Slip Her Breeches Off

After small talk at dinner and the boys retiring to their beds, you remain to idly chat a while with the farmer, his wife and sweet Benedetta (though in truth, you mostly speak to the former two). Selwyn's a good-natured fellow, with a habit of telling elaborate, winding jokes whose punchlines he laughs at before he can even finish saying them. You trade many stories about your respective travels, and he even regales you with the tale of how he wooed his lovely wife (she lived at the top of the lane and he at the end of it, they would see each other each morning on his way to a day's work in the fields; she looked at him the way a blind man tries his best to marvel at the sunrise, so he asked her if she'd like to come with him sometime and watch it from the hill above the village).

Penelope sits at her place only briefly, before impatience and boredom overtake her and she draws herself up onto her feet to start clearing the table. She requests Etta's help, to which the girl merely rolls her eyes at first. A second request again falls on deaf ears, and upon the third the girl actually stamps her foot and complains aloud. "But why is it always me?" At this point, the welcoming smile Penelope has been wearing since your arrival is growing strained, while Selwyn sits with his head bowed and his fingers interlaced at the knuckles, trying to compose himself before he says something rash, no doubt. "No shame in helping out your kinfolk," you suggest, flashing the girl an easy smile across the table. Etta frowns, cocking her head in mock curiosity. "Right... and... who was it that asked you again?" Graciously, you make no reply or comment on the subject, in spite of the many acid retorts that are already dancing on the tip of your tongue. Instead, as far as any of your hosts can see, you simply sit there and dab at the corner of your mouth with one of the ragged scraps of cloth which passed for a napkin in these parts. But privately, you're already formulating a plan of attack. Not seeing any reason for that kind of impudence toward such a nice, accommodating matriarch, you decide to have a little more fun at the sullen adolescent’s expense.

With a crack of your knuckles, you burst into motion with a thought, rising from your chair and drifting around the table, past the unmoving husband and wife. You circle around behind Benedetta's chair, positively licking your lips as you dive between the chair's legs, crawl underneath it and come up on the other side between the girl's. Grasping the legs of her breeches and tugging, tugging, tugging, urging them to slide down her hips, thighs, knees, shins, more and more of that beautiful skin unveiling itself as the fabric bunches and pools at her dainty, slippered feet. When that's done, you stop for a moment to admire your handiwork, your gaze trailing up her shapely legs, into her lap where her milky thighs press together in their plumpness. And just above them, under the hem of that grey roughspun tunic, you search for a sleek, triangular shadow, and the lines of creased fabric... but all you see is darkness, and when you reach out and lift the bottom of the tunic, your face lights up at the sight of a curling nest of thick brown fur. Such a bush for one so young; seeing it sends your mind racing with possibilities of further humiliations. After all, how many boys her age have a taste for a winter coat? She'd most certainly lose her nerve along with her dignity if you shucked down her breeches and bared her bush for all to see at the worst possible moment. And besides that, no panties! Not a stitch of underwear to be found. You knew she was a naughty girl, but you didn't realise that extended to her choice (or lack thereof) of clothing. But you suppose this would explain the pair you found in her bedroom, odds are she took them out of her drawer and then had second-thoughts about actually putting them on.

Briefly, you consider getting in real close and parting the hair aside to get a proper look at her pussy; indeed, the urge is so strong that you have to rummage around in your trousers and rearrange yourself to stop your member from tenting distractingly inside the crotch of your breeches, but in the end you abstain, reminding yourself that there'll be plenty of time to play with it later. In all honesty, you must admit the lack of panties has come as quite the surprise, but it's no matter. All this means is she'll have more of a predicament to reckon with once you allow things to start running their natural course again. You release her tunic and back out, slipping the breeches off her ankles and gathering them up under your arm. Then, you crawl back out from under the table and move around behind the chair once more, moving into a crouch to get a better look at your handiwork. Through the gap between the seat and the backrest, you have a decent view of Etta's bare bottom. It was full, and nubile, pale as snow and plump at the high, round cheeks with puppy fat that by all rights should have already left her by now. They pressed, soft and malleable as baker's dough on a hot tin tray, into the hard oak finish of her seat, the creamy skin creasing at its underside and pooling richly up to and over its edges. Between them, the thin black furrow of her cleft, taut and sweet and ever-so-inviting. Looks good enough to eat...

In truth, it's all becoming a little much for you. Usually you're better than this, you can savour the slow build-up of humiliation, the gradual stripping away of your target's dignity as well as her clothing, but this girl is driving you mad. Even a crumb of nude buttock is enough to send the blood hurtling toward your crotch, fogging your thoughts and getting you every kind of hot under the proverbial collar. It's been a dozen minutes at most, but already you feel the need to relieve yourself again. Quick as a flash, you clamber up onto the table and place yourself in a kneeling position in front of Benedetta's place at it, loosen your breeches, flop out your cock and commence spiritedly rubbing yourself to the image of her irritated, pouty-looking face. As the pressure builds inside your shaft, you idly count the freckles on Etta's cheeks, the faint cupid's bow of her lips, her cute button... cute button... cute... button... an explosion erupts from the end of your member faster and more suddenly than you anticipated. Through gritted teeth, you mutter a curse and smother your cock's head with your fingers in a bid to stem the sticky white flow issuing from it. Grunting, you endeavour to ride the orgasm out, waiting until the rhythmic pulsing in your shaft subsides before you hastily shove the whole affair back in your breeches and wiping your produce on their inside.

Reassuming your seat the table, you shake your head vigorously from side to side and work the muscles in your face until you're reasonably sure the flush has subsided from it. Then, you rejoin the normal flow of time. Selwyn and Penelope continue on as they were before—him furling and unfurling his knuckles in a building storm of nerves and gathering rage; her moving about the table and complaining quietly to herself, refusing to meet anyone's eye as she goes—but there is a noticeable and immediate shift in Etta's demeanour. Even from here, as an observer, you can tell exactly what the ordee and process of the girl's thoughts are as they unfold. First, she senses a sudden, startling coldness to the seat underneath her and nearly jumps out of her skin as a result. Next, her eyes narrow in confusion and mounting suspicion; for no more than a heartbeat, she shifts her weight in the chair, as if on some level she expects to dispel the curious feeling with no more than a change in stance...

And then, at last, she dares to glance down into her own lap... and all the bewildering weight of the true predicament falls upon her all at once. All the haughtiness, the smugness, the self-assured arrogance of a spoiled girl who's never faced a consequence in her life, in a shining instant it all just falls away. You observe her closely, watching as her pupils dilate, her bottom lip begins to tremble tentatively, and her hands fly to her legs (presumably to confirm she's as bare as she feels down there), and you can barely contain your glee at witnessing Etta realise she's suddenly, somehow, impossibly, entirely naked below the waist. And into the worn surface of the seat? Bare arse, pushing fatly, thickly; naked youthful kitty, pretty in pink, lips all puckered and pressed together, kissing oak so intimately you could probably make a note of every last fold. Her shoulders hunch, the thin, colourless mouth contorts into a grimace. She puts her hands into her lap and something happens with them under the table; your inability to see it from this angle nags at you. To sate your curiosity, you return to that still place where you can walk between the seconds, peering under the table to find poor, bashful Etta frozen in the act of gathering up the hem of her tunic and pressing the bundled roughspun down betwixt her slender thighs. Gods, you can just imagine that little wiry gorse bush rustling quietly as the fabric moves to cover it.