Chapter 4

The little scene at the breakfast table that morning was even more important than either Lynne or I realized. We reflected on how unexpected, and bizarre it was, and it showed us a side of Jill we hadn't paid any attention to yet ... but neither of us realized how important it was.

From Jill's point of view, "sex" had been brought out into the open. Never mind that her mother immediately tried to quell the frank and open discussion that Jill had in mind. Lynne had said she would be willing to talk about it, and Jill remembered that.

And, while she had been interested in sex for several years, that interest had been a somewhat vague and misty thing, a little like wondering what Sasquatch looks like. You've heard a lot of rumors about it, but you'd sort of like to see the real deal for yourself, even if it would be scary. Now, at least in theory, Sasquatch could be called into the room on demand, and under complete control. Jill was suddenly quite interested in seeing the beast.

Another problem is that Lynne and I were laboring under an illusion. It's understandable, as you'll see. The illusion was that we assumed Jill was like most other young people and had no interest in the details of her mother's sex life. All adolescents believe that all adults have sex. They're wrong, of course, but they believe it. And while they can be very interested in the sex lives of most adults, the average adolescent doesn't want to think about her parents having sex. Lynne and I knew that.

But Jill wasn't average. She didn't see me as a parent, and her father was gone before the age at which the taboo of thinking about her mother as a sexual being developed. She perceived her mother as both "Mom" and an adult woman.

In other words, Jill assumed that both her mother and I were having sex. Not with each other, necessarily, but if we were, then that was acceptable. And THAT was because sex, as far as Jill was concerned, was a good thing. She'd never been taught to think it was nasty, or perverted, or dangerous. She was aware that some people felt that way. She just didn't feel that way herself. To Jill, sex was an unknown, one of those exciting adventures she'd get to go on some day. It was like being at a theme park and not being able to ride because you weren't tall enough. You knew that someday you WOULD be tall enough.

And finally, Lynne and I were oblivious to the fact that I held a special place in Jill's heart. I was a friend and confidant who was an adult male. Those are rare in most young women's lives. We had worked together, played together and even cried together when her dog died. We were best friends, and had the kind of easy comfort in each other's presence that allowed her to run around in a lot less than she would have otherwise. It wasn't like we were nudists or anything. But if she went to the bathroom in her bra and panties and if I saw her, well ... it wasn't the end of the world.

So, at that point in her life, sex became something even more interesting than it had been. She was sixteen and curious. She had questions, and a pledge to answer them, at least from her mother. I'm pretty sure she expected she could ask me anything under the sun and it would be fine. She just hadn't thought to ask me about things sexual before.

That was to change. And all because of the coincidence that she happened to be in the right place, at the right time, to hear just two little words: "getting laid."

What actually precipitated the beginning of the actual questions was that Duke found himself a girlfriend. She was a stray, and wandered into the yard one day. She was a short-haired mutt of some kind, that looked like a dozen types of dog all put together haphazardly. Most people would have yelled at her and maybe chunked a rock her way to run her off.

Jill, of course, fed her. Jill was just like that.

She turned out to be a well mannered and sweet dog. She was also in heat, which Duke noticed right away. I came out of the shed, where I'd been sharpening the blades of the riding mower, and saw Jill squatting on her haunches, watching Duke licking his new friend's rear end. Her vaginal opening was black and swollen. About the time I got there he hopped up and his sharp, pink penis slid unerringly into her. He began to hump immediately and vigorously. Jill looked up at me as I walked up to her.

"Doesn't that hurt?" she asked.

"Doesn't what hurt?" I looked at my hands, expecting to see blood. I was always hurting myself, and Jill called me a klutz quite often.

"What he's doing to her," she said, looking back at Duke. The female was just standing there. She looked bored, but her back legs were spread slightly and her tail was out of the way. I could see the flash of pink as Duke frantically fucked the bitch.

"Naw," I said. "It's made to fit."

"I remember the first time I saw horses doing it," she said, watching the dogs intently. "I got scared. I just knew he was hurting her."

Duke went still for a few seconds and hopped down happily. His pointed penis was still out of its sheath and had a drip of clear liquid on the tip. The female looked around at him, as if to say "That's it?" I guess males are pretty much the same across the species.

"Mom said the same thing," she went on. "But I don't see how it can not hurt. She wasn't aware of it, but she had lifted one hand and was looking at her index finger. She might as well have said "It's bigger than my finger, and I can barely get that inside me."

The way she was squatting, her jeans-clad legs were apart and I could see the tight fabric that covered her crotch. I thought about her finger, sliding into what was behind that denim, and felt heat suffuse my body. I also felt blood finding its way into my dick.

"All part of nature," I said hastily and moved on, lest she see something she didn't need to see down around my zipper.

The next question was a couple of days later.

Because we didn't have the equipment to handle big bales of hay, Lynne had Hank Thompson bale our hay with an old-fashioned small square bailer. It produced bales that weighed between fifty and eighty or so pounds, depending on what kind of hay they were made of. We could handle those during the winter by putting them in the pickup and taking them wherever they were needed. Jill and I were getting twenty-five or thirty bales down from the loft in the big barn, to put in the stables. It was hot, sweaty work but it was the dust that made it itch uncomfortably. Jill was wearing a too-large T shirt with the sleeves cut off and she might as well have taken it off for all that it covered her bra. I could even see the little pink bow on the bra between her breasts when she bent over.