Story 1: Unquenched Desire
By Larissa Lyons
17th day of July, 1881
I melt.
Though the land becomes more barren with each scorching sunrise, my flesh melts more after each sunset. During the dark of night, the low timbre of his voice feeds my dreams. Every word cherished.
Samuel’s been buried a year today. But ’tis not the memory of his baritone that causes the empty place between my thighs to yearn. To melt…
It is the memory of another. One so close I could have braved the distance across the table and touched him today. Yet propriety held me back.
It always holds me back. Always.
When the last word glistened at her, she furiously scrubbed at the single clear drop marring the ink, then wiped her eyes of any remaining moisture. Tears wouldn’t raise Samuel from the grave and she’d shed plenty in the months following his death.
Not even the guilt that knowing tonight’s unexpected emotion was for another could stop her body from crying. From weeping in all manner of inappropriate places. Biting her lips to still their trembling, she returned to the smudged page.
I melt for him—the one who so haltingly spelled D-E-L-I-C-A-T-E this afternoon then beamed at me with pride in another new word learned.
Pride. When all I desire to see in his expression is desire. Yet like the thirsting ground, my own desire goes unquenched.
With all the finality of one closing their dreams, she slammed shut the dictionary beside the ink well, caught the ink just before it toppled over then capped it tight. Taking more care, she tucked her precious journal beneath her pillow and blew out the single candle.
3rd of August
Ninety-two days without a speck of rain. Dried brown spikes masquerading as grass now pepper land once lush and green. Land meant for grazing. All but the crops nearest the cabin have shriveled and died. The herd withers away. But all pales in comparison to the desert wasteland of my dreams. My bed.
I pray for rain. Pray for his touch.
God grants neither.
***
“Missus Turner, I—”
“NotMrs. Anything,” she reminded in that indulgently chiding way that made him think of schoolmarms and naughty behavior. Of punishments and spankings. Of— “Call me Abby, please.”
He cleared his throat. “Missus Turner, I don’t think—”
“Again, Hank, with the Mrs.?” she said with a smile he wanted to kiss right off her face.
Forgoing her name altogether, he said, “You ought not to be workin’ straight through the heat of the day. You’re too da—” He bit off the rest of the curse—couldn't say “Damn dainty” out loud, not without washing his mouth out afterward for soiling her dainty ears—and finished, “Delicate. I'm the one gettin’ paid to tend things. Let me tend ’em.”
“And you ‘ought not’ act as though I’m made of porcelain,” she mocked gently. “Truly, I think I’m strong enough to carry a few buckets.”
A few? The petite woman had matched him bucket-for-bucket the last three hours beneath a taunting sky brimming with clouds. Thick, grey-blue clouds that refused to release a single drop of moisture.
But it was pouring off Hank and his “boss” in droves. Slicking skin, dampening clothes. Drowning him in all manner of lewd thoughts.
Boss’s widow or not, the urge to fuck Abby Turner had been flooding his mind for weeks. Year’s mourning was up.
So was his dick.
Shaking off the thought, he pumped the well, filling yet another four buckets for them to haul, and had to suffer the sway of her calico-covered backside and the thunder of his blood booming in his ears when she bent over, lifting the just-filled bucket. Making him think of how her ass would look rising and falling as she rode his cock. As he spanked her bare flank. Hell, if she had a man around to protect her honor, the lust that had to be blazing in his eyes every time he so much as thought of her would have gotten him strung up by his toes and shot full of lead months ago.
Ever since the weekly lessons she’d begun after discovering he’d never been taught to read nor write, least not much beyond his name. He knew how to ride, how to coax in the most ornery calf or headstrong of goats, how to grow carrots from clay, but damned if he knew how to talk to a lady.
Dang ol’ cowpoke craving a poke, that’s all he was—and at his boss and teacher. Hell, he deserved the spanking for naughty behavior.
Up. Down. Up. Down, went his arm, priming the pump. Up down. Up down. Just like her body would if he ever marshaled the gumption to act on his urges. Assuming she didn’t empty her six-shooter in his gullet.
Up, down, up, down. Sweat. Swallow. Choke.
Not enough spit to drown a gnat, much less his desire.
But the look in her shaded eyes when she straightened and contemplated first the sky, then his arm working the pump? The look that made him think maybe, just maybe he wasn’t off his rocker and kicked-in-the-teeth stupid for thinking he wasn’t the only one drowning in lustful urges…
Lightning forked overhead, caught in his chest.
Thunder blasted right on top of them.
His arm stopped. Their eyes met. Held.
Always teasing, never delivering. That was the sky this summer. But her eyes? Hank wasn’t any good at reading women, not the sort you didn’t pay. Not the sort you knew enough to actually like.
Whisper quiet, as if reading his mind, she says, “Think the clouds’ll deliver this time?”
Will you? he wants to ask.
Instead, picking up a bucket and shrugging, he responds, “Gotten this close plenty of times.” Like she had. “Hasn’t spit or made mud once yet all summer.”
Desire was a deluge, pouring through his veins, hardening his cock. Drying up his restraint.
Grabbing the second handle with a growl, he started off toward the single field they’d attempted to salvage, for once not waiting for her to go first, not wanting to put himself through the torture of watching her swaying, tempting—
At her sudden cry, he turned. Precious water sloshed from his buckets. The parched earth sucked it up like a dying man.
“Hank! Look!” She pointed in the opposite direction, past the cabin where impossibly dark sheets had formed, creating a solid shield from ground to clouded sky.
Before he could smile, blink, or praise God, she dropped her buckets and flung herself into his arms, knocking his hat off in the process. “It’s raining! Raining! Do you see?”
Instinct—and parched penis—took over. He released both handles and gripped her nape, tilted her mouth to his and pressed his tongue deep.
She moaned, arched. Frantically gouged her nails into his receptive flesh and the all-consuming want that hovered between them…unspoken, unacted upon—until now—broke free.
No longer boss and widow. Just woman. Man.
Denims came down. Skirts raised.
Mouths remained fused.
Bodies bumped together with all the inelegance and ungainliness that accompanies desperation.
He entered. She whimpered. The tight canal of her pussy yielded easily beneath the onslaught of his erection.
His blood thundered louder. Lightning cracked.
And then he felt it—among the grasping talons of her nails raking over his shoulders and his neck, he felt it—a single drop against his forehead. Then another. And another. Covering his body, nourishing the ground as her woman’s flesh nourished his soul.
Without intent or plan, he found his hands filled with her rounded ass, felt the sting on his palm as he slapped her flank. Then again. Harder and harder as the fierceness of the storm crashed into them both and his cock lunged higher and higher.
With the violent fury of one long silenced, rain lashed the side of his face, his exposed hip and upper leg. Tearing a strip off his hide for even thinking—
Thinking? No, for once he was doing. Doing wicked-wonderful things to Abby Turner. He’d take that belly full of lead now, take it like a man. But by God, he’d earn it.
The next thing Hank knew, he was on the ground, rolling around in the mud, his arms full of precious woman, his cock snug inside heaven. More quenching than he’d ever expected.
His denims tangled around his boots, hampering his mobility, but not his intensity. He rolled to his back. Slapped her ass again and lunged high, gritting his teeth to hold back coarse shouts of Abigail, sweet, sweet Abby, you fuck like a dream!
Gritted his loins—his penis—to keep from spending too soon. Ending too fast. He couldn’t kiss her hard enough, fuck her high enough. Were those whimpers of hers cries to stop or to never cease? Were her nails beneath his shirt slashes to halt or encouragement for more?
Hank tried to pull his mouth from hers, tried to ask, but she refused him exit. Clamped her teeth on his tongue and sucked. Leveraged high on his erection then slammed herself down, smacking his groin with hers. One fingernail pierced his pectoral.
In reflex, he pinched her backside, harder than intended.
Felt his heart catch when she winced, then relax when she moaned.
Swallowed his euphoria—a word learned and spelled correctly Sunday past—and rolled her to her back. The muscles in her vagina clasped his shaft, rippled along its length with every rocking, downward thrust of his pelvis. Gladly, he accepted the sky’s vengeance as he punished her pussy for every drop of desire he’d been drowning in for…forever.
He growled and sucked on her tongue as hard as she had his. Pumped his cock between her legs with every bit of ferocity he’d pumped the well moments before. Wedged his hands between her body and the ground to grip her ass and knead her flesh with all the need in him—long denied. Stifled. Set free in a summer storm.
In the slashing downpour that erased his senses as much as the dust, only one thing consumed his mind—how very, very long it’d been since he’d touched a woman and how deeply he craved this particular one.
Craved the feel of her snug pussy eating at his cock, swallowing him whole. Craved her soft whimpers brushing his eardrums. Craved filling his hands with her warm, wet feminine flesh.
Wet?
Wetter than he’d ever dared imagine…
Hank forgot she was a lady and not a paid whore. Forgot she paid his wages every month, made his supper on Sundays after lessons. Forgot she embodied everything he dreamed of.
Forgot himself and found his body doing the thinking.
He tugged his hand from her ass and brought it down again, flush against her exposed skin, gratified beyond belief at the loud smack his palm made when it connected with the succulent flesh of her thigh. Her flank. Anywhere he could reach. Satisfied beyond belief at the feel of her water-slicked body under his, at the rain, the wondrous life-giving rain, as each stinging drop pelted against them both.
Wind howled at his back. Whirled through his veins. Not once did he pause or consider the consequences of his actions. Not once did he think of the words he’d use to apologize, to beg for forgiveness.
How did one apologize to what one defiled—with all the unvoiced lust and love and longing in one’s soul?
If he could just nimble his tongue up to the level of his cock, he’d be set to sweet talk Abby Turner into his bed permanently.
Through the thin cotton of his shirt, she gouged her nails into his shoulders and groaned beneath him then rotated that pussy around his dick as though she didn’t expect to see tomorrow. Clutched him tighter with her inner muscles and released, her climax pouring out over his cock and quenching his thirst more than a thousand buckets of water ever could.
His damn dick followed suit, ramming into her harder than before as if punishing her for the naughty behavior of ending their encounter far, far too soon.
Unable to stop his reaction any more than he could stop the rain, he rode her to completion, sucking on her mouth, biting her lips, while he spanked the lips below with his ballocks, spanked the side of her thigh with his palm and pierced her woman’s flesh so deeply he wasn’t sure he’d ever find his way out. Knew for dang sure he didn’t want to.
A final grunt, a final thrust. Every muscle tensed then eased. If anything, his heart beat faster, louder, but he stilled. Stopped slapping her flank, sucking on her mouth. Just hovered there above her, waiting. Sweat washing away in the pounding rain, anxiety swelling in him now that the peak of passion had waned, waiting for her to pronounce his sentence. Declare whatever penance he must pay. The price, for enjoying the pleasure of her body as he had—taking her as a man would a whore.
Regret crashed through him and though he forced his mouth to gentle, his rebellious hips bucked forward one last time, seating his dick deeper. His palms thrummed, from the spanking they’d administered or the force of his release, he didn’t know.
God, how could he leave her now? Abandon the first pure taste of heaven to ever cross his lips, fully quench his thirst?
Knowing atonement was just a gunshot away, Hank steeled himself for her reaction and started to ease off.
But she stopped his effort by gripping the back of his head. Keeping him on her.
Sliding her mouth from his with a soft whimper, she licked raindrops off his face. Quivered around his shaft. Smiled shyly up at him as she blinked the falling rain from her eyes and brushed wet hair from his forehead. “I suppose this is one way to celebrate.”
Celebrate? A dam broke inside of Hank and he laughed. Laughed long and loud, laughed with amazement and relief. Then laughed some more. He hugged her tight. “Guess this means you won’t be handin’ me my walkin’ papers? Or aimin’ that six-shooter of yours waist high?”
She laughed back. “No, indeed. I only shoot at varmints.”
“At varmints?” he echoed, for once daring to hope… “You sure that ain’t spelled H-A-N-K?”
“P-O-S-I-T-I-V-E,” she rattled off so fast, by the time he puzzled it out in his mind, her channel had already constricted around his embedded erection, firming it right up.
"Come here Missus...Abby." With a grin, he leaned down to claim her mouth.
***
14th of August
The rains fell again today. The drought is over.
Mine is as well.
I still melt at the sound of his voice, only now he lies beside me every night. Reads to me in bed. And instead of Hank, I call him Husband.
Visit the Better Sex Forum
Join the Buzz Team!