Sandra threw her corduroy jacket over her shoulders and stepped out into the yard. There was a slight breeze which alleviated some of the premature heat of early May, and she began to amble towards the barns. She was glad the house was a short distance away from them – she didn't think she could stand it if the animals were milling about directly outside the front door. There was nobody about and Sandra was grateful for that. She didn't feel like talking to anyone this morning, and particularly not to Eve, who turned out to be a very talkative type, always anxious to engage herself or anyone else in conversation. Sandra had seen her several times talking to Sam in the yard, and she had caught several glimpses of Mike and Eve laughing intimately together.
Mike himself had been very incommunicative when she brought up the subject of the new dairy help and how she was working out. Of course, she reflected, after that dreadful fight they'd had, she couldn't expect him to confide in her. She wished now that she hadn't been so hasty in accusing him of being interested in Eve, that she had kept her suspicions to herself, but the damage was done, and now she couldn't help thinking that there was something going on between them. It was several days now since they'd had that fight and Mike usually tried to make up with her right away after such an argument, regardless of whose fault it was, but this time, he just didn't seem to care. That was the part that hurt, he didn't seem to care anymore what she thought or felt. She felt it was a stroke of luck that he'd gone into town early this morning and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. It would give her time to think, and maybe even plan some strategy for getting back in his good books. But if he is really interested in that girl, I don't know what I'll do, she worried, afraid she might have gone too far. She hated to admit it to herself, but there was no denying that Eve was really attractive, and she had a slow, sensual way about her that Sandra knew was exciting to men. She felt a twinge of jealousy stab at her, and tried to banish from her mind the nagging suggestion, almost a certainty, she feared, that Mike had become involved with the new dairy maid. No matter what happened, she didn't want to lose Mike. But should I just sit back and let him play around with that little blonde right under my nose? she argued. Almost painfully, she thought again of the cache of pornographic pictures she'd discovered, lewd filthy photographs of Mike in disgusting positions with different women. The shock of finding them still affected her, and her subsequent action of getting aroused by them shamed her through and through. She didn't even allow herself to think of that evening, when she had shamelessly fingered her own vagina and actually reached a climax, all from the sensations, evil, wicked sensations, aroused in her by the vile snapshots. Every time the thought came into her mind, when the memory tried to torment her, she had brushed them back into oblivion, waiting for time to erase the sharp-honed edge of her humiliation.
"Good morning, Mrs. Peters," a voice sang out suddenly behind her. It was Sam Maguire, and Sandra, turning around, saw that he was leading Jacob, the donkey stallion.
"Good morning, Sam," she replied, feigning cheerfulness, and immediately turning her attention to the animal. She hated having anything to do with the hired hand. She never knew what to say to him, always being afraid of sounding too familiar, or worse still, acting very haughty with him. She began to stroke the donkey's strong arched neck.
"Jacob seems to be in fine shape," she mused, running her eyes admiringly over the animal's sleek black and white body.
"All the exercise he gets keeps him trim," Sam smirked, and Sandra turned to look at him.
"I thought he's kept inside for the season…" Sandra puzzled. The donkeys were the only animals she was really interested in on the farm, and it was she who had encouraged Mike to keep them in the first place. They were becoming very popular everywhere, and top quality foals could fetch very high prices. They had ten mares, and just this one stallion.
"That's what I mean," Sam leered. "His mares keep him busy, and he sure knows how to rise that big rod of his. Yes sir," he went on, staring intently at her, "them she-donkeys sure seem to love that long prick of his shoved far up in their…"
"How-how dare you!" Sandra gasped, her face scarlet, mortified with embarrassment at the farmhand's lewd words. Who did he think she was, that he could talk to her like that, use such filthy language in her presence? Anger seethed inside her like bubbling oil, threatening to overflow and scald everything within distance. But she managed to control her feelings and said in a low, even voice: "Please watch your language, Sam. Mr. Peters does not tolerate obscenities, and I would hate to have to report your despicable behavior to him." Even to her own ears, her words sounded dictatorial and stuffy, but her shock was still electrically alive inside her, and she was incensed at the liberty the worker had taken with her. She had a good mind to tell Mike, and perhaps even have Sam fired for his insolence.
Sam looked the picture of the abject servant. He held his old cap in his hand, and his reddish-gray hair glinted in the morning sun. His head was slightly bent and Sandra saw with satisfaction that his face was suitably blanched with fear and consternation. Jacob stood by calmly, seemingly totally unaware of the minor drama his presence had caused.
Without another word, Sandra stalked away, leaving Sam glaring after her. Fucking bitch, he spat. Can't even take a joke. Well, she'll get her come-uppance one of these days; I'll see to that! In fact, tonight just might not be a bad time!
Sandra felt irked by the sound of the back doorbell. She had just settled down to watch T.V., and was looking forward to relaxing for a few hours. She had spent most of the day in the garden, digging and transplanting the seedlings she had sown in the spring, and she felt tired and wind burned when she finally came into the house and fixed a cold supper for herself. The heavy physical work of gardening had taken her mind off her worries, and now she had been hoping that the television would do the same, and that she would feel sleepy after watching a few shows, as she usually did, and that she would then drop off easily to sleep.
With a sigh, she got up and went through the kitchen and opened the door. She experienced a flicker of distaste that coupled with her annoyance when she saw who was there.
"Good evening, Sam," she said tonelessly, not bothering to hide her irritation.
"Sorry to bother you, Ma'am," Sam muttered, fidgeting with his cap, his eyes downcast. "But the fuses went in the barn an' I can't see to do my work."
"Well, I think I've got some in the kitchen," Sandra said curiously relieved that he had a legitimate reason for calling on her so late in the evening. She found, somewhat to her surprise, that she had a new fear of the farm worker, a fear born from his distasteful remarks to her that morning. She sensed that there was an underlying hostility or arrogance in his attitude to her, and that his disrespect was a form of that aggression.
She noticed with displeasure that he had followed her into the kitchen, and willing herself to take no notice of him, began to look for the fuses. She wasn't quite sure where they were and rummaged around in the kitchen drawer. They weren't there and she knew that they must be on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet, where she kept the electric light bulbs.
"I'll get them, Ma'am," Sam suggested when she told him, but she declined. She couldn't stand the thought of his dirty, and she supposed, clumsy hands on her clean kitchen cupboard, and unable to suppress a sigh, pulled the kitchen steps over in position. Mounted on the third step, she noticed that Sam had moved even closer to her so that he was almost directly under her. Thank goodness I'm wearing slacks she thought as she groped around for the fuses. Relieved to find them easily, she began to descend, thinking maybe now he'll go away and leave me alone.
Suddenly, she stiffened. The blood pulsed wildly in her veins and a sudden wave of heat engulfed her and threatened to overcome her. She just couldn't believe what was happening. His hands were on her buttocks, feeling them, squeezing them – he was actually caressing her back there!
She didn't know what to do. Fear washed over her, followed quickly by revulsion, disgust, anger. She hesitated for a split second on the steps. Should she order him to stop, or should she just ignore it? If she got angry, perhaps she might intimidate him, but on the other hand, he was brazen enough to touch her like that, and he might get violent. But conversely, if she just ignored him, might he not interpret that as an invitation to continue? Oh God, what should I do, she wondered wildly. His work-coarsened hands continued their lewd manipulation of her softly yielding ass cheeks, kneading and clutching, and it seemed to the agonized woman that an eternity passed in those few seconds.
Then, she could stand it no longer.
"Take your hands off me, you disgusting old man!" she shrieked, almost falling from the steps in her sudden angry horror. Relieved, she found herself on the ground once more, and gave vent to her feelings.
"How dare you? How dare you lay your hands on me? I'll see you're fired for this. Your impertinence today was enough, but you've gone too far this time!" She stood glaring at him, panting from her exasperated speech, her green eyes flashing like sparkling emeralds.
"No need for you to get on your high horse with me, lady," Sam leered, an arrogant sneer on his weather-beaten face, "'cause I know what you're really like!"
Sandra was thrown off balance by his unexpected retort. She had anticipated apologies, sullenness, even a denial, but she had not expected him to be so completely defiant.
"What do you mean?" she asked, striving to keep a condescending tone in her voice. Her eyes swept contemptuously over his stocky, over-alled figure, and she imagined she saw him cringe under her proud stare.
"H'mm, guess not even your husband knows what you get up to when he's not around…" he said contemplatively, and Sandra's heart missed a beat. Just what did he mean? He was acting so strangely, not at all intimidated. She was beginning to feel worried. There was something menacing about this sudden change in their hired hand, and her pulse quickened in fear. She thought about screaming, but knew it was futile, because the other workers were in their quarters on the far side of the barns, and besides, the television in the lounge was blaring, and likely to drown out any cries for help she might make. Sam moved closer to her again, and she drew back suddenly from his insidiously searching hand which reached out and touched her hip.
"Get-get away from me!" she gasped, her terror mounting.
"C'mon now, honey, I happen to know you need a little lovin'!" Sam rasped, his eyes roaming freely over her trembling figure.
"I-I don't know what you mean!" she stammered. What was he hinting about?
"Don't play dumb with me, baby, 'cause ol' Sam knows more about you than you think!" There was a new ominous sound in his voice, an ugly, threatening note.
Sandra's heart raced with fear. He seemed to have something on his mind, something he was trying to threaten her with.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" she said defiantly, hoping to inject her voice with courage.
"Let's put it this way!" he taunted, rubbing his hands together. "You had a real nice time cleaning out the office the other day, didn't ya?"
Sandra blanched, and suddenly her throat felt dry. She could only stare in horrified amazement at the triumphantly grinning figure of the workman. She just couldn't believe that she had heard him correctly, yet the enormity of the implication of his remark was slowly etching itself on her disbelieving brain.
"No… no!" she gasped, unable to stop herself.
"Oh yes!" Sam laughed, delighted at the effect of his bombshell on her. He was glad he'd waited to drop it on her, strung her out a little first, got her ready for the big one. "Yessirree," he went on, unable to relinquish his stunning victory over her, "cleanin' out the office was a real pleasure for you that day."
Sandra continued to stare in numbed silence at him. Did he know – had he seen her? Was that what he was hinting at, that he'd seen her looking at those pornographic pictures, seen her pushing her own panties down to her knees and fingering herself, seen her reach orgasm?
"What I do is my own business," she said flatly. She felt devoid of all strength, completely stripped of the will to put in his place this lewd uncouth worker who was bent on tormenting her.
"It sure is," he conceded, "but I'd say them glossy pictures are Mike's business, too."
Did he know about the pictures, too? she thought wildly, suddenly desperate to get away from this vile man.
"Will you please leave?" she said in a tone of quiet command, but Sam only edged forward, and then suddenly, grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her close to him. His other arm closed tightly around her, and he peered with lewd suggestion down at her.
"I could tell you really liked them colored pictures… you got real hotted up when you looked at them, didn't ya?"
Sandra was paralyzed with fear. She was afraid to struggle, afraid to waken his real anger, which she sensed was lurking near to the surface of his demented personality. She decided that if she ignored him, he might get tired of his little game.
"That one where they were sixty-nining is a real winner, ain't it?" Sam taunted. "That's your husband in the photograph, and did ya see the size of his cock jammed into the broad's mouth?" Sandra felt a rush of nausea, and fought to keep herself from retching. He's insane, her mind screamed, you're not safe with him… Oh God help me…
"… and did ya see her pussy, all red and juicy and ready? I bet Mr. Peters really liked getting his tongue in that little hole!"
"Oh stop it! Stop it!" Sandra screamed suddenly, beginning to struggle wildly, unable to take any more of her captor's leering obscenities.
"What'samatter, honey?" he leered, his hand tightening roughly around her breast, crushing it painfully through her cashmere sweater. "Don'cha wanna talk about them pictures?"
"No, no, please leave me alone!" she whimpered, her reason deserting her and leaving her a cringing mass of fear and bewilderment.
"How did ya like the one where Mr. Peters was giving it to the blonde in the ass?" Sam taunted again, and Sandra felt a fresh shudder of revulsion convulse her. As if by magic, a startling clear reproduction of that vile photograph leaped into the terrified woman's mind, and she could see the lewd scene finely etched on her brain – the straining white mounds of the girl's buttocks, the tiny dark ring of her anus nestled between the creamy spheres; Mike's hugely distended penis already inserted in the tiny puckered entrance. She couldn't banish the lurid apparition from her mind, and she felt suddenly that she was going mad. She wanted to scream, to shriek and wail, do anything to shatter the terrifying reality which encircled her, a reality of disgusting perversity, peopled by such lascivious monsters as Sam Maguire and her own husband, Mike. Part of the revolting present was the hired hand's tight convulsive clasp on her breast, and even as awareness sunk once more into her brain, she felt that same hand slip down along the curve of her waist and once more cup her buttock, squeezing it intimately in a lustful gesture. Sandra felt totally devoid of control over her own body and mind. Something had snapped in her when she had finally realized that this lowly farm worker had witnessed her surrender to her own lewd response to the filthy pictures, and now she realized his domination over her was complete when he had revealed an intimate knowledge of those same dirty photographs. Had Mike shown them to his employee? How many other people had he shown them to? New, more frightening thoughts alarmed the despondent woman. How long had Sam been aware of Mike's infidelities? Had Sam felt pity for her, Mike's wife, every time he saw her, knowing of Mike's secret life?
Sandra was barely aware of Sam's hand insinuating itself into the waistband of her slacks, flicking open the button, pulling down the zipper. Her racing, panic stricken mind occupied all her attention. The wife is always the last to know. The hackneyed statement jumped into her mind, and taunted her. Yes, she thought bitterly, I was the last one to know – even the farm hand knew before I did!
Her heart somersaulted inside her as she felt Sam's wandering hand press against the softness of her belly and move downwards toward the panty-clad mound of her pubic triangle. Oh God, what is happening? she thought wildly, really aware for the first time that the farm worker's hand was actually inside her slacks and was edging down towards her now trembling vagina!
"Oh God, stop it! STOP IT!!" she shrieked, struggling wildly. She couldn't let this happen – no matter what, she had to stop his lewd advances before they got any further. Her startling thoughts had thrown her off balance, putting her off guard, and now, this revolting man was trying to fondle her down there!
"Hold still, baby," Sam rasped hoarsely, "and let ol' Sam give ya li'l pussy what your two-timin' husband has been neglectin'."
Sandra stood stock still. Did he know that Mike hadn't made love to her in weeks? Had Mike told him? Oh God, it was too much to bear! Sam took advantage of her immobility and eased his hand inside the flimsy nylon protection of her panties and slipped down to the soft, hair-covered pelt of her vagina. The fingers hesitated there for a moment before slipping upwards and teasing slowly into the warm moist furrow of her pussy.
A shudder coursed through Sandra as she felt his hard insistent fingers down between her thighs on her naked genitals. She felt powerless to move. There was something irrevocable about his intrusion there – as if there was nothing to fight any more. He had forced his hand inside her panties – she had allowed things to get this far – and now, there was nothing she could do about it! She felt broken, a victim of events initiated by her husband when he had first started being unfaithful to her. His illicit actions had started the ball rolling for her subsequent acquiescence to the farm worker's lewd manual play. It was Mike's fault!
Sam's fingers probed and searched in the softly yielding cuntal folds, exploring the smooth, slightly pulsating lips, teasing about with confident insistence. Sandra was surprised at her own reaction to another man's hand between her legs. She knew it was partly because of her disembodiment from physical feeling, but couldn't deny that the strange fingers didn't feel bad down there.
"How d'ya like it, honey?" Sam hissed lewdly, "better than fingerfucking yourself, isn't it?" Unwillingly, Sandra admitted the memory of her own frantic fingering of her excited vagina, her scurrilous search for release. Shame flooded through her at the thought of how she had writhed under her own probing fingers, how she had squirmed her naked buttocks around lewdly in orgasm as she plunged her fingers deeper and deeper inside her. What was happening to her? First, she had enjoyed her own lewd masturbation, and now she was beginning to like the hired hand's fingers working deeper now up inside her gradually moistening pussy!
No, it can't be! Her mind screamed, it can't be happening to me! But there was no doubt now about it – she couldn't deny it. She was beginning to ENJOY Sam's fingers in her pussy, and in spite of her mind's horror, her traitorous body was beginning to undulate gently in time to the farm worker's insistent fingers between her thighs.
Sam felt a surge of triumph on sensing her submission to him. There was no denying that she was beginning to like it – he could feel a tiny, but sensuous flexing beginning inside her trembling vagina, and her whole body was beginning to shiver in anticipatory pleasure. He had won, he, the lowly farm worker, had succeeded in taming this heretofore haughty wife of his boss, who had so often looked down her nose at him! He could hardly believe his luck in catching her playing with herself in front of those dirty pictures of her husband in the study that afternoon.
Tiny mewls of pleasure began to spew from Sandra's lips and she leaned back against Sam and began to writhe, her loins churning in simulation of copulatory rhythm. She was being subjugated by the betrayal in her body, her will to resist curbed by the greater mastery of desire. Awareness of the reality of the situation was fading; consciousness of the growing tingle in her vagina was taking its place.
"How does that feel now, Mrs. Peters?" Sam breathed. "How do my fingers feel touching your pussy?" His other hand was working at her firm rounded breast, squeezing and tweaking the hard turgid nipple through her sweater. Then, with a sudden upward movement between her legs, he ground his fingers hard into the wetly throbbing opening of her cuntal passage and wormed their stubby tips far up inside her.
"Ooohhhhhhhhhh…" Sandra moaned, jolted by the searing entry, tormented by the grating of his nails against her sensitive inner membrane. His fingers continued their wild rotatory plundering inside her, and Sandra felt weird new sensations cavort through her body. Oh God… This is better than when I did it… she thought helplessly in the daze of her passion, as she pressed her now hungrily pulsating clitoral bud down on the relieving hardness of Sam's hand.
"You really love it now, don't you, babe?" he gloated, hardly daring to believe that this was really happening to him, that his own boss' proud little wife was really squirming under his manipulation.
"Oh yes," she hissed through passion-clenched teeth, "Oh yes, it feels so good… Mmmmmmmmm…!!!"
Sandra's entire crotch was a throbbing mass of aroused nerve endings, and she felt as if an uncontrollable fire had been kindled there. Her clitoris felt round and hard and was pulsing strongly with the heated blood of desire, and the swollen fleshy outer lips of her hair-lined split were moist with passion. Chills rippled through her spine which contrasted with the heat which was rising from her groin, rising up to cover her face and neck in a hot, rosy flush.
She was moaning uncontrollably now, unconscious of everything but the delicious pleasure which was seeping into every crack and crevice in her weary body and infusing her with a joy she hadn't experienced for a long time. She felt as if she was soaring on the wings of some magical mythical bird which was flying high and taking her to a warm heavenly place where he could deposit her in a comfortable nest where nothing or no one would ever harm her again.
And suddenly, she was there, in that unreachable nest, gliding down into a feathersoft resting place.
"Oooohhhhhhhhh…" she chanted, "I'm there… oh it's so good…" Her hips were jerking in a heathen rhythm, and she was mashing her vagina down onto Sam Maguire's tiring hand in ceaseless motion, and her hotly seeping pussy juices simmered down onto his fingers and lubricated them completely as they continued to instigate new and exciting pleasure inside her. Then, finally, when the heated sensations of passion had subsided and her body was reduced to convulsive twitching, a blanketing peace came over her and suddenly he left her alone to slumber in her long sought magic nest.
Sandra didn't know how long she was asleep, and it was dark when she woke. Blindly, she groped her way into the bedroom, and threw herself down on the bed, not bothering to remove her slacks or sweater. Her slacks were slipping down around her hips, but she was too tired to care. All the feeling of pleasure had deserted her body, leaving her an empty shell of misery and guilt. She could hardly allow her mind to dwell on the disgusting event from which she was just recovering, and her brain, almost jeeringly, refused to even reconsider the delight her body had experienced, but insisted in emphasizing the lewd aspect of her abhorrent submission to the farm hand's lewd handling of her naked vagina.
Feelings of self-loathing rose up in her and filled her with contempt for her own weakness. Kaleidoscopic pictures of her husband in different pictures with different girls, performing different prurient acts of self-gratification tripped through her mind, lascivious embroidery on the photographs she had actually seen, and they tormented her into a state of humiliated frenzy, until finally she dropped off into a fitful, disturbed sleep, her mind insisting in a last crippling blow, you're as bad as he is…