All of my stories include descriptions of sex scenes that could cause offence to some people. Please do not read this story if you are offended by perverse sexual material, or if you are under the legal age of consent for your own country. These stories are pure fiction and are not based on anyone living or deceased

What kind of story can a sixty year old retired school teacher have to tell that would interest a modern adult audience?

A true one, perhaps?

The year was 1968 and I was twenty-six years old, married to Jim who was also twenty-six. He came from a modest family background in a small midland town. I came from a middle class professional family in London. We met and fell in love whilst at university in London, and were married within six months of graduating at the age of twenty-one.

We lived in a large house in the midlands countryside, and Jim ran his own engineering business from a workshop on our own land. I worked as a school teacher at a local village school, and was very active in the local church, reading the lesson, singing in the choir and organizing fundraising events.

By 1968 we were well established in the local community, and Jim�s business was doing well. We decided to buy a holiday home, it had to be near the seaside, but not commercialized. We found our dream home in a North Wales Valley near the coast. We were stretching our financial position to the limit, but after seeing this five bedroom cottage nestled into the welsh hillside, we were both smitten.

From the start we loved the welsh countryside, with its hills, valleys and wonderful coast line, but found the people somewhat reserved and difficult to make friends with. This didn�t stop us going down there every weekend, and joining the local activities such as church, boating and fishing. We had bought the place in January, and by June had our first crop of fruit from the garden.

Our house was situated on a lane that led from Mill- Farm (Pandy in welsh) to one of Mill-Farm�s stock yards and shearing barns, therefore it was a common sight to see the old farmer Mr. Jones or one of his two sons walking past our gates either going to or from their barn. The old man was always surly, and rarely smiled or even replied when you said hello to him.

The two boys were both about the same age as me. One called Morris who was pleasant, but would never stop to past the time of day. The other was Bryan, who was surly like the old man, but you would often find him stood motionless starring with a look like he was undressing you, he made my flesh creep.

One day in June, I can remember sitting in the orchard looking up the hill and seeing old Mr. Jones standing on top of a stone platform about fifty yards up the hill, he was waving. As I studied him I could make out he was standing sideways to me, holding his penis and having a pee. I thought how disgusting doing that in public, and especially attracting attention to himself. I turned away, and ignored him, when some time later Jim came out I told him what I�d seen. Jim asked where Mr. Jones had been standing, and when I explained, he said, "But that�s our water tank!" Our water came direct from the filter beds on the hill, to a stone tank and then it was piped to the house.

As soon as Jim told me that was our water, I realized what that funny taste was in our water. I�d been thinking for several weeks now, that the water didn�t taste quite right, and had put it down to the lack of rain. I immediately felt sick, but at that very moment Mr. Jones came walking nonchalantly past, and waved a friendly hello.

I sprung to my feet and raced to the orchard fence, "What do you think you were doing up there!" I shouted.

"Same as I�ve bin doing for the last six weeks. We�ve gotta keep that tank topped up for you," he replied, as he walked passed and went on his way not stopping. I looked at Jim, but he said that there was no point in arguing, we must go and report this to the police.

At the local police station, we reported what we had seen, and when we explained where we lived, the sergeant said, "That�ll be my Brother Di�s farm that you�re talking about."

He said he would investigate, but as we left Jim said, "That was a waste of time. We�ll have to write a letter to the chief constable at district headquarters if we want to get anything done." When we got back to the house we wrote our letter, and it was time to make our way home to the midlands.

On the Thursday we got a reply from the chief constable accusing us of wasting police time, and saying that it was no wonder that there were all these reprisals against English families going on in Wales. If all English people were like us. We took the letter to a solicitor, who explained that we had no tangible evidence. He said our options were limited; we could either sell up and move elsewhere, or try and make peace and be friendly with the locals.

In the summer of 1968 there were holiday homes belonging to English people being burned to the ground, and hence house prices had plummeted since we got our mortgage on ours. If we had to sell now we would lose that much that we wouldn�t be able to pay off the mortgage, so selling wasn�t an option. We discussed trying to make friends with the Joneses, and tried to think if we had inadvertently offended them, but we couldn�t think of anything.

The next weekend we arrive at our house in Wales only to find that the cattle had completely trampled all of our gardens, lawns, and orchard into a quagmire, there was cow muck everywhere. We got straight in the car and headed for the police station, "The bloody evidence is there for even his half witted brother to see!" Snapped Jim, as he got into the car.

At the police station, "But can you be sure that you locked your gate properly Mr. King?" Said the sergeant sarcastically. "You see, I do not doubt your word that there�s damage occurred, but if the wind blew open your gate cuz you didn�t shut it properly, and them cows strayed in by mistake. Its just one of those things that you have to accept when your house is in the middle of a working farm. You were in a bit of a state last weekend if I remember rightly."

We left and returned to our devastated house, where Jim made a phone call to our solicitor back home. This only confirmed what the sergeant had said, and we knew we were beaten. I went to make some tea using water I had brought with me. Out of habit I put the teapot under the tap to rinse it out, and the water ran yellow and stank foul. This was the last straw, Jim said he would go to the harbour and collect his boat, and we would return home immediately to the midlands. We couldn�t afford to sell, so we would have to keep paying the mortgage on a house that we couldn�t use.

He left for the harbour, and I sat in the orchard and cried.

"What�s wrong Mrs. King?" said Morris leaning over the orchard fence.

"You and your family, that�s what�s wrong," I snapped.

"But all my Da wants is to make friends."

"He�s got a funny way of showing it." I was still sobbing.

"Well you and Mr. King haven�t attempted to show your respect to my Da. Have you?"

"Respect? What do you mean?"

"Can I come over there and tell you what you did to upset him?"

"Yes. Come on in, there�s no point in shouting from that distance." He didn�t walk down to the gate; he just straddled the fence and walked over to where I was sitting on a bench.

"Can I sit down?"

"Yes. Now tell me what we can have done to annoy your dad that much?"

"Well you see that house of yours has a long history, and every owner for the last hundred or more years since the house was built, has had to follow a ancient ritual of capitulation to the master of Mill-Farm. Otherwise the farm has bad luck. And since you moved in we�ve lost lambs, had stillborn calves and now the mill stream looks as if it�s going dry and that�ll leave us with no water for the cattle. You see you haven�t abided by local traditions, and Da thinks we're now cursed."

"Surely nobody believes in that kind of superstition these days?"

"There you see. You�re not listening. We have to believe cuz it�s happening to us now."

"What can I do to put thinks right?"

"Normally you�d just visit Da and go through a ritual. Saying lines like in a play, and Da replying. But I think Da�s pretty annoyed with you both, so I recon taking a jar of that fruit preserve of yours might bring him round."

"Is that all I have to do? Give him a jar of preserves? He can have the larder full if it�ll end this feud."

"No, the preserves are just a sweetener. It�s the ritual that�s important. You need to show respect in a traditional way and Mr. King has to do the same with my Ma down the farm house. You have to learn the words, and say them exactly as they were said by the first lady that lived at the house, sitting on an old fashioned milking stool."

"How will I know the words? What milking stool? Where and when do I say them?"

"I can tell you the words. You write them down and memorise them. It�s the same for Mr. King. As for the milking stool, it�s an old antique up at the shearing barn. And that's the place where you should meet Da."

"I�ll go and get a sheet of paper and a pen. You wait there." I returned with my paper and he explained word for word what I had to say, we then did the same for Jim.

I asked when I should see his dad and he said as soon as possible, and he�d be up at the barn this afternoon. Morris left and I awaited Jim�s return, when he arrived I explained everything that Morris had said.

Jim and I had talked through what Morris had told me, and we both agreed that we would make an all out effort to appease Mr. Jones and make a good impression. We had both been memorizing the little traditional greeting that Morris had said was so important. I had written them both down, word for word. I�d given Jim his, and explained how important Morris had said it was that he memorized it exactly. I had not let him read mine, as I thought it sounded so foolish. In stead, I had taken it with me into the bathroom and read it through time and again, whilst having my bath, until I could remember it word perfect.

He wore his best suit and I put on a Chinese style dress that, although not the height of fashion, suited my slender body. This was something that I was made aware of by the attention I received from most males whenever I had worn the dress before. I realized that I would be overdressed for a meeting in a barn but thought that it would help to win over Mr. Jones. Although the Scholl sandals (wooden soles with a single strap across the front) didn�t suit the style, I could not see any way that I could walk up the farm track with high heal shoes, and they were the only flat shoes I had with me.

Jim was ready looking really smart, but standing there with a cane basket of freshly picked fruit, it didn�t seem to fit the image. I likewise with a dress for a party, holding a large stone jar of preserved fruit, what an odd couple we must have looked.

I gave him a kiss and with a, "Well here goes," I turned and left the house. Jim followed, and as I turned up the track towards the barn, he went the opposite way towards the farm house.

"Good luck," I heard him say.

I didn�t turn around; instead I put all my concentration into walking up the steep uneven path. The dress going right down to my ankles was so tight that I could only take very small strides. This characteristic Chinese�s shuffle might look good on a smooth flat dance floor; on the farm track it made progress almost impossible. The dress was definitely the wrong choice, in hind sight I should have turned and gone back to the house to change.

I didn�t, and as I reached the bend in the track I came into sight of Morris, he beckoned and called for me to hurry. He was shouting something about the sheep being brought down off the hill into the yard. Although I wasn�t making much progress, I was already hurrying, Morris obviously thought I wasn�t getting there quick enough, and he climbed over the gate and came running to meet me. When he arrived, he held out his hand to try to help me make faster progress, I didn�t take his hand, as the large stone jar of preserves was difficult enough to carry with both hands.

He was getting impatient and repeated, "Come on we must get you through the gates before the sheep arrive, once there in the yard we won�t be able to open the gates, and you�ll have to climb over."

The thought of climbing over a rusty steel gate that was as tall as me was not something that I could imagine possible, and filled me with trepidation. I put even more effort into my shuffle and inevitably tripped, and would have fallen to the floor if Morris hadn�t caught me.

"Be careful Mrs. King," he said, as he returned me to the upright position, his left hand cupped under my jar of preserves which I was holding to my chest, his right hand around my waist.

I had Scarcely a second to catch my breath, before, "Come on please hurry, I�ll help you," he said as he urged me forward with his arm tightly around my waist, and his left hand still helping me to support the weight of the jar. In normal circumstances I couldn�t imagine me allowing such close contact, but in this bizarre situation, his strong supporting arm around my waist somehow gave me the confidence to attempt to almost run.

As we neared the gate he let me go and ran to open it, "come on through quickly, we�ve still got to get across the yard to the second gate." My heart sank; as I herd him shut the gate behind me I could see the sheep running down the yard towards us. He once again put his arm round my waist, but we only made a couple of yards, before the sheep were all around us.

We still tried to move but I was terrified, and almost immediately, "oh my god I�ve lost one of my shoes," I cried.

"Come on, I�ll carry you," Morris said, as he put his left hand under the back of my knees, and swept me off my feet. Once again under normal circumstances I would have struggled and protested, but, instead, I clenched the fruit jar tightly to my chest with my right arm, and put my left arm around his neck to give me support.

"Are you ok like this," he said, I nodded, and meekly said, "Yes, thank you." As we made steady progress across the yard through a sea of sheep he said, "I�ll get your shoe once I get you safely on the gate." The gate; once again I was filled with dread, how was I possibly ever going to get over that gate, at six foot high, with rusty steel bars, even if I had been wearing jeans (not that I ever did), I couldn�t see how I would be able to get over that gate. But I wasn�t wearing jeans; I had a dress that was tight fitting right down to my ankles.

We arrived at the second gate! He turned me around to face the gate and gently placed my feet on one of the crossbars about two feet off the floor. He then supported my waist with both hands so that I could take my arm from around his neck and hold on the gate with one hand, still clutching those dam preserves to my chest with my other arm. The sheep were chewing and licking my feet and ankles, and the rusty steel was digging painfully into the foot without a shoe.

I looked back to where Morris was still searching for the missing shoe, and after what seemed an age, he eventually stood up with a big smile on his face, holding the shoe aloft, he yelled like an excited school boy.

"I�ve found it Mrs. King."

I managed a smile and for a split second, "oh good," I shouted, not that he could hear with the noise of the sheep. Then as Morris rushed towards me with the shoe I thought �what am I smiling for�, there�s still this gate to get over. He arrived, and dutifully stroked the sole of my foot before placing the sandal in place, and returning my foot to the gate rail.

Then as he stood alongside me he asked, "How are we going to get you over then?" There was obviously no way I could step from one rail of the gate to the next with this tight dress. Even if I could persuade him to take me back to the first gate so I could go back to the house and get changed, we would still have to get over that gate.

"The only way is for you to open the gate, I cant possibly get over it," I said.

"If I do that we�ll have sheep all over the yard, and Da would kill me," he said with a genuine look of fear, "I�m sorry but we�ll have to get you over the gate one way or another."

"If I lift you by the waist I won�t get you high enough. The only other way would be if I put my hand up the inside of your leg and hold your knee, maybe our Bryan could climb across and do the same to the other knee?"

I could almost have accepted trusting Morris to keep his mind on lifting me in that way, but the thought of Bryan (who always undressed you with his eyes every time he saw you) putting his hand up my inside leg was almost sure to have ended up with his hand wrapped around my crotch, I shivered at the thought.

"No, I don�t think so," I replied.

"Well what are we going to do then? Da�s waiting in the barn; he�s not the most patient of men. The sheep will be here for at least another four hours; you won't be able to perch up there all day in this sun." I knew he was right, but the only other way was the zip on the side of my dress. This went right from the hem at the bottom of the dress, up to under the arm, so that the dress could be made to hug the figure tightly.