Tales of Green Fields

Hi, my name is Jessica Greenfield. You don’t believe me? Well, you’re right, I’m not going to tell you my real name. Maybe you’ve met me before or maybe you might meet me some day. And I really am quite shy – even though you probably won’t believe that after you’ve read my stories. Still, it won’t be easy for me to find the right ‘balance’ between telling you enough so you can enjoy my story and not revealing too much so everybody recognises me like a famous film star. So where should I start?

I was born in the nice city of Brisbane, Queensland, Australia, some twenty-three years ago. If you don’t know much about the country ‘down under’, you have to come and visit us some day. I’ve seen quite a few places on our lovely planet, but I still think Aus- tralia has the nicest people. I also love our climate, accent, just everything. I’m a real Aussie girl.

But I’m probably telling you a lot of stuff you don’t really want to hear: I’ve been following this newsgroup for quite some time now and I should write things like: “I am 5’5″, have a perfectly slimmed and trimmed body, long blonde hair and nice blue eyes, and I was just fingering my hot little pussy when suddenly…” No, thank you very much. If you want that sort of stuff, then I’m afraid you have to read a different article – or fast forward a few lines. Still, I think there might be some people out there who are interested in what I have to say. Since this is the first time I have written anything other than university essays, I would welcome any comments – both positive and negative – at an000222@anon.fun.ee (an anonymous email address which lets me remain mysterious). If there are more ‘go ahead’ responses than mails telling me to ‘stop posting that crap’, you will hear more from me soon.

Enough small talk – let’s get down to business…

Part One: My parents sure know how to party!

This little ‘adventure’ happened when I was about thirteen or fourteen. And back then, my body didn’t have all the things it has now: My breasts were growing (quite a painful thing at times, I can tell you), but they were still quite small and I didn’t see the point of wearing a bra. Thinking back, my body wasn’t really well developed at all. I still looked like a kid – short blondish hair that refused to stay in any kind of shape, wearing t-shirts and shorts, quite boring, nothing special. Also, my old photos show that I always had a bruised elbow or knee from playing hockey or riding my bike. And unfortunately they show quite a lot of ‘baby fat’ – I have never been overweight, I just want to say that I didn’t really have a very feminine figure. You get the picture.

My parents were (and still are, fortunately) very successful investment bankers, and we always had people coming around to our house, most of them talking about lots of money. No, I didn’t really grow up to be a spoiled little brat, my parents managed to prevent that. They always were very careful how much pocket money they gave me, and even when I was older they made sure I never had more money available than anybody else. Then again, it IS nice to live in a large air- conditioned house, to be able to jump into the swimming pool if you feel like it,…well, I guess I am only a little spoiled.

Anyway, sometimes all the people didn’t come only to talk about business stuff, a few times each year my parents would throw one of their famous parties. Really posh stuff, lots of interesting things to eat and drink, nice music, perfect atmosphere, the whole lot. I was too old to be put to bed, but I was also too young to really enjoy all the mindless talk that was going on around me. None of the others brought their kids, and while I was the star of the party for the first half hour or so, I was getting bored quickly. I didn’t have anyone to talk to, and I didn’t know what to do. In fact, my dad was is responsible for every- thing that happened afterwards – he helped me to find something to do.

It was quite late and well beyond my normal bed- time when he walked up to me, holding two glasses of champagne.

“Well, Jess, you better get used to this stuff. After all, you’re almost an adult and should learn what sort of stupid things we do.” He handed me one of the glasses.

“You want me to drink this?” I asked.

“Of course, you can’t taste it just from looking at it.” I had a quick look around. Everybody was talking, laughing and drinking, so nobody really seemed to care about me.

“Did you ask mom if it’s okay?”

“She probably wouldn’t approve, Jess, so this will have to be our little secret. Enough talking – Bottoms up!”

We clinked our glasses and drank. I still remember the taste – I didn’t like the bubbles and I was con- vinced that champagne tasted like sweaty socks. I must have made quite a face, because my dad laughed and said: “Glad you don’t like it – but please try to enjoy the party!”

He wandered off to talk to some people I didn’t know, which left me standing there with a half-empty cham- pagne glass in my hand. I thought to myself ‘might as well finish it’ and emptied it. It still tasted like old sports shoes. This was the moment when I began to think: ‘So champagne is bad. But what about all the other stuff? Maybe it tastes differently?’ The only problem was that neither of my parents would have liked to see their daughter running around and drinking all kinds of alcohol.

What could I do? My plan was easy: I started play- ing the ‘helpful little hostess’, collecting empty (and half-empty) glasses and bottles on a tray and bringing them into the kitchen. I was quite excited when I walked into the kitchen holding the tray. This would be fun…

The first glass had some red wine in it. Not too bad. The second one contained white wine. Too sour for my liking (probably of the very dry and very good French kind). The next one was an almost full glass of water – or so I thought. I wanted to get rid of the ‘sour’ taste from the wine and I took a healthy gulp – and thought I would choke to death. This was hard stuff, probably vodka. It took some time to recover from coughing and sputtering, and I awarded a definite ‘Fail’ to this drink. Damn. My dad was right after all: Adults are stupid, how could anybody voluntarily drink this stuff? Still, I was eager to go on. The last glass contained some fruity punch – really nice. Not too strong, refreshingly sweet and just – well – nice. And this last drink was reconciliation enough to make me want to look for more.

While I was collecting the glasses for my second tray, I noticed how the alcohol was beginning to affect me. I felt very warm all of a sudden. Well, warmer than before at least. I was used to heat and warm nights, but this time the heat came from inside. My belly was all warm and sort of bubbly, and my face was very hot. But it was quite dark by then, so none of the adults noticed my glowing cheeks and slightly glassy eyes.

My whole body felt funny. I got the feeling that the world was spinning around me slightly, and my vision had become a little blurred at the edges. My balance was also affected, but I wasn’t stumbling around – I felt loose and carefree, and discovered a new style of walking. I started to sway my hips a little and tried to walk ‘properly’ at the same time. One could probably say that I discovered how to walk like a woman then.

While I enjoyed my tipsiness, I was also scared: ‘My parents are going to kill me if they see what’s going on!’, I thought. But there was nothing I could do. I knew I was beginning to get drunk, and there was no way that would change soon. So I thought ‘what the fuck (hey! a dirty word!), I might as well get on with it now, it’s too late anyway.’ So I continued to look for half-empty glasses…

I was just about to return to the kitchen with my tray of treasures when I heard some muffled sounds coming from the door.

A woman said: “Baby, when we get home tonight, I want you to fuck my brains out.”

My face became even redder. This was heavy stuff. I really shouldn’t be listening. Then again… The door was open just a little bit, but with my courage fuelled by alcohol, I didn’t take long to decide to have a peek.

A couple was kissing passionately. SHE – a slim brunette in a tight brown dress – was sitting on the kitchen table, her fishnet stocking clad legs firmly wrapped around his waist. HE was tall, dark and really handsome. And they were Mr and Mrs Miller. I knew them, they came to visit my parents all the time. I couldn’t believe a normal couple like the Millers would even think about words like ‘bottom’, and there was little Mrs Miller asking her husband to fuck her.

I needed a stiff drink to steady myself, so I just took one from the tray and drained it in one go. Champagne again, but it didn’t taste as bad as the first glass. I put the tray down and continued to peek through the door.

WOW! He had his hands all over her by now, and I couldn’t help but wish that I was in her place. It just wasn’t fair. She had a nice husband stroking her hair, kissing her neck and lips, slightly biting her ear and softly cupping her breasts…this was getting too much for me. I felt myself getting excited, sex- ually aroused even. I had goose-bumps all over, and while my little nipples became hard and pushed against my t-shirt, other regions of my body became very soft and sensitive. The feeling of doing something that was a complete ‘no-no’ increased my excitement even more.

I had to stop. Do something else to take my mind off sex. Maybe another drink would help me to steady my nerves and regain my composure. There was something mixed with coke which didn’t look or smell too bad, and it tasted quite nice as well. Now I could go and…

“Darling, if you go on like that I’m going to come in my pants (pant, pant).” That was him this time. My eyes flew back to the door.

A brief thought of hallucinations entered my mind, but the sight before my eyes didn’t change even after I had blinked a few times. They were still sucking each other’s tongues, but their hands weren’t moving over their partner’s body any more. They were concen- trating on more important spots: His fly was clearly open, her right hand was inside his trousers. She was rubbing quite furiously, and he was obviously enjoying it. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back and he was panting and moaning. She had spread her legs a little wider, and his fingers were right in the middle of them. Her panties still dangled on her ankle, but she didn’t seem to notice – I wouldn’t have, either.

“Your pussy is so wet…” – “Hmmmmm…” – “Do you want me to rub it a little more?” – “Hmmmmmm…”

My throat was getting dry again. I needed a drink. Didn’t care what it was this time, but it was quite strong as far as I can remember. When I returned to the door, they were still going at it. I steadied myself on the wall with one hand (for some reason, the world was spinning a little more by now), and attempted to readjust my panties which felt a little uncomfor- table. Okay, I have to admit that my fingers remained ‘down there’ a little longer than necessary.

She had his penis out now. I had never seen an erect dick and was quite impressed. No, I won’t tell you the size, I was never good at estimating and still refuse to measure anything sexual in sheer numbers. Anyway, I was very impressed at the time. I started to rub myself through the fabric of my pants. Waves of pleasure started to hit me harder and harder. I imagined that I was Mrs Miller, I could almost feel his hands on my body. My heart started beating even faster, and my legs began to feel wobbly. I stopped fingering myself for a little while – but only to return to spying on the couple on the kitchen table.

He was going to do it! He had placed his hard manhood just in front of the entrance to her vagina. ‘Come on, put it in!’, I almost cheered out loud.

“Wait,” he said. “What if somebody sees us, or what if somebody comes into the kitchen?”

“I don’t care, I really don’t fucking care. I need it now, want to feel you inside me right now, so stop that silly talk and do it!”

And that was just what he did. Soon they were going at it like animals, moaning, grunting, whispering obscenities I didn’t understand. And enjoying them- selves to the fullest, apparently. But I wasn’t complaining. I had finished the last two drinks on my tray (for a moment I thought ‘What if one of those people has some strange disease? I have drunk from so many different glasses tonight…”, but that moment was a very short moment indeed), and I had also managed to slip my hand not only inside my trousers, but also under the waistband of my panties. This was beginning to feel pretty good. I enjoyed feeling my slippery wetness, and loved the multitude of feelings that was coursing through my body.

I was trying to decide whether to close my eyes and concentrate on my need for sexual release or to keep them open to watch this live porno show a few feet away when they started coming. Both grunted even louder, especially Mrs Miller – she was almost screaming. At the same time, Mr Miller’s penis was pistoning blindingly fast in and out of her pussy. I really wished to be in her place and imagined how nice it must feel to have that ‘thing’ inside my body.

It was my turn now. My orgasm started right under my toenails, then slowly crept up the inside of my legs until it reached the ‘magic spot’. Then I explod- ed, I swear, I really did. I still don’t know how I survived that one, and I am still wondering how I managed to remain standing. This was beyond heaven, too good to be true, it felt pink and smelled of flowers…

When I came to, it took me a little while to realise that they were cleaning and tidying themselves up and getting dressed. They were getting ready to leave the kitchen! And I was still standing there, one hand on the wall, the other one in my pants. Shit, they were going to catch me. Unless…

I jumped and started to run towards the stairs. My mind was clear and my eyes focused all of a sudden, and I started to run up the stairs. Now my eyes weren’t that focused anymore, and my brain was going muddy again. But I made it: Just as I reached the top of the stairs, the kitchen door opened and through my blurry eyes I could see Mr and Mrs Wilson leaving the kitchen and walking arm in arm towards the living room. That was the moment when the abundance of liquor I had consumed started to hit me like a ton of bricks.

The world was spinning like crazy, I felt like being in a jet plane that was tumbling from the sky. I fell over, and for some reason found that very funny, so I started to giggle. And giggle a little more after that. I was completely pissed (for you Americans out there: Australians and English people use ‘pissed’ as a synonym for ‘drunk’ – some cultural background know- ledge for you here), absolutely wasted, drunk of my sweet little arse (ass for Yankees and the like). And I loved the feeling.

Somehow I decided I needed a shower to ‘cool down’ a little, and after barely ten minutes, I had managed to pull myself up into an almost-standing position. I cursed my dad for not installing hand-rails on the walls, it was hard to find a decent grip on the smooth surface. Fortunately, however, I still knew my way around the house in my drunken state, so I found the bathroom without too many problems.

My clothes seemed to fall from my body without my assistance, only my shoes and socks proved problematic. I slipped and almost knocked myself out on the toilet bowl. Fortunately for me, I was really ‘feeling no pain’, so instead of passing out and being rushed to hospital because of a possibly fractured skull, I just started giggling again. I found the whole situation very funny: Here I was, a kid, a very young teenager at best, bumping my head on the toilet because I was too pissed to stand up. I was still laughing when I fumbled with the tap.

The water was too cold, but that helped to cool me down a bit. Then I turned it up just a little too hot and jumped, which almost made me fall over again. My next attempt was almost okay, just a tad on the cold side this time. This wasn’t going to work out. I was just getting pretty frustrated when a new idea appeared from somewhere: Why not try a bath instead of a shower? This way, I would be able to sit down and relax, and slight imperfections in the water tempera- ture would be cancelled out.

The water turned out to be just right in the end. It felt so nice, just being able to lie down and ‘chill out’ in the warm water. My befuddled mind started to replay the scenes I had just witnessed. I still couldn’t see straight, but my memory was very clear. I could almost see the little beads of sweat on their writhing bodies, could almost smell the steamy scent of sex, and almost without realising it I had started to lightly cup my breasts, even squeeze and stroke them a little bit.

I closed my eyes and let my hands wander freely over my naked body. I lost my sense of reality, pictures from my imagination mingled with the feelings my roaming hands produced all over my body, and led me to places I had never been to before. Before I knew what was going on, I was very much aroused again. I couldn’t believe it! Could ‘a few too many’ really turn me into a nymphomaniac that needed ‘it’ once every few minutes? I had to stop this before things would get completely out of hand.

I pulled myself up into a nearly standing position (okay, I was still leaning on the wall, but at least my knees didn’t give), half-heartedly dried myself (the towel’s rough softness felt too good to be true, but I managed to stop early enough before anything ‘serious’ happened. I then proceeded to ‘brush’ my teeth (basically I filled my mouth with toothpaste and water and fumbled around with my toothbrush for a minute or two) and my hair (which turned out to be too painful, so I didn’t brush my hair at all). I then drew a deep breath, tried to regain my composure a little and prepared myself for the long way (at least twenty steps) to my room.

The trip proved uneventful. No slips, no fatal falls, no dangerous staircases or skilfully hidden traps in the carpet. After I had closed my bedroom door behind me, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was okay now. I had survived. I was finished for the night. More or less.

I fell into my bed. The soft silkiness of the sheets felt too nice on my radiant skin. Also, lying down probably wasn’t the best idea. The world was still rotating like mad, but now it was going up and down as well. Closing my eyes didn’t help much. Rearranging my position wasn’t successful either. But rocking my hips up and down and imagining Mr Miller between my thighs was a step in the right direction. Simulating the sensations his body would produce if it was pressed against mine was another step. My feelings were boiling over. I pressed my blanket between my thighs, threw my arms and legs around it and kissed the fabric passion- ately. Loud moans of approaching ecstasy escaped from my mouth, I was again lost in my own little world.

I wanted to get off again, but soon realised I couldn’t. I was almost there, when my position shifted slightly and I lost the correct amount of pressure in the correct bodily zones. On my next attempt, I rubbed myself so furiously that I got really sore. Frustration was starting to hit me: I was on the right track, but there seemed to be an impenetrable wall blocking my way to freedom. I even tried inserting my finger into orifices where nothing had been before, but the initial tingling sensations were soon replaced by pain.

These unsatisfying experiments went on for at least three quarters of an hour. I had already decided it just wasn’t going to work at all when it finally did. I was still thinking about having sex with sweet Mr Miller for the umteenth time that night when I decided not to stop ‘him’ from coming inside me. All this wasn’t real and he wasn’t really inside, so I couldn’t get pregnant either. Sounds stupid, I know, but that was my drunken logic at the time. So ‘we’ went on. I could feel his spasms approaching, and when he finally began to groan and spurt, that was all I needed.

I don’t remember the exact feelings, but it was really good. Everything was white, the brightness blinded me, the feeling of 100% pure bliss didn’t seem to subside for ages…then everything went dark and I passed out to a dreamless sleep.

***

I woke up very early the following Saturday morning, at about 6:30. My head didn’t hurt, it was killing me. My limbs ached. I still felt very drunk. My tongue felt like a furry mouse inside my mouth. My ears were ring- ing. I wanted to pass into darkness again, but that didn’t work. Instead I got up, ran towards the bath- room, locked the door and threw up. Then I barfed. After I had done that, I vomited. Then I started again. Oh yeah, I got my period as well.

I told my parents that I had probably caught some strange stomach bug, and they were really worried. They made me stay in bed for the rest of the weekend, brought me lots of tea and dry biscuits and gave all kinds of advice. They even called my grandma and asked for ancient household remedies for upset tummies.

I only had one thought, which I probably shared with thousands of drinkers around the planet at the time: ‘Never again’. And like thousands, even millions of drinkers I changed my mind not very long after this statement. But that’s a different story.