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.