She needed a bath, her uncombed tousled hair stuck up every which way and she was goddamned pissed at the world in general and Lyman, her old man, in particular. Her sandy reddish hair and freckled complexion showed hints of an ancestry originally found in the north of England. Her stocky, only a little chubby young body was, as Lyman affectionately put it, "Built for th' long haul." Her young pussy showed evidence of "long haul after long haul." That dam' Lyman had just about "long hauled" her into the ground, him and his brothers. Not that she minded, though. Having a man dip his wick in a girl was just about the finest feeling in the world. Why, she thought to herself with a smile, even to feel the Spirit of the Lord descend on me in a Revival meeting in no way matched the feeling of a good old country fuck. She felt guilty for thinking "lightly" about the Spirit Of The Lord. Hurriedly she crossed herself like she seen those Catholic girls do in town, even though she wasn't Catholic. You just never knew what might work and she sure as hell didn't want Jesus pissed off at her. Times was already hard enough right then as it was.
Ever since that first time when her cousin Willy Jay's pecker got put in her, she loved to just plain old fuck. Damn, but that seemed like a long time ago. She had decided early in life that there was nothing quite so fine as a fine peter. Come to think of it, she never had a prick stuck in her that was "unfine." It was just that some was so much finer than others. She smiled to herself at the remembrance of that first time of getting it. She smiled even more as she thought of how many people said they were "getting fucked" and meant it in a bad sort of way. Nosiree, getting fucked was one of the best things that could happen to a person, she decided. She squeezed her legs together and experienced the slight thrill the action generated. Then she grinned once more.
She stood at the worn, rickety hand made kitchen table, slicing an Oklahoma grown Russet potato into a ten-inch cast iron frying pan. The last of the scrub oak firewood would barely be enough to cook her breakfast of potatoes and left over lima beans and onions, flavored with salt. She muttered, half under her breath and half aloud, "That son of a bitch Lyman had better bring some more wood in with him. I'm getting' tired of his lazy shit. Jesus. If I only had some place to go, any place." She took a deep breath, "Aw shit, if only, if only ... if only frogs had wings, they wouldn't get splinters in their asses when they hopped on wood. She sighed and once again longed for a better life. If only ... She sighed again and put the sad thoughts out of her mind. She knew the "if onlies" just led to crying and misery.
However she was still hungry and pissed off. "I ain't agoin to crawl in bed with his brother or his cousin ever again just 'cause he wants it, I don't give a shit what he says," she vowed to herself. "I told him last time he had me to fuck somebody in front of him that I was through doin' that twisty shit. What kind of man was it that got all extra horny watching his wife get nailed by someone else and then wanted to nail her ass with sloppy seconds? She shook her head angrily.
"Oh, I don't mind a little fooling around when I want it," she told herself. "But I ain't no dam' wind up toy for nobody else to be ordering around 'cause he wants" Next thing that preverted bastard will want me to do it with his worthless old hound dog. That man has a real twisty mind." (She had wondered what it would be like with a dog, a few times. But ... nah. She'd never really do it. But... ) She sighed again. It seemed that so much of her life was spent in sighs.
She added the last pieces of wood to the firebox of the stove and shucked off her button down the front dress with the faded primrose pattern. She walked naked out into the yard and stood under the waterspout Lymon had attached to a fifty-gallon drum He strapped the drum to the side of the windmill ten feet up off the ground. Lyman might be not much use as a man, she decided for about the thousandth time, but he sure was good with tools. The home made windmill he built pumped cool water up from the three hundred foot deep well, and poured it into the drum.
When the drum became full, the water was diverted and pumped into the stock tank and from there, back out onto the ground where it was once again absorbed by the thirsty earth. A small irrigation ditch took part of the runoff and watered the single acre of vegetable garden and the blossoming fruit trees. Even the chicken yard had a constant supply of water. The chickens quickly ate insects drawn to the moisture. That damned Lyman thought of everything but how she felt about stuff. "He just don't give a shit where I'm concerned," she told herself for the thousandth time.
The drum held fifty gallons of cool water that quickly turned hot under the blazing heat of the burning Oklahoma sun. She wanted it cool so she grabbed the second dump valve line and opened it. Now that damn water came down cool and nice. She sighed again and stood under the spout and pulled on the lanyard attached to the dump valve. Water cascaded over her thirsty skin, as she stood, eyes closed, luxuriating in the feeling of wetness. The dry, hot Oklahoma air seemed to suck the moisture out of everything.
Reluctantly, she let go of the lanyard and reached for the soap. Without opening her eyes she grabbed for the soap and encountered a long, hard penis instead. That was something she could recognize anywhere, anytime, eyes open, or eyes closed. It felt real big around, too. It wasn't no one she knew. Lyman and his brother and his cousin and their few friends all had little short ones along side this big son of a bitch, a regular giant god damned snake. A stranger. A thrill and a shiver ran through, touched with fear. But still, she held on to it for an extra moment. It did feel nice, but it belonged to a stranger.
Jerking her hand back, she opened her eyes and found herself looking at a lanky, stringy muscled man with a big grin and a hard on to match. He handed her the soap, which she took in shocked silence. "Wh¼ who are you?" she stuttered. She saw a well cared Ford roadster convertible stopped just a few feet away. Why hadn't she heard it come chuggin' in?
He grinned even wider and said, "My name is James Frederick Deer, no relation to John Deere the tractor man. I came by to ask permission to photograph your house and land. I take pictures for back east magazines. I am a great photographer and I love nude women."
"Mister, you better get th' hell out of here before my old man and his cousin get back. 'Sides, I ain't no time for strangers. Now, git." She was angry and scared a little, but she was damned if she was going to let this stork assed stranger see any fear.
"Well, I was hoping for an invitation for breakfast or lunch, or something, but if not, I'll get dressed and, with your permission, take my pictures. There's still twenty dollars in it for you.
The offer of money went right by her as the word "breakfast" registered on her consciousness. My taters is burning and I'm standing naked talking to this skinny son of a bitch of a stranger. She thought to herself. Nakedly, jiggling, full, firm breasts bobbling up and down in a wonderfully enticing way, she ran for the house screaming, "I burnt my 'taters!"
Jim Deer followed behind her at a slow pace, his penis bobbling up and down. As he followed the chubby ass he envisioned himself penetrating it. He smiled. He'd win out, of that he was certain. He took a careful step into the old shack, careful of splinters in the rough unfinished wood floor and watched her frantically use a spatula to turn the getting-ready-to-scorch potatoes and onions and pour the cold limas over the whole mess. She stirred things around and turned back to the stranger almost clipped his protruding cock with the spatula. He gingerly hopped back barely in time.
"Would you mind getting that big thang out of here and head on down the road?" she asked him. "I got too much else to do to mess around with no stranger." Then she remembered the money. "You said twenty dollars? What for?"
"Well, I want to take your picture under that shower you have contrived out there; actually I want to take several pictures of you and of your place here. I found you because of all the greenery. I had been driving all around the countryside looking for the material for a photo essay, when suddenly here was this place, a veritable Eden in the shit house of creation. I think the rest of this god awful state is going to blow north into Canada or south into Texas, which isn't all that much better, itself. Then here you are, surrounded by luxuriant verdancy, so much greenery in only this small area, while the rest of the country around here is covered with red clay the consistency of shit. I just had to come see for myself"
"You sure talk funny, not at all like real folks is supposed to. Now, what else you planning on getting for that twenty dollar bill? I ain't no whore. I never took a cent in my life for fucking." She mentally crossed her fingers as she thought of a time or two when nice men showed gentlemanly gratitude. One feller showed her ten whole dollars worth of gratitude. Just that once. (But that was different.)
"Heaven forbid that I should cast aspersions upon your pulchritude. Any man with half an eye can see you are the embodiment of all that is good in womanhood. Although I would so love to taste your beauty and fondle your, oh so wondrous charms, the twenty dollars is offered as payment for you if you would pose as a model for me. You were so eye fetching that I would love to do an essay on your, oh so wholesome, nude form."
.... There is more of this story ...