Darla Farnsworth, Local Bitch

To the Reader:

This story (8 book pages) follows the relationship that grows between the local high school bitch and one of her fellow students as he rescues her from a sprung animal trap out in the wilds.

The Romance Genre' is defined by story content: Initially two people meet, they experience disagreement, dislike, sometimes even bitterness, but circumstances of the story's plot drive them together, and during it's course, they find at least the beginning of happily-ever-after (HOA)

***

Darla Farnsworthy was damn good looking, and she knew it. She was also the bitch from hell.

Every person in Johnsonville's little high school with a pair of balls seemed to have made a bet with himself he could successfully date her and thus win the school's 1977 Stud of the Year Award. But all gave up 'before the movie', took her home, and for months afterward reinforced her reputation.

Another factor in play here was these guys didn't need Darla. The other pretties in our school more than willingly took up the slack, so these School Stud contestants voluntarily removed themselves from the I'll get Darla Into Bed competition and went their merry way, circulating among the more accommodating candidates.

Darla's parents worried about her, I learned later, as any parents would worry about their daughter who seemed so unhappy: a date now and then, all of which ended in disaster that quickly spilled over emotionally onto the rest of her family. After her eighteenth birthday, her unhappiness continued its gallop in this undesirable direction, making life at the Farnsworthy home progressively more miserable every passing day. Donald Farnsworthy had more than he could handle, and told his wife so. At its present decay rate, their marriage wouldn't stand the strain much longer, and he knew it.

"What are we going to do, Don?"

"I don't know, but I gotta figure out something."

Mrs. Farnsworthy shook her head in baffled agreement.

"Maybe I should dump her off somewhere on the streets of the Fillmore District one dark night with no money, naked except for a pair of your spike heels, and then let those street thugs up there bang some sense into her. Maybe that would solve her problem."

"Oh, no!"

"Well?"

A smile crept across her face. A quick, if not initially agreed-upon screw with her husband of now twenty years had certainly changed her life. Amazing what two college freshmen could learn about life and each other in the grounds-keeper's storeroom during the second half of the season's first football game!

He saw that smile on her face and knew exactly its source. From college, she'd followed him back to his tiny hometown and become That lady behind the counter at Farnsworthy's Grocery & General Store. He often marveled that he could have been so lucky. Like Darla--whose name they chose because it sounded short for Darling--his wife, Bessie, was beautiful. That she was blonde, too, didn't hurt. In his eyes she was worthy of that description by a huge margin. To everyone who met her, Mrs. Farnsworthy was a darling, too.

How his genes when mixed with Bessie's could have produced the daughter they'd spawned within nine months of that football game dumbfounded him. Luckily, their three sons appeared to have dodged the bitch virus and would turn out successful.

Me? I was just another boy in Darla's high school class, a pretty good looking one, if I say so myself. (At least my mother said I was.) 6'-2, dark curly hair, good physical condition, with a young James Garner sort of face.

In Mid-July of 1977 when we'd both graduated and turned eighteen, Darla made the huge mistake of getting all over me about something that was entirely her doing. As that played out, I vowed either she would apologize and be decent about it or suffer the consequences.

That Saturday afternoon, I took a spur-of-the-moment trip to our local river--a slow-moving creek, really, that wound the length of our valley--thinking I might plink some with my graduation present .22 cal. rifle, then wet a hook and see if anything bit. To get there, I rode my new-to-me Yamaha 80 Enduro fifteen miles down a dirt road, about halfway to the next town. I touched off a dozen .22 rounds at tin cans, just to watch them jump while hanging from a handy wire fence. From there, I rode another mile further to a place I knew I could easily get from the road to the creek. I retrieved my pole and rifle, then headed through the creek-side willow thickets to the water.

What did I find as I emerged on the water side of that string of thickets? Darla Farnsworthy, naked except for ankle-high boots, standing on the creek-side gravel beach, and apparently preparing to take an uninvited swim. I don't know why she tried to cover herself, but she did, which really surprised me. It also gave me a great look at what her teenie-weenie bikini didn't hide.

"Get out of here!" she screamed at me.

I just stood where I was; I had more right to be here than her. Far as I knew, my Uncle Barney Lewis owned this strip of creek-bottom. That was one reason I chose this location for my fishing attempt in lieu of property back up the road a ways.

"Get out of here!" she continued screaming (evidence of a very limited vocabulary, I concluded).

So I stood there a while longer, while she continued screaming the whole time. But I'll admit, her vigor tapered off some when I didn't respond, and every once in while, she'd do something with her right foot. She kept looking at me like I should take an interest in her and whatever she was doing.

I ignored her, but instead climbed onto a rock overhang from where I might see what her foot-fiddling business was all about.

Once up there with a mostly clear view of her, I cleared the remaining cartridges out of my Ruger 10--22, and locked its breechblock open with a handy stick of brush cut from the closest bush. After that, I pointed the rifle's scope at her foot. The scope's 9-power magnification showed what her problem likely was. She'd stepped completely into a cocked, and now sprung, 10 inch, long-spring, muskrat trap in the only orientation she could have that didn't take all the hide and flesh off her dainty, booted ankle. Compounding her predicament? Whoever set that trap had stapled its tether chain to a downed log, so without tools, she was anchored there for the duration.

So? What should I do?

I climbed back off the rock and walked toward her.

"Don't shoot me!" she screamed before I got within fifty yards of her.

"Look bitch. You're not worth the five cents the bullet would cost."

"You can't talk to me with language like that. My parents will have you thrown in jail."

"I just said that, and they won't, so go fuck yourself. I know your parents; they're not assholes like you."

That stopped her mouth for maybe a half second before she came back with, "Get away from me, you bastard!"

So I defaulted to complying with what she said she wanted. I headed back through the willow thicket toward my transportation. I did so to make her believe she was left there alone to help herself out of her predicament. What I did instead, was climb the back side of another rock outcrop, bringing me up to where I could watch her without being seen.

She went through all the standard, useless female motions, jerking the chain binding her to that cottonwood log, crying, screaming, cussing like I still cannot believe a girl that good looking could, and finally sitting down and weeping. I had a powerful urge to go help her, but I knew deep down, she had not yet reached the 'grateful for assistance' personality stage.

When I guessed it was three o'clock, I climbed back through the thicket and made my presence known, in spite of the uncultured insults she hurled at me.

"You bastard! You better help me. If I die here, you'll fucking go to jail."

I just ignored that, too. Instead, I found another piece of that log her trap was stapled to, and sat down. When she didn't clean up her act after a while, I stood, shook my head, climbed through the thicket again, then hiked to my bike, started it, and rode away.

I suppose it was getting on toward five o'clock when I rode back down there, parked my bike, and hiked over to where she would be on the other side of the willows. But I didn't go all the way. After perhaps a half hour dinking around carving willow-stick frog-forks and practicing one-man Mumblety-Peg, I walked back to my bike, started it up, and rode away once again. She must have heard its engine; its un-muffled exhaust pipe was pretty loud.

By six-thirty my healthy boy's body was telling me I needed food, so I had a choice to make: Head home for supper, or stick around here in Uncle Barney's creek-side pasture and hope Darla suddenly grew up. It was a tough chance, and with her being the heroine in distress, the odds in her favor looked pretty thin. I did luck out, though, remembering a Hershey Bar I'd stuffed into my bike's handle-bar bag that morning for an afternoon snack. So, I headed back to my bike.

Now, how could I make this most meaningful to Miss Darla, The Bitch, Farnsworthy?

I took my candy bar with me, crawled through the willows to her again, and made myself known. But she hadn't softened much yet, so I sat on my log again and ate my candy bar. Almost with glee, I watched her drool.

I was down to my last bite when she none-to-politely demanded, "Give me some of that!"

I only stood, plopped the last of it into my mouth, turned away, and crawled back through the thicket. Just as I came through the back side of the willows, I heard her scream, "You bastard! You miserable bastard! You miserable, cock-sucking bastard!"

Well, that sounded as if I had judged her mind-set correctly, meaning it had not yet improved significantly. I jumped on my bike again and rode away.

For my next return, I walked back a half mile from where I parked my bike this time to where I'd been parking it previously, then walked further on to where I climbed atop my second rock overlook again. There she was, still down there, and not gaining any progress toward escape. As the evening mosquitoes now descended upon her, I continued to watch. With that tiny bikini, there was no way she could swat them fast enough. She was vicious with them, though, I'd giver her that. But they were getting the upper hand, which struck me as a terrible waste when I looked at her quite nice, suntanned body. But I could understand the mosquitoes situation. She looked so damned tasty. I'd take a bite out of her myself, if I didn't have to put up with her attitude and language to do so.

As seven-thirty neared, the mosquitoes must have gotten their bellies full, or at least most had departed to the closest mosquito hotel for the night. Still, Darla had made no progress toward escape, but her swatting mosquitoes slowed as their bites slowed. I was greatly tempted to take pity on her, but I didn't. That would have been the worst thing anyone ever did for her right then. But, perhaps she had learned enough to deserve some small degree of hope.

After waiting and watching another quarter hour, I decided to test her. I crawled though the willows again, making plenty noise as I got close to her. There was a hopeful and relieved look on her face this time.

"You scared me," she said. "I thought you might be a cougar or a bobcat coming to get me--or my corpse."

I shook my head.

"Anyway, I'm glad you came back, Dale." Yes, now she was pouring on the sweet little girl bait.

"Still stuck, I guess?"

She nodded. "Please help me or go get help? Don't leave me here all night? I know I've been a jerk, but please?" She gave another ineffective pull on the muskrat trap's chain. "I can't get it loose. Please?"

"Why should I?"

"'Cause you're a nice guy. Everybody says so."

"And what about you?"

"I'm a bitch. I realize that now. But I don't want to be a bitch anymore."

So? Did I believe her? No, not really. At least not yet. I shook my head.

"Please?"

Still I shook my head.

"I'd be real nice to you?" Oh, that dripped with sugar!

I shrugged.

"Don't you believe me?"

I shook my head again

"How can I prove it?"

I still shrugged. "You could take off that stupid bikini. I guess that might be a start."

Shock darted across Darla's face.

I shrugged again and turned as if I would head back through the thicket.

"No, Please! Wait! Don't go, Dale. I'll take it off."

I didn't find it necessary to say or do anything further to get compliance. Within a few seconds, there she stood: naked--except for her boots, the trap, and some sort of gold chain around her neck--and mosquito bites.

"I'm going to itch all over tomorrow from all those damned mosquitos."

"Lots of them out tonight."

After a moment, she nodded, looked down and kept her eyes averted for almost a minute. When she looked back up, she said, "You like what you see?"

"Yeah, pretty nice."

"Nice enough that you'd help me? I could treat you pretty nice in lots of ways, you know?"

I shrugged again, giving her my 'I don't know and I don't care' special shrug and pulled my lower lip between my teeth.

"Well, what have I got to do? What have I got you'd think is nice enough to be worth helping me?"

"Just be nice instead of a bitch."

"I don't want to be a bitch anymore, Dale. You already pointed out nice is better."

I gave her another shrug and a 'So?' shake of my head.

She stood up straight and held out her beckoning hands. Did she meant that to say, 'I'm yours, whatever you want?'

Should I or should I not? The eternal question, as they say in logic. "Turn around, Darla. I want my arms around you from the back and my hands on your titties."

"What?"

"What did I say?"

"Let you hug me from the back and fondle my breasts?"

"Close enough."

"Oh." It's surprising how two letters of the English language can convey so many possible meanings! But she turned her back to me and stayed put as I wrapped my arms around her, then cupped-up her breasts. Was this for real? Did she actually settle her back against my chest? Did she do that on purpose? Or had my grip on her frontal assets just make it seem that way?

For some time, I used my gentle grip to massage what filled my hands. But then she twisted in my grip, enough I could see much her face, but not far enough to empty my hands.

"You want sex, don't you, Dale?" Was there a faint Please buried in that?

Of course I did. I was a young man, for god's sake. I suppose that shown on my face.

"You get me loose, I'll give you some. In fact, I'll give you a kiss, too. Right now. Interested?"

I wasn't falling for that! And it must have shown on my face, too.

"I see--and I get it. You don't rust me."

She sure got that right!

"Well, you say how you want me. But this damned thing on my boot isn't going to make it easy, you know."

"We'll figure something out," I said, no doubt about that! The trap's tether chain wasn't that short.

"You want me bent over this log here? I think I could do that."

I shook my head. "No, I want you right here and I want you to hold me and kiss me as if we like each other--so I can see your beautiful face."

So we did, and she did a good job of it--for about ten minutes' more fondling, stroking, with lots of free-hand caressing.

When that had run its course and I'd made no further moves, she stepped back and looked down. "Why you still have your clothes on, Dale? Aren't I good enough looking for you?"

"Very nice." In fact much nicer than 'very nice'!

"Here. Let me take your clothes off. Jeans first, right?"

You can accurately guess where this went, can't you? Well, perhaps you can't. As she fiddled with my belt, we did lots more of that fondling, stroking and caressing. But when my manhood got free, she quickly dropped to her knees and picked up a handful of my exposed erection.

"You wouldn't mind, would you Dale? I never tried this before, but I think I really do want to." With that she sucked the end of me into her mouth without waiting for my answer. This was definitely better than other possibilities I'd tried, so it didn't take long before my body tensed and I gushed down her throat. She licked her lips, pulled back and smiled. "I like your juice, Dale. Thanks. I probably wasn't very good, yet, but your juice is really nice. You'll give me another chance, won't you?"

I liked giving it to her, too! But what would happen next? She looked up as if to say, 'Tell me what you want next.' I guess I dropped the ball, waited too long, but then again, that blow-job had been beyond belief!

"You want to play with my breasts more?"

Sounded like a great idea to me! "Yes. Stand up and turn around, press your back against my chest again."

She turned her back against me and did so. Even better than that, she picked up my hands and cupped them around her breasts, even more firmly this time."Um," she said. "I like that!" Her grip on my hands converted my tit cupping to squeezing and mauling. "That's even better, Dale. Rub them more, will you, please?"

So, we did that a while, all the time she rubbed her butt against my reviving erection. I won't claim I didn't enjoy it!

"You could touch me lower down," she said. Yes, I sure could!

Her hand pressing mine against her left breast released its grasp and directed my hand gently down her front. Along with that came a soft sigh that was half moan.

"Please, Dale? Your finger? Touch my clit? Please?" Yup, there it was, right where our high-school sex-ed manuals said it would be. My first touch and caress brought a gasp.

"Don't like?" I said.

"Love it. Just please, Dale. Be gentle?"

So I backed off and kept her just sighing and gently squirming against me. A few minutes passed, but as they passed, Darla's enthusiasm rose, until she reached a condition in which she was jerking around and almost hissing her sighs. I worried that trap would take all the skin off her ankle if I let this continue.

I stuck my middle finger between her pussy lips, and caressed them from top to bottom, inside to outside. Darla gasps ramped right up with my touch.

"Please, Dale? Put your finger inside? Momma said I'll like that."

So I did, the three long ones at once, but kept my thumb squeezing her lit, mauling it against the edge of my palm.

That did it. With several escalating gasps she rocketed over her summit, to collapse against me shaking, gasping, and muttering, "Oh, Dale! Oh, Dale! Oh, Dale!" ever softening, but all punctuated with exclamation points.

After five minutes of this, she regained her aplomb. "Oh, Honey, you qualify as Mr. Wonderful, I know that now." she whispered. She paused a moment, then whispered more strongly, "Want a pussy fuck next?" she said. "After what you just did, you deserve one--in fact you deserve a dozen or two." I heard a smile in her voice.

It had been some time since I'd had a full-up pussy fuck, so why not? I nodded.

"I think I can straddle this log," she said. "Want to try that?"

"Might as well."

In a moment she had it figured out in spite of the trap chain's limitations, and was sprawled face-down on the log. Well, this wasn't what I expected, but the sight before me looked just as great as I'd imagined.

"What about not making babies, Darla?"

"Six month shots. You okay with that?"

"Really no, I'm not. Not yet."

"Don't trust me?"

"Not yet."

"Then what do you want, Dale? I'll give you anything you want. Please, just take it."

"How about your ass? That can't knock you up."

"Okay ... if that's what you want." The fact her whisper included, 'I'd rather you pussy fucked me,' kept me cautious about her underlying motives, somewhere in the back of my mind.