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From: bradley_stoke@hushmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 15 Jun 2004 21:16:05 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Cottage Life (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
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Date: Wed, 16 Jun 2004 07:10:04 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Cottage Life (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF 
Short Summary: Dot writes her diary about life in th 1960s Lake 
District.


Story: Cottage Life (4,943 words)

Dot finds Cottage Life in the 1960s a really groovy experience, but 
she much prefers it when her brother, Bill, and their lover, Sam, 
are  around. Then there's no limit to the groovy fun they can have 
together. But even a chick as liberated as Dot is troubled by
Bill's current obsession. 


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www
           

Cottage Life
============


Saturday, August 26


What fun! How groovy! It's been three days now and I've not worn a 
stitch of clothing. I'm like a real nudist, though of course I'm not one. 
I'm just liberated. I look at my reflection in that battered old mirror in 
the corner of the kitchen. I look real groovy. Natural. My hair's got 
real long and I really dig the look of my pubes. So much hair! If the 
girls back at Roedean could see me now! No more Dizzy Dot! It's 
Free Liberated Dot!

Still, it gets a bit boring in the cottage all by myself. I hope Bill and 
Sam get back soon from London. It might be swinging in the smoke 
and they're probably having a really wild time, but I'm getting a little 
bit fed up staying here with no one to talk to. At least, I've got all the 
LPs. And I really dig that Love LP Bill got me. Bill's a great brother. 
Got an ear for the hippest grooves. "Yeah! Love is the Strangest 
Thing!"


Sunday, August 27


It wasn't so warm today. Bloody Lake District! Never stays warm for 
long. But I'll be fucked if I'll get dressed again. And I was ever so 
daring today. George popped round and I didn't put any clothes on. 
Well, he's hip. He could see it was my choice, so he didn't say 
anything. And anyway he's a poof. Well, 'poof''s the wrong word. It's 
'gay' now. So, he probably doesn't even fancy me anyway. And then 
when we'd got onto our third joint, along came PB and his old 
woman, Mary. And they took their clothes off, too! Even though it 
wasn't that hot really!

But we got ever so stoned. 

When PB and Mary and George left, I felt a bit unwell really. I like 
shit, but I'm not really as hip to it as Bill and Sam. They're due back 
on Tuesday. I can't wait! Let's hope Bill's brings back some good LPs 
from Carnaby Street. I really like the Turtles. Real psychedelia. 
Perhaps he'll bring back some acid too. Then like that Byrds song, 
we'll be 'five miles high!'


Monday, August 28


No visitors today. Just me. And I was shivering a bit. But I promised 
myself not to put on a stitch of clothing till Sam and Bill came back. 
Not that there's anyone to check on me, if I did. This cottage is miles 
from anywhere. It's a wonder it's even got electricity. There are a few 
sheep, I suppose. But sheep aren't my scene. And even Bill, who's 
tried everything, now, I think, would draw the line at sheep. Anyway 
he'll be back tomorrow. 

I tried writing a bit of poetry. Of course, I'm not a proper poet like Bill 
or Sam. They're going to be fucking famous when they're discovered. 

Anyway, here it is:


          'Twas on a groovy vase's side,
          Where psychedelic art had dyed
          The fucking flowers that blow;
          Demurest of the tabby kind,
          The huffish Dylan reclined, 
          Gazed on the lake below.


Of course, it's not finished yet. But it's about our cat, Dylan, who died 
last year back in Reigate. And Bill said you've always got to get the 
word 'fuck' into a poem somehow. That way people know you're 
serious about your art.


Tuesday, August 29


Bill phoned. He won't be here till tomorrow. He and Sam were invited 
to a party at Tom's. I hope they don't have too much of that heroin 
stuff he takes. I've heard that it really fucks you up. I mean, it's not a 
hallucinogenic, like shit or acid. It's real heavy stuff. The Velvet 
Underground take that kind of stuff. I don't like their music, though 
Bill says I ought to try and get into it. No! I've been listening to 
Crosby, Stills and Nash, and Joni Mitchell, and the Mamas and the 
Papas. California Dreaming! That's me!

I got through about a whole sixteenth of hash today. I best be careful. 
Even though I know Bill will bring plenty back. He said he might get a 
few tabs as well. That'd be really groovy! 

I wrote some more poetry. I got bored writing about cats. I thought I'd 
write about what you feel when you've had a real good trip. Here it is:


          For oft, when on my bed I lie
          In vacant or in fucked up mood,
          They flash upon that inward eye
          Which is the bliss of being stoned;
          And then my heart with pleasure fills,
          And boogies with the daffodils.


I managed to get 'fuck' in again, but I'm not sure how to get the poem 
started. But I like the idea of daffodils. I really like this 'flower power' 
stuff, although the newspapers are just trivialising things. It's not all 
about flowers at all. It's also about getting high, getting laid and, erm, 
getting things done. I think.


Wednesday, August 30


Bill and Sam got here at last! But they didn't get here till nearly 
midnight. And I'd got through nearly all the dope waiting for them. 
Now, I can start wearing clothes again. But I'll wait till Sam and Bill 
do so first. It'd look bad if the chick gave in first. This stuff about 
Women's Lib. It's important. Chicks have got to show the way. And 
that means with free love too. And it's Sam who's been giving me 
that. And Bill's real hip about it. Even though him and Sam are the 
real lovers, and they share the same bed, like a real 'gay' couple. Bill 
knows I need a fuck. And Sam's a real good fucker. I'm pretty much 
fucked now. And I like how he fucks my arse too. That's really 
groovy. Though I hope he lets it recover before he fucks me there 
again.

While waiting for Bill and Sam, I wrote a bit more poetry. I scrapped 
that grotty one about daffodils. Well, you can't smoke them or 
anything can you? 


          Little Lamb who made you
          Do you know who made you?
          Gave you life and got you shorn
          By the stream and over the lawn;
          Gave you numbers on your coat,
          Twenty Six is what they wrote;
          Gave you such a groovy voice
          Making all the grass rejoice!
          Little Lamb who made you
          Do you know who made you?


However, this poem sounds really feeble now the sheep have moved 
off to a different field. And I couldn't find a way to use the word 
'fuck'. Or even less rude words like 'cunt' or 'shit'. And whoever 
heard of grass rejoicing? Rejoicing after smoking grass: yeah! It 
doesn't make sense the other way.


Thursday, August 31


I've still not got any clothes on. Neither Bill nor Sam have put on any 
yet either. And Sam's pretty well shagged out. He was fucking me for 
a couple of hours, and I really needed it, and then he had to go off and 
fuck Bill. It sounded funny, the two of them shagging each other in the 
other bedroom. I thought it'd be a kind of liberated thing to go into 
their bedroom and watch them to show I was like really hip about it. 
You know, your brother fucking someone who's just fucked you. But I 
sort of stood there, feeling really stupid, while Bill and Sam were just 
sort of grunting and groaning and pumping each other's cocks. I'm 
sure it's more fun to be doing it than watching it, but I actually got 
bored and went back to bed.

At least we've got more dope and stuff. We're doing a proper acid trip 
tomorrow, so I guess I'll stay nude till after that. That would be a kind 
of good time to put my clothes back on. When everyone's sort of come 
down. We smoked ever so much dope today. My head's sort of really 
sore. And I kind of regret letting Sam bugger me. My turds had all that 
funny spunk stuff on them. But it didn't stop him having another go at 
my arse today!

Sometimes, it's real weird seeing your brother and your brother's 
boyfriend (and your own lover) walking around starkers all the time. 
Suppose it's the same for them seeing me. God knows what Bill thinks 
of his sister now. My tits are a good size and I'm quite skinny. But not 
shaving under the arms still feels weird.

Actually, with the long hair and beards that Bill and Sam have got, 
like every guy who's hip, you can sometimes hardly recognise people. 
All you can see of Bill is two eyes and a nose and a lot of brown hair 
and beard. Sam always wears his glasses, which look odd on someone 
starkers. But he's got a good prick. It has to be with both a brother 
and a sister to service. 

Sometimes I wish I had another boyfriend. Sam's great, but it's weird 
sharing him with your brother. And Sam and Bill did ever such a lot of 
fucking in London. It seems like they fucked everyone. Chicks. Guys. 
They went to a couple of orgies, and not just that one at Tom's. In fact, 
Sam says Bill even fucked a dog. I can't believe that. But Sam says 
it's important to Bill that he try everything out. It helps him write 
poetry. They fucked transvestites. They fucked two black chicks. They 
fucked this big Korean guy. They fucked underage kids. That one I 
don't like the sound of. But I guess everything goes these days!

I didn't write any poetry today. Too shagged and blitzed out. But I got 
to hear some of the LPs Bill brought back. Some pretty weird 
psychedelic shit. Electric Prunes. Jefferson Airplane. Mothers of 
Invention. Grateful Dead. Captain Beefheart's Magic Band. Where do 
they find these tripped out names?


Friday, September 1


Well, we had a good trip today. Strong stuff. Purple Hearts or 
something. We got really blitzed. Most of the time actually, we spent 
huddled up together, listening to the Rolling Stones over and over 
again. Though I managed to get them to put on 'White Rabbit' by 
Jefferson Airplane. "One pill makes you larger. The other makes you 
small." Groovy!

Both Bill and I tried to make Sam's cock get stiff, but it just refused to 
do anything. I tried tucking it inside me to see if it would come to life. 
But it didn't. A dead loss as far as sex is concerned. And even now, 
hours later, it's not happened. I left Bill and Sam in their bed. I've still 
not got any clothes on. Somehow, I don't feel the cold so much when 
I'm tripping. Although I didn't get much in the way of hallucinations. 
A bit of that funny perspective twisting stuff. And things tasting, 
smelling and looking weird. But nothing like that time I thought I'd 
turned into some kind of furry monster.

Bill was pretty funny really when he was tripping. He kept on 
repeating the same phrases over and over again. Sam says it's because 
Bill's been getting a bit freaked out with all the different types of sex 
and drugs and everything. But Sam's been doing the same shit and 
he's fine. 

Sam showed me some of the new poems Bill's written. I don't really 
like them at all really. They're sort of just weird. I know there's a lot 
of 'fuck's and 'cunt's and the like, almost more than any other words, 
but it's all disjointed and everything. Sam's a bit lazy, but the poems 
he writes I like a lot more. Although he does like writing about 
fucking. I often wonder if he writes about fucking me. Or if it's Bill. 
Or if it's all those other people they were fucking in London. 

One of Sam's poems goes:


          Take, O take that cunt away
          That so sweetly were forsworn;
          And that arse, that open door, 
          Tunnel that do desire for more.


Another goes:


          O lover mine, who are you fucking?
          O, stay and feel; your boyfriend coming,
          That can sing both high and low.


I don't know what they mean, but they sound good. And they've got 
four letter words in them, so they must be art. Bill's however go like 
this:


          On the Twinkly Crunkly Clinky
          I fucked a sumply dinky
          And farted like a cunt-faced whore.


It doesn't quite have the poise, restraint or beauty of Bill's best poems.


Saturday, September 2


I put some clothes on today. But because I'm a liberated chick that 
doesn't give a fuck, I just put on a shirt, one of Bill's, which is far too 
big really, and nothing else. That way, I've got my pussy showing. No 
one could call me conventional. And Sam did the same thing, only 
with just a tee-shirt he'd got in London which has the words 'I Won't 
Go to Vietnam!' written on it. He got it in Carnaby Street. Apparently 
that President Johnson's been doing a lot of horrible things out there 
in Indochina. Sam says he hopes we don't get involved. It's the 
Americans' shit, and they should just wallow in it themselves.

Bill still hasn't put any clothes on. In fact, he's been pretty withdrawn 
and silent all day. He just sat on the sofa, the battered one with the 
spring through the leather, and strummed on this guitar he got in 
Shaftsbury Avenue. Unfortunately he only knows one or two tunes, 
and he doesn't play them very well. Sam and I spent the time smoking 
dope and fucking. He says he didn't fuck Bill last night. Bill just 
didn't feel like it. 

Sam showed me another of Bill's poems. It's almost all crossings out 
and scribbles. There's a lot of 'fuck's, 'shit's and 'We're not gonna 
take any more of this shit, man!' But it didn't seem to be about 
anything.

Sam says Bill's depressed. I know Bill. He has weird moods. Up and 
down. Sam says what usually cheers Bill up is to do something he's 
not done before.


Sunday, September 3


Last night, after I'd written my diary, Sam joined me in bed. He said it 
just wasn't any fun with Bill. He was sort of muttering all the time. 
"Clinky. Clunky. Dinky. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Just like these weird 
spaced-out poems of his. Even Sam thinks they're not very good. 
Although Sam's not as hip to the avant-garde as Bill. He's not as keen 
on Soft Machine or Pink Floyd. I think he prefers all that folky stuff, 
like Joan Baez, Bob Dylan (before he went electric) and even the 
Seekers. I suppose Bill's abstract poetry might be like abstract 
paintings. I don't like those much either. 

Sam tried talking to Bill today, but he was kind of huddled up in a 
ball. Sam says that Bill just needs a new experience to focus on. 
Something different. That always gets him focused. So, Sam and I 
dressed a bit more decent (first time I've covered my cunt in ages!) 
took the Morris minor out to Windermere, had a few pints in a pub, 
bought some stuff in the shops and laughed at all the squares. And 
they were all laughing at us. One said to Sam that if he didn't have a 
beard, he'd think he was a girl. How square can you get!

Actually, Sam said something very weird. Apparently Bill's saying he 
really prefers chicks after all. That he's not really a poof... oops! Gay. 
Sam's not bothered so much. Any port in a storm, he says. Which isn't 
at all flattering. And then he said that Bill had said he's always wanted 
to fuck me.

Well! I sort of spilt half the pint of beer I was drinking onto the 
sawdust-covered floor of the pub we were in. And I yelped, which 
made everyone turn their heads round and look at me.

"You've got to be fucking kidding, Sam!" I cried. I immediately 
blushed. You can't use words like 'fuck' in public. Especially on a 
Sunday. What would people think?

"No, it's true. He's said that since he's seen you nude all the time it's 
sort of made him think about having sex with his younger sister. After 
all, he's done a lot of different stuff. Lots of stuff I wouldn't do. Like 
that dog, for instance. And he did this thing with one girl where they 
were pissing all over each other and everything. I wouldn't want to do 
shit like that. It's like Bill just needs to try everything out."

"But I've never thought of Bill in that way at all. He's like my older 
brother. When I look at his cock, it's not like looking at yours. It's got 
a big sign over it that says 'Out of Bounds!' It's just not done. There's 
a word for it, isn't there? Incense?"

"Incest, I think. What they do in Cornwall. Anyway, Dot, it's not for 
me to judge, you know. Like I'm real hip to people doing what they 
like. Free love and everything. Make love not war!"

I giggled. "I've not heard that before. That sounds pretty clever, Make 
love. Don't make war. I s'pose it's what all this peace and love stuff is 
about, isn't it? But making love to Bill? I mean, having him put his 
cock in my pussy. I mean, I know you got me loads of those new pills 
back from London so I don't have to worry about getting pregnant or 
anything. But what if they didn't work? I wouldn't want some mutant 
child or something."

Sam smiled. "Soon as we get back we'll test those pills out again."

"Yeah! Right on!"


Monday, September 4


It was Bill who mentioned it today. Perhaps him and Sam had been 
gassing. But it sounded really awkward coming from him, even though 
he looked a lot more cheerful somehow. And he'd put on a Beatles 
record. Always a good sign. "I'd love to turn you on!" Groovy!

"You're a real groovy looking chick, Dot!" he said.

"And you're a groovy looking guy!" I told him.

"You know I think you're really really...well like wow!...you know 
...pretty good looking...a real foxy lady!"

"'Foxy'?"

"It means 'sexy', I think. Or perhaps it means you've got a bushy tail," 
I love it when Bill jokes. Then you know he's okay. Perhaps it was 
just some bad acid that made him go withdrawn. Or maybe he'd got a 
bit paranoid on all the Moroccan hash. But he looked like he'd got 
better.

"Well, I've got a bushy pussy!" I told him. Well, he could see that, as I 
was just wearing a tee shirt. It was an old one from the Aldermaston 
marches with the CND logo on it. My favourite still.

And then he touched me.

"It's very bushy!" he said.

He stroked my pussy for less than a minute, but in that time, he slid a 
finger inside the entrance, which was still a bit sore from all the 
fucking I'd had with Sam. And what was even weirder, is that it got 
really really wet. It frightened me. And it frightened Bill as well, 
because he took his hand away.

He coughed.

"You're a real foxy lady!" he said, and then embarrassedly he made 
his way over to the record player to put on another record. Well, the 
Beatles record had got to that weird noise in the inside groove.

When we were alone together later, I talked to Sam about Bill 
touching my private parts. He told me that Bill had been getting quite 
enthusiastic about the idea. He said that with me being naked all the 
time, and not being a bad looking chick, and with Bill wanting to get 
back to being more 'straight' again, that it was an idea that was sort of 
growing in his head. I told Sam how wet it got me, so Sam had a feel 
inside. 

"Fuck! You're really very wet indeed!"

I kissed Sam on the lips.

"So, what are you going to do about it?"

Our fuck session was really wild. I must have made a lot of noise, 
because Bill came into my room to see what was going on. There I 
was, with Sam pumping back and forth into my pussy, and our hair all 
over the place, and my eyes were like streaming and I felt almost like I 
was on some stronger drug than the one joint we'd shared in the 
kitchen, all three of us, at breakfast. And there stood Bill, watching us, 
rather like I watched him and Sam, although when I'd been watching 
it was Sam I'd been sort of relating to, not Bill. He was naked still. In 
fact, I don't think he's put on a stitch since he got back from London, 
and it's not so warm now, and his prick was really sticking up and 
erect. I thought of asking Bill if he wanted to join in, but I thought 
better of it. I mean, it's not right, is it?

We didn't say anything at all about it in the evening. We just slumped 
on the cushions and sofas, passing joints around, and listened to all the 
records Bill had brought back from London. He's bought a lot. This 
psychedelic acid rock thing's got really big. And Bill explained a lot of 
the lyrics. How 'Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds' is about LSD. And 
what Jimi Hendrix means by 'Purple Haze'. It's all very clever.


Tuesday, September 5


It had to happen, I think. And it happened today. And now the rest of 
my life really is going to be different. There's a saying Sam saw on a 
poster in Carnaby Street which is that today is the first day of the rest 
of your life. I think it's supposed to mean that you can do whatever 
you like, and not have any hang-ups about the past. But on the other 
hand, today is the first day of the rest of my life. I'll never be able to 
see Bill in the same way again. And Heavens knows what Mummy 
and Daddy would think if they found out.

I mean, they didn't like it when Bill and Sam both dropped out from 
studying Greats at Oxford and used some of Granny's inheritance to 
buy this old cottage in the Lake District. And they didn't like it when 
Bill grew his hair long and started taking drugs. And Daddy got really 
pissed off when Bill told him that he was a homosexual and was 
having sex with Sam. But ever since Mummy and Daddy separated, 
neither one has really been able to tell Bill what to do. And when I left 
home after 'O' levels to join Bill and Sam in their squat in Covent 
Garden, and then up to the cottage in the Lake District, well, Mummy 
and Daddy just didn't have any energy left to argue.

And so it's all different now. 

I've been fucked by my brother. 

I've got to write that again. 

My brother and I have been making love. 

Either way it sounds weird, though I guess the second way is more 
true than the first way, because I sort of really wanted to make love in 
a strange kind of way. But it was fucking, nonetheless. He put his cock 
in my cunt. And loads of his spunk went inside me and all down my 
legs. 

And not just my cunt. He did my arse, too. And I also sucked his cock. 
That was actually weirder than the fucking. That was because I was 
actually right up against a bit of my brother's anatomy I don't usually 
see real close. And it wasn't like when I suck Sam's cock. And not 
just because it sort of smelt and tasted differently. And a different 
shape. Slightly longer. Slightly thinner. It was just having it so close to 
your nose and eyes and everything. With those hairy bollocks just 
underneath, which were so tender and hard at the same time. I dunno. 
It was just weird. And even while I was sucking him. And when he 
fucked me. I was thinking that this is not right. But it was because it 
wasn't what you should do that got my pussy so dripping wet. I don't 
think I've come as much as I did today since...since...well, I can't 
remember.

Certainly not that first time after school when I was fourteen. It was 
sort of all over before it had really got started. Perhaps the most like it 
was at that orgy I went to with Sam and PB in Bromley that time. The 
only time I ever kissed a girl. Though I'm not a lesbian. I didn't fancy 
her at all. And there were loads of weird drugs at that orgy. Cocaine 
and speed and stuff. Not just acid and dope. But today there was just a 
bit of dope, and no more than the usual amount.

It was bound to happen though. I could tell at breakfast when Sam and 
Bill looked at me funny when I came in, still dripping wet after having 
a shower, my long hair tied up in a towel and my pubic hairs sort of 
fluffed up. 

"You look gorgeous, Dot!" said Bill appreciatively.

Well, Bill's never said anything like that to me before at breakfast, and 
he's seen me nude ever so often. 

And it wasn't long after a couple of joints while listening to my 
favourite LP, 'Forever Changes' by Love, that Bill finally broached 
the subject. And he was uncharacteristically subtle.

"You're a real pretty chick, Dot. I think I fancy you, in fact. I know it 
sounds weird, but you know you got really pretty tits. And your face. 
Well, it's like a symphony. Or something. I think..."

"Oh! Shut up, Bill!" I said. 

I knew he was going to say something like this. When I was sleeping 
with Sam the night before, I'd been thinking about my brother all by 
himself in the other bedroom, I was thinking about it. And I thought 
'why not?' It's not going to kill someone or anything. And the modern 
age is about shedding all those inhibitions that fuck you up. Bill's 
a guy. And he's got a cock. And I'm a chick. And I've got a cunt. 
Isn't that what it's all about?

Then I did what I suppose I'd half meant to do yesterday. I grabbed his 
balls, which were on display as always, and his prick was a little bit 
stiff anyway, well, rubbery stiff, not rod-like stiff, and knelt down in 
front of him and started sucking him off. It's called a 'blow job' in 
America, I think. But like all American sayings, it doesn't make much 
sense, because you don't blow on the cock at all. You sort of gobble at 
it. Though I suppose it sorts of blows out its spunk on your face if 
you're not careful. And then things all went the way they always do 
when you start getting horny. You don't give a fuck about anything 
other than giving yourself pleasure and, in a funny way, pleasure to the 
other person.

Sam stayed out of the way. In fact, he told us later that after he'd 
finished the joint he'd previously been sharing with all of us, and then 
smoked a couple of his own fags, he actually went out for a walk in 
the fields. To look at the lakes and write poems and stuff. But I don't 
think either Bill or I really noticed whether he was there or not. We 
got really into each other.

It was like opening a box of chocolates that you thought was really 
meant for someone else. And then getting as much out of it as 
possible. I wanted to show my older brother what I'd learnt. And not 
just with Sam, which he'd already know about, but with the other guys 
I've slept with. Like that guy who taught me where to put my finger 
just under the balls to stop a guy spunking too soon. And, of course, 
how I'd learnt to use my vaginal muscles to sort of grip on cocks inside 
me, to give them a bit of extra jizz. It's a different set of muscles for 
the arse as for the cunt, but I sometimes get them mixed up even 
though it's obvious which hole is being penetrated. 

Bill didn't really show me anything I hadn't seen before. I guess Sam 
would have learnt about anything new from Bill anyway and he'd have 
already taught me it. Especially the trick of getting the anus ready so 
that when he entered it was already lubricated. Some people use 
butter, but spit and pussy-juice is usually good enough. But when I 
looked at Bill in the face, or even in the cock, it was obvious that what 
was important about all this wasn't so much what we were doing, but 
the fact we were doing it together.

And eventually, it was over. I was well and truly shagged. I haven't 
kept it going for so many hours for ages. Well, not with only one guy, 
anyway. And we were just sort of lying on the sheepskin rug on the 
lounge floor in front of the gas fire, when Sam passed us a huge seven-
skinner he'd put together. 

"Looks like you'll need this!" he said.

And he was right.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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