Copyright© Russell Hoisington 2007

Vince Clark was going to quit his job, assuming he lived long enough to return to the office and hand in his resignation. He pushed himself up onto his skinned knees, flinching as a sharp corner of rock stabbed the raw skin through one of the tears in his expensive British suit's trousers. He'd skied enough to know that he was lucky he hadn't broken his ankle or leg when he'd stepped into the small hole buried by the brown and dull-red leaves and had pitched forward onto his face. Fortunately, he had been going uphill and knew the direction in which to continue. If he'd been on level ground in the oak, cedar, hickory, and walnut forest, he might have wandered off in the wrong direction thanks to the hard landing which had temporarily disoriented him. Possibly he might have returned to his broken expensive Japanese rental sedan by mistake.

This wasn't a good idea, though it was a little late to conclude that. But the nearest towns were five miles back the way he'd come or eight miles the way he was going. The old fart at the cafe had told him not to take the gravel road shortcut over the hills in that sedan and to stay on the highway. The younger man with him had agreed, but Vince had been in a hurry to reach Westburg, where he had a motel reservation. No doubt the motel was a fleabag dump as lousy as the one where he'd stayed the night before, but he'd be finished with driving for the day, perhaps with time remaining to troll for prospective new customers ahead of the looming storm.

Satellite imagery on his expensive Chinese laptop computer had shown what looked like a farmhouse about a half-mile away, on the other side of a ridge. Fortunately he'd locked the laptop in the trunk because the battery was running low and, like an idiot, he hadn't yet recharged the spare. That was fortunate because if he'd been carrying it, the rocks under the leaves would have smashed it on this fall, if not on one of the other two tumbles.

It was also fortunate that because of the darkening skies, he'd checked the satellite imagery after using the GPS system to determine where he was. While disconnecting the computer from his expensive top-of-the-line Finnish cell phone, he'd dropped the phone. Now it wouldn't even light up, much less give him a dial tone.

'Punishment, ' he reminded himself as he rose to his feet. Tommy D'Aversa, head of the Sales Department, was punishing Vince for breaking D'Aversa's sales record that had stood for twenty-four years and eleven months. Maybe if he'd waited one more month on that last sale so that D'Aversa could have reached the quarter-century mark with his record, the bastard wouldn't have told him to fill in on this route, the one usually given the new rookies to see if they had what it took to be salesmen.

Vince examined his knee through the rip in his hand-tailored trousers. It was oozing blood, but wasn't bad enough to require making a bandage from his expensive French silk handkerchief and the expensive Italian silk necktie crammed in a pocket of his hand-tailored jacket. A lot of good his expensive imported clothing was doing him now. It had become expensive domestic rags.

With the way his luck was running, the farmhouse would be abandoned. Or worse, it would just be rocks in a meadow that looked vaguely like a farmstead in the blurry satellite photo. He was wondering what he'd do if the farmhouse was abandoned or non-existent when he reached the top of the hill.

Faint wood smoke suddenly teased his nose. When he stopped gasping for breath he thought he heard the high, tinkling trill of a girl's laughter.

He angled to the right, toward the sound, and made his way downhill. The smoke grew stronger. Thirty feet later a rock shifted under his foot and he went down hard. The back of his head smacked the stony hillside and the lights winked out.

Vince opened his eyes. He was reasonably sure he hadn't been out long because the light level seemed about the same, though it was hard to be certain with the shifts caused by the dark, roiling clouds. His head still rang like a Buddhist gong. Sitting up brought on a wave of nausea that slowly passed and didn't return.

He gingerly felt the back of his head. Congealing blood had trapped some debris. But if it was congealing, then he'd been out longer than he'd thought. Well, he wasn't gushing blood, but touching the back of his head was too painful a method for exploration. He'd check a mirror at the farmhouse. He thought he remembered that the clearing lay but a short distance ahead of him. He rose to his feet, using an oak sapling for support, and had to wait a couple of minutes for the revived nausea to pass.

An engine spluttered somewhere off to the downhill left. The sound grew louder and traveled to the right, to the point where he thought he'd heard the laughter. It quieted, returned to life in a different pitch, quieted, spluttered, and died. A vehicle door slammed. Indistinct voices echoed. Vince released the sapling and carefully made his way toward the sounds.

The small copse of cedars ended at a drop-off. Vince, feeling light-headed, sat and stared down into a clearing bounded on three sides by the U-shaped ridge. A dirt road, little more than a trail, wended in from the left across the flat pastureland. He sat maybe twenty feet above the roof of a house which faced the entrance road a hundred fifty feet away and slightly to his right.

Directly across from him were the open doors of a ramshackle barn. The house had seen better days, but it was in far better shape than the unpainted barn with its randomly-missing weathered boards. A rusty Ford pickup of uncertain vintage had been backed to the barn doors. A man lifted a large, heavy sack from the pickup bed and carried it inside.

To the left of the barn sat a few equally decrepit sheds, with a small herd of cattle cropping lush green grass beyond and left of them. To the right of the barn, on the far side of the house, was an elevated galvanized-metal water tank marred by several cancerous patches of rust. The tank and a garden were both enclosed by a split rail fence. A voluptuous woman with waist-length black hair was in the garden, picking corn and adding it to a woven basket slung over her left forearm. She wore a broad, bright blue ribbon that pulled back her hair, sandals, and a belt. The latter apparently supported a sheathed knife and a leather holder with a small hand trowel.

Vince felt like a voyeur, but the woman was so beautiful that he couldn't tear his eyes away. He was a voyeur. He was afraid to move and cause the woman to rush inside and dress herself. Instead, he stayed motionless and watched.

The woman counted the items in the basket and turned toward the barn. She walked a half-dozen paces and pulled carrots out of the ground, adding them to the basket, before joining the man. They spoke for a moment, and then the woman shouted, "Lyla Mae!" at the house.

A brunette teenager wearing sandals rushed out of the house. She took the basket and bolted back inside while the woman sank to her knees in front of the man and reached for his zipper.

Less than half a minute later a wisp of the man's groans reached Vince's ears through the still air. Vince had never had a problem with premature ejaculation, but he could see how someone could be quick-triggered with that delectable morsel.

The woman slid her face off the flaccid member, licked it clean, and left it dangling from the man's pants. She rose and disappeared into the house as the man stripped and dropped his clothes in the cab of the truck.

To Vince's surprise, the tank was a heated outdoor shower. Steam from the falling water drifted in the afternoon air. He braced himself against expected dizziness and started to rise.

A redheaded girl rushed out of the house and scampered toward the shower. She wasn't even wearing sandals. Vince relaxed and watched the two shower together, with the girl occasionally glancing in his direction. Finally she turned to face one of the support posts for the water tank, bent forward, and braced her hands against it while the man took her from behind. Vince stared. He'd always thought that the stories about these backwoods dwellers were exaggerated stereotypes.

The man grasped her hips and took her in long, slow strokes. Vince was amazed that the man could get it up again so soon after the blowjob because he didn't appear to be that young. He soon decided that the girl's nubile sexiness could have aroused a saint. And maybe the man had just returned after a few days away.

The man adjusted his stance and began stutter-slamming into the girl, with brief pauses at each end of the rapid strokes. When the girl wasn't allowing her head to sag or pulling it backward in ecstasy, she'd turn it to stare in Vince's direction. He sat absolutely still, afraid that he'd given some indication of his presence.

The man began short-stroking. The girl's head snapped back, and she emitted a long squeal of delight. He slammed into her body one last time and then pulled on her hips to lock himself in place as he arched backward. When he curled forward over the girl, her head dropped to hang limply from her shoulders. They stayed that way for half a minute before separating.

She gave the man a passionate kiss before hunching her hips forward into the streaming water, washing herself, and running back into the house. The man washed his equipment and then shut off the water. He opened a wooden box sitting on the top fence rail nearest the shower and removed a towel.

As the man dried himself, Vince realized that the girl had failed to dry off. Children were so undisciplined. That was why Vince wasn't interested in a committed lifetime-relationship with Miss Right. One mention of the "M" word and Vince was looking for another Miss Right Now.

The man threw the towel over his shoulder and retrieved his clothing from the cab of the pickup before disappearing into the house. Vince decided to wait fifteen minutes before approaching the farmhouse. That way, nobody would suspect that he'd seen anything.

The man, wearing only heavy rubber sandals and a faded blue baseball cap with a logo that Vince didn't recognize, emerged from the house before Vince set foot on the wooden steps. "Howdy!" he said as he crossed the porch that spanned the full width of the house front. With his black hair graying at the temples, he appeared to be in his mid-40s, no older than Vince, though he had the look of wear that was the lot of these backwoods types and none of the softness that was beginning to afflict Vince. He was certainly in better shape than the porch, which had several new and somewhat-newer boards among the sagging and cracking ones shedding a dandruff of paint flakes between the door and the steps.

"Good afternoon." Vince extended his hand, trying to ignore the nudity of the man clomping down the porch steps. "I'm Vince Clark. I had a problem with my car and need help."

The man shook hands with a firm grip, smiling the way one would greet an old friend. "Jake Farmer, Vince," he said in a slow, methodical voice as if weighing each word before releasing it. "This here's mah place. Yuh talkin' 'bout that silver see-dan on Abbott Road? Th' one with th' front tire stickin' out at a forty-five degree angle at th' bottom?"

"Yeah," Vince said with a rueful nod. "Something broke underneath. I was wondering if you might have a telephone I can use. My cell phone doesn't work here for some reason. Dead area here in the hills, I guess."

Jake raised an eyebrow. "I reckon yuh might say that. Naw, we ain't got us no phones or 'lectricity out here. Don't really want or need it. Well, listen, we'uns is about t'have supper." He twisted toward the door long enough to shout, "Charlene!" and then said, "Yuh look like yuh got bunged up purty bad, though the car don't look like it rolled or nothin'."

"No," Vince said. "I wasn't hurt in the car. I fell down getting he..." His words died when the black-haired woman appeared in the door, now wearing only the ribbon and sandals. The distance had diminished her beauty. Seen up close like this, she was ravishing, with sparkling gray eyes and full lips set in a rectangular face designed by a master sculptor. Her pale, untanned skin was reminiscent of the finest marble, reinforcing the sculpture image. Full, upright breasts, a narrow waist, flared hips, and long, shapely legs reaching from the ground to heaven, with the entrance to paradise indicated by a small black triangle, made the young woman a walking wet-dream. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, if that. Vince wondered what she saw in a man like Farmer.

"Yeah, Pa?" she said, answering Vince's question.

Vince thought it odd that Jake wasn't the least concerned that his daughter was naked in front of a strange man, though he certainly wasn't complaining. "Charlene, this here's Vince. That'us his car I saw up on th' road. Set another place at th' table, and after we eat, we'll see 'bout his car if'n th' storm ain't kicked in. And send Lyla Mae out here with some water and wash rags and a towel. I reckon Vince'd like t'clean up a mite."

"Shore, Pa." She gave Vince a handshake and a smile, causing his heart and one body appendage to flip-flop, before she disappeared back into the house.

"Jake, I don't want to impose..."

"Aaah!" Jake growled dismissively, raising and lowering his hand, as if slapping down the argument. "Yuh obviously come from a city, where everbody's a stranger, don'tcha?"

"Pittsburgh."

Jake's smile widened. "Ah knowed it," he said in his slow, amiable voice. "There yuh go. Out here, we's all neighbors, and we watch out fer each other. If'n we didn't offer no hospitality, we'd be run outa th' hills. It'd be like us goin' inta the church and tellin' Revr'n Bob that he couldn't pray fer no sinners no more."

"Well, then I'll pay you..."

Jake shook his head. "No, yuh won't." He waved a finger in a slow horizontal circle. "Everthang here in this valley was oncet my pa's and his pa's b'fore him. They's buried out back, next t'Ma and Grandma. If'n I was to accept money fer doing what they taught me wuz mah duty and wuz the right thang t'do, they'd climb outa th' hole and thow me in it, head fust."

The brunette emerged from the house, carrying an enameled pan of steaming water. She wore her sandals plus a towel and a wash cloth draped over one shoulder.

"Lyla Mae, this here's Vince. I reckon Charlene told you 'bout him. Now, you help him clean up, and ah'll go see if'n Charlene and Emmy Lou got thangs in hand fer supper."

Vince tried not to stare at the girl as Jake clomped up the steps and shouted, "Emmy Lou! Git down here!" as he disappeared inside.

The brunette was slightly pudgy. Baby fat had lingered too long and was now just beginning the transition to blubber, and while she wasn't what most men would call "pretty," the oval face framed by the shoulder-length hair was what these people would call "puppy dog cute." She had large, sparking eyes of a deep-water blue that you could drown in, set on either side of a small perky nose. An impish grin of false innocence invoked visions of chocolate smears on lips protesting that she'd not been near the cookie jar. She was breathing rapidly, causing her small, wide-set, lightly-tanned breasts to rise and fall.

"You look like you got bunged up purty bad," she said. Vince found the genuine concern in her voice touching.

She turned and bent at the waist, placing the pan of water and other items on the porch. Vince discovered that the light coating of curly brown hair became denser the farther back it went. This time he made no attempt to avoid staring because the sight had destroyed the vestiges of his willpower. He openly ogled the girl's displayed twat.

Like many salesmen, Vince thought of items in product quality terms, and pussy was no exception. You had the economy model, which had only the necessary basic functions and a cheap finish. You had the advanced model, which had additional attributes and a standard finish that made it a more desirable, if more expensive, item. You had your deluxe model, which had all the bells and whistles and a much nicer finish and would eat a hole in your wallet.

And then there was the super-deluxe model, which was what you'd order if price were no object. The super-deluxe model was the standard by which all lesser-quality items were measured. The super-deluxe model was what you'd sell your soul to own, if necessary, because it was exactly what you desired.

The super-deluxe model was what winked at him before Lyla Mae straightened.

She smiled in an alluring blend of shy and coy that didn't help the sudden twitch in his pants. "Ah thank you'd best sit here on the steps while ah work on yore haid. You might better take off that shirt and coat afore we git bloody water dribblin' all over them," she said as she reached for his shirt buttons. "Even if they is sorta bloody and a whole sight dirty already."

"Uh, yes," he said. "You're right."

As he slipped off the jacket, she unfastened two shirt buttons, then ran her hand inside the V-neck of his undershirt. It felt warm as she rubbed it over his chest. "I don't feel no injuries here," she said, "but yore heart shore is a-hammerin'."

"Well, I had a couple of bad falls," he said, hoping she wouldn't notice the swelling behind his trouser fly.

"Uh huh. That'll do it fer shore." She helped him out of his shirt, then took it and his jacket and said he'd better remove his undershirt, too. She turned and bent over, feet slightly apart, to place all three on the porch and to retrieve the water basin.

Vince realized that she also had a super-deluxe model ass. The swelling pressed outward against his fly. He hastily adjusted it to point upward as the girl dropped the wash cloth in the water and then wrung it. He thought it odd that this girl was having a stronger effect on him than Charlene. Maybe it was because the young woman was a goddess too perfect and unattainable for mere mortal men, while Lyla Mae was the willing girl next door.

"Now, you sit on that there top step," she said as she dipped, swirled, and wrung again.

He tried not to turn and stare as he sat, tried to will himself to face forward and not openly ogle the girl's curl-framed slit that had parted slightly and looked enticingly moist inside. It was like willing himself not to sneeze after inhaling dust. He was able to look away only after she lifted the basin and straightened.

She stood next to him, facing away and with one foot on the porch and one on the top step, and bent over to place the pan on the edge of the porch. In the thickening still air, her scent drifted to him from inches away. Vince had parted several deluxe furrows with his nose, and while all had been excitingly pleasant, this super-deluxe model made the others seem skunky as spoiled beer.

She straightened and shouted, "EMMY LOU!" As she straddled his hips and sat, she said, "Charlene kin fix yore clothes good as new. Meantime, let's clean up yore face 'fore the water gits all bloody."

He couldn't stop himself from staring at the brown curls barely an inch from his nose or from following their descent as she sat on his legs. The scent was so enticing that it was destroying his civilized inhibitions.

She seemed not to notice as she gave him a natural smile and gently washed his face. The hot water was relaxing, and even though it was only his face she washed, he felt as if his body had been immersed in the soothing waters of the whirlpool at the Midtown Gym. She had just finished when the screen door opened.

"What'cha want?" asked the youngest girl, her square face scrunched into a frown, as she padded barefoot across the porch and halted at the edge of the porch. She was close enough to squat slightly and rub her smooth crotch on Vince's right shoulder if she wanted.

"Emmy Lou, this here's Vince."

The girl gave him a sly grin. "Ah'm pleased t'meet yew up close," she said, her eyes flicking up to the hillside for an instant. If Lyla Mae's grin was impish, the light in Emmy Lou's green eyes was positively devilish. The tip of a middle finger briefly scratched an itch just inside the juncture of a leg and one of her hairless folds. "But ah'm sorry y'all got hurt gittin' here."

Her own scent arrived in that instant and made his head spin. He fought to clear it enough to find the right words for his reply. "Uh, hello, Emmy Lou. Nice to meet you, too."

"Emmy Lou, take Vince's clothes in fer Charlene to fix. An' tell her," she raised an eyebrow slightly, "that they's got blood on 'em."

Thunder rumbled in the distance while Emmy Lou nodded, gave Vince a quick show as she bent to pick them up, clutched them to her narrow flat chest, and scampered back inside. A light breeze began, laden with the smell of rain.

"Emmy Lou's a sweetheart," Lyla Mae said as she rinsed the wash cloth and squeezed some of the water out of it, "but she's terrible impatient, and sometimes she ain't got the sense of a June bug. Ah thank she's Pa's favorite, but she shore does try his patience at times. Well, let's get yore head cleaned up now."

She straightened her legs and rose, dragging her lightly-tanned left breast across Vince's face without seeming to notice, and stepped over his shoulder. The curl-covered folds parted with a wet, sucking sound, and again his head spun with the dizzying effect of her super-deluxe-model perfume.

She squatted behind him and carefully inspected the wound on the back of his head. "Not as bad as ah first thought," she said. "Most people wouldn't even give that sucker a stitch. 'Course, I don't need t'do that, nohow."

The screen door opened for Jake, followed by Charlene with her basket. "Lyla Mae gittin' yuh all fixt up, there, Vince?" Jake asked as they crossed the porch and descended the steps.

"She certainly is. I feel better already, and she's just beginning."

"Yeah, Lyla Mae's th' best'un fer doctorin' yuh when yore hurt. Lissen, me and Charlene got t'run out t'that there far shed fer a few minutes. Yuh need anythin', yuh jest tell Lyla Mae."

"Thanks, Jake, but I'm fine." He watched the enticing wiggle and bounce of Charlene's buttocks as she walked arm-in-arm with Jake to the shed. He was vaguely aware that she carried something in the basket, but no man could ignore that wiggle and concentrate on the basket.

Lyla Mae sighed and said somewhat wistfully, "Everbody likes Charlene."

By the time she'd gently dabbed away the blood, the pain had left with it. "It'll be better after supper," she said, "and then you kin take a shower and get th' rest of it cleaned off."

That was a strange comment, but she was young and these hill people had an odd dialect with any number of colloquial expressions that shouldn't be taken literally.

"We got jest enough time to take care of that there knee 'fore supper. You get them pants off so's we kin clean it up all proper-like, an' we'll have Charlene fix them, too."

His pants were barely able to hide his raging erection while he sat. His underwear alone couldn't hide it, even if he were sitting down. "Uh, Lyla Mae, I don't think Charlene could fix these the way they're torn. But I have more in my car. I'll get them later."

Lyla Mae stepped over his shoulder again, and once more his head spun with longing. "Don't you go sellin' Charlene short. She does magic with cloth. But more important, we gotta clean up them knees so they can heal tonight, or you gonna have a right bad infection in them. An' there's too much dirt on them pant knees, so you gotta get 'em off or cleanin' up them scrapes ain't gonna help none."

"Well," he said, hesitating. Thunder again rumbled, and the air temperature dropped noticeably. The smell of rain intensified but didn't override the scent from Lyla Mae's twat.

She grinned at him. "You embarrassed about that big ole boner you got there? Well, don't you worry none. One of us'ns will take care of that fer you later." She leaned down and gave it a squeeze. "Oooh, that's a nice'un. I'd be mighty proud if'n you picked me t'fix that fer you."

A dozen thoughts fought for control of his tongue. The one that won was, "But what about your father?"

"Oh. Well, Pa don't go in fer that, if'n that's what you want. It's jest us three or nothin' but yore hand," she said with a giggle.

"No, that's not what I meant!" he said in a rush, shaking his head. He didn't realize until later that he could now do so without becoming dizzy. "I meant, won't he object to me, well, having... with us..."

"Naw," said Lyla Mae with a lively laugh. It was the same laugh he'd heard in the woods. "He don't care if we fuck. Shoot, he appreciates havin' some help, and we'uns appreciates havin' some variety on th' menu. But we gotta wait until the right time, after the drinks."

He shook his head in confusion. Maybe he'd hit his head harder than he realized. "What?"

"Lookit, y'gotta do it Pa's way, or you don't get none a'tall. An' I'd shore be disappointed if'n I didn't get none o'that. 'Course, two of us would be disappointed anyways, 'cause you only get one of us."

"What? One..."

"C'mon! Get yore pants off or we'll be late fer supper. Oh, fer goodness' sake. Here, I'll help you. Besides, it's startin' t'rain now."

The first cold drops arrived with her words, accompanied by a stronger rumble of thunder.

Vince was half scared to death at the idea of entering the house with a raging erection leading the way. Lyla Mae had stripped off his underwear when she yanked down his torn trousers. Neither Jake nor Charlene had noticed the woody on their return, but he'd tried to hide it then. He'd argued with Lyla Mae, but she'd grabbed his wrist and pulled him along. The girl was as strong as a draft horse.

Jake was standing at the countertop with his own erection and scooping biscuits from an oven sheet into a wicker bread basket. To Vince's great relief, Jake merely indicated a chair, smiled pleasantly, and invited him to sit.

All three of the girls regarded Vince's woody with obvious interest. Lyla Mae and Emmy Lou sat on either side of him at the long table, with the younger girl between himself and Jake at the end, while Charlene sat across from him. Outside the storm had intensified, darkening the interior of the house. Suspended kerosene lanterns created a warm glow that illuminated the kitchen and dining table. The overall effect was a warm, homey atmosphere that Vince found immensely comforting. More comforting, in fact, than his expensive house in the "right" part of Pittsburgh.

After he'd had his first bite of the Salisbury steak with onions and commented on its wonderful flavor and tenderness, he said, "I'm curious. If you don't have electricity and natural gas, how do you heat your water? Do you just heat it on the wood cook stove or do you use a wood-fired boiler? I see you have dual taps on the sink."

"Nope," Jake said around a mouthful. He swallowed and continued in his slow, methodical way. "When my great-granpappy built this place, he picked th' perfect location. It's got two o' them artesian springs." He pointed toward the water tank with his knife. "They's a hot 'un over yonder and a cold 'un," he moved the knife to point to the rear of the property, "over that-a-ways. But that ice in yore sweet tea? We brung it in from town and stored it down in th' cellar."

Charlene wiped her mouth and said, "In th' summertime, we gotta buy new ice 'bout ever two weeks. It's 'bout ever three in winter."

Jake cocked his head and said, "Ah'm kinda curious mysef. How come I didn't see you on th' road or th' entrance trail when ah come home?"

"Oh, well, I didn't follow the road. I came over the ridge. That's where I fell and hurt myself."

Wonder, if not amazement, flooded Jake's face. "Over th' ridge? Ah'm surprised yuh didn't git bit by none o' th' rattlesnakes! How'd yuh keep 'em from attackin'?"