Chapter 2

It was a week later, and Bobby had just come in from morning chores, when Mamma told him that Mrs. Thompson had called, to see if he was free to come over and fix a hole in the wall. Mamma said they’d had a nice chat, and that she’d thanked Martha for the pears, which had been succulent and sweet.

He called her back, and arranged to go over that afternoon.

When he got there, she was dressed in much more youthful clothing, wearing a skirt that came two inches above her knees, and a flowered blouse.

“Thanks so much,” she said. “Arthur fell, and his hand went through the wall, over there.” She pointed at a fist sized hole in the wall, about four feet off the floor.

“Fell, huh,” said Bobby, realizing that something bad had happened here.

“He knows better than to hit me,” said Martha, nervously, aware he hadn’t accepted her somewhat lame excuse for the hole in the wall, “but sometimes he gets angry when I try to get him to stop drinking. I hid his bottle, yesterday, and he got mad.”

“Where is he now?” Bobby asked.

“He went fishing,” she said, her face straight.

“Are you in any danger?” he asked.

“No ... please, Bobby, don’t worry about me. He won’t hurt me.” She waited until he nodded. “Can you fix it?”

“Yes,” he said.

She watched, as he cleaned the edges of the hole, and put in a backing board. He’d brought plaster with him, and he added water and dabbed it into the hole, smoothing it with a stiff piece of cardboard, because he didn’t have a trowel.

“It will need to be painted later,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. “Thank you.”

“He probably hurt his hand, doing that,” said Bobby. “He went clear through the lath, behind the plaster.”

“I don’t care about that,” she said. “He’s a man. If he’s so stupid as to do that, then he can live with the consequences.”

She took him to the sink, where he cleaned his hands.

“Shall I pay you now, or when it’s painted?” she asked.

“Later is fine,” he said.

“Um ... do you need any more ... pears?” she asked, blushing.

Bobby heard the invitation in her voice. He’d heard that same tone of voice when he was at Tilly’s house ... the times he wasn’t there to repair anything and Jake was “taking a nap”. He looked at this woman, who lived with such a worthless man.

“We still have eight or ten left,” he said.

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“I would like to look again, though,” he said softly.

Her eyes widened.

“Would that be all right?” he asked.

“Oh my!” she sighed. “I don’t know. That would be terribly ... naughty.”

“Would it really be any naughtier than picking me more pears?” he asked.

“Ohhhh,” she moaned. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I could just ... show you!”

“Well, why don’t you sit down ... over there,” Bobby said, pointing at the couch. “I’ll help you.”

“You will?” She sounded dazed.

She let him lead her to the couch, and he held her hands as she sat, demurely, her knees firmly together. She looked lonely, sitting on the big couch alone. Bobby sank to his knees in front of her, and put his hands on her knees, his thumbs inside them.

“What are you doing?” she asked, breathlessly.

“I’m going to look at something beautiful,” he said softly.

“Ohhhhhh,” she moaned.

He started sliding his hands up her legs, pushing her short skirt toward her lap. Her eyes opened even wider as her legs became bare.

“Are you wearing underthings?” he asked.

“No,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said.

“Oh Bobby,” she moaned.

“It’s all right; I’m just going to look. That’s all.”

“Ohhhhhh,” she whined.

She wiggled, as his hands stroked the tops of her thighs and her mouth fell, to hang open as all of her thighs were slowly uncovered. He took his hands off her skin, to lift the skirt, bunching it up around her waist, and uncovering her dark pubic hair.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered.

“It’s just looking,” he said, sliding his hands back down her thighs, to her knees.

“This is ... terrible!” she gasped.

“This is beautiful,” he countered.

His thumbs put slight pressure on the insides of her knees. He looked at her face, and watched as her eyes shifted from his hands, to his face.

Staring at him, he felt the resistance against his thumbs slacken. He exerted more force, and, slowly, her knees came apart. She held her breath, and her eyes got a wild look in them. He slid his hands up her thighs again, smoothing them against her flesh.

“It’s all right,” he said, still looking in her face.

Her eyes held a pleading look, as he kept spreading her knees apart, until they hit the couch, and she was completely open. He saw her eyes glistening.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You don’t understand,” she moaned. “I want this!”

“I do too.”

“But I shouldn’t want this!” she gasped.

He ignored her.

“I’m going to look now,” he said.

“Ohhhhh,” she moaned.

He looked down, and there she was, open for his inspection. Her pussy lips were fat and full, completely unlike Tilly’s tight small ones, which he had to pry apart each time he pushed his prick into her. These lips were parted, a slim slit of darkness between them. They looked shockingly pink, below her dark, wild pussy hair.

“Gorgeous,” he whispered, leaning down.

“Oh damn!” she moaned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m getting wet!” she whined.

“You’re just excited,” he said. “That makes me feel good.”

He slid his hands around the outsides of her legs, hooking the back of her knees, and pulled her buttocks to the edge of the seat cushion. Her butt rode off the back of her skirt.

“What are you doing?!” she moaned.

“I just want to see it better,” he said, his voice still soft. “It looks delicious.”

“Delicious?” She sounded confused.

He looked up into her face. “Sure, hasn’t Arthur ever tasted you?”

“What?!“ she gasped. “Of course not!“

“Too bad,” said Bobby, leaning down, before she could move. “He’s a fool if he hasn’t.”

Her reaction as he fastened his lips to her lower ones, and thrust his tongue into that little dark slit, was both athletic and violent. She voiced a gurgling scream, and her legs tried to close, but couldn’t, because his body was between them. He found her clit, which was just as fat and swollen as her pussy lips had been, and sucked it into his mouth, clamping his lips down on it hard. Only his arms around her, pulling her lower body against his face, kept her gyrations from throwing them both onto the floor. He spread his knees wide, for stability, and while she wailed and cried out unintelligible words, he sucked her to orgasm.

He left it at one, knowing that he’d already done too much, broken his word, in fact. He’d promised only to look. He just couldn’t resist it though. She was a nice lady, with a bastard for a husband, who deserved better than she got stuck with. He was quite sure she’d kick him out of the house, and never call again, but he wanted to leave her with this one orgasm to remember him by.

Because of Tilly, he could judge when her orgasm had peaked, and was falling off. He sucked and licked, just for a few more seconds, as her hips took on that thrusting rhythm that Tilly’s did, when she was cumming, and then crawled backwards, pulling her skirt down, as his hands came from around her.

She lay there, gasping, her head thrown back on the back of the couch, her eyes closed. She didn’t close her legs, and looked too limp to be able to do anything. Bobby closed them for her, arranging her skirt so that it covered her thighs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, standing up. “I shouldn’t have done that. I couldn’t resist though. Every woman should feel that at least once. You deserve to be treated better than you are.”

He stood, and turned to leave.

She said nothing, still lying there limp on the couch.

He really didn’t expect to hear from her again. He had some fleeting concern that she might make a formal complaint, but then decided that, since she had shown him her pussy when she picked the pears, she might not want to have to explain that ... formally. The phone rang, and his sister, Matilda, was the winner of the mad scramble to get it. She listened for a few seconds and said, “Oh, okay, hold on.”

Matilda turned to her brother. “It’s for you. Don’t be too long. Amanda is going to call me.”

Bobby looked at the eleven-year-old girl, who he had noticed was beginning to get bumps where she had been flat, and took the phone.

“Hello?”

“Bobby?” Her voice was soft. Very soft.

“Yes?”

“I ... ah ... just wondered ... um ... when you were going to ... um, paint that patch.”

“Oh, hi,” he said brightly. “I could probably do that Saturday, if that’s all right. It will depend on whether the wheat is ready to cut or not.”

“Saturday,” she said softly. “Yes ... that would be wonderful. What time?”

“Any time you like, after I check the grain.” he said. “Unless we have to cut it.”

“What if you came for lunch? You could paint after that ... couldn’t you?”

“That would be great,” he said, meaning it. He was elated that she’d called.