The plough girl - part one
By Diana the Valkyrie 
A Ukrainian country girl goes to New York


Olga

My name is Olga Valentina Yurisovska, and I am the plough girl
for Novovysoke. No, I was the plough girl. A lot has happened in
Ukraine in the last few months.

The Russians came. We didn't invite them, we didn't want them and
they soon made themselves unwelcome, and as the plough girl, I
found myself helping in the fight, but there were so many of them,
and they had tanks and guns.  All we had was spades and scythes. And
my plough.

Quite a few Russians lost their lives before they finally killed
off the resistance. And rather than be killed, I took my plough
and walked to the coast, to Gdansk in Poland. There, I got help,
found an American sponsor to help me escape, and was soon on a ship
bound for New York, which I pictured as a very large village. It
was nothing like a village.


Mike

My name is Mike Everard. I sponsored a Ukrainian girl who had lost
everything. I saw her picture; she was pretty and her long blonde
hair was coiled on top of her head.

I met her as she came off the ship - I recognised her from her
picture, and she was as pretty as the picture showed. She had no
luggage, except for some contraption she carried on her shoulder. I
introduced myself - "Hi, I'm Mike Everard." "Olga Valentina
Yurisovska," she replied, smiling.  "No luggage?" I asked. "I
left in a hurry, no time to pack, but I did bring my plough." A
plough? Why did she bring a plough? So I asked her.

"I'm a plough girl," she explained. "Novovysoke is a very poor
village, and we only have the one plough. If we ever get back there,
we'll need this to get started again." "And seed, and horses,
and hoes, and spades ..."  "We hid the spades and other tools,
and we never had any horses. We're a very poor village." "So what
pulled the plough?" "I did. I'm the plough girl."

At first, I thought this was a confusion of language, but we were
standing at the dock side, and my truck was nearby; I thought,
we'll clear this up when we get moving. "Follow me," I said, and
Olga and her plough followed me.

I opened up the truck, and made to help her put her plough in the
back.  "No," she said, "I'll do it. You might hurt yourself." She
heaved the plough onto the load bed, and we got into the truck. "Seat
belt", I said.  "What?"

It was then that I realised that there would be a huge cultural
gulf between a girl from a poor village in Ukraine, and the way of
life that I was used to. I asked her, and no, she had never been
in a car or truck.  "We can't even afford a horse!" she laughed.

On the way to my apartment, I asked what she meant about hurting
myself.  "My plough is 280 kilograms; it needs to be heavy to plough
the deep loam of our fields." I did the arithmetic in my head;
double it and add ten per cent, and got 620 pounds. That plough
that she had been casually balancing on one shoulder, was at least
six times the most I could lift.  And yes, any attempt to manhandle
that weight would have destroyed my back. But she had walked with it
two thousand kilometers overland. The next time we stopped at a red 
light, I looked at her more carefully.

Yes, she was pretty, and yes long blonde hair. But under her working
clothes, I realised that her shoulders were broad, her arms were
huge and I tried not to think about the legs that could pull a 620
pound plough.

Olga

Mike tried to help me with my plough, but he's only a man, and the
weight would be far too much for him. I laid my plough gently in
the truck, got inside, and we set off.

It was amazing. There were thousands of cars and trucks on a road
that stretched wide from side to side, and was covered in a smooth
black finish.  I thought about the tracks back home; rough and
lumpy, hard to walk along, especially if you carried a plough. And
the buildings! They soared into the sky, and I thought about my
one-room hut which I shared with my plough at night, because you
don't leave a valuable plough out in the field for anyone to steal.

We got to his home, but we weren't there yet. We had to get into
a small box, Mike pressed a button and it rose straight up. We
got out, down a short corridor, and Mike opened the door using a
small metal tool, which I later found was called a key. We entered,
me still carrying my plough.

Inside, it was like a palace. There were separate rooms for
sleeping, for cooking, for washing and for something that I'm not
even going to try to describe, because if I told you what it did,
you wouldn't believe me.  Mike called it a TeeVee. And while I
blinked in astonishment at that, he showed me another thing like
it only smaller, much smaller, called a tablet, And as I goggled
at that, he laughed and showed me a really small box that did all
the same things, called a smart phone.

"You've been travelling for weeks, I guess you'd like a shower?" "No,
I don't like being rained on." He laughed again, "No, this is so you
can wash." and he led me to the bathroom. I took off all my clothes,
and noticed that Mike was just staring at me, as if he'd never seen
a plough girl before.  Which, I suppose, he had not.

Mike

Oh, my giddy aunt. She was magnificent. She was a few inches taller
than me, and I'm six feet, but there are lots of tall girls. Olga
wasn't just tall, she was wide, and deep, and her arms were just
as huge as I'd guessed. Maybe even bigger. Her thighs, though. Her
thighs had been pulling a heavy plough all her life; the muscles
on her calves were massive, but dwarfed by thighs like mature oak
trees. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak. She got into the shower
and didn't know what to do next, so I had to get in with her to
show her. "In Novovysoke we share washing, it saves on water,"
and she pulled off my trousers and shirt. For her, it was just how
you washed. For me it was incredibly erotic.

I showed her the soap and flannel and she started to wash me. And,
of course, my dick rose. She saw that, and  grinned. "I'll deal with
that," she said, and brought her knee up slowly into my groin until
the pain was bad enough to kill my erection. "Now you wash me,"
she said, and gave me the soap and flannel.

I started with her shoulders, which were even wider than I'd thought,
and worked my way down. And immediately, I hit the next problem -
her breasts.  Very large, very rounded, very firm and oh, my giddy
aunt. But my dick remembered its recent pain, and stayed low. So I
carefully worked my way down, and her thighs were like iron. And I
managed to get her clean all over, and she said "Thank you, that's
the first time I've been properly washed for months."

She had no change of clothes, only her travel-dirty work clothes. But
she asked if she could have an old pair of my shorts. "Yes, but
your thighs ..."  "Don't worry about that. And an old shirt, please?"


Read the rest of the story on https://www.amysconquest.com