Wallflower Girl

Anne closed the curtain and backed away from it. She stood in the middle of the living room clutching the top of her dress closed. The man could be heard whistling as he approached the house. He was about to open the door and what the hell was she supposed to do?

***Chapter 5***

"Smells good, sweetheart!" Nick announced as he opened the door and poked his head around, grinning cheekily. There was no Patricia to be seen. He closed the door and craned his neck to peer around the corner into the kitchen. "So where is my pretty baby?" he asked of the house, a teasing I'm-going-to-get-you edge to his voice.

She wasn't in the kitchen. He sniffed the aroma coming from the baked chicken dinner on the stove. "Mmm. Yummy," he said, checking in the laundry room off the kitchen. She wasn't in there either, and he figured she may have been hiding in the bathroom. He crept back through the living room, hands at the ready to clutch his lovely and intensely ticklish young wife.

The bathroom was empty. He flung back the yellow shower curtain ready to grab her but no; not there. "Hmm. I wonder where my little sweetheart could be," he said in mock confusion as he stalked toward their bedroom. The baby room door was open and he glanced behind it but she wasn't in there. The yellow plush area rug on the floor and the cheerful yellow curtains did make the room look inviting. Thinking about making the baby who would live in that room increased Nick's urgency considerably.

"I wonder where my pretty girl is hiding," he went on as he caught a glimpse of her through the crack in the open bedroom door. It looked like she was hiding behind it, pressed back against the mauve wall beside the wardrobe.

Nick stopped in the doorway and tossed his shirt at the cane clothes basket in the far corner of the room. It missed, one arm dangling forlornly into the basket, the rest of the sweaty fabric heaped on the floor.

"Hmm. I wonder where—" he started but suddenly lunged and grabbed his wife's arm, pulling her to him and planting a kiss on her lips as they parted in shock. He crushed her to his body, kissing her deeply and passionately. Her hands were pressed against his shoulders, pushing him away. She was squealing and struggling but he persisted until her squeals became moans and her fingernails eased from clawing his flesh.

Nick relented and lifted from her mouth. It hung open. Her eyes were wide with what looked like genuine surprise, almost fear. But that was ridiculous. "Um—no—wait..." she started to say but he kissed her again, cradling her head and leaning her back. Her hands clutched his shoulders for support and her fingernails dug in again.

Nick searched his wife's sweet mouth with his tongue and cupped her breast, massaging and feeling for the nipple through her dress and bra. One of her soft little hands gripped his arm when he did that, but her protests were only ever about it being an inconvenient time or whatever. He undid a button and then another, slipping his hand inside and under her bra, earning a kind of shriek and then another warm, mellow moan as he deepened the kiss once more.

This was just one of their games. She would hide and pretend to resist. He would take her anyway. There was never any question when Nick wanted to make love to his wife. He was in charge in that department and she always obliged his desire for her. He knew her protest was feigned, could see the desire and satisfaction in her eyes when he overcame her protest. She loved the power she had as a woman to make her husband desire her beyond reason, and that was why she teased him, playing demure, when in reality she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

He lifted her in his arms and dropped to the bed, still holding her. Her arms flopped aside as he knelt over her. There was a look of utter submission on her face. Her eyes were still wide but the shock and fear had gone and there was a blank, dreamy light to them. Her lips were wet and reddened where he had smeared the light lipstick she usually put on before he came in for dinner. Her mouth was slightly open and very kissable.

Nick stood and ripped his belt open. "Dinner's fine for a bit isn't it, sweetheart?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes just lowered as he tugged his jeans and shorts down, his erection springing free to lever, engorged and rigid. Her eyes widened and lifted to meet his again.

"Dress on or off?" he asked, grinning at her.

She said nothing. She just peered down at herself then looked up again. Fire was glowing in those hazel depths, raising his desire to a fever pitch. But he played cool.

"On, eh? Okay. We can do dress-on."

He knelt and bent over the bed, moving her legs to either side of his elbows. He lifted the skirt of her dress, along with her frilly apron, up over her belly. She had on cute blue underpants. He glanced up at her wide eyes, grinning cheekily. Then he winked, and bent to bite her crotch through the thin fabric. He bit her softly, drawing the lovely scent of her sex into his nostrils. He then peeled the elastic leg of her underwear aside and licked her, eliciting a squeal and a clutch of her nails in his hair as her body writhed and her legs attempted to close.

Nick stretched the fabric clear out of the way and kissed his woman's opening deeply and tenderly, extending his tongue to taste her sweet warmth, and pressing against her inner thigh as her legs parted quite deliberately. The fingers in his hair still gripped, but they also pulled him closer. Her body undulated and her belly shuddered as he reached up her dress and grabbed a breast. He worked his hand beneath her bra to feel the soft globe without the interference of the rather rigid fabric of the pointy cup. Her chest was shuddering too. She was half moaning, half whimpering. Nick sucked on her tender folds and massaged her engorged little button. She pulled his hair and ground her opening against his mouth. He kissed her belly, lifting from his knees and getting on top of her. He kept her underpants stretched aside as he guided his penis right to her opening. Then he took her head in his hands as he rolled his pelvis and surged up inside her.

***

Anne bit the man's shoulder to stop her squeal from escaping. He was huge and his entire body was taut with muscle. It was suspended above her, his chest pressing lightly against her and his pelvis rolling, his penis spearing in and out of her.

She clung to his shoulders. Her legs were spread wide and she was trying to spread them wider. She loved this man. She didn't know him, but she knew she loved him. She could feel it in the soul of the woman she had literally become. This was her man; her husband. She could feel his deep and passionate love for her and there was a counterpart to that in the heart pounding in her chest as he thrust powerfully towards his climax. Her mind was too intensely focused, far too active to allow her own orgasm to take hold. It was there, building, but she was thinking too hard, trying to rationalise the fact that she was suddenly a farmer's wife in nineteen sixty eight.

The man on top of her tensed up, gripping her tight as his body convulsed. Anne held him, her hand seeking his hair and tenderly caressing his scalp as he expelled a breath of pure satisfaction. His muscles relaxed with that, and his weight was upon her, but it was nice to feel. She liked how heavy he was; this man who had just made love to her. It was nothing like before, those other times. The body she was living in recognized and appreciated this attention. The mind she had brought with her was stunned by the pleasure. If she could have relaxed into it...

She stroked his hair while he recovered and came down from his high. He rolled aside a little, allowing her to close her legs and breathe. It took effort.

"You must be hungry?" she asked. She didn't even know his name.

"Starving, baby," he answered, kissing her and seeking her eyes.

His were almost transparent. They were the clearest grey/green eyes Anne had ever seen. They were amazing; completely hypnotic to look into. It had been his eyes that had taken her, had ended her weak protestations. She had been his to take as he pleased, right from that first kiss.

He slipped down and kissed her still exposed belly. "What do you think? Any chance?" he asked, winking cheekily again.

It was obvious what he was referring to. Anne had no idea if there was any chance. "I don't know—maybe." What part of my menstrual cycle am I in? Can you even fall pregnant when you're having an out-of body, into other body, time travelling experience?

The absurdity of the situation had been pushed aside, but it resurged within Anne. She watched the guy pull his jeans and a fresh shirt on, this one a green plaid that clung to his bulging muscles and brought a hint of darker green to his eyes. The thought floated across her mind that she'd picked out that shirt, and liked when he wore it.

"You look great," she said, without reflection, and then coloured at the intimate comment, not to mention the passionate lovemaking they'd just shared. This was the husband of the girl in the photo, who was Anne, but not.

He smirked at her and combed his hair in front of the mirror. She sat up on the mauve and white comforter that they, in their hurry, hadn't even bothered to pull back. Her clothing was askew, her body half exposed. She blushed deeper and pulled her bra back into place. The crotch of her underwear was soaked, but there was still dinner to get to before it spoiled completely. She had seen a big free-standing porcelain bathtub when she was looking for a place to hide, and the thought of soaking in that after dinner was nice. Her apartment only had a shower, as had the motel room; assuming either of those even existed in this alternate universe.

Anne's husband chatted about the farm all through dinner. The food had been superb, just the way she would have made it under ordinary circumstances, with herbed butter up under the chicken's brown and crackling skin, rich buttery gravy to be ladled over potatoes, and garden fresh green beans, lightly boiled but still crunchy, with a sprinkle of salt. The commonality between cooking in 1968 and 2013 was reassuring, and the familiar flavours comforted her greatly. Her husband devoured his meal with the enthusiasm only a young husband who worked hard with his hands could muster, and she took a great deal of pleasure out of watching him relish the meal, taking big bites between snatches of chatter.

She learned that she worked at the diner she had seen, and that information only added to her confusion. She had remembered the place when she had seen it on Friday.

"Did Alf end up putting the truck up on the roof, sweetheart? I bet he will. It's a bloody good idea to set the place off and draw in more trucks... make it into a full-on truckers' stop."

"Yes, I think he will," Anne answered, smiling through gritted teeth, desperate not to say anything that didn't make sense. As weird and crazy as the experience was, she did not want to spoil it. She had done a full pirouette in the kitchen to try out her legs; a full ballerina-style spin that came so naturally she wondered if 'Patricia' had taken ballet lessons.

Then, dinner over, the man went into the living room to relax.

"Are you coming, baby?" he asked her.

"I'll be there soon. I'd like to take a bath first."

He turned, his pale eyes glowing again. "Good idea. Get yourself all nice and soft and relaxed." He winked.

Anne felt heat rising in her cheeks again, and with a quick nod, hurried away.

In the bathroom, she turned the taps on the cast iron tub. It had separate faucets for hot and cold, and she adjusted the water flow as best she could, hoping to get the right combination. Then, as though drawn by a magnet, she walked over to the vanity, a wall mounted piece with a sink in the centre and two rows of drawers running down the side. It was supported above the floor by three thin metal legs. The legs and countertop were yellow to match the walls. The drawer fronts were white. Mounted on the wall above was a large round mirror orbited all the way around with smaller circles of reflective glass.

Anne looked deeply into her eyes. She studied the pupil, the soft hazel iris, gold in the centre with green rimming the outer edge, the two shades blending in between; the expression of warm, caring intent behind it. She realized she and Patricia as one and the same person. The connection was real and distinct. How it could occur, and how on earth she could materialise in a past life or whatever it was? That was beyond Anne's ability to comprehend.

But since she had no idea what had caused this, how to end or extend it, the only choice was to enjoy it. That would be no hardship. In this life, she was happy in a way that modern Anne could scarcely imagine. It was like a dream.

The feel of the hot water as she sank into the tub was perfectly real though. The tension caused by her confusion melted away until she was like a puddle. Her head fell back against the cool porcelain that covered the iron, the curved lip on the tub cradling her neck the way her husband's hand had earlier, when he'd kissed her into eager submission. And he'd as much as told her they weren't finished. A little thrill sizzled through her belly at that thought. She would have to try harder to let go of the weird feeling and just enjoy.

She found a bar of lavender scented soap, which she lathered on a pea green washcloth, inhaling the fragrance. She smoothed it over her skin, brushing against hair follicles in need of shaving. There was a women's razor there in a basket on the side of the bath. Damned fine detail if this is a dream, she muttered as she set about beautifying the perfect legs she had acquired.

Then, rising from the bath, she dried quickly with a towel that matched the washcloth. Once the droplets of water were gone from her skin, she opened a jar of cream and smoothed it over her body, sighing a little, feeling completely relaxed.

She walked into the bedroom and opened the dresser drawers until she found what she wanted. Tossing on a sleeveless white nightgown and a pair of pretty lace panties that made her feel delicately feminine and sexy, she made her way down the hall to the living room and sat on the sofa beside her husband. He tossed one arm casually around her narrow shoulders, pulling her close to him. She leaned her head on his chest, inhaling his fragrance, loving the way his strength made her feel small and protected, utterly safe. His fingertips toyed with the ends of her hair, tugging gently, stroking, making her scalp tingle. That tingle spread down through her body. It quickly became too much, and she rose from the sofa and went to a little tufted three-legged ottoman. Without reflection she opened the lid and had to restrain herself from squealing with delight. Inside the secret storage area, there was a collection of knitting needles in all sizes; single and double sided, circular, silver and ivory. It was a knitter's dream. And nestled beside the needles were balls of the softest white yarn she could imagine. A strand extended from one of the skeins to a little half-finished rectangle in a complicated lace pattern. It would be a baby blanket when it was done, and like Anne herself, this woman knitted from her imagination, as there was no sign of a pattern sheet. She scooped up the item and scurried back to the couch, eager to continue. A quick examination showed the combination of knit, purl, yarn over, and knitting two stitches together which would yield the little bunches and openings she sought.

There was a new episode of Hogan's Heroes then I Dream of Jeannie on another channel, during which Anne knitted with quick, steady fingers, leaning against the arm of the sofa, her legs tucked up beside her. Occasionally Nick would trail a teasing finger over the arch of her foot, making her squirm and glare, which was met with an unrepentant chuckle. When the closing credits rolled, Anne's husband walked to the television and pressed the power button to turn it off. She set her knitting aside on a little end table. He took her hand, and when she stood he swept her into his arms. She placed her arms around his neck, melting in his magnificent eyes as she was carried to the bedroom.

The white nightgown covered her from shoulders to knees, but he took little notice of that. He positioned her in front of his rippling taut body, spooned to her back. His hand slipped up inside her nightgown to feel her breasts while he kissed the back of her neck. "Only one way to be sure," he whispered to her. His erection was pressing against her bottom. He had a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, tweaking as she ground back against his prominent bulge. He was not interested in her carefully selected panties either. He tugged them from her hips, and she kicked them down her legs as he shifted slightly lower and aligned his penis with the opening to her womb. It slipped through her soaking wet lips, so she tilted her pelvis forward, presenting him with a more suitable angle for penetration. She braced one hand against the wooden bedhead, then cupped the underside of his penis with her fingers, wet where they had trailed over her aroused flesh, and she guided his next thrust into her body. His front was pressed against her back, covering her with heavy male heat.

"Yeah, like that," he groaned into her hair.

"Yes, like that," she murmured in response, reaching her free hand behind her shoulder, gripping his head and holding it while his big, calloused hand moved down over her belly and his fingers parted her sex, and his thick, smooth shaft surged through.

Anne moaned, arching her back and keeping herself open and presented so he could service her as deeply as possible. His rough fingers continued rubbing and feeling into her slick folds, intensifying the stimulation down there until her orgasm overwhelmed her thoughts and her body, and thumped through her belly with such force that she actually screamed.

"Yeah, like that," he breathed into her neck and hair again, teasingly that time. He had relented with his fingers, but he was yet to climax and was still moving in and out of her. It was a slow, sensual motion. She was so completely soaked that he slipped out and through her lips a time or two, and had to use his thick fingers to reposition himself. Anne was still holding his head with her hand around the back of his neck. Her other hand was cramping, she had been gripping the comforter so hard since the peak of her orgasm.

The slow, measured thrusts of her husband's penis soon brought on another wave of orgasmic convulsions for Anne. He then began to lose the control he had been teasing her with, and he held her in place to finish himself off, depositing another serve of baby-making fluid as deep inside her as he could.

He then cuddled and stroked her, and whispered to her about how beautiful she was and how much he loved and needed her, and cradling her in his comforting warmth.

Anne's final conscious thoughts that night, as his lips pressed against her cheek, were about waking up in this wonderful new world she had found.

***Chapter 6***

Her next conscious thought was about cooking her husband breakfast. She opened her eyes to a shaft of golden sunlight touching her face and the sound of birds scuffling on the roof. She could smell aftershave lotion. There was whistling coming from the bathroom across the hall. Her belly tingled with contentment, and she had this very firm idea in mind that she needed to cook steak; that her husband liked steak and gravy for breakfast.

She got up and straightened the bed. There was a letter on the dresser that she noticed was addressed to Nick and Patricia Harper. She found the panties she had worn the night before, and pulled them on. She poked her head in the open bathroom door. "Morning, Nick."