"Ooh, begging your pardon, sir, but that ain't no cow. That's a bull!"
"Good heavens, Hermione, you're right! No, leave the picnic hamper. Just run!"
Mr Rathbone could learn a thing or two from that bull, thought Hermione as she gathered up her skirts and sprinted spiritedly toward the hedge. If only the sight of her dimpled knees, pistoning away beneath the hem of her red bloomers, would inflame his passions as much as it seemed to arouse the bovine beast behind them.
Mr Rathbone gallantly took the lead in their race across the field and hurdled the gate. From behind the safety of its wooden bars he shouted words of encouragement to Hermione.
"He's right behind you! Run!"
If Hermione had the breath to spare she would have retorted that she was running, but as it was she could only pant with her exertions and fling herself despairingly at the gate, a sweaty blur of panic and petticoats. Her momentum carried her over the top and safely onto Mr Rathbone. The bull snorted in disappointment. Mr Rathbone snorted because Hermione had her elbow in his solar plexus.
Hermione shifted position subtly, suddenly aware of the impropriety of their situation. She was laying full length upon the supine body of Mr Rathbone, bonnet askew, her petticoats around her waist, red bloomers on display. It was a moment of enforced intimacy the like of which she had previously only dreamt of. Her bosom heaved. Mr Rathbone heaved, but he still couldn't shift her. She was a sturdy wench. She gazed down upon him, her ringlets tumbling free from her ribbons, willing him to kiss her.
Mr Rathbone gazed back. He was going to have to ask her to get off. He had a strong suspicion she had cracked his hip flask.
"Hermione," he began, but got no further as Hermione took this as a sure sign of reciprocated desire and kissed him with all the fervour and throughness of a rotating cylinder steam engine.
How long they lay entwined neither of them could have said. Their kiss only ended when there was a sudden, shocked cry of "Rupert!" breaking the seal of their lips with an audible pop.
"Millicent! It's not what it looks like! I wouldn't kiss a servant! Hermione was just helping me set up the picnic when we were chased by a bull and - "
"I can only see one beast here," spat Millicent, eyeing Hermione's red bloomers with unconcealed distaste, " and he appears to have his hand in a servant girl's undergarments."
"Do I? Oh god. I honestly don't know how that happened. Listen," he scrambled out from Hermione and got to his feet. "You're the only girl for me, you know that."
Millicent merely stared, her eyes and mouth widening slowly in horror at the sight of the dark patch on Mr Rathbones trousers.
"What?" He looked down. "Oh that! No. God, no, it's not what you think. It's my hip flask, it's sprung a leak. Smell it, it's brandy. "
But Millicent had turned on her heels and fled. Damn. That was going to be a crushing loss to bear. She had huge assets.
"Never mind, " said Hermione as she adjusted her bloomers. "At least we can openly declare our love now."
"Well, yes," agreed Mr Rathbone as he further adjusted her bloomers to a new position somewhere on the other side of the hedge, and settled comfortably between her pillowy thighs "there is that."
You have been reading an extract from my exciting new literary project. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it. It's a bit of a change from the usual blog book deal, in that my sexploits are not based on my own real life, really real, no honestly, they're real, experiences, but upon those I enjoyed in a past life as teased out of me under hypnosis and a quart of vodka.
"The Improbable Adventures of Hermione Saucebucket" is published by Van E. Tee Press and is available for just £9.99 + p&p from all good online rip off merchants or from a job lot in my shed.