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Mrs Emily Smythe's Elderflower Wine

By John Martin

"And what's this thing for, love?" Stephen Nickolls had a mischievous smirk on his face as he looked at the woman across the table. "Oh, well, that's for protecting your spare toilet roll. You slip it over like this and hey presto! I knitted it myself, actually." He looked across at his mate, Macca and they both burst out laughing. The woman felt angry, she thought they were genuinely interested, but they were having a laugh at someone else's expense, as usual. No wonder his mother had disowned him. Stephen Nickolls had spent the last few years in and out of trouble. He'd never held a job down, but somehow he'd always managed to survive; scrounging off his mates, doing the odd bit of untaxed work, and turning up whenever there was free food on offer.

And this year's Appleton Wiske-on-the-Wold Annual Village Fete was turning out to be a particularly excellent year for freebies. They'd already stuffed their faces with more jam than they really ought to have done and the walnut cake was sitting uncomfortably alongside the Eccles cake in their bellies. The lads were getting quite desperate for something to drink before they both threw up. It didn't take long for them to find it. "Look, Macca, bingo!" This year the Village Women's Guild stall was well hidden, but once they saw it they made a beeline for it.

The three ladies behind the table visibly bristled as the young men approached. They knew they usually meant trouble. The table was laid out with more bottles than they'd ever seen before, each one with a number and a handwritten label on it. Mrs Hamilton took charge, leant forward, and hissed through her dentures "I thought we had made it perfectly clear that you are not welcome here. Not after last year's escapade. Now be off with you before I prevail upon the authorities to have you removed!" But Macca was in no mood for her, he was 19 years old now, he wasn't going to be spoken to like that; like a kid.

"Keep yer 'air on missus. We've only come for a taste or two of your excellent wines, we know how good they are". He winked across at Nicky (as Stephen preferred to be called, these days only his mother ever called him Stephen). He knew where her Achilles Heel was, and he'd just flattered his way into some free booze. "Well, it is rather good, even if I say so myself, perhaps just the one, boys?" He looked across at the formidable woman standing at the back: Mrs Emily Smythe was not looking amused. She ground her teeth in anger.

Nicky picked up a small glass and knocked it back in one. Three pairs of female eyes rolled heavenward and Nicky was aware that a bucket had appeared by his side. "You're supposed to spit it out afterwards, young man, not swallow it!". Nicky's silver tongue came to his rescue once again. "Aw but ladies, it's far too good to be spat out. It really is first-class this year." Mrs Hamilton glowed with pride before she saw Mrs Emily Smythe's expression. They might have been able to fool one of them, but the Guild's leader knew just what the boys were up to.

Nicky picked up another and knocked it back equally quickly. "Cor, that's a bit of alright, wassat then?" Mrs Hamilton shifted nervously, "It's Mrs Partington's rhubarb wine if you must know, now you did promise you'd be on your way. Come on boys, please. We'd rather you went." Nicky was now feeling that perhaps they had overstayed their welcome, just time for one more then? He picked up a third glass, knocked it back and plonked the glass down on the table. "Jeez, Macca, what the fuck was that!"

Several of the people nearby went silent, one lady muttered "Well really!", and Mrs Hamilton once again filled the awkward void. "That is Mrs Emily Smythe's elderflower wine which this year, I may say, is perhaps the best she has ever produced." Mrs Hamilton had been trying to get onto the parish council for years and occasionally even she knew when flattery was required. Mrs Emily Smythe visibly swelled with pride, and nodded her appreciation of the compliment. But the moment was soon lost.

"Christ it tastes fucking awful..." said Nicky, holding his throat and looking like he'd just been chewing a wasp. "....it tastes like PISS!"

There wasn't a sound to be heard. Mrs Hamilton nearly fainted. For ten seconds no-one spoke. No-one moved a muscle. Eventually, a nervous looking man in his forties moved away from the door and within seconds he was at Nicky's side. "Right, that's quite enough of that. No-one insults Mrs Emily Smythe and gets away with it. It is time you left, before I call the police. And I never want to see you two here at the Fete ever again. From now on you are barred, do you understand? Barred!" He frogmarched them both towards the door before unceremoniously pushing them outside. Nicky and Macca were now in no doubt: they had outstayed their welcome.

Meanwhile a loud cheer went up from within the hall. The nervous- looking man was now something of a hero and received his applause with humility. Mrs Emily Smythe touched him on the elbow, "Well done, dear". Mr Emily Smythe knew that his action might have seemed heroic to most, but he really didn't have much choice. Not unless he wanted to spend the next few nights on the sofa. His wife was still staring at the door. The young lout's words were still echoing round her head. She ground her teeth again. Her husband was right: no-one insults Mrs Emily Smythe's elderflower wine and gets away with it.

A plan began to form in her mind.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Stephen Nickolls woke up and gazed across at the clock. It was only 11:15am, still early. He never got up much before 1pm these days, not unless he had to sign on at the Benefit Agency. But somehow he couldn't sleep. Ever since that card arrived yesterday, something had been bothering him. He looked across at it, behind the clock, and the one sentence came back to him. He knew it off by heart.

Stephen, if you know what's good for you, be at the churchyard, south- west corner at 3pm tomorrow afternoon; you will learn something to your advantage.

It was written carefully by hand in black ink with one of those fountain pens which his older sister used to have at school. In fact, it had all the hallmarks of a teacher. After all, only teachers and his mother ever called him 'Stephen'. Maybe it was one of his mates having a laugh? Perhaps someone was going to offer him a job? Or sell him some knock-off stuff? Drugs maybe? He really didn't have a clue. Perhaps it would be dangerous, maybe he shouldn't go? But he knew he would have to go: he was just too curious......

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Stephen gazed up at the clock on the church tower: quarter past three. He shifted his feet. For once he'd been on the receiving end of a practical joke. 'Right that's it', he thought. He was just about to turn around when he felt a cold tubular object press into his back. A female voice spoke softly but sternly, "Don't move a muscle and you won't get hurt!" Nicky was rigid with fear. He knew he should have torn that damn card up. "Don't turn around and put your hands behind your back". Nicky was shaking and complied immediately. He felt cold steel envelop his wrists and heard a sharp snapping sound. He had been handcuffed. Then, as if from nowhere, a thin black cloth covered his eyes, and a blindfold was securely tied in place. Then two pairs of hands grabbed his elbows while a third pushed a cloth over his nose and mouth. There was a pungent, aromatic smell before he felt his legs turn to jelly and he sank into unconsciousness......

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Over the next 24 hours Nicky knew little of where he was. He was still wearing his blindfold and the air had a dank, musty smell, as if he was in a cellar perhaps. His handcuffs were still in place behind his back and he felt cold steel around both his ankles securing him to a large iron ring set into the floor. Occasionally he heard a faint scratching noise, but he tried to put out of his mind what the cause of that might be. It was cold and dark and he knew that he must have been kidnapped. But why? He had no money and no enemies, so what would anyone want with a no-hoper like him? It just didn't make sense.

Just then, a noise confirmed that he was not alone. He heard faint footsteps and he soon felt a warmth by his side. "Who are you? What do you want from me? Money? Anything, just let me go please. Hello? Hello??......" He could sense that there was someone there, but not a word was spoken. He felt something press against his lips and realised he was being offered food. He ate quickly. It appeared to be a Weetabix, but he wasn't too bothered. He'd been there hours and he was getting quite hungry now. And very, VERY thirsty. When his captor had decided that Nicky had finished, he or she silently moved away. "Stop! Don't go, whoever you are. I need to drink, I'm thirsty, please get me water. Please. Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"

But he knew that he was alone again and he started to cry a little. If his mate Macca could see him now he'd think he was a real cry-baby, but he just couldn't help it. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him and he was scared. Very scared. Over the next 12 hours or so, the same person brought him more food. Weetabix, salted peanuts, muesli. But never anything to drink. By now his thirst was raging. His mouth was dry, he could hardly swallow properly and he felt he would probably die of thirst in a few hours. He was now very very frightened. Maybe he would die and no-one would even notice? He drifted off into a tired, exhausted sleep....

Mrs Emily Smythe was in jubilant mood. She had won no fewer than four First Class prizes in the Appleton Wiske-on-the-Wold Fete's wine category, and two Second Class prizes and a Highly Commended for her apple turnover. It had been a good year. Of course, there were some who privately might have observed that Mrs Emily Smythe's sister-in-law was one of the judges. But only privately. No-one would dare to suggest that Mrs Emily Smythe's success had anything to do with this. It was obviously earned on merit alone. Although there were some who might privately suggest that they thought that old Miss Wilkinson's elderflower wine was actually better this year. But only privately.

When Mrs Emily Smythe was successful at the Fete, she always threw a party afterwards. There were some who privately suggested that she only won because she promised to give a party if she won. It didn't seem to matter too much and so, as usual, Mrs Emily Smythe had invited all her friends in the Women's Guild. Husbands had been packed off, it was 10pm and the party was in full swing.

Two years earlier, someone had suggested livening them up a little, so a city woman came along and gave an Ann Summers party. That had been great fun! Last year Mrs Hamilton suggested booking a male stripper, which everyone thought was a real hoot. Mrs Emily Smythe herself had suggested this year's theme: rubber and bondage. Every lady had been issued with tight rubber underwear and a select few had been given a special plastic nozzle which they were asked to wear inside themselves. They fitted snuggly inside their labia majora covering their pee-holes, and tapered to a point where there was a short plastic tube. This then protruded outside, and an ingenious system of rubber flaps covered it over making the rubber panties still completely watertight. The only way for liquid to escape was through the plastic tube. Only six ladies actually knew what was going to happen later, but they all had their nozzles firmly in place, ready. They were all highly excited.

Down in the cellar, Nicky awoke with a start. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep for, but he was sure he could hear something from above. It sounded like the excited babble of women, like a party or something. If he shouted loud enough perhaps one of them would hear him and he'd be rescued?

The door to the cellar swung open suddenly and Mrs Emily Smythe led her guests down the cold stone steps to her captive. Nicky could see nothing, but this sounded like good news. "Oh, thank Christ you're here! Someone has been holding me here for ages and I've not had anything to drink, but at least you're here now, so can you please....".

Mrs Emily Smythe interrupted him sharply. "Silence, you pathetic little boy! From now on you speak only when I allow it. And at present, it is Not Allowed. Audrey, the gag please." Just then a dumpy woman in her fifties stepped forward and attached a leather strap over his head to which was attached a red ball with a hollow tube running through it. She forced his mouth wide open and then jammed it in as far as it would go, then fastened the leather straps at the back tightly. His lips were pressed firmly over the ball, he couldn't open his mouth any wider. Audrey pinched his nose closed and looked at his mouth carefully. The air whistled in and out of the hole though the centre of the ball, the only way he could now breathe. No air was getting past the ball at the sides. Audrey nodded, said "perfect", and released his nose. Then she pushed a small length of plastic tubing into the hole on the outside of the ball, and announced that he was ready.

Mrs Emily Smythe spoke again. "Now then, Stephen." No-one called him that, not any more. But the ball-gag pressed hard into his mouth and he was hardly in a position to explain it. "The ladies from the Guild and I have decided to have our own tasting session tonight. You must be extremely thirsty, so you'll be delighted to learn that you'll be doing all the tasting for us tonight. But we're not going to use wine, Stephen. Now, you seemed to like Mrs Hamilton's, so tell us what you think of it tonight."

She gestured, and Mrs Hamilton stepped forward. It was a great honour that she was going to be first. She looked quite different tonight, wearing only a rubber bra and the rubber pants that everyone else was wearing. A transparent plastic tube was pushed over the end of Mrs Hamilton's internal attachment and the other end pushed onto the ball- gag tube. His mouth was now directly connected to her piss-hole; he was completely at her mercy.

"Okay, this is a young, fresh, aromatic little number with just a hint of chilli perhaps". Mrs Hamilton fired a brief but cruel stream of her hot piss. The plumbing worked superbly and the plastic tube quickly filled with her bright yellow pee and forced its way through the ball gag, ending up at the back of Nicky's throat. He experienced the full force of her bladder and his mouth filled up with her golden pee in less than a second. There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. His eyes were bulging as he struggled to contain the pressure. He had no option but to swallow, before she burst his head open. He was fighting her piss-hole and losing miserably. "Oh Stephen, haven't you learned anything? I thought we told you at the fete that you have to savour a fine drink, sample the bouquet, let it play on your palate a little. And then spit it out, not swallow it greedily. What's wrong with you? Why didn't you spit it out?" Nicky looked up at her tormentor who was shining with power and control. He saw that damn piss-tube linking his mouth to her cunt and secretly hoped that he'd die. He would never live down this humiliation. The other women laughed; they knew full-well that he was in no position to spit anything out.

"Okay, one more chance, try again". Another powerful torrent of pee cruelly ripped open his mouth and pressed against the back of his throat. He desperately tried not to breathe any and with one supreme effort, swallowed. Inevitably some ended up in his lungs and he tried to cough. But nothing happened. Except that Mrs Hamilton had a very pleasant sensation of something pressing on her clitoris. But at least it was over. Or so he thought.

"Well, maybe just one more mouthful, then. I'm like you Stephen, I never keep my promises. Remember? At the fete?" Another powerful force built within his mouth as yet more of Mrs Hamilton's hot, salty, golden pee pushed its way in, like a bully. Again, he felt his throat open, almost as if he had no control, and he sent the foul-tasting piss into his stomach. Mrs Hamilton nodded across, said he'd had enough in his mouth, and carefully separated her plastic tube from the ball-gag. Mrs Emily Smythe motioned for Audrey to remove his blindfold, and Mrs Hamilton prepared to finish. No sooner had the blindfold been taken off than Mrs Hamilton let her piss-steam reach full strength and pointed the end of her tube straight into his eyes, one then the other. They stung like nothing he had ever felt before. From now on there really was no need for a blindfold.

Mrs Emily Smythe then proceeded to introduce her friends one by one, who each gave a short introduction as they attached their tubes, and then let him have it. "This is Mrs Partington who makes a particularly fruity, almost sweet liquor. See what you think of this one, Stephen". Not that he had any choice. It was vaguely interesting how no two womens' pee did taste the same, but he wasn't really curious enough to know why. He just wanted the mind-torture to end. "And this is Miss Jones. She doesn't make wine, but she does make particularly fine hand- knitted toilet roll holders. And speaking of toilets....". Miss Jones then proceeded to exact her revenge for Nicky's taunting at the fete; he took nearly the whole of her bladder in his mouth before she was persuaded by the others to remove her tube from his mouth and finish off into his eyes. Miss Jones was a cruel woman.

After five women had connected their piss-tubes to his mouth and let him taste their salty piss, one-by-one, there was only one who hadn't used his mouth. Mrs Emily Smythe stepped forward and spoke. "Now Stephen, after your unforgivable outburst at the fete, we've all decided that you need some instruction in manners, humility and - most of all - in fine wines. You are obviously unaware of the care and preparation which goes into my elderflower wine. To describe it as tasting like p-". She blushed a little and continued. "Well, like urine, shows that you are clearly very confused. I think it's time that I cleared up any confusion".

Audrey reverentially passed a bottle and a glass to her as if it was the Holy Grail. She poured a little into the glass, rinsed it around a little and savoured the bouquet, self-indulgently. "Perfect. Now this is the finest elderflower wine which I have ever tasted, even if I say so myself." Audrey was busy hooking up Mrs Emily Smythe's piss-tube to Nicky's mouth as she continued. "This is definitely wine", she said, sipping it slowly. Nicky was alternately staring up at her, and then back at the plastic tube which was still clear. But it was only a matter of seconds before it would turn yellow and his humiliation would begin again. She was mentally torturing him and loving every minute of it. "Yep, no doubt about it, wine", and then without taking her eyes off the glass she let rip. He stared in horror as a river of pee hurriedly cascaded through the tube and towards his face. His mouth filled with her strong orangey-yellow piss in no time and she said softly and slowly, "...and this....is definitely....piss". The other ladies all clapped and cheered, she was so much in control of the situation. It was no wonder she'd been in charge of the Guild for 14 years now. And no-one had ever heard Mrs Emily Smythe say the word 'piss' before.

He was in trouble. Unlike the others she didn't stop and just continued to pee. He had to hold his throat open, holding his breath, letting her pee straight into his stomach. For a few seconds, her bladder was directly filling his stomach. Then she stopped after what seemed like years. She sipped from the glass. "Got it yet? This is perfect elderflower wine, and this....". The torrent began again and her cruel stream once more forced its way down his throat. "....is my pee. I really don't know how you can confuse the two, they taste completely different." Of course, she had no idea what pee tasted like, she was only guessing.

Nicky now knew what elderflower wine tasted like and the piss of six different women in the room. From that moment on he would never mix the two up again. He had learned a valuable lesson in humility and manners. From now on he would be very respectful and polite to all women. So Mrs Emily Smythe's handwritten note had promised what it said.

He had learned 'something to his advantage' after all. 
- The End -

Copyright 1997 by John Martin. All Rights Reserved

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