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Alone on the FARM: Jane Wrecks Her Hole
Chapter 1

Written by SheilaStretch of SheilaStretch.LegitKink.net
Edited by Mr. S

Jane gripped him tightly with her thighs, ankles crossed, locking him to her. She grabbed his ass, knuckles whitening as she ground her hips against his. A strangled cry escaped her lips as she felt him begin to twitch and throb inside her; her vaginal muscles clamped down on his member rhythmically, trying to milk him. He rewarded her by flooding her insides with spurt after spurt of his warm, gooey semen. Her back arched as she felt the liquid rush down along his shaft and dribble out of her opening, out from around the base of his cock.

She bore down with her hips again, the motion squeezing more of the creamy fluid out of her pussy. It trickled between her cheeks and soaked the quilted triangles of the bedspread beneath them, darkening the green and red of the fabric as it seeped in.  

Her grip loosened and she wrapped her arms around his muscular shoulders as his penis throbbed, unloading the last of his deliciously warm seed deep inside her.

Exhaustion overpowered her. Her limbs lost their hold on him and flopped limply onto the bed.  Jane shuddered at the sensation as his penis slipped from her with a wet plop. He shifted to her side, and as his dangling cock passed over her, she saw droplets of cum collect at the tip before plummeting onto her thigh. Clause slumped onto the bed beside her. Running her fingers lovingly through the course golden hairs of his chest, she sighed contentedly.

Even when her smile made her cheeks ache, she still couldn’t wipe it off her face. Warm, glowing satisfaction burned in her chest, as semen slowly oozed from her ravaged opening. She lay beside him for a long while, knowing that his cum would spill out onto the bed, and run down her legs when she stood up to clean herself. Laziness and contentment eventually won the waiting game, and she drifted off to sleep, dreaming deviant dreams.



--
About a month earlier Jane stepped into the small dusty post office and strode up to Mr. Altman, the postmaster. The sunlight streaming in through the front window illuminated the flecks of dust that danced through the air around the pale, old man.

Lukas Altman had been the postmaster for as far back as Jane could remember. Altman, as much a part of the town as the post office itself, wore spectacles, his head topped by a half-ring of snowy white, perpetually thinning hair that seemed to cling exclusively to the sides and back of his head. The thin, tarnished brown rims of his glasses were barely enough to hold the oversized coke-bottle lenses steady atop his long, crooked beak of a nose. The older he got, the more Jane felt that he looked like an eccentric toymaker.

“I need to send these to Margret.” She placed a paperbound bundle of jam on his desk.

“How’s she doing?” his arthritic hands extended for the package.

“Her baby is getting big and strong. In her last letter she said he had just learned to smile!”

“Oh my! That’s always a treat. I suppose you’ll be finding a husband soon yourself, now that your sisters all have their own families now.”

Jane’s smile faltered briefly. In reality, she had no intention of finding herself a man, but that wasn’t something she intended to discuss with the respectable old man. “There’s no rush-”

“There you are!” Mr. Altman waved, and Jane turned to see a tall, striking, blond man with a mousy chinstrap beard and a wide mustache. “Take the first four bags on the left, and head on over to Strack Ranch first. It’s all organized like we talked about.”

“I’ll be on my way then,” Jane stepped aside as they spoke, not ungrateful for the distraction.

“Jane! Before you go,” the postmaster called, “Have you met Kristopher? He just came to us from the army. Very organized young man, he is. Kristopher, Jane has a farm up along Greenwater Bayou, big oak tree and a small pond out the front; she’s the one who made that cheese you liked from Murphy’s Grocery.”

His blue eyes lit up with recognition and the he smiled and nodded to her. “Vas very gut,” he said in a thick German accent and reached out to take her hand, lifting it to his lips. His mustache tickled the back of her hand. She smiled and blushed a little, not used to compliments. He must be referring to the most recent batch; she’d added rosemary and garlic to it.

“Thanks…” she retracted her hand. “I have to go and get my horse from the blacksmith. I guess I’ll be seeing you ‘round,” she gave a little wave and escape into the blinding sun and sweltering, summer heat of Des Allemandes, Louisiana.

Eight minutes later she was hitching her dapple grey stallion, Duke, up to her cart and thanking Mr. Bellerose for the wonderful job he’d done replacing a broken buckle on the cart’s harness. She paid him, and drove Duke home, her cart loaded with a new bag of flour, salt, oats, and some meats.

As the pair pulled up the dry, cracked road to her barn, Jane pulled Duke to a halt and dropped the reigns. She quietly pulled her rifle out from under the seat and slipped out of the wagon; a small cloud of dust few up as her feet hit the dirt with a soft thud. She walked to Duke’s head, grasped the reins under his chin and cautiously approached the door. Duke nudged her shoulder impatiently - he was tired, and hungry, not to mention unsympathetic to her paranoia. Pushing one of the heavy wooden doors open, she stuck the barrel of her weapon in first before calling out and peering into the dimly lit barn to watch for movement. She waited a moment, then satisfied that they were alone, swung the second door open to lead the horse and cart inside before relieving Duke of his harness.

While it might have looked strange to onlookers, her ritual, one she’d picked up after being surprised by a group of bandits there two weeks before, was not unjustified.

A single swing to the face had sent her out cold. She’d told her neighbors a cow had kicked her while milking, which quickly curbed the natural curiosity that always follows a black eye. She’d awoken to calloused hands pinning down her naked body, and her first cock, painfully tearing her open.  They’d taken turns with her, groping, fucking, and the one with a missing finger had held a pistol to her head to dissuade her from biting his cock as he shoved it down her throat.

They’d left the next day, and she’d later heard that they’d been hung four counties over, but it still took effort to walk into the barn without jumping at the slightest noise. After discovering how terrible sex really was, she couldn’t face the idea of willingly being with a man. She thought of the postmaster’s assumption that she would want to marry some day, and a shudder ran down her spine.

She poured Duke’s oats into his food trough and brushed him down, as he chomped and guzzled noisily. When the animals were safely locked up for the night, she carried the rifle through the tall, dry grasses that rustled across a sandy yard, up to her log cabin. The horizon glowed with rose pink clouds and swallows darted across her path, chasing after blue and green dragonflies. The dog was waiting for her on the porch, wagging his tail and whining softly for his supper.

She hadn’t thought much about sex before the outlaws had spent that night in her family’s barn, but with no one to talk to... It was something for the married and wicked, neither of which applied to her.

As she lay in the warm secrecy of her bed that evening, two weeks after her ordeal, her fingers roamed to the secret, tight place which had been defiled and ravaged. In becoming acquainted with this previously unexplored feature, she discovered, with surprise, that she found her own touch quite pleasing. She was tentative at first – almost afraid of the building sensations her own ministrations brought. Despite her hesitation, it wasn’t long before she experienced her first orgasm. After that first orgasm, she found herself fighting with her conscience. Surely, indulging in something that felt so good had to be wrong. Each night thereafter, she’d fight the urge to masturbate, and each night she’d toss and turn until she promised herself that it would be the last time. Within a week, she realized that attempts to break her new addiction were pointless. Before she knew it, she was taking breaks between her chores on the farm to indulge in her new pastime.

Of the details Jane Walton remembered from the day she was raped, the thing that kept ringing in her ears was the men remarking, with delight, on her “tight fukkin’ snatch.” A wicked thought crept into Jane’s mind, as she fingered herself one night, underneath her heavy quilt.

Her index finger ran up and down between her slick labia, occasionally dipping inside her moist opening as she teased herself. If she could put more things, larger things inside herself, then she could stretch herself out and it would no longer be of use to any man, ever again. She wouldn’t have to worry every again- no man would ever be interested in her. The thought gave her a strange sense of empowerment, excitement even. The more she thought about it, the more she was filled with an overwhelming need to be filled and stretched. The very idea made her grow wet with anticipation.

Jane pulled her fingers to her mouth, and for the first time, smelled and tasted her juices as she sucked on and licked her index finger. Pleasantly surprised by her own flavor; her tongue curled around the finger, seeking out every last trace. She then added her middle finger to moisten it, and quickly returned the two fingers to her opening.

She rubbed and gently pushed her fingers deep inside, exploring the strange texture within. A strange rush came over her as she felt her opening stretch. There was a very slight pain as it did, but she felt in control and found the sensation strangely invigorating. As her fingers delved deeper, she found that the texture of her insides became soft and smooth - almost unbearably soft. She couldn’t believe she’d unwittingly been the owner of such an interesting and fun hole without ever knowing it.

She hoped that her plan would work.

After rubbing herself more, and feeling herself growing increasingly slick (a sensation she couldn’t seem to get enough of), she attempted a third finger. Her vagina stretched painfully as she wriggled and massaged the digit in alongside the first two. A soft, strained grunt escaped her throat as she massaged deeper into her increasingly sloppy cunt, unleashing another orgasm that trembled down her legs and made her toes curl.

Unable to go further, but too excited by her plan to fall asleep, Jane slipped out of bed and wiggled her feet into a pair of scuffed, brown leather boots, not even bothering to tie the laces. She turned on the gas in her bedside lamp and struck a match to light it. Her loyal pit bull sleeping in the usual spot under her bed opened a sleepy, amber eye as she blew out the matchstick, leaving a serpentine wisp of smoke hanging in the air. Groggily, the dog stretched with a yawn, then rose to follow and see where she was going.

Jane made her way into the kitchen in search of her father’s rum. She found the dusty bottle between a sack of pecans and a woven basket of clothes pegs, on a high shelf over the washing basket. Wiping it with a damp cloth revealed the deep brown of the hand blown glass. Her father had long passed from typhoid fever, and her sisters married in distant counties, so the bottle was at least three years old. She wasn’t sure how well alcohol kept, but decided to try her luck. Usually she would never drink, but she’d heard that surgeons often used alcohol to relax patients and dampen pain.

Floorboards creaked as she carried the rum to the plush green armchair by the hearth. Jane relit the fire and adjusted the pastel quilt that her sister, Abigail, had draped over the chair. She then sat in the arm chair and took a swig of the sharp liquor; her face contorted from the unpleasant taste. The dog curled up besides the red armchair that sat opposite, and began to doze off again. Jane leant forward and balanced the nearly empty bottle on the edge of the low wooden table between them.

After a few minutes of fervent masturbation, she discovered that she could finally get a third finger inside. She panted and moaned softly as she experimented with wiggling her fingertips deeply inside. There was a strange little rough patch where her fingers curled up at the tips. Pleasure spiked up through her body, her nipples, and fingertips, right down to her toes, which curled involuntarily as an orgasm ripped through her with a shudder.

Once the warm glow of orgasm had finally subsided, she reached out with her left for the bottle again and raised it to her lips. Draining the last mouthful of rum from the bottle, she set it on the table with a hollow thump.

 She made another face as the liquid burned in her throat. With the three fingers of her right hand still buried inside her, she began to stretch herself by trying to spread her fingers as wide as her entirely-too-small opening would allow. Strangely, she was beginning to genuinely enjoy the pain as she ‘carefully’ worked on wrecking her hole.

The idea that she was working to permanently destroy it spurred her on, massaging and flexing her fingers. She wanted it to gape- needed it to! She began to nudge the tip of her fourth finger into her entrance, and her hips began to grind up against her hand. All she could think about abusing it until was it ragged from misuse.

Lacking enough flexibility to get any more of her hand inside, her eye was caught by the flickering reflection of firelight on the rum bottle. Almost instantly she made up her mind to give that a try. She grabbed it from the table and slumped further down into the warm, overstuffed arm chair and spread her legs. The flowery quilt that covered the chair folded cozily in around her; the pink of appliquéd roses almost matched the drunken flush of her cheeks.

First she tried to start with the mouth of the bottle, which seemed logical. She was able to get the neck of the bottle in all the way inside, but neck was long, so the wide part barely brushed the tips of her labia. She pulled out the bottle and looked at it for a moment, in sluggish, alcohol-fueled contemplation. She had an idea, but wasn’t sure if it would really be possible.

Licking the bottle’s base seemed to help. The bottle was fairly slim, maybe two, two and a half inches across. While wriggling it, she managed to force the bottom just past her opening. It took some work - wriggling her hips and tilting them, hungrily bearing down on the bottle, hoping, needing to be filled. She paused for a moment to pull the bottle out and used her fingers to rub some more of her juices around the base.

Jane attempted to force the bottle back inside herself again, and this time it slid in an inch deeper. She almost orgasmed right then, but it wasn’t quite enough - the bottle still wasn’t in as deep as she needed it to be. Her fingers ran up and down over her clitoris and inner lips, spreading and massaging them to keep them out of the way as she ground the bottle harder and deeper into her vagina. There was no one to see her chew her bottom lip in a mix of pleasure and deep concentration.

With a steady thrusting motion she began nudge it deeper, unconsciously copying the rhythm those men had used with their hips. Harder, she pushed then paused and tried to spread her legs further, desperate to feel it slide all the way in. The bottle felt like it was blocked by something. Her fingers pulled at her labia, trying to open herself more. Rubbing more of her juices up around the sides of the bottle, she tried again, this time pushing a little harder and twisting the bottle around a little more.

With a sudden *pop* the bottle slid easily all the way in, right up to her cervix and an uncontrollable shudder ran through her entire body as her muscles clamped fiercely around the bottle in a sudden orgasm.

 Her whole body tingled with pleasure and she couldn’t help but massage a breast while gently sliding the bottle in and out of her warm, wet pussy. She hadn’t noticed herself holding her breath, but now she was panting heavily. She greedily fucked the bottle, and moved it around trying to widen herself as much as possible, with the hope that it would loosen her up and make the next attempt a little easier.

That night she fell soundly asleep with a goal fully formed in her mind: She would stretch herself out and ruin her vagina so that no one but her would be able to enjoy it.

The next day Jane’s vagina ached from her abuse with the bottle. Rather than dissuading her though, the slight ache made it impossible to think about anything other than her newfound goal. She kept having to reach down to massage her throbbing mound, rubbing the small bump of her clit, and unconsciously biting her lower lip as she basked in the sensations.

That evening, she reasoned that should wait for the aching to subside, to give herself some time to recover… but she was too aroused by the thought of continuing towards her wicked goal, and soon gave in.

Shortly after sunset she lay naked on her bed with two ivory candle sticks protruding from her hairy pussy, and another three on her bed side table, by the lamp. She reached out and picked up another.

The long, thin, wax stick grew wider towards the bottom, where it ended with a nicely rounded tip which she licked before slipping it in alongside the first two. The first three inches went in fairly easily, but the bruised feeling from the previous night forced her to move slowly and gently. She wondered how wide she could become: Would it be possible to destroy her hole till it simply sagged open all the time? With tentative strokes, she fucked herself with the smooth candle sticks. Pleasure came over her in heightening waves until she no longer recognized the twinges of pain as painful. She fumbled with a fourth candle one handedly as the other continued to pummel her opening, but it wouldn’t quite fit.

Instead she dropped it onto the bed and licked a finger to slip it in alongside the candle sticks. The sudden increase, her sloppy opening stretching to its limits, was too much for her. Almost without warning, she felt her muscles clamp in sudden orgasm, a soft moan escaping her lips. She lost her grip on the candles, and in a single motion they slid out onto the bedspread, stretching her open as the thick bases of all three exited as one. Her back arched at the sudden intensity of the unexpected sensation, the ‘birthing’ causing an intense orgasm that left her tingling and gasping for breath.

Clause, her ever curious pit bull lifted himself off the rug and crept over to investigate.
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