Susan sat up, cross-legged on her sleeping-bag. ‘Alright. We’re trespassing. So what? What can old Farmer Giles do about it?’ Her friend and travelling companion was lying along the length of her own sleeping-bag, reading a paperback. ‘Well, first of all, his name might not be Giles, and he might not be old. Secondly, I would imagine there was quite a lot he could do.’
Susan lifted back the tent-flap and looked about her. The field was long and gently sloping down to a stream. A country lane skirted it on two sides. They were a long way from the nearest main road or village. She looked back at Sally and caught sight of her friend’s book. ‘Hey. Say we were writing a novel, or something. About these two girls who went camping together; and deliberately trespassed in a farmer’s field?’ Sally closed her book, marking the place with a slip of writing paper. She enjoyed Susan’s company; especially when Susan was in one of her fantasising moods. She turned onto her side. ‘Well. We know we shouldn’t be here. It said so on the gate.’ She too, peered out of the tent for a moment. ‘And talking of gates, you left it open.’ Susan giggled. ‘Another misdemeanour! The plot thickens!’ Sally continued her own line of thought. ‘So we know these two girls in our story have done wrong; and the farmer is bound to turn up sooner or later. Now, all we need to decide is what happens when he does finally catch these girls?’
They lay back in silence for a while, each following silently, their own thoughts and fantasies, prompted by the scenario which Sally had described. ‘He could just order them off. Threaten to tell the police. That sort of thing?’ Her friend disagreed. ‘Some story! No. If I was writing a novel, I’d spice it up a bit.’ Susan closed her eyes. ‘So tell me how you’d add your spice.’ Her hand slipped casually down to the waistband of her shorts which she quietly unbuttoned.
Sally took a deep breath. Her eyes were also closed. ‘Well. I don’t think those girls would be particularly worried by a threat of the police. Nothing would happen. Just a case of common trespass. But what if the farmer decided on something which really would hit the girls; really make them wish they’d never set eyes on his field?’ Her friend quietly slipped the zip of her shorts right down and ran her slender fingers along her skin, beneath her knickers. ‘Do you mean… violence?’ Sally paused for a while, perhaps running several possible scenarios through her mind’s eye. ‘No… He would need to hold some other threat over the girls. Something which would make sure they stayed to take their medicine…’
Susan was becoming more than a little aroused by her friend’s choice of words. ‘Sounds as if our two friends really have something coming to them… but what? After all, it’s not as if they’re just kids who could be given a good hiding and sent home?’ There was another period of silence. Sally noticed that the dusk was falling fast. There was now a slight chill in the air. She rolled across the small tent, closer to her friend. ‘But perhaps that’s just what these two girls of ours need? Imagine a big strong farmer type telling them they were behaving like kids; and deciding to deal with them just like he’d deal with his own kids?’
Susan was already imagining. ‘Did your dad ever tan you?’ Sally nodded. ‘Too right, he did. Put me across his knee and slapped my poor bum. Still, I deserved it, I suppose.’ It was Susan’s turn to confess. ‘My dad never touched me; but Uncle Len did. Only slapped me sort of mildly, across my knickers; but it hurt, though.’
Sally was suddenly aware of her friend kneeling above her. ‘Turn over.’ She saw a sparkle in Susan’s eyes, and then she did as she had asked. Lying flat on her tummy, her head resting in the folds of her arms, she listened. ‘I wonder whether it would still hurt? I mean, if your Uncle Len smacked you now? After all, you’re not a little kid any more, are you?’ As if to prove the point, she gently slipped her friend’s shorts and knickers down just a few inches. She stroked her friend’s firm bare bottom cheeks with the palm of one hand. ‘You know, I’ve often wondered…’ She hesitated. Sally twisted round to look at her. ‘You’ve often wondered what?’ Her friend still hesitated, but eventually the intimacy of the surroundings and the conversation encouraged her to speak out. She talked softly and slowly. ‘If a man was to put you… or me… across his knee…’ She paused. ‘…If he did what my dad used to do, you know, take my knickers down before he smacked me… I wonder what he’d see…’ She took another deep breath. ‘I mean, just how… intimate… is it, lying like that? Do you think he would see our…’ This time, Susan’s nerve failed her. Even with her closest friend, her shyness prevented her from finishing the sentence. Sally turned over, lifted her arms and wrapped them around her friend’s shoulders, pulling her down until they were lying together. ‘Why don’t we find out?’ Both girls felt a little shockwave of nervy excitement run through their bodies.
Susan pushed her friend away, gently. ‘Let’s get ready for bed, first, shall we?’ She knelt up, and crawled to the opening of the small low ridge tent. ‘And how about some of this wine as well?’ Outside the tent, between the inner canvas and the flysheet, they had left a bottle of white wine to cool in a bucket of cold water. Sally followed her. ‘Alright. Undressed first, then the wine, and then…’ Susan tossed the bottle-opener to her. ‘You can always get the corks out better than me…’
Barely twenty minutes had passed. Susan and Sally were once again lying on their sleeping bags. Sally was dressed in a tee-shirt and knickers; Susan in a simple long blouse, buttoned up the front. Both held a wine-glass filled to the brim. Each was wondering who would be the first to suggest a return to their earlier conversation. Susan sat up, and touched her friend’s shoulder. ‘Come here.’ She patted her bare thigh. Her friend slipped gently across her lap, face down. She felt Susan’s hand, cold to the touch because of the coolness of the wine-glass she had been holding. She felt her hand slowly fold up her tee-shirt and she sensed a little band of coolness where the flesh above her knickers was exposed to the fresh air. She knew that her friend would touch her knickers next. The anticipation gave her another tinge of excitement. She waited. Perhaps Susan was just looking at her; her knickered bottom, lying so close, and so vulnerable. But then she felt Susan’s fingers inserted beneath the taut waistband, and her knickers were being tugged down, slowly, an inch or so at a time, until they rested in a narrow band at the very top of her thighs. Susan rested her palm once again across Sally’s bare upturned bottom cheeks. ‘Can’t see anything yet.’ Susan whispered. Sally found herself co-operating with her friend as Susan edged her knickers right down, over her knees, down to her ankles, right off over her toes. ‘Bend right over, love.’ Sally wriggled in response. ‘Yes. I can see everything, darling.’ Susan’s words seemed breathy and quietly forced. ‘…Everything, love…’
Sally’s excitement had caused her to become tense, but as her friend continued to stroke her bottom, she felt herself relaxing. Very slowly, she allowed her long straight legs to move apart, and she wondered whether Susan had noticed. She felt Susan’s hand resting on her thigh, and moving upwards, and inwards, just slightly, right up until it nestled intimately, just where Sally was feeling very, very warm. She whispered to her friend. ‘Susan. I want to know… if it still… if it still hurts? Will you… smack… me…?’ For a moment, she thought Susan would laugh at her, or push her away, or simply tell her to grow up or something; but then Susan leaned forward so that her lips were close to Sally’s ear. ‘Alright. But what if it does really hurt?’ Sally thought about it for just a few seconds. ‘Doesn’t matter, honestly. Just smack me; hard as you like… please…’ The last word came as a desperate appeal. Susan responded. She held her friend, quite tightly, wrapping her left hand and arm around Sally’s bare waist, pulling her body slightly closer; and then she raised her right hand, slightly curving it, allowing it to hover in the air for a second as she absorbed the sight of Sally’s bare creamy-pale bottom. And then she smacked that bottom, enjoying the sound and the feel of her palm slapping against her friend’s amply firm bottom. She also felt her friend jerk forward across her knee just slightly. ‘Are you alright?’ Sally assured her she was. ‘Come on, please. Don’t stop, please… show me what it’s like, please…’ Susan could see a patch of soft pink which had appeared like a rash over the curviest part of Sally’s beautiful bare bottom. ‘It might hurt, love…’ Again, she bent forward to whisper to her friend, lovingly. ‘Please.’ There was no chance of misunderstanding the urgency of Sally’s request. Susan held her again, loving the warmth of her friend’s body; and she slapped her again, and again, right across the barest fleshiest most vulnerable upturned curves of Sally’s naked bottom. Her friend began to gasp as the slaps became firm and began to sting; and she kicked out, against the canvas end of the little tent.
No words were exchanged when Susan finally relaxed her grip on her friend’s prostrate body. Sally, her face flushed with excitement, scrambled to her knees, her large tee-shirt falling back to hide her bottom. She knelt in front of her friend, took hold of her blouse and swiftly unbuttoned it, almost ripping the buttons from the thin fabric in her haste. Susan’s firm round breasts bobbed freely into view. Sally took her by the arm, and laid her down, face up on her sleeping bag. She reached out for one of the wine-glasses which had been placed at the edge of the tent, and touched the rim of the glass against Susan’s firm dark nipple. She tilted the glass until the white wine spilled out and washed down over the firm mound of Susan’s breast. Sally leaned forward. ‘Oh dear’ she whispered. ‘Let me take that wine from you…’ Her firm lips and darting eager tongue pressed down against her friend’s breasts. Susan lay back, her eyes closed, one arm casually curved about Sally’s neck.
It was quite some time later that both girls were back on their respective sleeping bags. Sally was still minus her knickers, and Susan hadn’t bothered to retrieve her blouse from the corner of the tent.
‘I suppose old Farmer Giles could embarrass our two friends even more, if he wanted to?’ It was Sally who suggested the fantasy. Susan was only too pleased to be prompted. ‘Well, what would you do to a big grown-up girl, to make her feel like a kid again?’ Susan deliberately led her friend, knowing that Sally wanted to tell her. ‘I’d… I’d make her touch her toes, right in the middle of the field.’ The experience of the last hour or so had given Sally a new freedom of expression. ‘Yes. I would tell her to take her knickers off. Tell them both to take their knickers off… And then I’d make them touch their toes, before I tanned them… good and proper…’ Sally prayed that her friend would prompt her again. Susan, so shrewd in her understanding of her close friend, obliged to perfection. ‘But… Perhaps these two girls… perhaps a simple smack across their bottoms wouldn’t be enough… After all, I smacked you pretty hard but it hardly hurt, did it?’ Sally had to agree. It had stung; each slap; but it had hardly hurt. In her excitement, she probably couldn’t have discriminated real pain anyway.
‘Yes. Perhaps the farmer would bring something with him… a slipper, or something…’ Susan smiled to herself. ‘One look at that big fat round backside of yours, love, and I would suggest a nice thin bendy cane…’ Sally wondered how her friend knew about canes, but she didn’t ask. She was too occupied, imagining what it would be like; touching her toes, in the middle of an empty field, with her knickers taken down; and this man applying his cane to her bare bottom. ‘You’d have to give them something to remember, wouldn’t you; in case they thought they’d trespass again? I mean, it would have to… hurt, wouldn’t it.’ They shared the silence of their cosy little tent, and each dreamt their own erotic thoughts. Gradually, the wine and the fresh air gently soothed them into sleep.
At just after six, John Mason entered his top meadow. It had taken him over an hour to round up the twenty-six sheep, just because the gate had been left open. He walked across to the low ridge tent pitched in the centre of his private property. In his hand he clutched a thin cane.