The Chronicles of Little Standing
Part One: Loving on a Five Bar Gate
This story is similar to something I completed previously with the intention of posting it elsewhere. However, the intended site cracked down on self-penned items and I don't believe I did post it in the end. I have other stories - which I intend to rewrite - that did appear on that particular site. I have further stories in this series but which of them did get published and which did not I can't recall as it was some time ago. It may just be that if you've read something quite similar before it was one of them. The setting, spelling and colloquialisms are English.
What first attracted me to Little Standing was its appearance on an O.S. map of the area. That's one of those maps that show all the geographical features as well as the roads and significant buildings. The height of hills is shown by thin lines noting the distance above sea level. Where there is a sharp cliff face the lines are very close together and, conversely, a gentle rise shows as widely spaced lines. Little Standing rests at the end of a long, straight, high sided valley that has a flat area on either side of the top, as well as to the North, of it. The way the contour lines were drawn made the area look like a plump vulva had been plonked down into the landscape. This caught my eye. There was even the representation of a river coming out from the Southern end of the valley as if the vulva were oozing lubrication. Upon this whimsical notion my life took a strange and erotic turn.
I was touring the Westcountry of England looking for a new home to buy. No details needed here but I'll say that I had inherited some wealth from my parents tragically early and then, through my own means, earned a whole lot more. Basically, I came up with an electronic doohickey that every major musician and film tech uses in their productions; and pays me to. So, being well set up, I was looking to purchase somewhere away from the bustle of my principal home in Central London. And the one in Amsterdam. And L.A. I know: you hate me already!
I'd been amused enough by the village's sexual appearance to make enquiries about it. I found a local agent with an available property and so made an appointment to view. It was a little off the beaten track and when I was getting nearby, I stopped at a local store in a hamlet to get final directions to Little Standing. The man behind the counter seemed to suppress a knowing grin as I quizzed him but his instructions were clear. As I departed, I thought I heard him mutter to himself something like,
"There's precious little standing that goes on there."
This cryptic utterance meant nothing to me so I wound my way through narrow, high-hedged lanes and finally popped into more open space at the turn off to the village. To carry on with the body analogy I was parked on the perineum and about to delve North down into and along the steep gash of the valley. I crossed the river that I had noted on the map via a small, arched stone bridge and entered Little Standing for the first time.
It was quaint and sleepy looking. Houses of all ages nestled there but weren't all lined up in a row, rather they seemed to seemed to have been erected wherever the fancy took: little alleyways darted between them. A pub stood beside an open green space. A variety of small businesses around this Green seemed to cater for all human needs. Verdant trees and bushes dotted the vista. The road through was quite narrow and winding and a four-way crossing just North of the Green saw turn-offs, heading East and West, up the steep sides of the valley where further houses perched. The fast-paced, narrow river crossed back and forth under the road several times. I was smitten.
In short, I viewed the property, liked it, put in a bid and was soon the newest owner of a 200-year-old Manor house hanging above the village on the Western side of the valley. It came with several acres of land around it; in front of the house two small open fields and behind it was a dark collection of trees. I made arrangements to move some of my belongings and some new purchases to be shipped down to the house as well as deciding on which of a few remaining on-site bits and pieces I wanted to keep - such as a full-sized snooker/billiards table. Then, when all the hard work of moving had been done, by others, I returned to the West Country to take up residence.
As I drove through the village, I'd seen a few heads turn to note the passing of an unfamiliar car but scant interest was shown. I had asked for essential foods to be delivered too so made myself a lightish early evening meal not long after I arrived. It was late April so the days had drawn out somewhat and it was still light once I'd eaten. I thought that I'd take a short stroll before an early night. Despite the level of daylight, the Woods behind the Manor looked quite dark, and a little foreboding, so I decided I'd go out the front way. This looked to take me downhill. Firstly, on a path/driveway across a neat lawn for 50 yards or so and then joining the narrow road between what I had been shown were my two pastures. This lane had the typical high hedges common to the area.
It had been a warmish day, for England, so I wore sandals without socks, shorts and a light jacket over a plain dark T-shirt. As we're on the topic of appearance I'll note my hair is dark, straight and short. My eyes are blue and I'm fairly well tanned. I'm no body builder but being in my early thirties I've yet to grow the paunch may father ended up with shortly before his demise as I exercise quite regularly. I'm bang on six foot tall. And by the way, I've been told I have a lovely arse!
These hedges restricted any sideways view as they were quite dense but I could see ahead of me as the road dropped steeply down. I was looking across the higgledy-piggledy collection of thatched and slated rooves and chimneys of the village toward the blank-eyed houses of the opposite side of the valley. After a minute or two I noted I was approaching a break in the hedges on either side and remembered passing the wooden pair of five-bar-gates that stood sentinel on the journey up to the Manor; the access to the fields.
I planned to hop over one of these gates and wander in my field. I'd never owned a field before. As I approached, I heard a female voice speaking quite sharply. Getting closer I could hear the actual words being uttered.
"Oh, bugger... bugger and blast it! Fuck it, that's made it worse. Oh God, I'm about to burst. I'm proper stuck. I can't hold it in any more. No good, I'll just 'ave to let it go!"
This last sentence was said just as I reached the gate to my left and I peered over it. Immediately to the right of the gate I was met with a surprising sight. A young woman, somewhere in her twenties I guessed, was squatting down, her back to me. Her denim skirt was rucked up to her waist and her skimpy, white knickers were caught on a collection of branches of brambles protruding from the hedge to her right. Her pale, but very shapely, rear end was pointed at me and as she finished talking a heavy jet of urine sprayed out of her cleft.
I gasped, quite unintentionally loudly, and her head spun around to glare at me over her right shoulder. She gave a little shriek and began an attempt to stand but her undies were too entangled. The pale golden stream continued to hiss into the thick grass between her thighs. "Oh God, Oh God, sorry," we stammered at the same time. Gallantry got the better of me and I tore my eyes away from her and stepped back from the gate. I muttered more apologies but in my mind I couldn't help but revisualize the winking pink arsehole and the rounded bulge of her sex that I'd just glimpsed. I gulped heavily and looked furtively up and down the narrow road. No-one else was around. Then she spoke again.
"Look, are you going to help me, or what?" she demanded.
"Sorry, what?"
