Night of the Strawberries

The three of us cried our pleasure to sky as I alternately fucked one then the other, all of us snarling and growling as we tumbled in a tangle of arms and legs. The woman broke apart and threw themselves at me, pushing and shoving each other, their cries of anger, frustration, and desire loud as the both tried to mount me at the same time, but neither able to succeed before being dislodged by the other.

I kicked free of Margie, desperate to bury my cock in a pussy, and threw myself on Helen, driving my cock into her to fuck her furiously as the storm lashed us. Margie grabbed my hair and hauled my head back, kissing me feverishly as I continued to pound into her mother.

With a snarling growl, Margie release my lips before hauling me off her mother, Helen's nails digging deep as she tried to prevent her daughter from stealing her prize. I didn't care who I was fucking, so long as I was fucking. Turning on her, I shoved Margie's face into the mud as I drove my cock into her womb with a loud growl. Holding her hips tightly, my teeth bared in a feral snarl, my entire body was in motion as I furiously slammed my hips against her firm ass.

Helen had primed me, and as I fucked Margie with reckless abandon, I could feel my fifth orgasm of the night forming. Helen dropped into the mud in front of Margie before pulling her daughter's face into her womanhood. I redoubled my efforts, pounding into Margie's pussy as hard as possible.

"Fuck! You mother-fucking bitches are making me come again!" I shrieked as I filled Margie once again, my cock pulsing long and hard as I emptied myself.

Again my head cleared slightly, and I shoved Margie down into the mud as I rose. Gasping, I staggered to my feet as Margie continued to devour her mother, trying again to get away from whatever force held me by the nuts. The human male wasn't designed to fuck so violently, for so long, or to come so forcefully, so often. Something was driving my body beyond what it could endure, and it was destroying me.

I'd made it less than a dozen stumbling steps before Helen was on me. Like each time in the past, when Margie or Helen was close, my need to fuck overwhelmed me. With a scream of pain and pleasure, I threw her violently into the mud before I dropped between her legs and slammed my cock into her, her own cries of pleasure joining with mine. We fucked brutally for many long moments, rolling and tumbling in the mud, first me on top fucking her, then her on top fucking me.

As Helen rode me, my hands on her hips slamming her down on my shaft, forcing her to fuck me ever harder, Margie stepped over me and shoved her pussy into her mother's face. As Helen devoured her, Margie added her own cries of pleasure to ours. My cock was burning like it was being held over an open flame, but the pain only made me want to fuck harder.

My guts began to twist as I prepared to come again. I screamed in pleasure and pain, unable to continue, unable to stop. Helen and I rolled again so that I was on top. I gripped Helen's throat with both hands as I pushed myself up on stiff arms, slamming my cock into her like an overrevved machine as I roared my rage, pain, and lust into the sky.

Margie jumped onto my back and hauled me off her mother, falling backwards in the mud, holding my back against her chest as her arm clenched my throat. Covered in mud, Helen squatted over me before she dropped, driving my cock deep into her channel. I turned my head and wadded my hand in Margie's hair to drag her lips to mine. I no longer cared that Margie's arm was around my throat or if I died, so long as I was fucking. As I kissed Margie, our tongues slithering and probing, Helen fucked me, my free hand gripping her breast as my body consumed the last of my breath and my vision slowly dimmed.

I could breathe again! My chest heaved as I sucked in air in the instant before Margie's pussy settled over my face. After coming inside her three times, my seed was still leaking from her, but like before, it was the same consistency and taste as Helen's strawberry preserves. I licked and teased her womanhood as my hands roamed her luscious curves, pinching her erect nipples as Helen continued to fuck me.

I began to growl, my muscles twisting painfully as I began to ramp up for another orgasm. I didn't know how long we'd been fucking, but it felt like years. Margie's hips began thrusting furiously as I licked and nibbled, the women wadding their hands in each other's mud caked hair, drawing their bodies tightly together as we fucked each other to another orgasm.

I released a throat rending scream of erotic agony as I filled Helen with my essence. My hips bucking furiously, I fought the overwhelming pleasure as Helen's pussy clamped down on my cock like a velvet vice. Helen threw herself back from Margie's lips to howl her pleasure into the night, Margie adding her own wails of completion as they gripped each other's breasts.

As happened inside the house when both women came together, my head cleared. I shoved the women off me as they wrapped each other up, their hands wadding in their hair, kissing feverishly as they tumbled over each other, their hips thrusting furiously as they devoured each other's lips. I staggered to my feet, stumbling away before losing my footing in the mud and falling, screaming in pain as my still hard cock was partially driven into the soft mud. Ignoring the pain, I scrambled to my feet once more as a huge clap of thunder shook me to my bones. I made it only a few steps before I slipped and fell again.

I was incredibly weak as I struggled to my feet one more time, my body giving its all in my desperate bid for freedom. Slipping and sliding, I stumbled deeper into the field before I lost my balance and fell with a thick splash of mud, the heavy rain washing the grime from my back as I lay panting. My hands clawing at the mud, I struggled to rise, but my strength failed me, and I collapsed back into the muck.

My chest heaving, I cried out in painful effort as I tried again to force myself to my feet. Get up! You have to get up! If you don't get up, you're going to die! my mind screamed. Again crying out in effort and pain, I tried to rise a final time, my head hanging low, my arms quivering with effort as I forced myself to hands and knees in my desperate bid to escape, but I lacked the strength to rise further and collapsed back into the mud.

"I can't," I sobbed, feebly clawing at the mud, desperately trying to drag myself deeper into the field as darkness closed over me.

I woke with a start and a gasp, sitting upright so quickly my head spun. I was in my tent and the sun was shining. I hurt everywhere, but nowhere more than my manhood.

"Fuck..." I hissed as I held my aching cock and slowly rocked, trying to come to grips with the pain.

Gasping against the pain, I carefully looked myself over. I was covered in dirt, as if I hadn't cleaned up after I'd spent a hard day on the road... or taken a spill. I was bruised, scratched up, and sore. Perhaps I'd hurt myself more than I realized in my crash.

I was in my tent... and... what? My mind spun with memories that didn't make sense. With a hoarse groan I rolled to my knees and crawled out of my shelter. Blinking against the bright, late morning sun, I reached back into the tent and pulled out my pants and underwear. My underwear was dry, but my pants felt damp.

After struggling into my cold and clammy pants, I shrugged into a shirt as I glanced around. I was in the yard of a derelict house, its roof sagging and broken with age, its white paint all but gone as vines crawled up its walls. It was clearly the same house that Helen and Margie lived in, but it was equally clear nobody had lived in this house for many years. A heavy weight settled into my stomach as I wondered if I'd dreamed it all, or maybe I had a concussion from my crash and was confused. I reached back into my tent and pulled out my riding boots and slipped them on. Off to the side of the house was a collapsed barn, and I could just make out something, a piece of equipment, or maybe a car, under the rubble. I continued to look around. The tree was the same, as were the neatly tended strawberry fields, but everything else, the house, the barn, the yard, were all different. Gone was the neat and tidy house and grounds, the buildings and yard now reeking of long neglect.

My heart pounding in my chest I slowly walked to the barn, unsure of what I'd find, and even more unsure I wanted to know. The tractor was missing, but buried under the pile of rotting wood was a dilapidated old Chevy pickup. It's green paint and black fenders were dented, dull, scarred, and covered with rust, and its tires were nothing but tattered, rotted, husks, but I was certain it was the same truck Helen had driven me to town in. On hands and knees, I inched under the pile of wood, squirming my way through the narrow gap where the truck supported the remains of the barn. I was careful not to touch anything, lest I cause the piles of nail filled wood to fall on me. I already hurt enough, and I didn't want to add to my misery. I wormed my way long until I reached the door of the truck. On the door I could just make out a painted strawberry surrounded by writing. All that was left of the words were Whe, a, erry, and rm, but I knew what it said. Whenn Strawberry Farm.

My heart thudding in my chest, I carefully backed out into the sunshine. I was having a hard time standing. I placed my hands on the rusting tailgate of the truck and leaned heavily against my support, rocking slowly as I hung my head between my outstretched arms.

"It was just a dream... It was just a dream... It was just a dream..." I chanted softly, my voice raw and hoarse, as if I'd spent two or three hours screaming and cheering during a football or baseball game.

When I no longer felt like I was going to collapse, I stood and slowly made my way to the house. Under another large tree in the back corner of the yard I noticed a grave marker. I didn't want to look, but I had to know. My heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my temples, I adjusted my path and slowly made my way across the weed choked yard. As I approached, I could see there was a second gravestone almost hidden by vines beside the first.

Helen Elizabeth Whenn... B. Oct 25, 1899... D. April 5, 1943. I felt sick as I turned my attention to the second marker, pulling way the vines so I could read what was carved into the stone. Margret Anne Whenn... B. Feb 8, 1922... D. April 5, 1943. Below Margie's inscription was another. Infant Girl... B. April 5, 1943... D. April 5, 1943.

I took a step back, and then another, before my legs failed me and I fell hard to the ground. Despite my soreness, I barely felt my collapse. I sat for a long time, my elbow resting on a bent knee, my hand holding my head up by the forehead as I stared at the markers, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. I wanted to vomit but couldn't.

After a long time, I rose on quivering legs. I wanted to run. I wanted to run and not look back, but I had to know what was inside the house. Shaking, I rose and made my way to the front door, my steps as labored as if my boots were full of lead. Almost whimpering with the fear of what I might find but unable to stop, I levered myself onto the porch. The door was standing open and I carefully squeezed through the gap.

Inside, the house was as I remembered it. I could see the kitchen behind the living room, with a short hall beyond that led to the bath and a couple of bedrooms. The rooms were empty, but in my mind's eye, could see the couch, the wingback chair, and the dining table where I'd eaten chicken and cobbler.

Swallowing hard, I crept through the kitchen, the ruined cabinets and the broken window exactly as I remember them. It was clear nobody had been in this house in years, with everything covered in a thick layer of dust, debris, and spiderwebs. My mouth as dry as the dust on the floor, I slowly moved deeper into the home. I peeked into the bathroom and saw the claw footed tub I knew was there. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid I was going to have a heart attack. I stepped into the first bedroom. There was nothing in the room but a small, broken table. I didn't enter and moved to the final room, another bedroom, and gently pushed the door open, it's loud squeal of rusty hinges setting my nerves on edge. This room was likewise as empty as the first. I was about to turn away when I noticed a piece of paper on the floor in the corner.

I slowly entered the room and carefully picked up the paper. It was a section of a newspaper with a news story carefully clipped out. The paper was so fragile it was almost disintegrating in my hands. The article was dated April 11, 1943. My hands began to shake as I read.

The article reported the death of Helen and Margaret—'Margie'—Whenn. The article stated three days after receiving news her fiancé had been killed in Europe, Margie Whenn had apparently died in childbirth. When nobody had seen the Whenn's in several days, police were dispatched to investigate. The coroner concluded that Margie had stillborn a little girl, gone into shock due to excessive bleeding, and died.

That was after Helen had lost her husband to an accident only three months prior. According to the recap in the article, Henry Whenn had stopped his tractor, and for reasons unknown, hadn't shut off the machine's engine. He'd apparently reached into the running machine, the article speculated it was to clear dirt from the radiator, and somehow, the engine had captured his arm and dragged him into the motor where he'd become trapped and died from a loss of blood.

The police concluded that Helen Whenn, unable to cope with so much loss, had taken her own life by slitting her wrists. All three of the Whenn women were found together in a blood-soaked bed, Helen holding her daughter and granddaughter in her arms as she died.

I dropped the article, my shaking hands no longer able to hold it, and I watched it crumble to dust as it landed on the floor. I began backing out of the room, shaking my head.

"It didn't happen... it was a dream... it didn't happen... it was a dream... it didn't happen..."

I turned to run from the house but then froze. As the sun streamed through the broken windows, I saw my boot prints on the dusty floor, but there was more. All around, the dust had been disturbed. There were random splashes in the dust, as if water droplets had fallen to the floor, and vague outlines, shapes of bodies, as if people had been rolling around on the floor while they...

I turned and braced against a door jamb as I gagged and dry heaving several times before wiping my mouth. "It didn't happen... it was a dream... it didn't happen... it was a dream..."

I was shaking so badly I almost couldn't walk. As I passed the rough and faded door jamb between the kitchen and living room, I noticed the jamb had been wiped clean, as I knew it would be, to the height of an average woman. I couldn't stop myself. I looked at the reverse side, and carefully placed my fingers in the prints in the dust. My hands were exactly where I would have placed them if I were trying to drag myself against the jamb, and the prints in the dust and my fingers matched up perfectly. This was where I'd pinned Helen against the jamb, hooked my fingers around the edge, and fucked her.

It was too much. I turned and bolted for the door, leaping off the porch to fall and roll in the tall grass. I barely felt my tumble as I scrambled to my feet and raced for my motorcycle. I didn't care if the bike was broken, I had to get out of there. I no longer cared about my tent, my clothes, nothing. All I could think of was getting as far from this place as possible, as quickly as possible.

I leapt aboard the bike, the motorcycle settling under my weight barely registering. I hadn't repaired the shock, but there didn't appear to be anything wrong with it now. With a whimper, I slammed my helmet over my head, twisted the key, jammed my thumb on the starter, and the moment the bike roared to life, I kicked it in gear and twisted the throttle hard, fishtailing my way across the overgrown yard and blasting through the water filled ditch before leaping onto the road beyond.

I wasn't wearing my armor, and I was riding far too fast down the rough gravel road, the straps from my unsecured helmet slapping against my body as the bike skittered, slid, and splashed through mud puddles formed by last night's rain, but I didn't care. With each improvement in the road, I increased my speed, until I was riding flat out down the highway.

I didn't slow until the bike stumbled to a stop, completely out of gas.

I pulled into the driveway and stopped before stepping off my motorcycle. I'd debated flying to Memphis and then renting a car, but decided that I wanted to return on my bike. Eight months ago I'd fled this place, vowing to never return, but I now I was back. I'd almost convinced myself what happened that September night had been a dream, a mild concussion, or perhaps the fevered imaginings resulting from my body fighting off sickness. With my return I knew it hadn't been any of those.

After I'd returned to California, I'd bought this tiny plot of land. My purchase had caused a twitter in the area when I wouldn't accept no as an answer and had massively overpaid. I knew speculation had run rampant over what I was going to do with the three acres I now owned, especially when the bulldozers had arrived. I'd said nothing, my silence only fueling the rumors.

The workers and equipment had done as I asked. The house and barn were gone, the lot cleared of overgrowth, the head stones cleaned and straightened, and I'd contracted with a local farmer to mow the now neat patch of ground nestled in the strawberry and cotton fields every week.

I approached the grave markers under the tree. I no longer felt sick over what happened, my revulsion replaced by sadness. So much loss. With a small, sad smile, I gently removed the two carefully wrapped roses from inside my jacket and laid one in front of each stone. Next, I removed a tiny pink jumper with a frilly white collar, something that seemed appropriate for the forties, something I thought Helen and Margie would like, and draped that over Margie's grave beside the rose.

I stood and took a step back, staring at the plots, hoping the women buried there could finally find peace. I watched the plots for many long moments before I turned away. I'd done what I'd come to do. As I turned, I thought I felt the brush of lips on my cheek and a faintly whispered 'Thank you.' A tiny smile touched my lips as the scent of strawberries filled the air. It could have been the kiss of a passing breeze and the buzzing of an insect, but as I touched my cheek, I knew it wasn't.

"You're welcome," I whispered to no one.