Southern Exposure Ch. 01

Luckily, he knew what to look for: a white piece of cloth dangling from a low-hanging branch of a cedar tree. It was the only tree within a hundred yard radius, which made it relatively easy to spot, along with the cabin that sat beside it. It appeared to be sturdy, but small, maybe about the size of a standard master bedroom in a typical suburban dwelling.

As he shut off his engine and turned on his headlights, a light suddenly sprung up at what his eyes could gradually discern was the open door of the structure. Another second and he could plainly make out that it was a lantern, with the curvaceous form of Jennie Mae behind it.

She stood and waited for him as he walked towards her, surprised to see that she was wearing a robe, a kimono actually, and it dawned on him that maybe he really had overdressed for the occasion.

The next words out of her mouth cemented that impression into a certainty: "We ain't goin' anywhere. You know that, right?"

"Forgive me," he said, sounding as genuinely apologetic as he could manage. "I'm still stuck on city fashion rules. No dressing down until the third date."

She smiled. "That's nice and all, but we have to nip that in the bud right away."

He was nonplused. "So should I show up in cut-offs and a wife-beater?"

Now she outright guffawed. "Men like you don't own cut-offs!"

He grinned. "So what if this is as casual as I can go?"

She sighed. "I really don't give a damn what you wear, long as your clothes are clean and you are, too."

He took a second to digest this. His silence gave her an opportunity to continue.

"Look," she said, "I got kind of an unfair advantage when it comes to presentin' myself. And I don't mean I'm better lookin' or nothin' like that. I'm all right, but I ain't no glamour princess, and I never wanted to be. I like compliments just fine, but I don't live off 'em."

She paused. "Mainly, I don't work at a job that requires me to look a certain way. I work cash register at Lucky-Mart, mainly cause I like to keep in touch with people, and all I have to do is bathe regular and not have greasy hair. I wear the same uniform every other employee there does, and no one gives a shit what I wear when I'm off duty.

"You, on the other hand, got to be everybody's doctor, and look the part, every chance you get. That means no holes in the jeans, no paint splashes on your T-shirt, right?"

"At the least," he admitted.

"Exactly. You got to walk a line. Maybe once a year or somethin' like that you can get a little tipsy at a bar, when everyone's buyin' rounds for everyone else, that's just sociable. But if you're in the bar gettin' hammered even once a week, you'll get a talkin' to.

"And it's in your nature to make that good impression, even when it takes some effort. So I ain't worried you're suddenly gonna skip showers, or stop brushing your teeth. And you'll prob'ly stay in shape, too. You got that kind of build. So I figure I can pretty much expect what I see right now, and not get disappointed.

"Well, I can't guarantee I won't gain weight, but I do two Jazzercise and one Zumba class every week, and I stay away from deep-fried foods, so I prob'ly won't get any fatter for a couple more years at least, but otherwise you can take me or leave me. Just...don't be mean about it, if you leave me. OK? Unless I'm a real bitch, or do something else to deserve it."

"Can I still hope for the occasional lace teddy?" He was joking. It was definitely meant to be lighthearted. But for all that, he couldn't help but hope for a little bit of play to work its way into their time together. Some costumes, a little 'Let's Pretend,' not all the time, but it definitely made a nice diversion. And he was here for at least three years...

She sighed. "I didn't say we couldn't never spice things up. Just remember I ain't your girlfriend or your whore, and we should be fine."

She laughed again, which startled him every time she did it. "Shit! Where's my head at? I been keepin' you outside jawin' and you prob'ly think I don't even want you to come in. I'm sorry. Come in and sit down!"

And with that, she walked back into the cabin, went into the far right corner, and set the lantern down on what appeared to be a small wooden desk.'

Stepping inside, Shel saw a couch sitting next to that desk, a bed on the left side of the cozy living space, a couple of bookcases and a small kitchen area behind the main living area that looked like it had been built as an addition to the main structure.

After drifting to the couch, Jennie Mae looked up suddenly as if she'd forgotten something important. "You did eat already, right? I mean, I can fix you a sandwich or heat up some soup if you haven't, but from now on, eat first. Prob'ly wouldn't hurt either one of us if you get spotted eatin' by your lonesome, so maybe stop by Grubs or Jemima's once in awhile..." She paused. "You ain't a food snob, I hope. They both do home cookin', and it's real good." She fell silent. Apparently he was expected to speak.

"I'm good on food," he replied. "My landlady fried three whole chickens tonight, and the only reason I was allowed to stop at three pieces was because I had seconds of mashed potatoes and buttered peas, and I still had to eat dessert. That woman is made of iron, and I think she's trying to fatten me up for the winter sacrifice."

He was relieved when he was rewarded with laughter. It was unlikely that they were related, given the tendency of the Pilchard clan to reside in this particular tract, but he was still wary of being perceived as less than respectful.

"You're just lucky her youngest daughter got married off, or you'd get no rest at all. She'd prob'ly sneak her into your bed after you fell asleep. Rumor has it she swore when her daughters were still wet from the womb, that she wanted a lawyer, a doctor and a judge in the family, so her offspring better either get busy studyin' or recruitin'. Scary part is, it worked out exactly as she planned."

Shel let out a sigh of relief. He felt like he'd dodged a bullet he hadn't even known was fired.

Jennie Mae snickered. "Just be glad you ain't gay," she said happily. "She's got a son who is and I imagine one more doctor wouldn't be something she'd sneeze at."

"I just hope she doesn't talk him into getting a sex change." By the shocked look on Jennie Mae's face, Shel figured he might have crossed a line. Then she replied.

"Whatever you do, don't bring that idea up within her earshot. Her son is pretty enough to pass, and she could prob'ly bully just about everyone involved and make it happen through sheer force of will."

""Duly noted," he said, unsure how sincere he should've tried to sound. He strained to think of a topic that would move this conversation back into safer waters. He decided blunt honesty was his best option.

"Let's change the subject to something that doesn't involve me...um, marrying a guy. Not that..." He sighed. Sometimes it was tough to be properly PC and tolerant. Or to segue gracefully from topic to topic.

"OK," she said. "We can talk about sex. The sex we're going to have with each other."

"How much detail do you want to go into?" Shel asked, nonplused. "I figured we'd just sort of feel things out as we went along."

She nodded. "I'm sorry this has to be so...formal, but this isn't your typical Friday night hook-up. We gotta make sure everything's agreed to beforehand. Or did you forget already why it has to be this way?"

He cringed. He had forgotten, a little. "Ah, shit! When I suggested you change the subject, was that–"

She shrugged. "I can't always tell. And I don't always mind. If I'm about to burn myself or knock something over, it's OK to stop me."

He nodded. "Still, I have to be more careful."

She smiled. "Well, that's why I'm gonna tell you exactly what I want, so you can go hog wild, and not worry about it."

Inwardly he shook his head. Obviously there was nothing for it but to just pay attention, and enjoy the ride as best he could. Once he got used to the swing of things, he could start making suggestions of his own.

"First off, you'd better be a good kisser..."

*****

("...so first off, we're gonna kiss. Start lightly; don't start jammin' your tongue in before it's welcome, then go from soft to almost brutal, keep it up until you feel me shiverin', that'll be your first sign you're gettin' it right...")

He had felt abashed at her presumption that he needed instruction in something as basic as kissing, but he was gratified that her preferences matched his own. And her lips were so delightfully soft, yet firm, that when they finally did open up to his penetration, he felt a shock of pleasure on his lips and his tongue that showed itself in his quickly swelling erection.

True, his stated preference was for the truly spontaneous kiss, but how many of those are there, truly. People are constantly sitting on couches to 'get comfortable' or sitting in cars together 'just to talk.' There is something magical about the kiss that seems to come from out of nowhere, but on a dance floor or during a scary movie still doesn't really count.

It still felt a little formal, but he was determined to do his best. And sex without some self-consciousness about skill, experience or technique, was that even possible in this day and age? True to instructions, he became a tad more forceful. Just enough to exquisitely sense the measure of resistance and yielding that always coexists in these encounters. I'm ready: But am I really ready?

As the kisses grew longer and deeper, almost as an afterthought their bodies seemed to melt into each other. He clothed and her in her robe, yet both drawn, not just to, but into each other. He was almost amazed that he had examined this woman, and never once sensed his powerful need to be inside her. And all it took was a few kisses...

("Then," she said, "You best get ready, cause I am gonna rip that shirt off you, and yank them pants off. You just let me do it.")

She had done a lot to facilitate this maneuver while they were kissing. Stealthily she'd undone all the buttons on his shirt. And somehow undone his belt and the button of his fly. It was an impressive performance. He almost felt like the subject of an expertly executed magic trick. He also could hardly wait until it was his turn.

("And then we'll make out some more. And we can both get a bit more handsy. You can start touching my breasts, through the fabric. But don't just grab at 'em like you was weaned yesterday. Work your way to 'em.")

He let her take the lead a bit, which she seemed eager to do, alternating increasingly fervent kisses on the lips with journeys to his ear, down his neck, and even into his chest. He followed her lead, keeping in mind her admonition to let her uncover her breasts. He did, however, risk blowing a hot breath directly through the fabric, right where her nipple was making its presence known. She moaned appreciatively.

They kissed again. It felt significant, suffused with energy, potential. As their lips pressed together, her mouth opened ever so slowly, and his tongue advanced as fast as she would let it, or almost as fast, as if to proceed too quickly would rupture this portal he'd been granted access to. He felt like a teenager, and yet as a teenager he'd never been able to hold himself in check like this. But it all felt new, and kissing was once again that magic ritual that opened the door to a girl's...passion.

The only true worry was that, as a woman, she was granted the universal prerogative to change her mind and pull the brakes, even if the train was about to pull into the station. And if that happened, he was undone. He did not have the options of pleading, coaxing, bribing, persuasion. He was not allowed to turn a "No" into a "Yes." He was, oddly enough, at her mercy.

As they shared an extra-long kiss, she grabbed his right hand and placed it on her left breast. Apparently she had gotten impatient. He cupped it gently, yet firmly, enjoying the surprising firmness, given its heft, before probing for the, he was happy to find, already erect nipple. The thinness of the fabric made it obvious; he gently flicked his index finger over it twice, then a third time, then pinched it, just a little, carefully observing her reaction.

She closed her eyes, apparently basking in the sensation, until finally she yanked the top of the kimono open, uncovering her breasts completely. No longer constrained, they sagged a bit, no longer ripe cantaloupes, but delectable fruit nonetheless, somehow all the more for hanging off the branch. Her breasts were pale, almost white, and her nipples almost crimson by contrast. Inevitably he thought of strawberries, and his mouth watered.)

("Once I take 'em out, I want you to give 'em a good working over with your mouth. Lick 'em, suck 'em, even nibble on 'em a bit. Let 'em know you like 'em.")

After the first few tentative flicks, the nipple became slippery with his spit, so that he had to suck each one and hold it in its turn, while working it over with his tongue. He increased the pressure of his teeth gradually, unable to believe how much she could stand, easing up only to hear a disappointed, "Don't stop now!" urge him back to the point where he was afraid he might draw blood. He was becoming convinced she had no pain threshold whatsoever.

The cry she eventually let loose with could have been one of pain or pleasure, but either way, it ended with her pulling his head away.

("You're gonna like the next part. I'm gonna suck your dick, eventually. You can just sit back and let me do all the work. But you better not come lessen you warn me, and you better have some left for me if you do.")

She pushed his shoulders back until he was leaning back with his head on the wall and his back resting on the couch. Then she proceeded to kiss a trail down his chest, past his belly, to where his fully engorged cock was making itself plain through the fabric of his boxers. He could feel her hot breath warming the fabric before her tongue started playfully sparring with it.

After a few seconds of this gentle fencing, it became obvious that Jennie Mae's efforts were inducing a strong reaction. A dark spot was making itself visible right where the tip of his prick impacted the fabric. It was not saliva. Rather than ignoring it, she made a show of dabbing her tongue directly on the spot, then licking her lips.

Soon she had pulled his dong out through the fly of the boxers, and the entire head was covered by her warm, wet mouth. Soon he felt a gentle but insistent suction at work. Then her lips were making their deliberate way down the length of his cock, and she was making that gagging, gulping sound at the back of her throat that always made him feel like his dick was ten inches long, instead of the more modest proportions it truly encompassed.

Then she spoke for the first time since she gave her instructions. "Your cock is so hard!" she gasped after pulling him out of her mouth. "I'll have to be careful not to damage my throat!"

Although it was a kick to hear her say that, it also made him extra cautious not to suddenly buck up and ram it in there, not that he would have anyway; that was a surefire way to knock a girl's lips into her teeth. He wanted to be invited back.

("Once I've had enough, or maybe when you have, I'll expect you to return the favor. But we'll need to pull the mattress out first. Makin' out on a couch is fun, but we're gonna need a bit more room for you t' go down on me. You can tongue the hole and lick around my lips, I like that just fine, but that ain't nothin' but a warm up. You need to focus on my clit. Lick, then suck, same as with my nipples, only start out even gentler.")

He actually began by fondling her pubic area through her panties, which he was surprised to see she had on; they were simple, white, cotton, and already quite damp. He was tempted to see if he could get them even wetter, but she spiked the idea by yanking them down after about two minutes of light petting.

Her vagina captured his entire range of vision, as if it had exploded into his consciousness. The shock of red pubic hair perfectly crowned her puffy split peach, the slit leading helpfully to her inviting hole. He immediately stuck his tongue in there to gauge her arousal, as well as hopefully increase it.

She was wet but not yet sopping. The taste was light and slightly tangy. It was nice and slippery already, but he hoped to render it positively swampy. So, after far too little time spent getting a feel for the delightful sponginess of her tunnel, he switched to what she had already instructed was to be the main course: the clit.

It was already nicely swollen, which was helpful. He started by gently flicking his tongue across it, enjoying the appreciative squeals that resulted. Experimentally, he pressed his tongue firmly but still gently on it. This time a moan. For the next couple of minutes he got into a routine: circle, flick, and press. This seemed to please her greatly, although she wasn't using words at the moment. They were definitely encouraging noises, however.

But it was time to get a bit more intense. Making sure his lips were properly positioned, he started sucking at her little button in a most forceful manner. This resulted in a wail and two hands pressing him even more forcefully into her cleft. He began to suck like a madman, his front teeth seemingly the only thing stopping that little chiclet from getting sucked entirely down his gob.

The trembling in her thighs, wrapped around his ears, and what he could still hear of her frenzied breathing, indicated to Shel that she was ready for the first orgasm of the night. The shudder stopped confining itself to her legs and, from what Shel could tell, proceeded to take over her entire body. After what seemed like a few seconds or an eternity, she went limp. Shel lifted up his head to see if he should leave her be for a while.

Her robe had come completely untied, and her nakedness was fully laid out for his eyes to devour. The breasts had not lost their bountiful heft, and her belly, he noted with approval, was nicely rounded. He had come to associate completely flat stomachs with anorexics, workout fiends, and bulimics. Curves were earthy, sexy, a warm, leisurely bath as opposed to a brisk, efficient shower.

As he inspected her, he removed his boxers. Her breasts had certainly outgrown every top she'd worn growing up, and her hips alluded most aptly to the prodigious globes of her ass. He hoped she liked being smacked on it. It almost begged for such treatment.

It was like looking at a pear grown so plump and ripe that the juices practically sang to be released, and Shel, for one, was eager to sink into it, the roundness of her belly only accentuating the metaphor.

("I'll let you know when I'm ready t' get fucked. If you bring me off with that tongue o' yours, that'll be fine. Otherwise, I'll just pull you up outta my pussy when I've had enough. I always like to start with missionary, so let's go with that.")

His knees were between her thighs. She was smiling up at him, eyes half open, apparently still slightly dazed by her recent climax. And he carefully placed his penis in her vagina, as always amazed at just how great it felt.

The soft slipperiness of a wet pussy, it always overwhelmed Shel for the first couple of thrusts. Then he could allow his pleasure to diffuse a bit, awaken back to his surroundings, so to speak. Any woman could provide that first few seconds, provided ample lubrication, natural or otherwise. But after that, so much else came into play.

Of course, after the first few thrusts, he felt the need to finesse his strokes. Especially while he wasn't yet racing towards his own climax, he wanted to experiment, find out what she enjoyed. Adjusting his angle of attack, he hoisted his hips just enough so that the shaft was pointing downward, just enough to give maximum pressure to her clitoris. The downside of this move was that he could never hold it for more than two or three strokes, but it always got a good reaction.