The walk

I went for a walk this afternoon, past the rows of red- brick houses and the cemetery up to the nature reserve. The sky was a dismal grey and a very fine rain misted my hair. I’d been cooped up in my room too long, staring at a glowing screen, eating slapdash meals and sleeping late, and it didn’t matter that it was as unpretty a day as you could imagine- it was good to be outdoors.

I’d changed out of my quasi- pyjamas for the first time that weekend, and was wearing my favourite dress, a yellow and black 60s print affair, tight on the bust and hips, with a denim jacket, socks and brown leather ankle boots. Walking down the street listening to shy birdsong curling through the trees I felt calmer than I had done for ages- no longer dull and sedated after hours of cutting and pasting, shifting pixels and drawing thoughtless loops on a touchscreen with my forefinger, but awake, alert. The rain on my face felt like a playful greeting. 

A car sped past me hooting its horn and breaking the quiet. A man’s voice shouted, and his words were muffled as they moved past me, but something in his tone felt as if they were aimed at me. My anklet was caught in between my sock and the top of my boot, and I bent over to free it so as not to be irritated by the chain rubbing against my shin. As I stood up straight a young man walked past me. Medium height, wearing jeans and trainers and a hooded top. When he was six feet in front of me he turned round and smiled, licking his lips. I smiled back, awkwardly and despite myself, and watched him as he paced away. He was clean, sober and tidy- looking, unremarkable but something flashed across his face in that moment that made me feel dirty, momentarily drunk. 

Ten minutes later I was striding up a hill, a slope with wooden stairs built in to shore up the earth. It’s surrounded by trees, with rows of untidy bushes on either side. As I marched up the stairs, my breathing louder and sweat accumulating under my arms, I felt an unfamiliar brush of fabric against the back of my thighs. I reached behind myself and felt the back of my dress, which has a split in the back as far as the base of my buttocks, with a panel of fabric stitched behind it, hiding my thighs and arse from view.

The split in my skirt had torn by about two inches so that the stitches holding the panel of fabric to the rest of my skirt was hanging adrift. I was flashing my inner thighs and red- knickered arse to everyone. I stood still and grasped the fabric tight in my fist, feeling very ashamed for a second, alone in this quiet piece of woodland, my hand hiding the flash of red cotton. I remembered that flash of pink tongue on the pavement minutes before, and I felt woozy again. 

My first instinct was to turn tail and head home, to untie my jacket and fasten it round my waist, in the manner of a teenage girl surprised by her period, humiliated by that red badge of unaccustomed womanhood. Instead I carried on walking, thinking about the times I’d told you about climbing stairs wearing short skirts on days when you’d mandated I go without knickers, almost sure that not just my stocking tops but my bare cunt were on show to anyone standing at the right angle. Almost, but never quite sure- and that was always the best part. You knew that was the bit I liked most- the plausible deniability. 

 I thought about what you’d say if I were to tell you that I’d taken my jacket off and tied it round my waist to hide whatever it was that happened to be on show behind that ripped skirt. I knew you’d be disappointed. You’d say that it wasn’t my cunt on show, it was yours, and it was no longer up to me to decide whether men other than yourself got to enjoy a glimpse of it. You’d ask me where a slut like me- your slut- thought I got the right to act so fucking modest all of a sudden. I could hear your voice asking the question, not angry but matter of fact. I shrugged my jacket back onto my shoulders, and climbed to the top of the slope, wondering how much would be on display to anyone walking below and behind me, how much hidden in shadow.

I kept walking, feeling the breeze on the back of my thighs. I knew my arse was on display. I looked ahead of me, seeing no one in either direction. I thought about what would happen if the path wasn’t so deserted. I imagined someone walking behind me, maybe walking their dogs, maybe two men going for a Sunday walk, who might push me into the bushes and tear the hanging piece of fabric away, pulling my red knickers down around my thighs…

Without really knowing why, I found myself veering away from the stony path into the line of bushes that ran alongside it, trying to avoid stinging nettles and feeling the angry scratch of brambles against my calves. I stood and closed my eyes, hidden there in the mulch of leaves and twigs, and imagined myself bent at the waist, my skirt pulled up, holding on to the trunk of a tall tree, a hard cock pushing up against my arse. I pictured a hand at the small of my back as I was led back down those steps to the derelict house at the bottom of the hill, walking through an unlocked door. 

I bit my lip and saw myself in my mind’s eye, pushed to my hands and knees, my thighs pushed apart, my jaw pulled wide to take a second cock, my dress unzipped roughly and pulled down to reveal my tits, confining my arms to my side in accidental bondage. A slap to the face when I didn’t suck carefully enough, my knees sore on the gritty concrete floor, the smell of damp and rot and sweaty skin, and the wet sounds of my mouth round one cock and the other driving in and out of my cunt, faster and more carelessly by the second.  No kissing, no affection, no intimacy, no pretence- just heat, need, pressure, flesh grabbed and pleasure taken, an animal response to an advertisement of indiscriminate availability. 

I stood and listened to the rain hitting leaves and the birds singing, and leant against the trunk of a quiet elm tree, feeling the bark rough against my cheek. I reached between my legs, grabbed your cunt and squeezed it through the cotton of my dress. Lifting my face to the sky I enjoyed the drops of rain cooling my unembarrassed face. I turned round and walked home. I didn’t see a soul all the way back to my house.

1 Reply to “The walk“

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *