**Summer 2010 – Vixen is 19, tiny redhead, fresh out of first year at uni, working the bar at a posh country-house hotel in Perthshire.**
The head groundskeeper is Callum, late 50s, ex-military, built like an old oak. Salt-and-pepper beard, forearms like rope, always smells faintly of diesel and cut grass. He’s worked the estate for thirty years, lives in one of the bothy cottages, and every female member of staff has a quiet little story about him.
I’m not on the scene yet (that comes six years later), but Vixen tells me this one in filthy detail on the nights she wants to make me lose control.
It’s the last week of August, scorching hot. The hotel is packed with wedding guests. Bar closes at 1 a.m., but the bridal party are still going in the residents’ lounge, so staff are stuck until they leave. Vixen’s feet are killing her in the stupid court shoes they make the girls wear.
Callum appears at the staff door just after the bride and groom finally stagger to the honeymoon suite.
“Need a hand clearing the terrace, hen?” he asks, voice low and gravelly.
She’s the last one left on shift. Everyone else has vanished. She says yes because she’s nineteen and he’s got that quiet authority that makes her stomach flip.
They stack chairs in silence for ten minutes. Then he nods toward the walled garden.
“Got a cold beer in the bothy fridge if you fancy one before you drive home.”
She should say no. Instead she follows him down the gravel path, past the greenhouses, to the little stone cottage tucked behind the rhododendrons.
Inside it’s just a single room: bed, armchair, kettle, tiny shower cubicle. Smells like a man who works outdoors all day. He hands her a cold Tennent’s, sits in the armchair, and watches her drink half of it in one go.
“You’re a good wee worker,” he says. “Deserve more than sore feet.”
Next thing she knows she’s barefoot on his lap, dress rucked up, his huge rough hands rubbing the arches of her feet, then her calves, then sliding higher. She’s already wet (has been since the terrace, if she’s honest).
He never asks. Just lifts her like she weighs nothing, sits her on the edge of the little table, pushes her knees apart and pulls her knickers to one side. One thick finger, then two, slow and certain, while he keeps eye contact the whole time.
She comes the first time just from his fingers and the way he’s looking at her like he’s done this with dozens of summer girls and she’s tonight’s.
Then he stands up, unbuckles the heavy estate belt, and feeds his cock into her mouth right there at the table. She’s tiny; he has to crouch a bit so she doesn’t gag. He doesn’t rush, just rocks slow, one hand in her hair, the other still between her legs keeping her simmering.
When he’s ready he lifts her again, turns her round, bends her over the same table and takes her from behind in one long push. No condom (she’s on the pill, he doesn’t ask). He’s thick enough that she has to go up on tiptoes in bare feet, hands scrabbling for grip on the wood while he fucks her steady and relentless, the table creaking under them.
He finishes deep inside her with a low growl, stays there for a long minute, then pulls out slow. Cleans himself on her discarded knickers, tosses them in the bin, and opens two more beers like nothing happened.
She’s still bent over the table catching her breath when he pats her arse once, gentle.
“Best get you home, hen. Early shift tomorrow.”
He drives her to her car in his Land Rover, kisses her once on the mouth, tasting of beer and her own pussy, and that’s that.
She worked the rest of the season with his cum still inside her more nights than she didn’t.
Six years later, when she finally tells me the full story in bed one night, she still blushes the same colour as her hair and whispers, “He ruined me for boys my own age.”
I just smile, roll her onto her stomach, and tell her I’m very fucking glad he did. |
