The Picnic Basket (pt 1)

second try for this one, folks! this then, is for sfp coz the premise was so enticing.  ~n~

She found the cottage just where he had described it. The drive to the old manse was pitted, filled with years of overgrowth. She parked on the side of the dirt road, where the rusted remains of an old iron gate hung gingerly on hinges half-gone.

It should have been spooky, and perhaps at times it could be. But in some way, it was romantic. Sad, certainly, as were all old houses decaying by neglect. The grounds were a curious mix of meadow and overgrown gardens. Brilliant scarlet roses bloomed mid-field, in amongst the bobbing heads of early blooming goldenrod. In the farthest field, she could make out the glint of water. Likely a small koi pond, she mused, making a mental note to return here to explore.

There was a faint track leading up over a small hillock. She hefted her picnic basket, filled with a variety of things sure to please her Master. Her knee-length skirt was dusted  with seeds and pollen as she passed. It made her smile. Earth-maiden, carrying provender. She was glad she wore her Mary Jane’s, as stiletto’s would have been hopeless for trekking across this wild meadow.

She glanced at the sun overhead. She’s forgotten her watch, again, but guessed it was just past noon. Good, she’d have time to set the stage, provide Him with a lovely luncheon. She had no idea what He had in mind. That made her a bit nervous, but in a tingly-clit kind of way.

As she wended her way along the overgrown track, the curve of trees and unpruned shrubs hid her view of what lay ahead. She stopped, and stared. Yes, it was decrepit. Yes, there were holes in the roof, and the front door, like the main gate, hung drunkenly on broken hinges. But the sweetness of the little cottage transcended that. The setting was idyllic. From the front door, the land rolled down a gently sloping hill, the lush grasses of late summer, a blend of deep green and burnished gold. Long beds of gardens gone wild would have thrown impressionist painters into paroxysms of pleasure. The entire scene was reminiscent of  a Pissarro painting.

She gingerly eased past the door, and found a charming front room. Despite years of grime on the windows, and the lack of  anything remotely resembling maintenance, enough light came in to illuminate a full stone fireplace with a generous sized hearth. She imagined sitting in a deep chair, feet braced up on that hearth, a warm fire glowing from within. She smiled at her whimsy, and continued to search the house.

In the back was the kitchen. There was a relatively new table there. How curious. Perhaps the family was returning. She’d heard there were distant cousins or somesuch that had returned to the area.

Hmmm, that meant she could be trespassing. Still, Master had been most specific.

She set down the basket, and opening it, she removed a cloth, spreading it on the table, and began to lay out the meal she had brought.

“SLUT!”  His voice rang out from the front room. She jumped, smiled, and felt her pussy lurch into life, simultaneously!

He was here.

She ran to meet Him. He stood, surveying the front room. In His hand was a picnic basket.

“Sir?” she queried, looking at the basket in his hands. “i brought lunch as You requested.” Her voice transmitted her worry that she had somehow misunderstood her instructions. He smiled down at her, scooping the hair off her face, and leaning down for a kiss on her generous lower lip. A kiss, and then a bite. She yelped that funny little yelp he loved, and tried to pull back, but his teeth held her securely. He bit harder. The more she struggled, the more He gave. It was one of his rules.

When he felt her relax, he released her, pleased to see that stubborn mouth swollen from his attention. He rubbed his thumb over the plumping flesh. He held up the basket, waggled it back and forth.

“Dessert,” He clarified.

“My kind of dessert.”

She flushed. She blanched. And her pussy flooded.