Green Eyes

Patrick arrived home, shedding raincoat, galoshes and a quart-plus of rainwater in the mud room as he ducked out the pouring rain. His backpack, which had remained tucked under the plastic-lined jacket, was dry; the same could not have been said for anything below the knee. Fall in Oklahoma generally involves downpours that are a good approximation of the response to a three-alarm fire. The goal in such storms is to arrive at all; dry is not an option.

He said something about the vagaries of weather that was too soft to catch and stomped into the kitchen/dining area in wet stockings. His sister Jessica looked up from the stove; her face flushed from the heat. Dark hair curled away from a heart-shaped face and equally dark eyelashes framed brilliant blue eyes. She watched as he plodded down the hall to his room and shook her head sadly. She knew here brother's moods; there was nothing she could think of to say that would help.

Patrick plopped down on the bed, heedless of the protesting squeak of the springs. Stripping off the socks he threw them angrily into the hamper in the corner of the room, and followed them with his pants, sodden to the knee. A pair of sweats had already been laid out by Jess and he pulled the soft cotton on gratefully. Jessica was the one bright spot in his life, he often thought. How many girls with her kind of handicap would think of laying out dry sweat pants for their elder brother? It wasn't fair.

Jessica had been lamed ten years before; a fall from a tree had led to a broken leg, and when the leg refused to mend, further tests showed an unusual infection that had rotted the bone into sponge. Although it had at last healed, the result had been a nearly fused knee and a half-paralyzed leg. Patrick had stood by her throughout the ordeal, had fought the bully that pushed her down on the playground, had carried her books (and occasionally Jess herself) when the pain had been too much to bear. He had been the protector she needed.

Thus, when the news came to the school for fifteen-year-old Jess and seventeen-year-old Patrick that both of their parents had been involved in a car accident, it seemed only natural for him to fight for custody, to become her guardian. He had totted up his assets, which included a strong back and endless endurance, had said farewell to a career in medicine and had promptly found a job in construction. To Jessica had fallen the task of keeping house; her left leg proving only a moderate nuisance as she cooked and cleaned, did laundry and dishes, worked and studied. Her impending graduation was not far off and she was determined to find a way to send Patrick back to school.

Dinner was quiet. Jessica's homemade soup and biscuits, both culled from her grandmother's box of recipes, were a family favorite. Over dessert (strawberry shortcake), Jess finally worked up the courage to ask what had happened at the workplace that had led to Patrick's raging entrance.

It had been Pam, of course. Pam, she of the red hair and green eyes, was the secretary for Patrick's boss and was the object of lust for many of the construction crew. Twenty-seven, curvaceous, a flirt and (Jessica's opinion) no better than she should be, Pam had been teasing Patrick for months. Today had been only the latest in her list of little digs.

She had been wearing a shirt that would probably not have been business acceptable for a brothel, much less a company, and a skirt so short as to not even merit the term "mini." Over this, she had draped a man's work shirt, the top three buttons undone, as though to pretend to some sort of modesty totally alien to her mindset. Upon Patrick's entrance to get the work assignments for his crew, she had "accidentally" dropped her pencil and had had to crawl under the desk to retrieve it, waggling her bum as though offering a flag to a bull.

Patrick had lost his temper, called her a couple of names that women do not like to hear, and had reduced Pam to tears. Had Patrick been a less conscientious worker, or had Mr. Dupree been less aware of Pam's behavior, that might have sufficed to see him ousted. As it was, Mr. Dupree had ordered Patrick home for three days to cool down, sans pay. Pam had received similar treatment.

Jessica offered a few words of comfort, but the truth was, she wasn't sure how to help. Had Pam been there, Jessica would probably have tried to beat her senseless; without said target, there really wasn't much of an alternative. Tentatively, she suggested that Patrick might want to go down to the local bar for a round or two (he had turned twenty-one a month ago), but the suggestion fell on deaf ears as Patrick continued to seethe in a stew of anger and sexual frustration. He stalked off to bed early.

Those who have gone to bed in such states are probably fully aware that dreams are born of these thoughts. So it was with Patrick, as the darkness of rage and horniness swirled into a miasma of shifting colors and a laughing, teasing vixen with red hair and green eyes. But the dream gentled as he chased her, as though the chase itself had left the anger, the hurt, the bitterness behind. Dark swamps gave way to brilliant meadows of grass and an array of wildflowers, and the flame-haired vixen now capered and danced and teased with a look of promise and admiration in her green eyes and without any more clothing than a dusting of pollen across her body. The smell of wildflowers poured through the meadow, dancing on the nose and tongue.

Patrick advanced on her. The sun poured golden light along her alabaster form, picking out the freckles that played dot-to-dot across her breasts, awakening her hair to scarlet flame, glinting on her curving hips and illuminating the red-thatched swell at the apex of her long slender legs. His body, nude now as well in the manner of dreams, swelled rampant with desire. She acted coy, turning her face to peep through her hair, letting her tresses cascade down to cover her nipples, now swollen and dark with her own interest. Three times he reached for her, twice she slipped just out of reach, but the third time his hands closed about her upper arms and she came willingly to him.

There was no long preparation; the chase and the meadow had been all the foreplay either wanted. She went down, and he was on top of her, her legs spreading to accommodate him, her mound pushing wetly into his crotch. He found her opening without trouble, pushed in to her, was unsurprised to find her canal tight, yet warm, welcoming and yielding. He thrust deep into her, feeling the resistance as she stretched to accommodate him and he cursed himself for not letting her adjust to his size more slowly and held himself still until she was ready.

Ready she was, her hips rolling, drawing him in deeper, angling him so that he was better aimed to plunder the depths of her secret ways. Her breasts brushed against his chest, her hands gripped his hips, tugging him, urging him to take her with all the passion she could contain in her slender frame. He moved, she gasped, as the scent of the wildflowers rose around them and the odor of her arousal twined a spicy counterpoint to them.

Slowly at first, letting her adjust, drawing out the pleasure drop by seeping drop until she could stand it no more and her restless hands urged him faster, faster. He plowed into her, she bucked back, meeting his stroke halfway, pushing him to go deeper, harder, to take her utterly in his invasion. She went rigid, shuddering as her orgasm swept over her and he slowed, stroking softer to give her a chance to recover, but she did not let him wait for long. Hoarse cries burst from her throat as he ran deep, his own ragged breathing a thunder in his ears, the grip-and-slip of her inner muscles driving him into completion. He stared into her impossibly green eyes, filled with passion, brightened and drugged with pleasure.

With his own cry of capitulation, he spewed himself into her, his eyes closed, taking the memory of her emerald eyes rolling back as she surrendered again to the tidal wave of climax...and the scouring orgasm snapped him awake into the darkness of his bedroom.

He looked down to see a woman trapped beneath him, the scent of wildflowers and sex pervading the room and, in a heart-shaped face, a pair of passion-hazed brilliantblue eyes.