For a Song Pt. 02

She's tired. No surprise. I would be tired too if I was her. I would be exhausted every hour of every day. Maybe pleasantly so, but still. All of the pretenses are gone as she sits with me, head on my shoulder. Her hair is still up in a simple braid, chestnut brown and a little frayed at the edges. I think it looks amazing. Her hands are snaking around my waist and pulling me close. No time for anything more, even as I want to take things slow.

"I have some things to say before we do any of this," I whisper.

"You're not staying," she says, matter of fact, "No shit. You're not the type to stay. I don't mind. I just need something, y'know? And you're one of the better ones to come on by."

"Mind if I ask how it happened? Your husband, I mean?"

"Little bit. I don't want to talk about him before we do this. Joyce is a heavy sleeper at least. We can have some fun."

I almost don't want to, in a way. There is a lazy afternoon ahead of us and we don't need to sully it with something so crass. A hand crawls up my thigh and suddenly I think that is a perfectly fine way to spend a nap that isn't ours. I put my hand on her shoulder. She's tense. It's a long tense. It's been that way for months if not years since she's had a chance at this particular act. I don't mind. There is a pressing need, almost an impatience to her touch. She is pressing into me, looking at the fields of sprouts and wondering why we are not naked and withing and clawing at each other like beasts. It's mostly because I feel that doing it out in the open might get the neighbors talking. These are the types of neighbors that talk and gossip and do all sorts of nasty things with a sugar smile. I pull her in close and plant a light kiss on her cheek.

"No kissing," she murmurs, "Not unless you plan to stay and become a farmer."

"I'm afraid that's not in the cards," I sigh. Shame. Kissing is arguably the most fun part.

I stand and do not bother to hide my excitement. Shelby takes one more look and decides that the suggestion will lead to a good time as she stands with me, taking my hand in hers and leading me away to somewhere a bit more reserved.

It's a shed. Not quite, though. A bit too big to be a shed, but nowhere near a barns level of girth. I shall call it a shed. I hope the spiders inside do not mind our intrusion. They have such important business to attend to with their spinning and weaving. Shelby does not share my concern, barging in with a bit more enthusiasm than I thought she had. Desperate, it seems. I don't blame her.

Despite her recent warning, she is kissing me, mostly on the collar bone, nipping at the skin, pulling and tearing. I feel her teeth try and pierce and make me bleed. A literal hunger, probably. It makes it difficult to pull my shirt off, if I am honest. And she seems to want my shirt off. Her hands go under and touch my stomach.

"What do you do, Dumile," she whines, "to get something like this? All the men I know have too much beer in them to have this."

"Not drink beer for one," I sigh, managing to take my shirt up to my chest at least, "More of a wine man."

"Of course, you are. I can tell by your hands. They're too soft."

"Do you want them rougher?"

"Little bit."

I can't accommodate her in the way she means, but I do have something. My shirt is off, and I am before her in all my glory. I like her eyes, the way they catch the sunbeams and point them towards me. I am trapped in her with the dusty tools and the spiders in the corner. I will not leave her unless the world ends. I can probably break a wall if need be. The look she gives me says we will.

I take her chin in my hand and pull her up, let her feel my strength. I may not have the right callouses, but I have something. I can lift. I can push. I can pull. And I make her look at me and my cocky grin. It's a challenge to her now. She can wipe it off very easily. She just has to do the right motions. She smirks and I think she figured it out.

The first of which is joining me in bare chested solidarity. And she does. Her chest is bound with tight cloth and that's a surprise. Unwinding, untwirling, again and again and again and again, over and over and over, slowly flowing flesh from the gaps. Her breasts drop with a heavy sigh and groan. They look like they hurt.

I touch them and she sighs with utter abandon. They are heavy and swaying and filling. I roll them in my hand, and she feels my strength again. She presses into it, eyes closed and head back. It's a dance now, we share. No footwork or pageantry, but a rhythm we are setting. I want it slow. She wants it fast. It shares the same moments, and it is still in synch. Double time to half, a march to a dirge, but it still works.

Her little moment of pleasure is taken away when she drops and goes to my trousers. And they aren't around my waist anymore. My ankles were cold, and my small clothes need some attention. The smug grin is back, and her only answer is a bit of astonishment.

"Guess you should have gone down the road a bit more," Shelby says, "There's a man who breeds horses and his daughter might have a better idea on what to do."

"Daughters are always a bit tricky," I shrug, "I'm already here anyway. And you're there. I assume you know what the next step is. I can show you if you're scared."

Such an obvious bait and she falls for it easily. Purposefully or not, doesn't really matter. My cock is about to get sucked and it's almost impossible to lose in that scenario. Almost. The awe is gone and there is just the challenge met and gained.

Her lips pant on the tip for a moment and that is everything I need right now. I inhale and let it go like a rush of wind. There is nothing else other than right here, right now. She takes her time with surface, for a moment. There are kisses and nuzzles and loving glances with soft cheeks that all work wonderfully for me. He is experienced with the act, if a little out of practice. We have time now, working through the motions and the strokes and the rhythms. All that eagerness has given way to something a little more cautious. There are monsters out there, and there is only so much that reckless charging ahead can accomplish.

I take a hand to her head and find the part in the hair. She shakes her head, and my hands go away. Kind of don't know what to do with it now. Twiddle my thumbs maybe, play a game of five finger fillet, work on my card tricks. All that slips away when her lips part and engulf me in earnest.

There is still a terrible amount of rust on the act, but I am not complaining. She has forgone any pretense of slowly growing accustomed. There is an invisible clock slipping away before a new task will be at hand. The chickens will get out. The crop will turn. Joyce will wake up and go out for a swim. I am here and I am now. The next second is not a forgone conclusion. She gets about halfway before coming back up, sighing and gasping, a string bowing and breaking and dripping down her chin. One last little kiss on the tip and she's rising again. Her dress falls to the floor and then everything is right with the world.

Her stomach is flat, for the most part. There is softness there, at the edges, time simply smoothing things away as it always does. It settles on her hips and swells in an enticing hill. I take my hands to them, and it is just the same as what did to her chest. I grip and pull and bring her close, pressing her chest to mine and tilting her head up. I want to kiss her again, but that is not what we decided on. A little shiver runs through her, and I am through her softly, heavenly things.

Just as tight as anything I have felt, just a bit a softness over years of hard work. She is ready, her arousal flowing over me and coating the places her mouth could not quite reach. A shiver travels up the both of us as I trace her entrance, parting it along. I find the little spot she likes and lean into it a bit more. That's another shiver and a moan, burying her head into my shoulder.

"You're a bastard of a tease," she sighs.

"There is something to a slow build up," I murmur, "But maybe that's something just for princesses."

"It is. Us lowly farmers have other things to do. Cut this romantic horseshit and fuck me."

I am somewhat of an expert on words, spoken and written and sung. In my infinite expertise, I never conceived the word 'horseshit' as having any connotations where it would be either be romantic or arousing. I have been proven wrong, it seems. My length twitches, pushing into her one last time from the outside.

She does most of the work in aligning us. There isn't enough room for how I really want any of this to go, but I do not mind. We are standing together in the shrine of the forgotten spider webs, their beady eyes looking on impassively. I give her just the tip and that is enough to set everything else off.

There is still that lack of practice shining through and I do not care. She is tight and warm and welcoming, getting and growing used to everything I am. Her breath hisses through clenched teeth, tickling my shoulder and pulling a laugh from me, low and sighing.

"Shut up," she moans, "You don't get to laugh at me."

"I'm not laughing at you. But do you see why I like going slowly?"

"Yes. Shut up. Just keep going. At this point I don't care. Just keep going."

Fair call. She is ready enough for all of this, and I certainly have had my fill of being patient. I keep moving forward, feeling her stomach shift and curve as I keep going deeper. Gritted teeth and shut eyes, still that same hit ragged breath trying to find some moment of respite. A flex of her stomach hits me and halts me. She is good at that. There is something to be said for a well-toned stomach. It can pull and push and fight back so sweetly against me. I take my hands and run them over the lines of her strength. I feel myself in there. I feel the way she shivers and pushes and does all the things that want me to go deeper.

"I'm not going to break," she growls, "Actually give it to me. I'm not some porcelain doll."

"I never said you were. But sometimes it's nice to be a doll."

"I don't want to be one. Try me."

And fair. She is not a doll. Her skin is tan and worn, muscles torn and stitched back together, bones bent but never broken. She is a testament to the ravages of time and the breaking down of the body. She is a hymn on the rebellion against that inevitable march. And she is winning, in her own way. There is another of her blood running in the joyous rapture of youth. She is here with me in this worn-down hovel, rampaging in rut of springtime calls. I laugh again, for that is the only response I can give to someone I agree with so much. I laugh, because that is the only thing, I can do with something so foolish.

I give her what she wants, a few more seconds to widen my stance, adjust my grip and get myself ready for what I need. Her prodding is starting again. She Is not fragile. She is not weak. She will not break. I do not need reminding, but there is still the fact that the walls are too close. Space, wide open space with trees for walls and scant clouds for a roof, I need space.

I adjust my grip one more time, going under and over. And then I lift. I am not the only one with strength. She does help, bracing against the walls, locking her legs around my hips, doing everything to show that I do not have to do anything for her. Except move.

I thrust and hilt and find the depths of her. I stall one last time, mostly for myself to throw my head back and sigh. This is always the best part for me. I am taken in whole, a bit too abruptly, but I am engulfed and nestled, applying pressure to an entire other being. A stray hand pokes my chest, and I am brought down. Her hand, Shelby's hand. It traces my sternum, to my neck, my chin. It grabs me and pulls me back down. Shelby's eyes are wide, and her teeth are fierce. I have had my moment of weakness. There is not another second for it.

I work. I work as I did in the field, arched back and sweating under the baking heat. The shrine to the forgotten webs I intrude upon will stand my transgression. My acts of blasphemy are more important. I and rutting another and that takes precedent. I move into her every bone knitted together. And then I move back out, leaving her hollow and scoured and empty. Her ache is sublime, her turn to throw her head back into a wordless growl of satisfaction.

"Gods," she gasps, "Why did I wait? Could have gotten Owen drunk and dragged him out back."

"Do you think Owen could do this?" I murmur. I pour more strength into the act, pulling the color from her in the back of my mind. Earth, fresh earth under the rain, mixed with rainwater river blue, the budding green of new sprouts. And I paint with it, merging my golden azure emerald swirls. It calls to me and says that there are deeper hues, harsher tones, cleaner lines in slightly different angles of strokes. I speak to them and agree. They shimmer all the brighter while I work with the color.

She moans for me, tingeing that color with rosy, pink rapture. She is loud for me and that is what I like. Silence only works for the reserved, the princesses and queens of the world, preserving a false dignity that they cannot hope to ever maintain. We are all such base things in the end. My hand crawls up her spine. Her muscles flex and try to keep her upright and stable. They do it for the most part. I am there to nudge and push them up when they can't quite be there.

She screams for me in the bestial way. It's fun to pull the colors from her and then make them noise back into her. She is laughing, I believe. One of the noises she makes might be a laugh. I hope it is. This is a fun thing we're sharing. The spiders of the shed do not mind the joy as they watch on, not really understanding anything of it all.

Her legs go past me, bracing on the wall. I use it as well. Even my own strength is not so infinite. I have the help I need as I go harder into her. I watch my shape change her, bulge in her stomach, send her chest rocking back and forth, up and down, in circles with enough force to bruise and batter and break bones of the wayward form. I readjust my grip, sinking into her ass. She is a mountain of strength worn down, down to the endless rolling hills that cover horizon to horizon. Her tan skin carries the shivers of her joy like a gust of wind.

Her noise stops again and her eyes open, drawing me in. Her lips part, just a bit, and I think she wants a kiss. I don't think I can bend in quite the right way. Her fault, not mine. I wanted kissing to be on the table, mostly because this part is always so much better when the lips are occupied.

She doesn't do anything but go incredibly still. A hand goes to my stomach and attempts to halt me. It does nothing at all. I have my own ecstasy to chase and if she wants us at a distance, this is what happens.

She spasms, scraping her knees against the rough wood. There is a hiss of pain, blood red, mixed in the endless swirl of vibrant pink. I like it, in a way. Not to everyone's taste, and certainly not for every session of play, but it is there, and it can be welcome. Her climax is tight, controlled, battering me just as it batters her. My pelvis is going to break if she keeps the pressure up. The pain, the blood red pain, needs to be sharp and cutting and intense white hot for it to mix well. The dull burgundy of aches and pains doesn't go quite as well.

She is the middle of hers as I reach mine. The eyes, her eyes find me, and one last bit of reason seems to think it a bad idea to finish inside. The last bit of reason I have seems to agree, much to the chagrin of everything else. A handful of sharp cracks break the tension.

That last bit of reason did not everything through, but I do not blame it at all. It's doing its best. I pull myself horribly free. The little shed is warm from the act, save for that one bit of cool breeze glancing up my spine. My whole body pulses and spasms, everything going into the simple act of release. I slip down.

Everything gives way. I hit the floor and that is not enough to stop anything at all. My tailbone hurts and a pair of hands, one of hers, one of mine, work to coax more from me. I have enough. I have more than enough. My eyes open and I watch the strands go over the whole of her body. I paint her in the heavy seed I make for her. Her eyes go wide and simply wait for it to be over. It covers her in lakes and rivers, running over her stomach, pooling in her breasts and under her chin. I manage to work it up to her cheeks and she laughs again. There is only so much that can be done under the force I can bring. It is harmless destruction for the sake of destruction. I do not stop, even as her own peters out and she thinks again in some method of rationality. It is incredible.

The last of it pools in her things, those wonderful, heavenly thighs. I let out the breath I was holding. I didn't know it was in there. It was heavier than it thought.

The moment we have of glorious calm, where everything in the world is as it should be and the things, we do not care for are simply accepted, passes when Shelby's annoyance flairs up.

"You're cleaning this up," she says. I do not have any rebuttal.

I move my hand back to the wall. I need some help to pull myself up. That's the first step. And there is nothing there.

"You're fixing that too," says Shelby. That one, I do have a rebuttal.

"I didn't do that," I sigh, "That was your fault."

"Young man, are you talking back to me? I said you're going to fix the shed."

The echoes of my own childhood with my own mother send a cold shiver down my spine. Or it's another breeze.

"Fine," I say, still coated in seed and dust and cobwebs. The spiders look on impassively. We are not insects in the web, so we are nothing at all to them.

She does look good covered in seed, positively glowing. I am still hard, it seems. We can keep going if she forgets all the terrible things that come after. The white and dark interplay with the shadows, flowing and ripping and moving along with her movements. There is another little pull in her to go again. All the trouble can wait another hour or two or three. Or a day.

Shelby pulls away and a thick waterfall of me comes off her. She shivers and pushes more of it off, making more work for me. The moment is gone.

"If you're still here by dusk," she says, just a bit of that lingering rose in her body, "You can stay the night."

I shrug and finally come to stand. I can go for another meal, even if I have to work for it.

---

My carpentry sits there, mocking me for my subpar efforts. Not my fault. I never claimed to be a carpenter. I am good at pulling weeds. I am good at picking stones, since it is more or less the same principle. I am good at singing songs. And I am good at sex. Nailing boards is not the same as nailing broads. I understand Shelby's assumption, however. There are four walls and a roof. There is nothing else that can be asked of me.

I do get my evening meal and it is much the same as the lunch I had, with a few eggs mixed in to help shore up the hearty vegetable broth. All in all, not the worst dinner I've had made for me. Definitely needs some sort of noodle in the broth, maybe some pickled ginger and garlic on the side. I am a gourmet, and my palate is rather refined. Just like my young dining companion and their aversion to carrots. They keep glancing out the window, to avoid the not quite awkward silence that has formed between us. I think it is mostly exhaustion. We did not have an afternoon nap.

"It's going to rain tomorrow," they say, with all the certainty of the greatest professor that had the misfortune to teach.

"How long," asks Shelby without missing a beat.

"Don't know."

"Hmm."

"I'm just surprised you know it's going to rain," I say, "I never could tell."