Hogshead Farm

The Pub
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Mark was more than ready for a few swift drinks down the Dog and Pheasant, the pub near the outskirts of town he frequented as it 'wasn't full of kids blasting out their toons,' as he'd put it. It had been a long and tiresome week at work, too many needy folk not capable of helping themselves demanding his attention. He looked more dishevelled than usual: his stubble was longer, five o'clock shadow darkening his cheeks, and his jeans and checked shirt had taken on that lived-in look about them. Regardless, he didn't think he looked too bad for a man in his mid forties, which is high praise as he's usually quite modest. He worked out several times a week and watched what he ate - it took a lot of effort but was finally paying off. His hair was starting to recede at each temple, and both his hair and goatee were flecked with salt and pepper highlights, which Mark hoped looked more distinguished than old!
Finally, drink in hand, he wound his way carefully from the bar to a table someone had left a newspaper on, looking forward to reading whilst enjoying his pint. Crunch! A significant amount of his pint made a bid for freedom over the rim of his glass and over a poor woman sitting close, who froze in surprise as she took a direct hit. The young lad that had crashed straight into Mark, just continued on his way as if nothing had happened.
'Stupid wanker,' he uttered under his breath, watching the lad join is friends by the pool table.
'Definitely a tosser,' agreed the lady, not taking as much care to say it as quietly.
She was now on her feet wringing larger out of her now stained and soaked through t-shirt, which Mark had noticed gone a bit semi-transparent in places revealing her bra beneath, but didn't want to make matters any worse than they were already. Her hair was wet all down one side, making it hang in clumps and begin to curl, and a large wet patch had darkened the crotch of her jeans which looked suspiciously like she'd wet herself had the rest of her not looked wet also.
'I'm sorry about that, are you okay?' said Mark,'
'Apart from feeling wet, cold and my clothes sticking to me. even my bra and pants are wet, other than that, great thanks,' she said, understandably not in the best of moods.
'Can I buy you a drink, if you want one that is?' Mark offered, 'You do know your bra is showing through your T-shirt?'
She looked at her T-shirt, sighed in resignation and said, to Mark's surprise, 'What the hell, I'll have a pint of Orchard Thieves if you insist.'
*
Jenny was in her late thirties, was short, had an athletic build and an outdoorsy look about her, like surfers get after spending a long time at the beach: natural and a little bit tomboyish but feminine, nonetheless - her tight, larger soaked, jeans were showing curves in all the right places. The dry side of her hair was shoulder length and dirty-blonde, with lots of highlights from long periods in the sun, and was dotted with the odd grey or two. Jenny was decidedly Mark's type: he wasn't overly keen on girls that feel the need to put their markup on with a trowel, or are so bothered about their appearance they're not prepared to do anything. Jenny, thankfully, didn't look like either.
They sat chatting for some time, Jenny's clothes drying out nicely, occasionally interrupted by a trip to the bar for more drinks. They enjoyed each other's company and discovered that they were both single, surprising considering their age. The conversation was flowing as freely as the drinks, and they both felt a bit tipsy. Jenny ribbed Mark for being such a town boy - she couldn't have been more different, living in the country next to a farm. She joked that the countryside was way too dirty and interesting for a boring towney like him, and bet that his favourite icecream flavour was vanilla.
Not wanting to appear completely dull, as his favourite was vanilla, Mark revealed that he actually has a bit of a thing about getting messy, much to her surprise. Jenny seemed to find this genuinely interesting, so he described what he'd openly admit to being a fetish: slippery stuff, soap, foam, foods like: custard, cream and melted chocolate; then progressing onto dirtier stuff like clay and mud, and that his dirtiest fantasy was getting filthy on a farm.
'But why does that float your boat?' she asked, not seeing its appeal.
'I guess it stems from being nagged endlessly as a kid - wash your face, clean your teeth, tidy your room, straighten your clothes, don't jump in the puddles you'll get dirty. It was all about being or staying clean! So now it feels really naughty to get dirty, and, as you probably agree, dirty sex is "way" better than vanilla, so I guess its kind of escalated from there and taken on a life of its own,' explained Mark, thankful that Jenny was engaged and interested in what he was saying rather than screwing up her face in horror or disgust.
'How dirty is dirty, exactly?' she asked, it's not every day you get to quiz someone about their darkest fantasies. Jenny watched as Mark kütahya escort took out his mobile phone, unlocked it, twiddled about with it for a few seconds before spinning it around to show her the screen discreetly. On it was a person covered from head to toe in a thick coating of mud. The more she looked, the more detail she recognised beneath the mud, first realising it was a man by the shape of their chest.
Jenny said quietly, 'Is that you? It's so thick, what is that?
'Yes, it's just clay - you know, the type that potters use,' he replied with a smirk.
'Wait a minute, are you completely naked? No way!'
Mark laughed, which she took as 'yes'.
'What's the deal with mud then, and why a farm?' she asked.
Mark pondered for a second and said, 'Well, it looks really dirty, which is arousing by itself. But it also assaults all of your senses: the earthy smell hits you first, before you do anything else; when it's smooth, the feel of rubbing it all over your body is literally breathtaking; the squelching and sucking noises kind of tells you how sloppy and deep it is underfoot, therefore building the anticipation a bit like the smell; and nothing tastes like mud, but that's more of consequence than something intentional - to be fair, it doesn't bother me as much now, I've kind of got used to it.'
'It looks really funny, but you couldn't do that on a farm, you'd absolutely stink!' exclaimed Jenny. Mark didn't say anything, and looked embarrassed. Mark's blush hadn't gone unnoticed by Jenny, 'Well, women's mud wrestling is definitely a thing for lots of men, so I'm guessing it's more common than you think,' trying to make him feel better.
She looked into Mark's grey/blue eyes and said, 'I like that you feel comfortable enough to tell me about your kinks, it's sexy. It's not just men, women have kinks too,' she explained, 'but you'll need to take me out to dinner to find out mine, and I still probably wouldn't tell you, a girl needs to have a few secrets,' she laughed.
The Restaurant
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Mark arrived at the restaurant with plenty of time to spare - he didn't like the idea of Jenny waiting by herself: people always assume they're friendless. Mark had never been to this restaurant before, but a colleague had said that this was the place to go on a date. As Mark entered, the Maitre D', a short man with his hair slicked back to his head and a thin and equally oily moustache turned up at each end, eye'd Mark from top to bottom, wearing a disapproving expression.
'Can I 'elp you?' he queried in the worst French accent Mark had heard in since the copper in 'Ello, Ello'.
'Err..' Mark said, managing to swallow a laugh, 'I've a table booked for six o'clock,' he squeezed through his contorted lips.
The Maitre D' ran his finger down his book and stopped on Mark's name. 'Shange of plan? The booking 'ere is for trois?' enquired the Maitre D', looking disgruntled.
'Trois?' said Mark incredulously, 'I'm sure that's three! I only booked a table for deux. Is it okay to wait at the table?'
'Of course, Monsewer, follow me,' he replied in a subservient voice, and becond Mark to follow him. He showed him to a small table next to the toilet doors. It wasn't exactly romantic but it was going to have to do.
*
It wasn't long before Jenny arrived at the restaurant. She walked through the doors and headed towards the reception desk when she spotted Mark waving from across the restaurant.
'Hope you've not been waiting long?' Jenny asked, as she took off her coat and took her seat. 'Ooo, something smells nice!'
'I'm sorry about the smell, the waiter doesn't like me, so this is where he's seated us,' apologised Mark, guestering at the toilet door.
'I meant your aftershave,' laughed Jenny, taking in the ambience, including the toilet door. 'At least it's not far to stumble if the food doesn't agree.'
'You're looking very nice, by the way,' said Mark, just as the Maitre D' returned with menus.
'Oh shit! Do you read French?' he asked, trying to not let the Maitre D' overhear him.
Jenny replied, 'a little in school, but nothing since then,' Jenny said, feeling a bit put on the spot.
'Oh no, I corrected his French earlier,' Mark groaned.
'You can speak French?' said Jenny, now confused but hopeful.
'Not really, not unless all the meals are the numbers one to nine, like a chinese takeaway,' he replied.
Jenny concentrated on the menu and, whilst she could pick out bits and pieces, it was clear that nearly every meal had at least one thing on it that was unrecognisable and couldn't be guessed.
'Is there a burger on there somewhere? Le burger?' Mark asked hopefully.
Jenny giggled at his appalling attempt at French. She gazed at the menu for a short while, then lifted her head and replied, 'I don't think it's "that" kind of place. It looks like fine dining - you know, fancy food.'
'Oh...' said Mark, physically deflating, sinking into his chair.
Jenny looked at him, down at the menu escort kütahya and then over at the Maitre D', who was taking an old couple's order at the other end of the restaurant, and said, 'He's not looking, we could run for it, there's a clear path to the door?'
It took a couple of seconds to sink in, before Mark glanced over to survey their chances. 'Seriously, you don't mind?'
Jenny grabbed her coat and beckoned Mark to follow, and pulled out her phone and pretended to be in mid-conversation. Mark just followed, he couldn't pull his phone as that would look suspicious. The Maitre D' raised his head as they neared the doors and Mark was at a loss to know what to do or say, so he shot him two birds whilst walking backwards out of the door. They waited until they cleared the doors before bursting into laughter. Jenny held onto Mark's arm for support as she laughed, which he liked.
'Sorry about that, I didn't realise it was that fancy,' said Mark, 'I could murder some chips, but that's not very romantic, sorry.'

'The chippy closes early on a Friday, the best I can offer is a bag of frozen "Salt