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A satire on Britain's class-system, a bawdy account of a love-story between 2 people on opposite sides of the track
You’ll love this bawdy, comic account of love and sex during a cricket match, where red balls, long-handled bats and probing deliveries are ideal metaphors for the game of love. This is a game of cricket played in a way you’ve never seen before. Watch the love contest between Gabriella, the aristocratic hot totty, and Jim, the virginal working-class rebel. Read of Jim’s balls smashing against Gabriella’s body and rearing up between her legs as she pads up and tries to fight off his probing deliveries. Thrill to Jim’s vicious balls divesting Gabriella of her sexy clothing until she stands defiant in her naked and beautiful glory. Read spellbound as Gabriella comes close to losing Jim to a rival. Find out the truth about Gabriella’s parentage. Follow Jim and Gabriella with ball and bat as they play out cricket’s equivalent of sexual intercourse. Will Jim and Gabriella live happily ever after, or will someone destroy Gabriella’s plans?
The Right Hon. Gabriella Blenkinsop, hands on hips, surveyed the vast green expanse. There was a scattering of stalls selling odds and sods, and blobs of people standing or reclining on the grass all along the boundary rope. In the pavilion to her right, quaint in its old-fashioned gabled twenties look, sandwiches were now being prepared for lunch. She glanced at the match taking place out in the middle. Except for their gaily coloured caps, male figures ambling about the pitch were clad all in white. She vaguely registered the smack of leather on willow, followed by casual bursts of applause as middle-aged matrons released their hands from wide-brimmed hats, quickly returning them to hold on against the breeze's gentle gusts. Gabriella felt the breeze play about her billowing skirt and, as if someone were breathing on her fanny, curl shiveringly up her thighs. She gave a little self-induced inner squeeze to her genitalia, sensing her hotness and the rub and pull of her pubes on knicker and flesh. She ran her hand through her golden hair, tied loosely halfway down her neck, and gave a lick to her reddish lips, swallowing the clinging taste of the Harrods lip-gloss she had lovingly rubbed on that morning. She stood there, self-confident and supreme, wallowing in everybody's admiring gaze. As always, she was the belle of the ball, the idol of her school. She was tall and sexy. Her features were pronounced and classically beautiful. She had firm, swelling breasts, the tiniest of waists and quite sturdy hips. She stood with her legs apart, the wind stirring her loose skirt like washing on a line to swirl here and there a glimpse of knee and fleshy thigh.
She was the Head Girl of St. Swithin’s Girls School. There were just a few weeks left to the end of year, and her time there as Queen of All She Surveyed would be over; then she would be off to Oxford, where her uncle was Vice-Chancellor. She looked around for her current beau, Algernon Montague-Smythe, the Head Boy of St. Swithin’s Boys School. He was just coming off the pitch, leading in his team, who had managed to restrict the visitors to a very modest total. She gave him a look and wandered off to the back of the pavilion. Once there she took off her knickers and waited under the chestnut tree. When Algy got there, all considerate and breathless, she took a hand-mirror and an apple from her shockingly expensive leather handbag, lay back and waited. While Algy was humping and groaning away, she lay propped against the tree-trunk, looking at herself in the mirror in her left hand and munching on the apple she rotated and rubbed in her right. As always, she made sure he withdrew his thingy before the messy stuff came out; all that disagreeable business was finished off by him the other side of the tree-trunk. When Algy, all sweaty smiles and ingratiating coughs, emerged from behind it, she'd already buggered off, ready to do a majestic walkabout of the cricket ground and milk all the envious looks and gasps.
It was the annual end-of-term match between St. Swithin’s and the local grammar school. It had been played for years, a special treat for the middle-class and working-class lads at the boys' grammar; the public-school toffs walloped them each year, and the grammar-school boys felt all the better for it. As she passed by the nets, she saw some of the plebs warming up for the St. Swithin’s innings. Two of their bowlers were practising. One was tall and blond, and looked almost upper-class; the other one was shorter, a bit stockier with shortish brown hair and a slight half-fringe. He looked a little younger. She didn't like the moody, disrespectful way he glowered at her as she passed by. It made her feel a bit wet. She stumbled on an ant-hill in the field, jarring her legs, and some moisture dripped down on to her upper inner thighs, collecting in blobs on her flesh. She stood still. She must put her knickers back on. She stood like that for ages, seemingly impervious to the boy. He couldn't take his eyes off her. In the breeze, and in her stillness, she felt the drops of vaginal sweat cool and her flesh drying out and becoming chapped. She moved her hand down as if to scratch her thighs but stopped, resting her hand near her fanny. She stared at the boy. He glowered back at her. She opened her handbag, took out her knickers and placed the bag on the ground. Without shame, and with smooth movement of legs and hands, she slipped on her knickers, running their thin fabric up her superbly shaped legs. She pulled them up tightly around her bum, giving them an especial squeeze as she stared at the cheeky boy. She gave him a final jab of her groin, like a genital pout. He stared at her, his face turning crimson, and gulped. She gave a languid chuckle and moved on. What she couldn't stand were uppity lower orders. They had to be put in their place. She would have a word with Algy; when he was batting he would be sure to give the yobbo a good whacking.
When she had done her tour of the ground she returned to Daddy's Rolls-Royce, parked in gleaming splendour in front of the oak tree near the entrance gates to the ground; Chivers, the chauffeur, gave her her salmon and cucumber sandwiches, chilled but not over-chilled, taken out of the car's refrigerator, as she always liked, ten minutes before she would begin to nibble. She carried on her regal tour, munching, and sipping from her champagne-glass. She waved away Algy as he rushed up to her, and he bowed as she went by; she signalled she would see him in ten minutes. The grammar-school shits were moving out on to the playing area, throwing the cricket ball around and getting in more practice. So common of them. The two public-school openers were only just getting padded up, sitting outside the pavilion, giggling about the working-class females, mothers and sisters, they would give a good seeing-to after they'd knocked off the paltry sum of runs amassed by their boy-folk. She saw that young boy standing there awkwardly again, embarrassed and slightly apart from the others. How she despised such gaucheness, such lack of presence, such lack of savoir-faire. Young girls from lower down the school came to ask for her autograph which she condescendingly provided, passing her glass, and the last mouthful of salmon sandwich she didn't want, on to them to be held for her. She waved them away when she returned their gold-embossed autograph-books. She took back her glass. 'With love and kisses, and a wet hug, from Gabriella', she had written. As she turned graciously round, two of the fawning third-formers hadn't got out of the way, transfixed by her glorious presence, and Gabriella collided with their stupid, inert masses and stumbled. The glass was jarred and champagne got splashed over her white blouse, soaking through on to her breasts and nipples, tingling them with its gassy chill. She instinctively turned to look for the young boy, but he was looking away. She felt sure, though, that there was a smirk about his lips. She was furious. She smacked one of the stupid girls on the face, despite her profuse apologies, and the girl's mother, furious and red-faced, came up, grabbed her daughter and started to pummel her.
"How could you do that! To Gabriella! Oh, Gabriella, I'm so sorry..."
Gabriella waved her away.
Chivers was sent for. He came running up with a new blouse.
"Oh, Gabriella, surely not...Oh, Gabriella, you're so shameless...Isn't she a card..."
They all watched, parents, lower-formers and Gabriella's fellow sixth-formers, as she fearlessly began to take off her blouse, which had been made to look flimsy and thin by its wetness. She lingeringly, like in slow-motion, toyed with the buttons, as if struggling to work them through the damp, clinging openings. Clumsily erotic. She licked her lips. Her acolytes surrounded her in order to preserve a modicum of modesty, but Gabriella, with an imperious wave of the hand, didn't allow them to come too close. Through the other bodies it was quite possible to view snatches of her firm bosom cupped in its Harrods bra, pink and black and laced, little trails of liquid still visible on her right breast. Algy was called up to unstrap her bra and was allowed to lick up the residue of champagne from her tits. When he got a bit too excited and tried to suck her nipple she kneed him in the groin and, now bra-less, slipped on the dry blouse, her nipples pushing forward their brownness against the whiteness of the blouse, like tracing-paper held tight over some etchings, or brass-rubbing paper pressed tight over engravings prior to being rubbed. She moved away, followed by her entourage, leaving Algy rolling about on the ground, his hands clasped to his groin.
"Sorry, Gabby, sorry," he kept murmuring. She turned round abruptly, a vicious gleam in her eyes. "I mean, sorry, so sorry, Gabriella...sorry..."
She looked round to see if the boy was watching her. He was looking away, head bowed, unable to look up. Little shit. He'd be wanking all night now. Dreaming of her. Dreaming of his betters. She gave a wave to Mummy and Daddy as they wandered by, she in her wide-brimmed Ascot hat and he in his top hat, probably heading off to the chestnut tree to have sex with a couple of the yokels that Chivers had rounded up. Probably Daddy would hang on just long enough to see the team knock off the runs and would then drift off back to the family pile to make sure the gardeners were gardening and the cooks were cooking and the maids were maiding or whatever they did, or maybe would go off to the factory with its great big chimneys that belched out smoke and kept all the locals in employment so they had enough to spend on getting cancer and rotten livers. She didn't really know what Daddy produced there; he had tried to explain once but she assumed, since there was always so much of it coming out, that that was where smoke was made. You couldn't have a modern industrial society, with hand-outs for the criminal classes and all that, without smoke. It was people like Daddy who kept everything going. Kept everything burning away. She also reckoned her daddy's place, with its great big furnaces, was where the unwanted foetuses of the working-classes were burnt off.