What I did on my Holidays.

Standard Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction, and ALL the characters are fictional. In particular I refer to the chief Constable of Devon and Cornwall. I wish to make it clear that I do so in a fictional context and am not referring to any real holder of this post, past, present or future.

• Caught in the Act -

Dave was bored. He’d finished his first year exams at university and returned home to Cornwall for the summer vacation. After the endless hours of drudgery involved in working for his engineering degree he had been looking forward to relaxing during the holidays; however he was too far from his new university friends and he seemed to have lost touch with his old school mates so he was lonely and short on company. For a while he had slumped on the sofa watching daytime TV until his mother demanded that he ‘get off his butt and do something useful’. Knowing what his mother was like when she was riled he decided to get out of the house before she had him spending the entire vacation doing the housework. He stood in the garden pondering his options; the sun was beating down on a perfect summer day and the Cornish coastline was sparkling. Although there was the usual smattering of tourist traffic in early July it was before the main season and he, being a local, knew how to keep away from the crowds so he decided to head off and enjoy a walk in the sunshine.

As he made his way down the lane heading for the coast he was passed time and time again by cars full of “grockles”, the local nickname for the hoards of tourists that poured into the region every summer, and he knew that, despite what he had thought, the local beaches were going to be crowded and not the peaceful haven that he wanted. Then it struck him: the old manor house in Castle Combe had been deserted for years and you couldn’t get any more private than that. In his teens he had often explored the overgrown gardens and dilapidated outhouses that surrounded the old house and he knew every inch of the land and just how to sneak down to the private beach in the foot of the valley. Leaving the road he cut across the fields and headed for the combe. As he approached the high brick walls that surrounded the garden there were the usual signs saying that the land was private and the trespassers would be prosecuted but they were all but illegible after the years of neglect and he’d never bothered with them anyway. He followed the wall for a hundred yards or so until he found the bit where the old beech tree overhung and, swinging himself up into the branches, he scrambled over and dropped down on the other side.

He pushed his way through the overgrown garden heading down the combe towards the house and the beach but hadn’t gone far when he came to the path and realised with a jolt that the house wasn’t as unoccupied as it used to be. Whereas the top of the combe was still a wilderness the rest of it had been extensively cleared and the path, which used to be difficult to find, was now free of obstacles and well maintained. Bare stumps and disturbed earth showed where the thick undergrowth had been cut back hard to reveal the mature garden underneath. This was divided into a sequence of hidden glades each of which also showed signed of recent maintenance with manicured turf and rebuilt bridges over the beck which ran down the valley.

Dave knew he ought to leave, he was, after all, in someone’s private garden and just because it had been his playground when he was growing up didn’t mean the new owners would see it that way. However he was also intrigued; they’d made a good job of reconstructing the bits he’d seen and he wanted to find out what they had done with the rest. Maybe, if he kept quiet and stayed away from the house… Anyway, sneaking around in someone else’s grounds was just the way to spice up an otherwise dull day. Keeping firmly to the top end of the combe he explored the old garden finding again and again that the undergrowth had been drastically pruned to return it to its former glory. Piles of logs and sawdust attested to the hard work of what must have been teams of gardeners. What was particularly noticeable was the way the path that wove around the garden had been cleared and repaired and was a good four or five feet wide all the way around with a smooth, well maintained surface. Maybe they were planning to open it to the public the way they had done at Heligan once the season got into full swing.

After half an hour or so Dave had seen enough. He wasn’t that interested in gardening and having to keep away from the house limited where he could go. He was therefore heading back across the top of the combe when he heard someone coming up the path. The sounds they were making were unusual, a combination of a metallic jingling and sharp, almost bird-like cries. Realising that he was seconds away from being caught he glanced around and, spotting a rhododendron bush, quickly hid himself away. Although mostly obstructed by the thick growth of leaves he still had a partial view down the path; he was keen to check out these newcomers who had bought the old manor after it had lain vacant all those years.

Whatever Dave had been expecting it wasn’t what he saw. He got the shock of his life when a near naked woman came into view round a bend in the path. She was wearing what could only be described as a harness made from leather strapping which did nothing to cover her breasts or groin; indeed it seemed designed to draw attention to them. She had short chains of decorative bells attached to her breasts were which explained the jingling sound and on her wrists there were leather cuffs attached to the shafts of some sort of buggy which put Dave in mind of an open rickshaw. Her head was constrained by a of bridle complete with blinkers, a bit across the mouth, and reins which disappeared behind her.

As she drew nearer Dave could see the occupant of the rickshaw. Again it was a woman but the contrasts were vivid. Whereas the woman pulling the buggy was young, Dave guessed she was not much older than himself, the rider was more mature, Dave guessed late thirties or early forties; whereas the puller was near naked the rider was formally dressed in old fashioned riding gear including a long skirt and jacket; whereas the puller was constrained and controlled the rider was obviously in charge, even without the whip she carried. As they reached the top end of the garden the path was quite steep and the younger woman was struggling against the grade. The rider flicked at the puller with her whip which caused her to cry out, her words distorted by the bit in her mouth; that explained the bird like cries.

“Come on, pull harder!” The rider urged. “One more lap and I’ll let you rest for a bit.”

With a grunt the younger woman bent to her task and, as they reached the top of the hill the rickshaw gathered speed and disappeared off down the path.

Dave was dumbfounded. He’d never seen anything so bizarre. He was shy with girls and his sexual experience was very limited and he’d never dreamed that he’d ever witness anything like he’d just seen. His heart raced and his breathing was shallow and the image of the near naked woman danced before his eyes. He had to see more, he couldn’t possibly let it rest at that. The driver had said there would be one more lap; that meant that they would be coming back round again. His view from the rhododendron had been mostly blocked and the path twisted so much that he’d only got the briefest of glimpses. He needed to find a better hiding place and quickly. He glanced around; an old summer house stood just off the path at the end of one of the straighter sections and he guessed that it would have plenty of suitable knotholes in the planking. He nipped over to investigate and, yes, it was perfect. There were indeed plenty of cracks between the boarding which would allow him a perfect view with no risk of being detected. Selecting a suitable crack he manoeuvred some boxes he’d found into a comfortable seat and settled down to wait.

Whilst he waited he thought over exactly what he’d just seen. When it was happening it was all too much to take in and immediately afterwards he’d been too busy looking for a hiding place but now he was settled he brought the image back to mind. He could still see the way the black leather strapping contrasted with her pale skin, the way that two straps had descended, one from each hip to her groin, emphasising her neatly trimmed pubic hair. How the bells had hung from her breasts, presumably they were clipped to her nipples, surely that must hurt! But is was the look on her face that really got to him; she’d obviously been struggling pulling the rickshaw up the long slope, and the whip had caused her to cry out in real pain, but she hadn’t looked unwilling; she was evidently there of her own volition. Did she enjoy being driven as much as the driver enjoyed the driving?

As he waited Dave realised just how uncomfortable his groin had become. Subconsciously his hand had delved between his thighs and was massaging his fast hardening penis which had become entangled in his boxer shorts. He undid his jeans and slipped them, along with his boxers, down his thighs. With his penis free of constraint he could play with it properly. He settled back to his knot hole just in time to see the buggy reappear. This time he had a much longer view and a far better viewing point so he was fully able to appreciate what he was seeing. Whist he was no great equestrian he was a country lad and knew enough about harnesses to see that the younger woman was acting as a pony, pulling a buggy, no better still, a pony cart, which, now he had more time to look at it, was a bit like the sulkies that Americans use in horse racing. As they got closer Dave could see that the ‘pony’ was sweating freely, the day was quite warm and she was obviously being driven hard. Over her shoulder he could see the driver leaning forward in the seat, urging her on. There was a glazed, faraway look in the pony’s eyes matched by a vivid intensity in the eyes of the driver; the two of them, both pony and driver, were completely wound up in what they were doing. Again the ‘pony’ struggled on a steep bit of the path and again the driver flicked at her with the whip. The ‘pony’ cried out as the whip struck and gave an extra tug to pull the sulky to the top of the hill and out of Dave’s line of sight.

With a sigh Dave sat back. The pace of his masturbation eased from a frenzy to a gentle rhythm as he thought about what he was going to do now. He had never felt so feverishly excited and his swollen testicles wanted immediate release but the thought of it being all over, that after two brief glimpses he wouldn’t see anything more, was not one he could live with. He knew he ought to finish his wank, clean up and leave before he was discovered but the desire for more, for just one more glimpse, overrode common sense.

He pulled up his jeans and carefully slipped out of the summer house. Keeping under cover as much as he could he worked his way along the path. Even so he almost blundered when, turning a corner in the path, he came across the two women relaxing in one of the glades. He quickly stepped back into cover. Now to find somewhere to hide. He looked around; a rhododendron bush was ruled out because there was no way he could hide in it quietly, there were no suitable summer houses in this part of the garden and most of the obvious hiding places wouldn’t give him a clear view. However, one of the many beech trees offered a solution. Its low sweeping branches would make it a piece of cake to climb and, once he got high enough, if he lay along a branch he would be all but invisible. A slight breeze stirred the leaves and their rustling would cover any sounds he might make. Using the utmost stealth he crept up the tree, moving slowly, carefully and above all as silently as he could until he was in position. He found the perfect branch, maybe fifteen feet up, which overhung the glade. His view was slightly obscured by leaves but that was all well and good because it meant that their possible view of him, were they to look, would be equally obscured.

The driver had spread a blanket out on the grass and had unpacked a hamper. She was enjoying a glass of wine and what looked like sandwiches. The pony, still fastened to the sulky, was knelt down with two bowls before her. As Dave watched she lifted her face briefly; it was covered with something like porridge. She dipped her head to the other bowl and it came up clean again. Dave guessed that it must contain water. Again there was the contrast between the driver’s wine and sandwiches against the pony’s oats and water. This was the first time he had seen the pony’s back; to reinforce the pony aspect she had a tail that protruded from the base of her spine, but from this distance he couldn’t see how it was attached. For maybe fifteen minutes Dave just lay there enjoying the view until the driver put down her glass and stood up.

“Right then, it’s time we got down to business.” She walked over to a tree at the opposite side of the glade and unfastened a rope which hung over one of the branches. Dave realised how lucky he’d been; if the rope had been over one of the branches of the tree he was in there was no way he would have escaped discovery. The driver then went over to the sulky, unfastened the pony, and led her to the tree. In moments the pony’s hands were fastened together and pulled over her head until she was nearly on tiptoe. The driver returned to the sulky and rummaged about in a box fitted beneath the seat. She retuned to the pony with a metal bar which had cuffs attached at each end. These were attached to the pony’s ankles spreading her legs as wide as they would go. Now Dave could see her backside properly he could see that the tail was fixed to something that ran between the pony’s buttock cheeks, with a wider piece where it fitted inside her bottom. Dave tried to imagine how it would feel to be pulling the sulky whilst having something like that pushed up your bottom. Indeed, just the thought of exactly what it was the was pushed up the poor pony’s bottom added to the turn on.

Once more the driver returned to the sulky, this time she fetched a leather paddle.

“Twelve strokes, I think. That will teach my little Freckles to behave herself over the jumps, won’t it?”

THWACK! The sound of leather against buttock echoed round the glade. THWACK! The second stroke fell, this time matched by a cry of pain from ‘Freckles’. The driver was taking her time, placing her strokes carefully and letting the impact settle in before applying the next one. Dave was transfixed; if watching the pony cart had been erotic this beat it in spades. Urgently he reached for his jeans, unfastened them and pushed them as far down as he could in his precarious position. He wasn’t too bothered about noise, the combination of the ‘thwacks’ from the paddle and ‘Freckles’ cries would drown out any noise he might make but the urgency of his desire demanded that he play with himself immediately.

By the time the twelfth stroke fell Freckles was sobbing freely. The driver dropped the paddle on the ground and went over to her. She pulled her in close and kissed her long and hard. Dave could see that, however much pain she might be in, Freckles had been fully aroused by the paddling; she was responding to the kiss, giving back as good as she got,  and was trying as much as her bonds would allow to rub herself against the driver.

“Now it’s time for you to say ‘thank you’, isn’t it?” The driver said, pulling away from the kiss. She unfastened the rope and Freckles slumped to the floor. She then went back to the blanket and sat down. She reached forward and took the hem of her skirt in her hands, lifting it, bunching it, until she was exposed from the waist down. Dave craned his head to get a better view.

“Come along, little one. Your Mistress is waiting.”

Freckles hands were still fastened together and her legs were held apart by the spreader so it was awkward for her but she crawled across the grass towards the driver. Once she got there she leant forward and kissed the drivers toes, her calves, her knees; a trail of kisses heading for the centre of the driver’s pleasure. Unfortunately for Dave the blanket lay in a spot partially obscured by one of the branches but there was no way he was going to miss any of this action. If he leaned over to the right… if he grabbed onto that branch there… if he stretched just a little more… There was an ominous creak and the branch he was using to steady himself started to give way. Desperately he tried to pull back but it was no good; he’d passed the point of no return and, whether he liked it or not, he was going to fall. Gracelessly he slid from the branch onto the branch below which caught him in the stomach, winding him. Another thud, another scrape and he fell to the ground clutching his side and gasping for breath.

For a moment or two all he could do was lie there, gasping for air like a fish out of water. When, at last, he could breath again he opened his eyes to see a pair of boots in front of his face. He looked up and the driver was standing over him

“Well, well, well. What have we got here? Some dirty little peeping tom sneaking around spying on people. Can you stand up? Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No, I’m Ok, I’m just a little bruised and winded.” Dave struggled to his feet but when he reached for his jeans his hands were pushed away.

“You can stay just like that for now, there’s no dignity due to little perverts like you. Now, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police.”

“The police! Please, Miss, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spy. Please don’t call the police.”

“I didn’t mean to spy.” The driver repeated mockingly. “You come into my private garden, creeping through the bushes peeking out on my private life and you say you didn’t mean to spy. I still don’t see why I shouldn’t call the police. The chief constable is a particular friend of mine and I know she’d take a very dim view of a pathetic little pervert like you.”

“Please, Miss.” Dave sank to his knees. He contemplated the shame, the disgrace, when something like this got known around the local community and, if the police were involved, it would be fully known in no time. “Please, I beg you, please don’t call the police.”

“Pathetic!” The driver bent down and picked up Dave’s wallet from the ground. It had evidently fallen from his hip pocket as he had tumbled from the tree. She flicked through it’s contents, noting his driver’s license. For a moment or two she just stood thinking, looking at Dave in a contemplative way.

“Well, David Trebarron of four, Mill Lane, as you can see I do have alternative ways of dealing with naughty little children like you. I think I’ll keep hold of this and you can come and collect it at seven-o-clock this evening. That will give me time to decide exactly what to do with you” She tucked Dave’s wallet into a pocket in her jacket. “Now, I think it’s time you pulled your pants up and got out of my garden before I change my mind.”

As quick as he could Dave pulled up his jeans and ran.