Fern Park: Sowing and Reaping with a Vengeance


by Mr Creakle

Joanne Smith was a woman of thirty-two, but she could pass for twenty- five easily. Her blonde hair was always immaculate when her husband took her out to the pub, and most men's eyes turned to watch her as she played the one armed bandit.

Now, her hair was rather less immaculate.. It was spread across the pillow where her head rolled from side to side. Her husband was at work; the two boys were in school; the duvet was on the floor at the foot of the bed; she was naked, and Stuart Hawthorne's prick was plunging deeply in and out of her cunt. He was naked too. For a fourteen-year-old boy he had a hell of a well-muscled body. Her hands ran over his muscles, feeling the tension and power in them. He had a hell of a big prick too, filling her up, ramming his adolescent lust into her. Her hands gripped his buttocks, slowing him down, but not letting him go. He shuddered as her hands reawakened the pain that was in the weals across his backside, but he didn't pause his thrusting for a moment. She felt the head of his prick deep, deep inside her and then his spunk was like an explosion of heat and power right at the centre of her body. His whole body was rigid. He thrust again and a second explosion spurted up into the most intimate parts of her belly. She groaned and held him tighter than ever.

Still impaled on his prick, which seemed to want never to lose the rigid power that held her, she kissed his face, seeking something that she couldn't have spoken about, let alone to a fourteen-year-old boy, no matter how powerful his _s_e_x_ was. Her hands roamed languorously over his skin and, more slowly now, he started to move inside her once more.

But it couldn't last. The banging at the door shattered the moment. Stuart shot away from her. "It's nothing," she said. "They'll go away."

"Suppose they don't." His prick slipped luxuriously out of her and he slid off the bed and went to the window, and suddenly it was as though the world had slipped off its axle. "Oh _f_u_c_k_! It's me mother!"

"What! Did she see you?"

"Don't know." But the crashing open of the front door, which, like all front doors of the Fern Park houses, was never locked, and his mother's footsteps on the stairs, told them that Mrs Hawthorne had indeed seen her son looking out of Mrs Smith's bedroom window.

She was a big woman, the equal of her husband if it had ever come to a contest. Not fat, but powerful so that she seemed to fill the bedroom doorway. And suddenly, Stuart wasn't the powerful, ramming prick that he had been thirty seconds ago, he was a fourteen-year-old kid, caught with his hands in the sweetie jar. In three strides she had crossed the bedroom to where Stuart was still looking for his boxer shorts. She grabbed his ear and before he knew it he was being pulled down the stairs, his mother hauling him by his ear and swatting at his backside with her ham-like free hand, out of the front door, down the short path and out into the road.

Only a few people saw Stuart, bollock-naked, his hands alternately clutched over his genitals, and protecting his rear end, being dragged the three houses down and across the street to the Hawthornes' house, but the shame of it couldn't have been greater if it had happened during half time at a Plymouth Argyle match with the Home Park crowd cheering his mother on. By the time Mrs Hawthorne had locked her son into his bedroom and returned across the street to give a piece of her mind to the boy's lover, about half the population of Fern Park knew what had happened, and the other half knew within the hour.

Most boys on the estate sympathised with Stuart, and all of them were jealous as hell of the _s_e_x_ he'd been getting from Kathy Smith. A few more sensitive souls thought more of Dave Smith and the position that this put him into. The older residents felt sorry for Mr and Mrs Hawthorne having such a right little heller for a son. Two girls were outraged to discover that Stuart was screwing anyone besides them. No-one at all felt any sympathy for Kathy. Not even Stuart, 1'm afraid, who had never once considered that this could be the end of the Smiths' marriage, the break up of Paul and Craig's family life.

John Hawthorne hurried home from the pub, where the evening's club session was just getting under way, as soon as he heard the news. Stuart was still in his bedroom, but now he had put some clothes on. The rage on his father's face told him all he needed to know about what was going to happen.

"I don't know why you've got dressed," John growled at his son. "For what you've got coming you don't need any clothes on. So you can just get stripped off again."

"Dad..." Stuart started to plead.

"You go dipping your wick with other men's wives, neighbours and friends of your mother and me, and you deserve everything you get. Now, strip."

Reluctantly, Stuart peeled off his clothes again. He had known all along that this would happen, but that didn't make it. any better. His father fetched three pillows and piled them in the middle of Stuart's bed.

"Right," said John. "Let's have you lying down over that lot, so your arse is good and high."

Stuart climbed on to the bed and lay down as his father ordered. John went to the wardrobe and brought out two belts and two ties. With a tie to each wrist he secured his son to the bed-head, and then with the belts repeated the operation on the boy's ankles, stretching them wide.

"Now, you can just stay there while I find out what Steve Smith wants done with you."

"Oh, dad, no. Please not that."

"Listen," John said, with real venom, and his hand shot between the boy's legs and took a good grip on his penis. "You've been _f_u_c_k_ing his wife, for God's sake. Don't you think he has a right to have a say in it."

"Oh, but dad... You do it, dad, please."

"You play games with grown-up women and you get to deal with their grown-up husbands."

John emerged from his front door just as Steve Smith came running up the road. It was obvious that he had also heard the news.

"Steve ... Steve..." shouted John cutting him off by the post box. "Listen to me.. mate."

"That _f_u_c_k_ing bitch!" snarled Steve. "I'll _f_u_c_k_ing kill her."

"No, Steve... Steve. Listen. Before you go in. Come in and see our Stuart."

"That little bastard! I'll rip his bollocks off when I catch him."

"Yes, yes. I've got him ready for you, Steve. You can do what you like to the little sod. Don't go in to Kathy yet. Just try and calm down a bit."

"Calm down? I'll give her _f_u_c_k_ing calm down!"

"Listen to me, Steve. Have you got that riding crop you told us about?"

Suddenly Steve saw what John was saying. "Yes," he said. "The whip. That's what the little _f_u_c_k_er needs."

"Where is it? I'll go and get it. Don't you go facing your Kathy yet"

"On top of the kitchen cupboard."

"Stay there then," John ordered. Apart from being twice Steve's size, John Hawthorne commanded a sort of automatic respect.

John pushed open the Smith's front door. There was no sign of Kathy, but then a voice called, "Is that you, Steve?" full of anxiety.

"No, love," called John back. "Stay where you are. It's John."

He strode through into the kitchen. Sure enough the horsewhip was on top of the cupboard. Kathy met him in the living room. She had pulled on some clothes now, but. had obviously been crying.

"Help me, John," she pleaded. "What's he going to do?"

"Christ knows, love. He's outside now. I'm taking him to deal with Stuart before he comes home. I can't do much for you now, can I?"

"Oh _f_u_c_k_, _f_u_c_k_, _f_u_c_k_!" she wailed. "Why did I have to do such a stupid _f_u_c_k_ing thing?"

"I've no idea."

"I love him, John. I do. Tell him that I love him. I'll do anything to make it up to him."

John left her without another word and strode out into the road, carrying the crop. He handed it to Steve and led him across the road, away from his own house, where his freshly sobbing wife was watching through the net curtains.

Upstairs, Stuart was still spread-eagled across his bed, He looked up over his shoulder as the two men came in and the look of fear in his eyes turned to panic. Steve Smith took in his muscular young body, the tightness of his backside criss-crossed by still swollen weals from his father's cane, his genitals pushed back into view by the pillows.

"Steve ... Mr Smith ... Aaagh! _f_u_c_k_ing hell!" Stuart's attempts at pleading were cut off as the thin, leather-bound crop sliced into him, and then he screamed again as it hit him a second time. Each lash of the whip drew blood and the boy screamed and howled obscenities, but there was no escape from this. Steve Smith was not a big man, but there was power in his wiry frame and he used all of it now as he plied the whip rhythmically and with full force, flogging his anger and resentment into the boy who had _f_u_c_k_ed his wife. No-one was counting the lashes but by the time he stopped the boy was bleeding freely and sobbing uncontrollably, his bottom now a mass of cuts and thin weals.

"Not so _f_u_c_k_ing _c_o_c_k_y now, are you, you little sod?" said Steve and his hand took Stuart's balls in his hand and squeezed. Stuart squealed and writhed over the pillows. "How d'you like your bollocks ripped off, eh?"

"Please .... Steve .... Im sorry."

"I loved her," Steve howled, and he was crying too, and his hand squeezed harder. "Steve." It was John Hawthorne, his hands on his friend's shoulder leading him away. "Enough. You can still love her. She loves you, you know."

"How can she?"

"She does, thats all I know."

Eventually, Steve went home. John arranged for the Smith boys to stay the night with the Scudders. This was something that no child should have to see. It was late. Stuart was still trussed up to his bed, the agony in his buttocks no less.

There were tears; there was a lot of shouting, mostly by Steve; there was pleading, all from Kathy.

"Why? That's what I don't _f_u_c_k_ing understand," he said, when it seemed neither of them had any strength left.

"Because it was exciting and different." But she couldn't really explain it.

"And what happens now? How can we go on from here?"

"Don't go. Oh, please don't go. You can do anything to me I don't mind. Only please don't leave me. You used that whip on him. Use it on me.. I deserve it."

So he did. Up in their bedroom. She stripped and lay down over pillows, just like Stuart had done. And be whipped her. Just four times, hard enough to raise red lines across the white of her skin, and just enough to give himself the hardest erection he had had for years.

"Exciting? You want exciting. I'll give you _f_u_c_k_ing exciting. Dyou remember the first time we did it?"

"Behind the bike sheds."

"Get out to the car," he ordered.

"Steve - no."

"You wont need nothing on where were going."

The school grounds were dark. The caretaker's bungalow showed no lights. He parked the car outside on the road and led her over the wall and across the yard where they had played Kiss Chase all those years ago. Round behind the new science block, and there behind the bike sheds was the same hidden space and the same manky grass.

"Down on the grass," he ordered.

"Steve, we can't," she protested, but he still had the riding crop with him and was ready to use it. She lay down and looked up at him. Slowly, he pulled off his clothes till he was naked too and then he lay down beside her. It was cold on the grass, but neither of them cared. He mounted her and his prick pierced her to the core. She sucked him and then he made her crouch on all fours and he mounted her again from behind. A third time he _f_u_c_k_ed her and the spunk exploded up into her and she moaned and held him tightly to her. Size isn't everything, she thought.

Neither of them knew as they drove home, still naked, her head in his lap, nibbling at his prick, he wondering how many more times he could come, that she was pregnant. No-one would ever know that she was already nearly twelve hours pregnant.


More stories by Mr Creakle