Halloween in the Hollow

When I tired of riding him, leveraging off my bended knees, he took over, lifting me up and pulling me down, rotating me back and forth, side to side, and in circles on the shaft, working me with his cock, lifting me high enough to pull out of me, rub his bulb on my clit, and then pull me down again, moving up inside me deep. I let myself go limp, concentrating on being as open to him as possible.

I cried out in ecstasy as I exploded for him, shuddering again and again in explosion after explosion. He encircled my back with an arm, lowering my face to his, taking me in a deep kiss—but his shaft, still hard, continued moving inside me. He pumped faster and harder. I was flopping around on top of him, riding him like he was a bull, which he was. He pushed me up to the heights and I exploded again and again—before, at last, he tensed, growled, and blasted me deep with his cum. I never knew a man could have so much cum in him. But then I'd never been fucked without protection before.

* * * *

When I came back down the drive to where the Mustang was, Lawrence was just closing the hood of the Mustang. He was alone. None of the men had passed me on the dark road and pathway up to the house. He turned and looked at me, thankfully not asking what I'd been doing at the farmhouse, acting as if I'd never been away from his side.

"There, that should fix that," he said. "It wasn't as bad a problem as I thought it would be. So, I guess you didn't find any sign of life up the drive. No problem, it's fixed now." He turned and smiled at me, and said, "Shall we get on with it?"

Without comment, a bit confused, but not anxious to ask him anything lest he asked me about . . . everything . . . I folded myself back into the car and we proceeded the rest of the way down the mountain and across the valley to Harrisonburg. I don't know where his thoughts were, but mine were back there with Tommy Dean and on riding his glorious cock. I had been wanton, but I had no regrets—well, not many.

Lawrence pulled the Mustang over to the curb in front of my Harrisonburg apartment building. "I would walk you to your door, but . . ." He gestured to the grease and oil soiling his clothing and gave me a puppy dog look. Obviously, he wanted me to tell him to come in regardless.

"Certainly you must come in," I said, opening the passenger door of the Mustang convertible and putting one foot out onto the pavement. "Please come in. You can clean yourself up—take a bath—at my place before going home."

You can't be any more inviting then that, and he almost wagged his tail in gratefulness. I was mellow from the sex with Tommy Dean, but that didn't mean that I couldn't handle more. The young mountain man had just whetted my appetite for it. I'd thought of nothing by Tommy Dean inside me all the way back from the mountains.

Lawrence sat there on a stool at my kitchen bar, clothed in my terrycloth robe after he'd taken his bath. He was sipping a scotch and giving me that puppy dog "in need" look again. I'd continued with wine. I leaned forward from my stool for a kiss, and I felt him flinch as I brushed open the robe with a hand and took possession of his hard shaft with his hand.

He groaned as I went down on my knees and took him in my mouth.

Later, stretched out on my bed, both of us naked, he was cradling me in his arms, his free hand tracing circles around my nipples, making me sigh and shudder. He was masterful. Natalie hadn't lied about that. He was giving me plenty of attention before the main event. His hand glided down my belly and to my thighs. He stroked my inner thighs and I spread them for him, as he worked his way to the center of me.

"Yes," I murmured, and he understood I was surrendering to his wishes.

He was inside me with two fingers, and I moved with him, groaning, bucking against the penetration. We were going to do this.

"Yes!" I cried out more insistently.

I was moaning, in blissful anticipation and open to him, as Lawrence moved over on top of me, took my wrists in his hands and forced my arms over my head, slid inside me, and began to pump. Natalie had been right. He was very, very good. He established a rhythm and then went off rhythm for a few strokes to send my hips into overdrive and to make me boil. Then I'd lie back in half exhaustion as he went back into the regular rhythm, but I'd be keyed up for the next frenzied assault that would take me to the edge. I would go over the edge, but he would continue working me, and I realized there was another edge beyond that one. That said, he wasn't Tommy Dean—he was hard, but not as hard at Tommy Dean; he wasn't as thick as Tommy Dean; he didn't have the stamina or thrust of Tommy Dean—and that's who I thought of as I melded to and moved with Lawrence in a languid coupling.

Later, as we lay there, side by side again, Lawrence cradling me in his arms again, and tracing circles around my nipples with his fingertips, he murmured, "Larry doesn't usually act up like this."

"Larry?"

"The car."

Of course. Lawrence had named his car. And more of course—he'd named it after himself.

"Tomorrow. At the university? There are places we could meet. But, of course, we shouldn't act as if we're—"

"It's Saturday already. I don't have any classes today," I answered. "I won't be going to the university."

"Pity, I will be there."

Yippee, I thought. A day will naturally be put between now and the future with Lawrence. He is good, but he's no Tommy Dean. He obviously wanted me to reconsider—to show I couldn't get enough of him—and to say I'd go the university tomorrow if he wanted me to. I didn't say that, though.

He slid fingers into the folds of my labia again, and I moaned deeply as he began the foreplay all over again. My resolve melted. "But tomorrow night. You can come for dinner, if you like. 7:30? And you can stay the night, if you like."

He laughed a low, guttural laugh. "Deal," he murmured as he moved his body down the bed, and his head between my thighs. Grasping his head in my hands, I gasped and began rocking against his face. For several minutes, all I could do was pant hard, groan, and mark the levels of pleasure he was moving me up until, with a cry, I exploded for him.

He moved back up the bed to stretch out beside me, but he kept a hand cupping my sex, a finger inside me, his thumb on my clit. I continued to experience waves of pleasure.

He cleared his throat and spoke. "When you do return to work . . . you won't . . ."

"I won't mention the mishap or this at the university," I said. I was no Natalie. "I'll only say how divine going to a concert up at Wintergreen and watching the sun set behind the Alleghenies was." I tactfully didn't include having spent the time with him—not that I wasn't enjoying this time I was spending with him.

"Splendid," he said. I don't know if he didn't want me to say his beloved Mustang had broken down in the mountains and we were thrown on the mercy of hillbillies in the hollows—if that had even happened; I was hazy on that and getting hazier by the minute—or if he didn't want me to reveal that he had had his way with me. And he'd certainly had his way with me—was having his way with me.

Either way, he could bet I wouldn't be talking much about this date—especially the part about how much I'd forgotten myself up at the farmhouse in the hollow and how sluttish I'd been. Not that I had any regrets about that.

I was fully sober now, and I wasn't completely clear about the particulars of the night, but I had no trouble remembering the essentials.

He had withdrawn his hand and was running his fingers on my inner thighs again, sending chills up my spine, and, slut that I was, I parted them fully to give him full access, which he took advantage of.

"Yes, oh yes," I whispered again in a throaty voice.

I arched my back and lifted my pelvis to him as he fingered me deep. He was hard again, and I rolled on top of him this time, held him in position, descended on his cock, and began to ride him. He was satisfying, more so than when he was on top of me, because I was using his shaft now to establish my own rhythms and to rub myself with his bulb where and when I wanted—but, again, he was no Tommy Dean.

When he came, he was no Tommy Dean either. He was sheathed and one and done. Tommy Dean had taken me raw and blasted me again and again and again.

* * * *

Looking for—and then finding—the farmhouse deep in the hollow of the Blue Ridge Mountains. above Sherando Lake, in the daylight and sober wasn't anything like I remembered it at night half looped and more than half out of control. When I was there—if "there" was the house I'd been looking for—some things about the walk into the farmhouse from the road and about the old farmhouse once I'd gotten to it seemed familiar. But in greater part, something was "off" and not as I thought it would be. The grounds were more overgrown, the walk from the road was both longer and not in quite the same direction as I remembered it. There was little evidence that a car had broken down at the entrance to the drive toward the house. Lawrence had come away with more grease and oil on him than I could see evidence of on the ground where I was sure the car had died.

The house I found seemed more derelict than the one from the previous night. The wood was more worn. More was broken or missing. The house leaned precariously. Surely the house from the previous night didn't lean toward the east as this one did. Most different—and disappointing—was that this house had obviously been abandoned, and abandoned some decades earlier. Last night there had been a family here. There had been lantern light. There had been a father and two sons going off with Lawrence to help get his car going again. There had been a weary mother canning tomatoes.

There had been a disarming and compelling young man sitting on the porch, rocking, and singing seductive songs in a sweet, low baritone.

Today this house was empty—long abandoned, long unloved. Lifeless.

I gingerly climbed up to the porch, afraid I would go through the rotting floorboards with each step. There were two rockers, one on each side of the door, just as the previous night. But neither of them looked like they would support the weight of a child, let alone me . . . or Tommy Dean. I remembered his name today. Last night, as Lawrence drove me home, I found I'd forgotten it—and not being able to surface it had driven me mad. What was real and what wasn't? Today I knew his name was Tommy Dean. That seemed so real. But there was no evidence of him or his guitar on the porch now, in the light of day.

The front door screening was shredded, just like the previous night. The interior I could see from the door was as bleak as it had been in the night. Even then it had had an abandoned, unwanted, unloved look. I looked into the dining room, beyond the living room, building up the courage to do so. No deer carcass. There was a hook in the ceiling there, but there wasn't any blood on the floor under it. Had there been a pan under the hanging carcass last night? I couldn't remember. Had there even been a hanging deer carcass? Who hangs the carcass of a deer in their dining room? What was real? What wasn't?

There certainly was at least one thing real about last night, I thought, blushing at the thought of it.

I entered the house and moved to the kitchen, beyond the dining room. The woman had been canning tomatoes, she'd said. There certainly should be evidence of that in the kitchen. There wasn't. There wasn't even any evidence that canning could be done in there. There was an old hand-crank water pump over the sink. I went over and cranked it. A thin stream of water resulted. At least that worked. Sort of.

I stood, leaning against the sink, breathing heavily and trying to reason it out in my mind. Was there another house out here I'd missed—a near duplicate? There had been one drive in from the road, which split. It was possible—even likely—that two houses had been built back here on the same plan at one time and that I'd found the wrong one today.

But would the outbuildings added over time be the same? There was one that was vivid in my mind.

I turned and hurried through the house, out to the porch, and down into the yard. There, instinctively, I turned to the right and strode down a path to a shed off to the side. I stopped and regulated my breath and willed my heart to stop thumping at the door before pushing the door open and entering the small space.

It was what I expected—what I remembered—but, once again, more deteriorated and dusty and with a greater a sense of abandonment than the previous night. Still, the double bed was there and the old, yellowed mattress. But there was no bedding between a single sheet not big enough to cover the bed. I couldn't be sure. And I'd been buzzed on wine last night—and off my guard. Most important, there was no one here. I wouldn't have come up here at all today if I hadn't thought he'd be here.

But he obviously wasn't here. Maybe I'd never been here either.

I was about to leave when I saw it, draped over a straight chair, picked out by a beam of light from an open window.

A scarf. A Monet-patterned scarf. The lily pond motif. The scarf I kept losing.