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Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Flights of Fancy

Story from Blushes 24
An English garden on a drowsy English summer afternoon. A very charming garden, although its charm does not lie in its orderliness. It is, indeed, an exuberantly dis-ordered garden. Mr Mascoll’s garden is what is called a wild garden. That is he doesn’t weed flower beds or put weedkiller on his lawn. Instead plants are invited to grow as they will, invaders as welcome as the rest. The result is that Mr Mascoll’s garden resembles more a field of ripening hay with rich grasses enthusiastically thrusting up their tall seed stalks in competition with a multitude of meadow plants; wild buttercup and dandelion and shepherd’s purse, Queen Anne’s lace and cornflower, crimson poppies and mauve mallows. All of this riotous growth brings a great buzz of bees with various sorts of butterfly flitting here and there.
Mr Mascoll has not left his garden completely to its own devices however. He does mow a narrow strip down the centre, to form a grassy path, and also keeps it mown at the end under the apple trees. There is after all no point having a garden, even a wild one, if you can’t get into it. Mr Mascoll is presently enjoying the benefits of his garden in the company of a young friend, Annabel, whom he has escorted from the house to the present site of activity — well, inactivity really, at the moment.
Annabel stands tilt-hipped and rather at a loss beneath the apple trees while Mr Mascoll sets up his camp stool and gets out his drawing board and pencils. They make an odd couple. Mr Mascoll being well advanced in years, though still quite fit, while Annabel is hardly more than eighteen and still an unsophisticated girl rather than a young woman. Virginal, one might almost have said, although if one wanted to be accurate one would have to take into account the last several days Annabel has spent here at Mr Mascoll’s house, which has rather altered things in that respect. It would be unfair to Mr Mascoll to go into detail about precisely how he has managed to arrange this situation, but it has something to do with his friendship with a certain Mr Purley and his connections with a rather senior gentleman of the cloth, whose influence is known to spread wide and whose interests, though less known, are far-ranging and perhaps a little unusual for someone in his position. Mr Mascoll is in shirt sleeves, rolled up; Annabel is not in anything; she is nude.
Annabel is not wearing her clothes because Mr Mascoll has made her take them off. It is a hot sunny afternoon, true, but Annabel would still rather have something on. For one thing you know that when you have no clothes on it can get a gentleman suddenly very excited and there is not much you can do about it. Annabel knows this from personal experience with both Mr Mascoll and Mr Purley. The youthful female form exposed does have this effect, in particular if it is one as enticing as Annabel’s.
Annabel’s clothes are in Mr Mascoll’s breakfast room. Her jeans and top and knickers and bra and sandals. ‘I don’t know why you wear that thing,’ Mr Mascoll said meaning her bra and pinching Annabel’s pink nipples to make them stand out. Annabel wears one of course because of her mother and all those other people — the vicar! — who are very keen on such things and who if they ever dreamt about Mr Mascoll and Mr Purley would probably fall down in a dead faint.
‘I need the nude form, Annabel dear. I need the clean lines of your lissom limbs. For my drawings.’ Annabel has given a little ‘Eeeekkk!’ as Mr Mascoll’s fingers did something which you could do if a girl had no clothes on.
Annabel puts up with having to go ‘Eeekk!’ from time to time, because if she didn’t Mr Mascoll would most likely get cross and send her to her room and do something which he called ‘gingering up’, which meant caning her bare bottom until she went ‘Oooggh!’ and ‘Oooww!’, quite a lot. On the whole, it was better to put up with having to go ‘Eeek!’ now and then, than getting her bum caned and going ‘OOOOGH!
At the moment at least, out here under the apple trees, Mr Mascoll isn’t thinking about his cane. Nor is he thinking about that other in spite of the fact that he has her scrumptious form nude for the asking. Mr Mascoll, sleeves rolled up and eyes intent, is working. At his drawings.
Annabel has a little earlier seen what Mr Mascoll is drawing. He showed it to her and grinning asked what she thought. Annabel shrugged. It was her of course but not nude because Mr Mascoll had drawn a sort of playsuit thing on her, with tabs and ‘D’ rings. Very mysterious.
He has told her what he is working on now, with that gleaming look in his eye, claiming to have had a ‘brilliant idea’. That is what he said. ‘A brilliant idea, Annabel!’ The plan, apparently, is that the playsuit should be used for — of all things — swimming training!
Annabel can swim but not very well, nothing fancy. Certainly not as well as Jennifer, who has had special instruction from Mr Purley’s friend, Mr Heathershaw. What not everyone knows, though Annabel knows because Jennifer has told her, is what Mr Heathershaw requires for his special lessons. What would Jennifer’s mother — and Annabel’s mother and the vicar and everyone else — think of that! There would no doubt be quite a lot of falling down in dead faints.
But Annabel at least has not had extra lessons from Mr Heathershaw (he has offered but Annabel said ‘Er, no thanks.’) and so her swimming is not so hot. Probably even if she could swim well Mr Mascoll would still want to have her in his special swimming gear that he has thought of. Because no doubt the swimming part of it is just an excuse. There in any case does not seem to be any water involved. Not in that first drawing that Mr Mascoll showed her.
That one was a different position. Breaststroke probably. At least she was on her front. Now it is back stroke he is doing and so not surprisingly Annabel is on her back. On Mr Mascoll’s garden table. On a towel with her legs spread wide, knees raised, and her arms up above her head. Mr Mascoll with his drawing pad and pencils is sitting in his garden chair placed close to the end of the table opposite to that where Annabel’s head is.
When you think about it, what Mr Mascoll can see, what indeed he is no doubt gazing at as he draws, it can make a girl want to crawl away somewhere. Or at the very least close her legs. But Mr Mascoll of course specifically wants them nice and wide. Annabel, gazing herself up at the apple tree and its little ripening apples, is doing her best not to think about it. It is a kind of torment, being nude like this on the table and having to show him that, but mental torment at least. Mental torment is better than physical torment, i.e. having Mr Mascoll’s cane across your bare bum or the bare backs of your thighs.
Mr Mascoll hasn’t wanted to use the cane so far today and maybe, being so inspired by his brilliant new idea, being so engrossed in it, he won’t want to. Maybe also he won’t want anything else.
‘Keep the legs open, Annabel. Nice and wide. And lift one up in the air.’
Annabel groans a bit but does it. Mr Mascoll pulls his chair closer, right up to the table. His hand on her knee. Annabel’s other leg is up in the air.
‘Can you hold this position?’ Mr Mascoll’s hand trails up the silky inside of her thigh. ‘Not for a long time.’ Annabel is very conscious of the hand, the lightly caressing fingertips. And what they are approaching. That downy split peach. Is Mr Mascoll perhaps losing his concentration on his drawing for the moment?
‘Well hold it then. Hold your leg up.’
Annabel does, two hands supporting her raised leg at the knee. That is a lot easier, but… ‘Nnnggghhh’
An indistinct sound plops out from the pretty mouth indicating that Mr Mascoll’s hand has indeed gone where she feared it would. His fingertips stroke it. And then something slides along between the slightly moist lips. Causing another of those ‘Nnnggghhh’ sounds.
‘Do you know what this is?’ A light laugh as he does it. ‘Is it my finger or my pencil?’
Annabel squirms and shakes her head. It is in fact Mr Mascoll’s pencil which has popped between the puffy outer lips and in its up and down motion is causing some mayhem with Annabel’s self-control system. Not the sharp end of the pencil, the other, rounded, shiny painted one.
‘And what about this?’ Something slides right in. And out and in again. Annabel, still somehow managing to hold her leg aloft shakes her head from side to side. ‘Don’t!’ she gasps. ‘Someone… could see.’
Both Mr Mascoll and Mr Purley at times have the urge to do things in their gardens and Annabel can never quite shake off the sense of someone there in the shrubbery watching. Perhaps it is illogical, both gardens are thickly shrouded with dense greenery, but still. They both have neighbours. Mr Mascoll’s neighbour has a man who comes in to do his garden which is well kept up, like Mr Purley’s. Annabel has seen him, when she was arriving once on her bike. It seemed to Annabel that he looked at her with a very knowing look. What if he is there now, watching all this. With binoculars even. Or a camera. And then went to her mother… or the vicar…
‘Please!’ she gasps again, rolling about both from that heart-stopping thought and from what Mr Mascoll is doing, which he is not any longer, in fact, doing with his pencil. Mr Mascoll’s hand does at last come away. Annabel who has been gritting her teeth to control herself can relax just a little. Mr Mascoll pinches the inside of her thigh and then gets back to work. Making Annabel squirm about on the table is highly diverting but he must get on with his drawings.
It is going to require modifications to the suit of course. Rings on the actual lower half of the suit would be preferable. At present the bottom is free of rings, it has simply the side zips for convenient removal when the wearer is… Yes. But if there are rings on the suit itself and not just the belt the suit bottom will need to be kept on when the subject is… mmm… suspended. And so… for access…? A slit perhaps…?
Hmmm. It needs very serious thought. Mr Mascoll concentrates all his efforts, his thoughts, the pictures in his mind, flowing down through his arm. His facile fingers, and out onto the white paper.
Annabel gazes up into the tree. Her leg is beginning to hurt even though she is holding it. There couldn’t really be someone watching. Could there? Hidden in that shiny green of the high laurel hedge? That character next door? No. At least Mr Mascoll has stopped that business and is back at his drawing pad. Thankfully he has lost interest in that other stuff. And she will anyway have to go soon. Annabel has told Mr Mascoll she has to be back at five and it must be getting on. She tries to squint up at her watch. Then she sees Mr Mascoll is getting up. Smiling.
‘That will do for now. You can put that delicious limb down.’
And get up off the table? ‘I think I’d better be…’ He is grinning still. ‘Yes. But not right now, Annabel. In just a little while.’ Mr Mascoll’s hand is at his belt.
Oh. The blue eyes register sudden alarm. ‘Please…’ Annabel begins to get up, off of her back. Then falls back down again as Mr Mascoll sharply pulls the towel on which she is lying. Pulling her towards him. He continues to pull until her bottom is off the table. But Annabel’s bottom is not falling as Mr Mascoll takes hold of the twin cheeks, cupping them. Her legs are still open and Mr Mascoll…
Oh! Although Annabel is on her back and can’t see it is evident that Mr Mascoll has undone his belt and also the zip of his trousers. And also… No…
No! not out here.’
Mr Mascoll laughs. ‘What’s this now?’
Quite clearly it is not his finger or his pencil. He comes forward. At the same time… oh cripes…
What if someone were to be watching this? And photograph it. Mr Mascoll with a blissful look.
----//----
‘Hey!’ yelps Annabel, alarmed, as she swings dizzily forward. Under the apple tree again but not on the table now. Suspended fore and aft, at shoulders and bottom, from two high branches. Upside-down or on her front as it would be if she were in the water. ‘Hey!’ Another alarmed shout as Mr Mascoll with a hand at her ankle pulls her back again and then lets go.
Yes, Mr Mascoll has lost no time in having his modifications made, or rather in having a playsuit made up which incorporates them. And also of course those stout webbing straps which suspend this pretty girl. It is only three days later, another lovely sunny afternoon and Annabel is having her first test. She swings back and Mr Mascoll’s hand steadies her. She is suspended so that she is just about hip-high to Mr Mascoll. She could, of course, get out of the contraption but that would mean getting out of her shorts too, and would certainly mean being sent to her room for a caned bottom later on.
‘Let’s try some breaststroke first,’ he suggests. ‘Start with basics. So let’s have your legs nice and wide.’
Annabel groans but does as she is told. It is a very funny feeling being hung above the ground like this. What if one of those straps breaks? Or the branch? ‘I don’t like it,’ she wails. Then: ‘Eeekkk!’
Mr Mascoll has hold of one leg and his other hand has suddenly slipped between her legs. And not just that. ‘Eeekk!’ There doesn’t seem to be anything…
Mr Mascoll had got the suit on Annabel rather quickly. Otherwise she would have noticed that particular modification. His fingers fondle and then let go. He gives her another push. ‘Come on: breaststroke.’
The swinging Annabel produces a frog-like action: legs kicking wide, hands sliding forwards to pierce an imaginary watery medium. She is still quivering from Mr Mascoll’s hand. How could…? Has the suit split?
From the thick green hedge the unseen watcher observes in wide-eyed wonderment. Kinky! In fact kinky is hardly the word, not nearly strong enough. Bert Skiddaw, though, not being a man with a notably large vocabulary, cannot think of a better one. ‘Bloody amazing’ which also passes silently through his lips does not do justice either.
Is it some strange intuition that has drawn Mr Skiddaw, jobbing gardener next door, to crawl into the hedge as he has done some five minutes earlier? Or some weird telepathic tuning in to Annabel’s fears that someone might do just this? Whatever, that fact is that he did see her arrive this afternoon on her bike. And he has seen her come round next door a couple of times before. And today… something just seemed to draw him to the hedge. To push aside the branches and clamber in. Until… bloody unbelievable!
And not much later, as he continues to watch in round-eyed fascination, it becomes even more unbelievable. That Mr Mascoll is now actually… Swinging the girl backwards and forwards. In and out in fact. Standing there under his apple tree and actually… well he never did!
The inventive Mr Mascoll will return in Mr Mascoll’s Playsuit...

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