks told the story of how much time she'd spent in the sun. Wispy, over-long red hair, and thin enough to reveal her bone structure. Minus the hairdo, she had the looks of the maidens they depicted in folk songbooks and on beermats in these parts. She wore a green linen wrap skirt and a lace-edged lilac vest. The summer haze buzzed over the fields behind her, infusing the air with amber and gold.

Chloe watched her friend's lips move and didn't hear the sounds, taking in her appearance against the backdrop of the meadows enshrouding her own hometown. The two had been close since University, and they'd committed years ago to travelling South together, enjoying the pubs and canals of the rural towns Frances had never seen. It was where Chloe came from -- a smattering of homes and brief trade named Birdleigh. A place where going to see a friend meant crossing a field and asking "what do you want to do?" for two hours before tea time. One pub where all the grown-ups congregated; little to do that wasn't drinking cider, or walking and chatting aimlessly.

Frances had a romantic view of these places, as a city girl, and Chloe considered her sheltered for her background. Where Chloe had escaped the monotony of rural life to study, Frances had somehow managed to bring suburban insularity with her. Both of them had ended up in an urban setting, sharing a house halfway through their first year; at their housewarming, Frances had asked in apparent sincerity whether the fireworks two streets over might be gunshots. Things didn't change much -- Frances didn't go out except to go with Chloe, resulting in a stunted social life for the latter with her less-than-streetwise tag-along to the goth and heavy metal clubnights somewhat impeding her chances to experiment. But that was fine -- it also gave Chloe a little perspective, and she could see that the grubby things their peers got up to weren't necessarily once-in-a-lifetime experiences. She'd gotten over it, and she and Frances found a rhythm, supportive to one another to a fault.

In spite of that, Chloe still found her friend unduly clingy. A week hopping from town to town, staying in Bed and Breakfasts and sharing space with her 24/7 had foregrounded that impression, which normally, Chloe found easy to dismiss with short breaks. They didn't live together any more, which was perhaps one merciful factor. Frances talked endlessly about having a wild night -- one where they took drugs or made out with strangers or went skinny dipping -- that neither of them apparently had the eventual energy for. Frances tended to get sleepy at 9, remaining relentlessly chatty for an average of two hours. For Chloe, it was just a case that the part of her life where she'd have been interested in any of that had been mostly spent babysitting Frances' attempts at partying, and then, she'd grown out of it.

"...walking around for two hourstryingto find a new one. But anyway, it's gone, I won't miss it. Where do people go around here to party? Chloe?"

Chloe re-entered reality, realising she was at last being asked a question.

"To...?"

"To have fun, where does everyone go? Come on, you grew up here."

"There's... nowhere, really. It's not a party town. You either grab a lift somewhere else or you sit in the pub with all the plumbers and builders and idiots and drink cider until everyone goes home."

"So let's do that."

"I don't think you want to, it's very boring. My dad used to own it. I used to clean glasses there when I was... too young. It's the same old creeps who catcall you on your way to school, barking orders at you."

"I wasn't planning toworkthere."

"I'm saying I've seen that room from every possible angle and there is nothing resembling a party in it. Trust me. If you want to meet people we should find another place to go."

"Wait. If your dad owned the pub, why don't you own it now?"

In order to spare Frances' feelings over the years, Chloe's response to exasperation had evolved into a very still, measured conversational tone. She'd grown into a very calm explainer, with just a hint of weariness. It had happened when Chloe was 16: her dad had been under pressure to sell the pub to Martin, an old schoolfriend of his, and one of his peers in adulthood. He'd resisted, holding out for a higher price, or perhaps hoping that Chloe would take the reins one day.

Martin had a daughter, Sarah, a couple of years older than Chloe, who'd picked up regular shifts at The Sheaf. Someone had peered in after hours and gotten a good long look at Sarah and Colin, not a stitch between them, going at it up against the bar. That person told Martin, and Martin, not calmly, had negotiated a 20% discount in exchange for putting the matter to rest without word getting round the village. Of course, word spread anyway, and quickly found its way back to Chloe. The money was enough to give Chloe the break she'd always wanted, sending her off to an education and a new life in a city. Due to her father's misdeeds -- about the standard of any middle-aged man from Birdleigh -- at least one rural goth girl actually made it out.

A heart attack had claimed Colin during her second year. She'd had to take time out to figure out his estate. Her mother sold the house and moved elsewhere. Chloe had felt bad about not making time to visit her on this trip -- Frances had been insistent it was all to be "pure fun". But the sale of the pub and the house had enabled Chloe indefinitely. She'd be able to put a deposit on a place of her own, before too long. Not what you could buy for the same somewhere remote like this, but somewhere alive.

The spot they'd chosen to rest, just by the water, hadn't been a regular one for Chloe as a teenager. But it was nice. Sun and unspoilt grass. That haze. Frances yammering on. The sound and shimmering of the river. Somewhere over the hills behind them was The Sheaf itself. She'd expected to feel more dread, on returning home, but stronger was the sense of pity for the people growing old and slow in this place without so much as a new thought from one day to the next. The kind of place people go to breathe clean air and ramble for the weekend. Not the kind of place you should ever be trapped by.

She regarded her own outfit. Tight black polo shirt with white skulls embroidered on the collar, equally tight jeans and well-worn shitkicker low-tops with a single unpretentious silver buckle across the seasoned black leather. Her razor-sharp black fringe just slightly messier after a couple of weeks' growing in, and a high ponytail behind it. Pale as her friend, with her own freckles too, and quite a bit less thin, buxom curves filling out those tight black clothes. Silver pendants dangling from her earlobes like a keychain. Frances looked at home here; Chloe would stand out as much as she ever did, and maybe would catch less shit for it, having turned 21 a couple of years prior -- the point at which Birdleigh girls graduated from object to person. Insofar as women ever did, around here.

"Let's get fucked up. Come on. At your dad's old pub. I want to see it."

Chloe gazed in to the middle distance. "I don't think you're prepared for how fucked up it won't be, Frances. Honestly. It's a dive for tradesmen that serves basically three drinks."

"Chloe..."

"They don't even play music. There isn't anything to play music on."

"Chlooooeeee."

"Yeah, okay, let's go. We're here after all. I'll show you the stable where everyone gets fingered on the way."

-

The Sheaf didn't feel like coming home. In the sense that it had never felt like home. As it had always been, it was an either too-chilly or too-warm room, about six metres by three, with a simple bar in it. A listed building, it had beer mats going back to World War 1, photos of prior landlords and events from the village of a similar age. Chloe's dad was up there, of course, but she noted that her own family photos were no longer up behind the bar. Aside from that, it was almost a surprise how unchanged it was -- ancient slate flooring, and gnarled old beams, yes, but also no attempt to modernise. Somewhere between the 1950s and the 1980s it had taken on a cheapness that it never quite managed to shed; mid-grey paint and no lampshades on the two bulbs that illuminated the place from a lath-and-plaster ceiling that looked like it had seen better days. The window out to the street was dirty but not opaque. Chloe had expected Martin's acquisition to bring with it some level of modernisation. She had seen country pubs with warm new furnishings and fresh plaster and those very expensive coffee machines and craft beer -- this was not that.

She idly looked up at the ceiling. Yep -- still there. Unfortunate black smudge, where Chloe herself had once whacked a fly with a newspaper, transferring its ink to the bumpy and cracked plaster overhead. Martin had not so much as thought about redecorating.

She and Frances sipped their pints of Hummingbird, each their second, a locally made cider of about 6% strength and sickly-sweet. Even Frances had gotten a little quiet -- the temperature in the room had dipped in the hour and a half they'd been there, and chilled conversation with it. One person had recognised Chloe so far, an old regular, the rest being people she vaguely knew from back when who either hadn't noticed her, or hadn't cared to acknowledge it.

"Where's this Martin guy, then?" Frances had asked the question several times and was evidently bored by it.

"I don't know, I expect he has other business to look after as well. I doubt he'll be over the moon at the sight of me anyway."

"Why? It wasn't your fault."

Chloe shrugged. The pub would close in about an hour, and she and Frances could end the night in their AirBnB, chatting themselves to sleep, and finally get the train home the next day. The holiday had been such a bust, and mostly, she blamed Frances. There was a right way to do a trip like this, and every opportunity for a good experience had been waylaid by Frances' urgency for some kind of spontaneous hedonism that she herself couldn't describe. Things she could do more easily in a city, without bothering Chloe. But Frances' idea of rural life wasn't proportionate.

"I thought you were joking that they didn't play music in here."

It was utterly lifeless. A couple of tables along, some guys were glancing over at them. Chloe couldn't be sure she recognised any of the three sat there, a man possibly approaching 40 and two a few years above her. All of them wore old t-shirts and jeans splattered with paint and plaster.

She raised an eyebrow in the direction of the oldest.

"Is that Chloe? Colin's girl?"

"Yeah, hi, um..."

"David." Accompanied by a little wave of his rough hands. "I lived a few doors down from you, many years ago."

"Oh right! Right, yeah. Hi." She had no idea who this man was.

"You visiting? Or are you back?" His friends were staring over their shoulders now, too, following the conversation.

"Just here tonight really, showing my friend around. Uh, Frances." She gestured, and Frances made a cheerful wave.

"I don't think you'd know Tom and Will." His companions waved salutations. The three of them had stout arms and broad physique in general -- definitely among the many builders-by-trade in the area, to the extent that constant sausage rolls and cider couldn't outpace their daily physical exertion. It was a pretty typical build, and their basic square black haircuts were just as standard. Their variously weathered, pinkish-tanned skin was utterly familiar too, and in spite of her aesthetic leanings, it did feel like something she knew. Something from home.

The five ended up sitting together, at Frances' invitation. Although there wasn't much common ground, David did actually have a few anecdotes that lined up with Chloe's memory of her dad. Which itself was warming -- she had expected to return home and still be hearing about the incident with Sarah.

"Do you know where Martin is? Does he still own this place?" Behind the bar was an astonishingly old man whom Chloe was certain was the very same who used to stare at her for hours at a time.

"He does, yeah. I forgot you'd know Martin. Yeah. He's probably at the garage now. He usually comes in before closing. You wanted to see him, did you?"

"Not necessarily, but... ah..." the door had creaked open and all 6 feet of Martin had walked in. As broad as these builders, a little larger around the waist, hair greyer than Chloe remembered it. He'd be around 50 now. A faded salmon-coloured shirt tucked into brown slacks. Martin and Colin dressed similarly, and had been friends before it had all kicked off.

"Bloody hell. Chloe." He jogged over to the table and surprised the daylights out of her with a warm hug. She had expected suspicion, some hint of animosity, but no. "Alright lads."

"We were just talking about you, Martin. You doing alright?"

"Run ragged, honestly. Running this place and the garage and keeping the house in order, I don't have much time to myself. It's a treat to see you though, Chloe. You well? Who's this?"

They sat together, now six, as Chloe and Frances related their time at University, and Martin filled them in on the local comings and goings of the years she'd been away. Mostly what she already knew or had come to expect. Martin was warmer, more welcoming, than she'd remembered -- perhaps it had been the rawness of the business with his daughter that had governed his demeanour years ago.

"We were all sorry when your dad passed" he said, quite suddenly. "He was alright, in the end."

"I, uh..." Chloe laughed, nervously. "Not to bring up ancient history, or anything..."

"It happens. That sort of thing happens. It's behind us now. He was a good bloke."

"How is Sarah doing?"

"Sarah's great, yeah, she moved out about a year after you did. She didn't want to work here her whole life, so... I don't think she's far from you, actually. You could look her up, on the internet, or wherever."

"I might, actually." She didn't not mean it. Sarah had been her friend. The way Martin was behaving made her believe she could retrieve that friendship.

"So you two have been looking for mischief, have you?" David interjected. "Any luck?"

"Nooo" sighed Frances. "It's been like this basically every night. I didn't think everywhere would be so sensible with two cute girls passing through."

"Yeah, we're basically all in bed by 10 most nights." David took a swig of cider. "Martin and me are both getting' divorces, so we're spending more time down here than we usually did. If sad old men's your idea of a party." He was grinning reassuringly.

"Yeah, I don't have anywhere to be. We could do a lock-in, I suppose. Haven't had one of those in a few weeks." Martin was muttering, like he was talking himself into it. Chloe wondered if her habitual reticence had been acquired back home, after all.

But Frances, Will, and Tom all had very positive sounds to make about the proposal. "Actually," Frances said, "I did get something, in case... well..." she fished around in her handbag for a second. "Shit. Did I leave it at the room?"

"Frances, what did you get?" Chloe said, wearily.

"Naughties." Tom smirked.

"Ah...!" Frances brandished a small clear-plastic baggie in both hands, half-filled with crumbling champagne-coloured crystals. "What do we think?"

"For fuck'ssakeFrances" Chloe had her face buried in both hands. "He's the fucking landlord." The three builders broke into laughter. Frances' conspiratorial smile faded, in the knowledge that she'd be the last to understand.

"He's the license holder. You're in his pub. You've brought that in his pub that he's liable for and you're waving it around." David explained as kindly as he could. Chloe didn't withdraw her face from her cupped hands -- this wasn't even the kind of dive where a lock-in meant a stash of coke came out from behind the bar. It was 1959 in here on any given day.

"Alright, put that away" Martin smiled. "Until after we lock up, anyway. It's fine."

"Does everyone want some?" Frances smiled, hopefully.

"None of us really do that sort of thing," Will said, "but you go ahead, we'll all be clear enough."

"What even is it?" Martin seemed nonplussed. Will leaned in and whispered "Mandy".

"Molly." Frances corrected him, and Chloe immediately moved to correct her. "It's Mandy. They call it Molly in America, Frances. How did you buy it and not... oh, you got it off Phil, didn't you."

"Will you have some, Chloe?" Frances pleaded at her, hoping not to be the only one on drugs for the night. Chloe watched as she slipped the stuff back into her handbag. She'd tried MDMA during her first year of Uni, and it hadn't really had much effect. She put it down to being blind drunk at the time, possibly messing up the dose, or maybe a weak batch. She remembered the pill in the shape of a hand grenade, and feeling like death for three days after.

"I don't... think it's my thing. Sorry mate. You should've asked before."

Frances looked utterly despondent. "Alright, maybe I'll leave it too, then..."

Chloe wasn't un-tempted, truthfully. But it was The Sheaf. It wasn't a vibrant atmosphere. It would be better to do it back in their room.

"Alright, I'll... I'll probably do some." she sighed. "I know it's important to you."

Traditionally, a lock-in meant patrons could continue drinking after closing time -- the time when the premises' license expired. In somewhere like Birdleigh, it wouldn't make a massive difference. Chloe had overseen hundreds of the things when her dad ran the place. If anyone with the authority to stop it happened to be awake at that time, they'd usually be in the building with them.

Before long, Martin had locked the front door, taking in the folding sign from outside and propping it up on the windowsill with all the purpose of a man whose daughter had been spied on in that same building. The lock-in would be the six of them, the ridiculously old barman, Jim, and Charlie, a wiry young thing a couple of years younger than the two girls, who'd returned from a catering job at a wedding just in time for last orders.

Mandy is consumed any number of ways, but for the girls' purposes, they'd be crushing a few crystals under a pint glass and taking dabs from the pile with wet fingertips. Frances dipped a finger in four times, and Chloe followed suit, having taken that advice from Phil, and most of what they'd set out was used up.

It was so much worse than taking a pill. The stuff tasted like an industrial pollutant, a highly chemical bittersweetness that caused them both to grimace and wash it back with the entire remaining measure of cider. Will remarked with some amusement that he didn't miss the taste. It felt like he was the only one there with experience of the stuff. Both Chloe and Frances would make grimaces of disgust for the next couple of minutes, as the men looked on with interest at the two girls making their way into the experience.

"Feels good, though?" Martin seemed unacquainted with the whole concept. Will had to explain that it would be at least half an hour until anything happened. The pub landlord shrugged, and dutifully went back behind the bar to line up eight pints, as Jim had retired to his seat in the corner -- and, Chloe noted, stare at her with the same eerie calmness as he ever had. She shifted her stool around to face away from him, accepting a drink as Martin passed them across and sat back down.