A short story and with more than a hint on non-consent, so if that's not to your taste, then close this tab and look elsewhere. Then again, it's a free country, so if your preference is to read the story and then afterwards bitch that you didn't like it because it wasn't to your taste, then that's fine by me either.
I was standing at the kitchen sink washing salad leaves when I heard the front door opening; I paid it little attention as my husband Malcolm had only just gone through it in the other direction. My daughter Kylie and her husband Tony were due to arrive in less than an hour, so I was preparing dinner while Walter went out to do the evening feeds and final-check around the farm.
Kylie and Tony were staying with us for a couple of months -- at least! - so I was excited, as well as busy. Kylie was thirty-six weeks pregnant, with our first grandchild, so with Tony working eighteen-hour days, seven days a week at the moment -- he's an agricultural contractor -- Kylie and I both agreed that it would be best if she came home to stay with her mum for the duration.
Another advantage of Tony & Kylie staying at our house rather than their own, was that Kylie would give birth at the maternity unit in Skipton's Airedale Hospital, rather than the one at Burnley General Hospital. It's a Yorkshire/Lancashire thing... You probably need to live around here to fully understand, but that was certainly of importance to both the expectant father and grandfather.
I heard footsteps coming into the kitchen and spoke without looking around: "So what did you forget Malcolm? You're getting more senile every day."
A moment later I felt Malcolm's hands squeeze my buttocks, before slipping around onto my hips and then sliding down my thighs; I still didn't turn around: "Behave you randy old bugger! The kids will be here in an hour, I don't have time for any of your shenanigans."
Only when Malcolm's hands began to slide north again -- lifting my skirt up as they did so! - did I even consider that things weren't quite right and the body of my skirt was bunched around my hips by the time that thought consolidated. My body tensed and I released a squeal, but it was all too late; those hands released my skirt, one wrapping around my left arm and torso, the right hand heading back south.
It was only when I felt that hand sliding inside my panties that I properly began to struggle, but by then the battle was already lost. I tried to close my legs but a knee was jammed between my thighs, the man pressed forward to pin my hands between my pelvis and the kitchen unit; in doing so I felt the outline of his cock pressing into my lower back.
That sensation was proof positive that this wasn't just my husband fooling around, it struck too high -- and was far too large! - to be Malcolm's cock. The man's hand now closed on my right breast and fondled, nay, groped it roughly; I could feel his fingers bite into my flesh, while he no doubt felt my embarrassingly hard nipple digging into the palm of his hand.
The man's left hand too had reached it's destination; his palm grasped onto my mons, while having already trawled through the coarse hair covering my pubis, his fingers probed at the centre of my womanhood. A second wave of embarrassment flowed over me as I sensed in that moment, that he would find an ignominious dampness within.
In the same moment -- finally! - I also found my voice and shrieked: "No! Stop it... you mustn't!"
I froze when I heard the calm and measured reply: "Course I can Rosemary, that's what was agreed; 'there'll be no please, thank you, or standing on ceremony lad; you're to treat this place like it's your own home; if there's owt you want, just grab it and take it. You'll be welcome to it'. That's what Malcolm said and you confirmed it."
I was no longer frozen... I'd begun to tremble. That voice belonged to my Son-in-Law, Tony and I knew what he'd just said was true... technically. Malcolm had told him that he could take and use whatever he wanted, but we both knew damned well that Malcolm's offer didn't include his wife! A suitably tart response was on my lips when two of those fingers between my legs found their target.
As Tony's fingers penetrated and then twisted within me, what actually came out of my mouth was a protracted primal moan of acceptance; worse yet, my hips bucked to meet Tony's lewd intrusion. As my head fell back onto Tony's shoulder, that moan became a purr, one which Tony spoke over: "I heard in the pub what a cock-crazed old whore you were Rosie; it seems they were right... your cunt's dripping wet."
I still couldn't form the reply that I wanted and which was so sorely needed. Tony's fingers continued their probing, twisting exploration of my pussy, while my pelvis' involuntarily writhing to meet their invasion, refused to be quelled. I could guess who Tony had been speaking too; what he'd heard was ancient history, Tony needed to hear the truth, but all I could manage were a stream of moans, groans and feral growls.
I'd lost my mother before puberty and grown up to be rather... wayward, something especially noticeable in a village the size of ours. At eighteen I'd discovered the delights of drink, drugs and most especially men, after which I went off the rails completely. There were few evenings when somebody didn't fuck me and several where it was more than one somebody, indeed more than once, Rosemary took on all comers.
