David's Rambling Holiday

It was the spring of 1960 and I was 20 years old and wanted to book a self catering rambling holiday in the Yorkshire Dales. Ideally I needed a single bedroom cottage in a village. My travel agent said that those had been fully booked but there was a six person cottage in Westerndale which had been reserved by a party of five, for a week and they were looking for a sixth member to make up numbers.

He showed me the booking form and I read their names. Shirley Marshall, Laura Snell, Anne Fanshaw, Ruth McLean and Deborah Smith. My eyes must have doubled in size thinking about spending a week with five athletic young girls.

"Would they mind if a chap joined them?" I asked the travel agent, casually.

"No," he said "As long as they can make up the numbers. There are two single rooms in the cottage, so you'll get some privacy."

It wasn't privacy I wanted, in fact I was looking forward to the opposite, in other words to be surrounded by young women in their white lacy underwear and stockings posing seductively on their beds moaning for my company.

Four months later I arrived one sunny Saturday morning at 'Maple Cottage' in Westerndale. It was a solid stone built barn-like affair, with a slate roof. There were several steps up to the front door and I noticed that there were already five pairs of women's walking boots drying by the door. I knocked and a middle aged lady in her fifties opened it. She was clearly the owner, probably making sure that everything was in order for her guests, I thought.

"Is it David Shaw?" she asked.

"Yes it is, and what's your name," I enquired, putting down my suitcase and shaking hands.

"Well I'm Deborah Smith but everyone calls me Debbie."

My mind raced as I realised that the young voluptuous, even flirtatious 'Deborah' in my dreams was in fact a stout middle-aged woman with a large bosom and slightly greying hair.

"And have the other guests arrived?" I asked, hoping she'd say that the young nymphettes were waiting for me, dancing around nude in the kitchen.

"Yes, we all arrived yesterday and walked up the dale, just to get our bearings. I hope you won't find our company too boring. Since we are all widows we have been coming to the Yorkshire Dales for the last five years and absolutely love it." She had a kind motherly face and smiled sweetly.

My face must have shown my resentment and disappointment at the prospect of staying in a cottage for a whole week with five 'old' ladies.

Behind me I could hear voices approaching and around the corner strode two tall blonde women wearing shorts and thick cardigans carrying shopping baskets. They looked absolutely gorgeous. They must have been in their early thirties and appeared very athletic and hail and hearty. I nodded to them expecting them to walk past but instead they made their way up the steps and into the cottage, they smiled at me and I felt their body heat as they squeezed in.

"That was Laura and Anne, I'll introduce you to the others when we go in," explained Debbie.

I thought things were looking up, visualising sitting on the floor between Laura and Anne while they rubbed their firm buttock-filled shorts frantically all over my face in turn.

Shirley and Ruth looked like ex-models. They were tall and very curvaceous and pouted continuously as if on a fashion photo shoot. They struck poses which you only see in magazines. Even getting crockery out of a cupboard appeared as something artistic in 'Vogue' magazine.

I imagined them posing in swimwear while trampling all over me in their cruel patent-leather stilettos, me screaming for more.

The next few days were spent walking together. I decided to tag along as I didn't have the correct maps and I felt I ought to join in. We shared the cooking although my speciality, 'cheese-on-toast with tomato ketchup' clearly wasn't exactly the 'gastronomic highlight' of the week.

I got to know the women very well and really enjoyed their company. What they really thought of this '20 year old short and skinny bloke' in their cottage was anybody's business.

We clearly must have made an odd picture to the rest of the villagers.

Each morning they would have witnessed a stout grey haired lady carrying a haversack and map striding out in front, followed by two jolly-hearty types with rucksacks, followed by two long legged beauties carrying shoulder bags and at the rear was a small chap with a large rucksack his eyes riveted, even spot-welded, to four shapely buttocks swivelling in front of him.

One evening, after the meal we all sat around the fire drinking coffee. The women had changed out of their shorts and were wearing smart A-line tartan or tweed pleated skirts, cardigans or sweaters. Debbie was wearing thick dark brown stockings. The others were wearing tan stockings and court shoes. I noticed the odd petticoat hem.

I sat there in a loose shirt and in my hiking shorts. The conversation turned to our past experiences particularly our 'love' lives.

The thirty year olds told us that they had met their husbands shortly before the Korean War but tragically lost them during the fighting.

Debbie said that her first encounter was with a boy in Switzerland long before the Second World War. She and two other friends from school had been on an Alpine rambling holiday in the Bernese Oberland.

They were all eighteen and had had a young guide, Peter, to lead them. They had a beautiful time and the weather was favourable. Peter must have been nineteen or twenty and knew the terrain like the back of his hand and they never became lost.

Peter was very knowledgeable about all the local customs. On the final evening Peter said that he would now like them to show their appreciation to him for his services by licking a bowl full of cream. This was the famous 'Swiss Cream Licking Farewell Ceremony' he explained.

This was very traditional amongst mountain guides, although the three naïve young women, straight from their English private school, had never heard of it.

He said they were supposed to lick a bowl of cream between them and that he would hand it from girl to girl until it was finished. Debbie and her friends thought it may be a bit messy but would have a go.

Peter then announced that it was traditional for the guide to serve the cream with a special large implement. Peter then went to get the bowl of cream from the larder; it was quite a large shallow bowl and set it on the table in front of them.

He then undid the flap in his lederhosen and fished out his erect penis. He stuck this in the cream and offered it to Debbie to lick off first. Debbie said she would try anything once, with true 'British grit'.

He stuck his erection back in the bowl and offered it to the other eighteen-year old girls who in turn licked the cream off it avidly. His serving implement grew impressively as each of the young ladies licked it clean.

This went on for many minutes until the bowl was completely empty. He then set off for the kitchen and reappeared with another bowl, this time filled with pureed apple, honey, cherries and raisins.

Peter was told politely, if not firmly, that they were 'quite full thank you' and he had been 'really kind' and that it was 'very nice cream'.

When Debbie eventually returned to England she looked up the 'Swiss Cream Licking Farewell Ceremony' but found it was nowhere to be mentioned in any book.

I blurted out stupidly that I would have liked to have been Peter and laughed. The room was suddenly silent as I realised that five pairs of eyes were glaring at me.

"Would you really David?" said Laura, growling.

"Really?" smiled Ruth snootily.

"I think he really would," said Debbie grabbing me by the arm, while the rest man- handled me to the floor.

I was flat on my back with my ankles and wrists held down. Someone unbuttoned my hiking shorts and pulled them down. Another pair of hands dragged down my underpants. Both items were thrown somewhere.

" Off with his shirt too." said someone.

"Are you going to behave young man," said Debbie, "if we let go?"

"I suppose so," I said, completely naked, my penis shrivelled to the size of a gherkin.

I looked up at the women staring down at me and felt vulnerable. From my level all I could see were high heeled shoes, stockinged legs and skirt hems moving about. The four thirty-somethings wore petticoats, I dreaded to think what was under Debbie's skirt but I was soon to find out.

"Have we got any cream in the cottage?" Debbie asked, taking control.

"We haven't got cream but there are some fruit yoghurts," said Laura, having been shopping earlier.

"Good." said Debbie "Bring them in and take the lids off, Shirley, go and get a towel from the bathroom, I need to go for a piddle," she replied in a very matter of fact way.

My mind was in overdrive trying to work out what was going to happen next. I felt like telling them all that I was only joking earlier but no one seemed to be listening. I heard three of them talking about tomorrows walk and one got up to get more coffee. Legs and skirts passed over me. I lay there passively, noticing flashes of petticoat lace.

"Ladies, we are now ready." Debbie announced. "Gather round while I put this towel under David's bottom," which she did firmly and efficiently. The women stood next to me and I was treated with views of stockings disappearing under tartan pleats and thick tweed A-line skirts.

Ruth and Shirley's smooth stockinged legs seemed to extend forever. Under their skirts I saw very lacy under slips, both with lace edged side slits. Unfortunately I couldn't see any suspenders or stocking tops from my low vantage point although I hoped I would do so soon.

Debbie squatted down and poured some cold yoghurt on my penis. This made it disappear completely to my shame. There was a sigh of disappointment from the onlookers. "Maybe we need to stimulate David, and keep him stimulated so as he can get it up and keep it up," suggested Anne, crudely but in a logical way.

"There's only one sure way of stimulating a man," said Debbie placing her court shoes on each side of my head. "Are you alright down there David, it's only a bit of fun you know." She said reassuring me, and my penis, that everything was OK.

I stared up her green tweed skirt hem, only six inches above me. She wore a cream nylon petticoat with a deep lace hem, delicately decorated with flowers and swirls. Her skirt moved apart as her large bottom descended onto my face. I was not expecting this. Instantly her odour was overwhelming. She pulled her skirt and petticoat over my face.

In the partial darkness I saw that her thick brown stockings were held up by old suspenders, cream in colour. Her buttocks were encased in cream silk French knickers which appeared to be from the 1930s, the loose gusset was stained with piddle. The stench was horrendous but strangely I felt my penis begin to stiffen.

Debbie was merely squatting over my face so, thankfully, I was not squashed by her full body weight. Her high heeled shoes touched my ears, almost gripping my head.

"Ruth, you go first. Then you can swap with me after." Said 'bossy-boots' Debbie organising the rota. I felt my penis stiffen to full length as Ruth began licking yoghurt off my erection. The sensation was incredible. I twitched wildly at every lick until she had licked it all off.

Debbie climbed off me; someone poured more ice cold yoghurt on my penis which made it shrivel. Long legged Ruth straddled my face. I looked up and could hardly believe what she was wearing under her staid tweed pleats; there was one of the crispest most detailed petticoat I had ever seen.

The slippery white nylon of her underslip had a hem and side slit decorated in deep delicate Calais lace. Beneath her petticoat 'medium-tan' stockings stretched up to her lacy white suspenders. These in turn disappeared under tight white lace panties, which I studied closely as she squatted on me and rubbed her firm buttocks all over my nose.

Her panty gusset smelt of warm damp vagina and French perfume. Ruth swivelled about so my nostrils became trapped between her buttock cheeks. I could see nothing under her dark skirt and slip. I inhaled her natural scent and felt my stiffness return to normal just as some lips closed around by glans and enthusiastically cleaned the creamy yoghurt off. My balls were thoroughly cleaned of yoghurt too.

My knob end was quite perky but this was dashed by a further pouring of iced yoghurt. Ruth stepped off me as Anna carefully placed her court shoes on each side of my head. I stared up at Anne and saw her licking her lips.

She waved down at me and said "Thanks for the yoghurt David,"

I replied that it was all my pleasure, which it clearly was.

Anne squatted over my face and I was treated to pale blue cotton knickers heavily stained with urine and damp with juices from her vagina. Instinctively I began probing her gusset with my tongue as she rearranged her wide pleated tartan skirt and ivory flared full petticoat around me.

The odour under her skirt gave me a very strong erection which soon was being licked by a small tongue. The lickings were firm and insistent and my penis was held by a small cool hand as a little tongue extracted every drop of yoghurt from my testicles and pubic area.

Anne hitched her skirt up and was replaced by Laura. It was clearly she who had the small tongue. Under Laura's skirt it was very dark. I could not see her petticoat, stockings, suspenders or French knickers but could feel the slipperiness of petticoat nylon over my ears and could feel scratchy stiff lace and the metal feel of her suspender clips.

Laura's knickers were smelly. I felt icy cold yoghurt being poured and someone started sucking noisily on my 'flaccid gherkin'. This time my penis was inside someone's warm mouth, the yoghurt being extracted through suction. This felt amazing and gradually I reached full erection, my testicles were given the same sucking treatment. I was clearly in a state of high sexual excitement.

This was terminated mercilessly by another huge dollop of cold yoghurt. Laura got off me while Shirley walked over and stood above me. It appeared that the tops of her legs were at ceiling level where her thighs met above her tan stockings. Her skirt was spread widely over me and contained a white flouncy petticoat edged with a deep hem of Nottingham lace.

She pulled her shoes together as she squatted down on me so that face was firmly clamped as her white nylon knickers descended on my nose. She had clearly urinated recently and the smell was quite awful. She rearranged her skirts and petticoat so I was hidden from view. I felt an experienced tongue on my penis which was struggling to become firm.

Shirley's urine-stained knickers on my face were putting me off. The experienced tongue moved over my testicles probing and teasing. I felt every nerve ending being stimulated as it rolled around and then became ramrod stiff. A firm hand held it while the rest of my genitals were cleaned of yoghurt.

"Wow," I thought "that was amazing."

It did not end there, however, and the experienced tongue and mouth sucked me into an unexpected elevated state of arousal. I entered a large mouth clearly able to take a good deal of my erection. Two hands started firmly wanking me and scratched my balls. For many pleasurable but agonising minutes this continued. My nose explored under Shirley's knickers for the intoxicating smell of vagina. Clearly she was aroused at seeing me being seriously masturbated as her vagina steadily dribbled with her juices which I inhaled and licked up like rare nectar. Suddenly I could hold back no longer and jerked wildly as a dozen spurts of warm semen erupted into 'experienced tongues' mouth. As Shirley slid off me I gasped for air and looked up.

Of course, it was Debbie who was the mysterious 'experienced tongue.' Who else could it have been? Her young Swiss guide was clearly only the first experience she had in oral pleasures. What other secrets were we to learn? The night was yet young.