Orchard Flower (Version Bravo)

by Lubrican

Chapter : Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15

Chapter Three

There is something just plain incongruous about a young woman who buys a rifle and ammunition to shoot furry dog-like things and then, on the way home, flashes bare legs at the old man driving the truck as, with a foot pressed to the dashboard, she paints her toenails bright, playful red. Not for the first time did I realize there was a woman hiding in that teenaged body, and that Jill Simmons was a complicated female of the species. She hummed with the radio as she painted, making me wish I were twenty years younger. Then, while her toenails dried, she unpacked the rifle and attached the scope and carry strap. That made me glad I was too old to go nosing around this fresh-faced girl and get myself in trouble.

The rifle didn't weigh fifty pounds. With the scope, four rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber and the sling on it, it weighed in at a hair over ten pounds. It just felt like fifty pounds. And don't be impressed by my use of words like "rounds" and "chamber" and all that. It took me a week of Jill's tutoring to get the language down.

There was a dip in the land at one end of the tillable property, and she set up a target range in that. She started me off at a hundred yards, which I thought was ridiculous. I couldn't even throw a rock that far. How was I supposed to shoot something that seemed like it was a mile away? Then I looked through the scope and it looked ridiculously easy until I pulled the trigger the first time. I wasn't ready for either the noise or the kick.

She made me put on the headphones I'd forgotten to wear but the second time I closed my eyes as I pulled the trigger, anticipating the sharp crack and the stiff jolt to my shoulder. I missed the target completely.

She had me lying down in the beginning, which she called the prone position. I had to support my upper body on my elbows, with the carry strap ... sorry, I mean sling ... wrapped around my left forearm. It was kind of nifty in a way because I didn't actually need my right hand to do anything but pull the trigger. The way she had me holding the rifle made it stick right where it was supposed to.

The way she solved my flinching problem was to lie down on top of me.

She wasn't heavy, but she was all woman these days, and all that soft flesh on top of me caused some really hard flesh to develop underneath me. Her right hand came down to almost caress my right hand as she spoke into the earmuff, telling me what to do and what not to do and how to ease the trigger back, instead of jerking it. She made me shoot an entire box of ammo without aiming at all, just to get me used to the kick and to let me learn to keep my eyes open.

About halfway through the next box I wanted to roll over and have her lie on top of me that way. It was very distracting, let me tell you. Which is why I started paying particular attention to the rifle. I needed the distraction. I paid attention to the feel of it in my hands, and how the bolt worked as I pulled and pushed on it, and how the round looked as it was brought up out of the magazine and into the chamber. I watched each tip slide into the dark hole of the chamber and thought of the sexual symbolism as I rammed the bolt forward, locking it down and caressing the trigger until there was an explosion that shook the body.

I was panting so hard by the end of the second box that she stopped me and gave me a five-minute lecture on breathing control. She slid off of me, lying on her side with one leg over mine, probably because it was just more comfortable for her that way.

It wasn't comfortable for me, though. I think it was the effort to try to stop thinking about having wild sweaty sex with this delicious young woman that finally brought all my attention to the task at hand. Trying to remember all the little parts of shooting correctly was taxing on the untrained mind anyway. I found that if I actually thought about not being stiff, and not gripping things too tightly, and having the right cheek-to-stock weld, and getting the right sight picture while taking three breaths before holding one to shoot on ... well if I thought of all those things in the right order two things happened. The first was that the bullet made nice little holes in the target right where they were supposed to. The second was that Jill stayed a virgin that much longer.

Not that I'd have actually fucked her. I mean we were close, but not in that way. And I was almost thirty years older than she was too. While I'd have loved to climb between those sweet young thighs, she'd have probably upchucked at the very idea, and that thought put a damper on things. So not thinking about that was a good thing.

In short, trying not to think about what I wanted to do facilitated her teaching me how to get good at the task I wasn't all that hot about performing.

When I put ten rounds within the space a fifty-cent piece would cover, she said I was ready to learn to shoot sitting and standing.

I admit that the first time I shot at a coyote I got off my horse to do it. Jill had made me practice shooting on horseback, and on the tractor too. I had carried the rifle on my back so often that it no longer seemed odd to do it. But when I saw the brown flash of movement off in the distance, I just wasn't willing to explore it from up on the horse.

After I got down and spent five fruitless minutes trying to spot the critter again, I almost gave up. Then he trotted out from behind a bush I'd looked at a dozen times and just looked around. He didn't suspect a thing, despite all the gunfire that had gone on around the place in the last few weeks. I'd hoped that just the noise of me learning how to shoot would convince them to go live somewhere else. No such luck, though.

The recoil surprised me completely. I know it'as supposed to, but that kind of surprise is really palpable. I hadn't even 'decided' to pull the trigger. The first thing I thought of was that I hadn't evaluated what was likely to be down range if I missed. That was a bad thing and I felt stupid. As I felt a stab of shame though, the brown body in the field of my sight did an almost magical backwards somersault and landed flat on the ground. Then it didn't move any more.

I was astonished.

It took me a few minutes to get to the body. I was so out of it that I didn't pay any attention to how far it had been or any of that. I just went to the body with the dreadful curiosity of someone who thinks he has just killed something for the first time in his life.

Hunting is a complicated endeavor. Aiming is easy, and squeezing the trigger is simple too. It's what happens after that that makes things complex. I stood, looking down at a shaggy, dusty, multi-colored coyote. Its mouth was partly open and I could see its teeth ... perhaps the very teeth that had savaged that colt's leg. At the same time I knew that up until a few minutes ago this had been a living creature. I had assumed the role of God, deciding what would live and what would die, and I didn't like that role. I knew the poor thing lying at my feet had to die, because of the priorities that existed. But that didn't mean I was proud of having killed it. It occurred to me that I had learned this killing skill very well, considering that I was successful on my very first shot off the practice range. That made me feel good, except that my success had been the doom of another creature, which robbed me of that good feeling. And the whole time all this was going on in my brain I was hopped up on adrenaline and hyperventilating.

I thought about what to do with the body. Jill had told me not to leave anything for the others to eat unless I wanted to use it as bait and wait for them to come feed. I'd thought that was cold then, and it felt even more distasteful now. I picked up the carcass by the tail and tried to figure out how to put it on my horse. The horse wasn't impressed. He had taken the rifle shot calmly, but didn't like a coyote to be that close to him, even if it was dead. In the end I put the body in a tree until I could get on the horse, and just carried it by the tail.

Based on some strange urge that I still don't understand, I rode through the apple orchard to show Jill what I'd done. She was delighted, of course, and took the body from me, asking me if I wanted to learn how to skin it. I declined, feeling sick at my stomach. I said I had something to do and left her leaning over the still warm body of my first kill, a knife in her right hand.

The next day I found the stiff skin of the coyote nailed to the side of my barn. To be honest, I didn't quite know how to feel about that.

It only took me six months to resolve the coyote problem. By then I had fourteen hides nailed up on the side of the barn and I no longer felt guilty about killing them. There was a farm two miles down the road where I got fresh eggs and I saw what coyotes had done to some of her hens. It wasn't like they had nothing else to eat. There was plenty of game around. They just went for the easy stuff, which usually mean they went for what humans owned.

While I played great, white hunter, Lynne and Jill put a lot of work into the orchard, taking it much more seriously than they ever had before. Lynne studied the common problems, like apple scab and aphids and such, and the ways that organic farmers dealt with them. In the past there had been plenty of apples for all the critters to share in. That changed when she got serious about making a profit on them.

It took two years to develop the markets, and the third year, instead of driving a pickup load of apples to the farmer's market Jill had put up with being ogled by the men who showed up in an eighteen wheeler to pick up the six hundred crates of apples it had almost killed us to pick and pack in a one-week period.

And those six hundred crates had come from only four acres of orchard.

The next year, by hiring ten high school kids, we were able to ship three truckloads of apples. The buyer asked if she had any other varieties. She did. Her parents had planted seven different kinds of apples, but all we'd had time to take care of was the one that seemed to turn out looking the best.

That year there was a fundamental change in my relationship with the Simmons women. That was because Lynne accepted a date from a man she had known in high school, but had never dated back then. He had lost his wife to melanoma, probably caused by spending too much time in the sun. It's a hazard of the game in farming, but nobody expects it to strike when someone is under thirty.

At any rate, it was Jill's belief that since her mother knew what it felt like to lose the love of her life, she was taking pity on this man, whose name was Dennis. I decided not to mention the possibility that a still-young woman might have needs and desires that are a lot more fun to pursue with a member of the opposite sex.

According to Jill, Lynne claimed to have had a good time, but they only went out twice. I knew what it felt like to be around Lynne after your wife had died, so I was pretty sure I knew how he felt, and why he didn't ask her out again. But the fact that she'd gone out with him emboldened a few other men and she accepted dates with them too. Nothing seemed to last longer than a couple of times out with the same man, though. I thought maybe Lynne had her own troubles, thinking about Paul watching her.

The change it brought, though, was that I saw less of Lynne, and more of Jill. When her mother was out with one of her suitors, Jill came over and hung out with me. I wondered if that was so Lynne and whoever she was out with this time could be alone at her house, but I never asked.

In the off season, meaning when we weren't actually picking apples, Jill and I still spent hours and hours together. I had gotten good enough at shooting that we could have competitions. I loved shooting in the summer time, because Jill usually wore halter tops, or tank tops, and even sometimes a T shirt that was cut off short so her stomach showed. I'd glue my eyes to her breasts, waiting for that special jiggle they'd display when her rifle went off. Shooting excited her too, and her nipples would get hard. There were a number of times I suspected she wasn't wearing a bra, but her breasts were so firm that it was hard to tell unless a nipple popped up.

I had given up feeling guilty about lusting after her. She paid no attention to me at all in the sense she was completely comfortable around me. If she caught me staring at her she might say "What!" but always shrugged it off if I said "Nothing," or something like "I was just looking at you! Can't I even look at you?"

And after thinking about what a shame it was that Lynne didn't seem to be able to find what she needed, and what a waste that was, I had finally come to peace with the thought that Vicky would probably have scolded me up one side and down the other for simply arresting my social life, as far as women went. Still, it was one thing to gaze fondly at this girl and have distinctly naughty thoughts about her. It was another completely to translate those thoughts into actions. Besides, I liked both Jill and her mother too much to screw things up if I did something that made either of them uncomfortable around me.

In the years I had known her Jill had taught me things, like welding, most of what I knew about fixing the tractor, all about gardening and things like that, while I had taught her woodcarving, and sketching. They didn't have a suitable tree on their property, so I had let her help me build her a tree house in an elm out behind my house. In all the years I'd known her I'd never known her to take any interest in boys. She never talked about them to me, and never seemed frustrated about them or any of that. And several times Lynne bemoaned the fact that her daughter didn't have a boyfriend. She was around boys at school. They just didn't impress her or something.

Of course I loved that part of things, in one sense, because I firmly believed she was a virgin and that made my fantasies so much the sweeter.

I'm not rambling here. I tell you all this because you really need to understand where my mind was, at this time of my life, because not long before Jill's eighteenth birthday everything kind of went crazy.

It was a Saturday, and it was late July. There was an air of anticipation in the air, but only part of that had to do with the apple harvest. The trees were heavy with fruit, but it still needed some time to get to the picking point. The other part of it was that in the fall Jill would be going off to college. It seemed like somehow that would change everything.

On this particular day I knew that Lynne was in town doing the weekly shopping, and was looking for just the right birthday present for Jill. She had asked me to distract Jill so that she wouldn't want to go with her, and had assigned us the task of inspecting the tops of the trees for signs of pests. We were concentrating on the trees that had been the best producers the year before. I used a ladder. Jill still just climbed like a monkey.

I finished a tree and went looking for Jill. She had the list of which trees were done and which still needed to be inspected. I was walking under a tree when an apple whizzed by my shoulder, missing me by inches. It hit the ground by my foot with a thump. I looked up to see a grinning Jill standing in the branches.

I only noticed the grin for a few seconds though, and the "Hey! Watch it!" that came out of my mouth was purely reflexive. That's because I was distracted rather quickly by things I could see other than her grin. She was wearing one of those T shirts that had been cut off above her belly button. Her breasts ... her braless breasts, by the way ... were pushing that shirt out so that I had a clear view of the undersides of creamy looking swells. She was also, for some obtuse reason, wearing a faded jeans skirt that day, instead of the shorts she usually wore in the summer. Looking up her tanned legs I saw white panties clinging lovingly to a bubble butt and a pronounced mound of Venus.

I know. Panties don't cling lovingly to anything. But if I were those panties I'd be clinging to her soft skin, and it would be very lovingly!

"What are you looking at?" she popped off.

I had to lick my lips before I could speak. "Nothing."

"Liar!" she taunted. "You were looking up my skirt, you dirty old man."

"I was not!" I lied weakly and tried to go on the offensive. "And you should be wearing a bra too, young lady!"

I had blown it, exposing myself as being, in fact, a dirty old man.

"Mom never wears them," she said lightly. "And now I know you were looking up my shirt too." She put the back of one hand to her forehead in a theatrical way and looked up. "I feel so violated!" she moaned.

"Sorry," I mumbled automatically. I finally looked away. I worked on my muscles, which had kind of frozen up when I gazed on all that loveliness, and started to walk away.

"Wait!" she said. "I was kidding!"

That made me look up again. This was a new Jill, one I had never met. She was climbing down a few branches, and making no effort to avoid letting me look at whatever I wanted to look at.

"I know you look at me," she said, when her bare feet were on a branch that was even with my head. "I've seen you looking at me for years."

"Oh," I said, feeling foolish. All these years I'd thought she was unaware of my oafish behavior.

"Don't look so guilty," she said, squatting down. Her skirt lay on her thighs in the front, and hung down in the back. With her knees spread that way the front of her panties were on display right in front of my face. I almost thought she was aware of what she was doing. "I like it," she said casually.

"What?" My eyes popped up to her face. She had amber eyes, brown, but with flecks of yellow in them.

"It makes me feel good when you look at me like that."

"Like what?" I have no idea why I asked the question. I was off balance and just making noises, I think.

"Like some of the boys at school do, except when you look it feels different ... like I'm a woman and you're a man who is interested."

Well that little revelation about unhinged me, but years of self control sought to make another appearance.

"I'm way too old to be interested in a girl like you," I said. "I shouldn't look, but I appreciate you cutting me some slack."

"Why shouldn't you look? I like it. Mom said it's a compliment when a quality man looks at you like that."

"What?" I think my eyes might have bugged out a bit.

"Though why she thinks you're such a quality man I've never figured out," she teased.

"You've talked about me?" I was dumbfounded. "Looking at you?"

"Of course. You're the only man in our life, for all intents and purposes. Why wouldn't we talk about you? We both know you look at us sometimes, and it makes us both feel good ... like we're pretty, maybe."

I felt like I was in a dream, so I said something I'd probably say in a dream.

"That's because you are both very pretty."

"Thank you, Sir," she said, grinning.

"Would you please close your legs?" I have no idea what part of my brain thought to say that.

"Why?" She sounded actually curious.

"Because I can see your panties," I said. It was the truth, and what was rattling around in my brain. I know that's not the kind of truth you're supposed to mention, but it just came out.

She tilted her head and then giggled. "That reminds me of a joke I heard a long time ago when I was in, like, the fourth grade or something." She stood up and, like she had done it a hundred times before, reached under her skirt and slid her panties down to her knees. She had superb balance when she was in a tree - she was half monkey - and she bent over to lift one foot. The panties dropped off that foot and fell to the ankle of the foot that was still standing on the branch. She reached for them, changed feet and stood up wadding the white cloth into a small ball that fit in her hands.

Then she squatted again, with her knees spread.

"I fixed it," she said softly. "Now you can't see my panties any more."

I felt the blood rushing from my face, headed south, no doubt, and had the errant thought that in a few seconds I was going to have a truly magnificent erection, except that I was also going to pass out. Dimly, as if from a great distance, I heard Jill's soft voice still speaking.

"Is that better? I like it when you look at me like that too."

You've heard of alcoholic blackouts, where somebody does things they can't remember later. What happened next was exactly like that ... only completely different.

I "awoke" to find my nose buried in soft hair and my lips sucking at her feminine nectar. My tongue was drilling against her clitty and I was making a lot of noise. While I could not, for the life of me, remember deciding to shove my face between her legs, I was aware that she wasn't unhappy that I had done so. She was cursing softly, using words I'd never heard her lips utter, but both of her hands were on the top back of my head and her legs were still spread wide. I felt her push against me and realized she was balanced, leaning into my mouth, and that I was actually holding her on the branch.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, I knew it would be good," she moaned. "I knew it, oh please don't stop, Bob, oh fuck if you keep doing that I'm gonna cum!"

If all this seems sudden to you, reading this, just try to imagine what it was like for me. This was a completely new Jill, a part of her that was obviously there, but that I'd never seen, despite all that time we spent together. I was acting on autopilot, which is the only reason I ended up doing what I was doing. It's hard to explain.

I do remember vaguely thinking "Well ... you're already fucked, Bob, because you've already done enough to end up in the back of a police car for this." Of course that wasn't true. She was above the age of consent, but I'd thought of her as a "little girl" for so long it was just my default setting.

Since it was already too late for me, I decided that at least I was going to know I had given her a good time.

I circled her clit with my lips. Not having seen it I was working by feel alone. It had been ten years since I'd done this to Vicky, and she had just been getting comfortable with it, having grown up in a conservative family where something like this wasn't even thought of, much less practiced. So I knew I wasn't all that good at it. Then again, I was also sure Jill had never had this done to her before, so she wouldn't know the difference.

Her clit wasn't huge, but I was able to nip at it with my teeth and squeeze it gently between them as I sucked.

"Oh fuck!" she gasped, and one of her hands left my head as she leaned too hard and pushed me back. Just at the crucial moment I had to decide whether to keep pushing with my face, or catch her as she fell. She wouldn't remember that orgasm if she had a concussion, so I opted for putting my hands on her waist and stepping back.

"Noooo," she whined as she tried to hold herself up in the tree with one hand.

"Let go," I ordered.

She did and her body slid down mine. We didn't mow the grass under the trees, because the limbs hung too low, and there was a soft green blanket probably fourteen inches thick. I laid her back on it, flipped the front of her skirt up and dove back in. When she figured out what I was doing her legs sprang open again and her hands came back.

"Yesssss," she hissed.

I couldn't fuck her, but I could eat the heck out of that sweet pussy. I made up for lack of experience with an almost frantic gusto, probing her pussy with my tongue, and licking and sucking her clit over and over again. I didn't seem to be able to get her as close as I had that one time, even when I used my teeth in the same way. I found the answer by accident as my face slid in her slippery juices and my chin, with the barest hint of stubble on it, scraped over her clit.

"Ohhh!" she gasped.

Damned if I didn't give her her first orgasm with my chin, just pressing it hard against her clit and making little chewing motions.

I had a vague memory that things were really sensitive down there after an orgasm. I realized I should probably stop rubbing her clitty raw, but I didn't want this to end. So I crawled up and kissed her.

My mouth was still wet from eating her pussy, but she didn't seem to mind. My moisturized lips tenderly touched hers.

Jill's response was to mold her lips against mine and kiss me back. The tension in her lips suggested she hadn't done this too much either. By softening my lips and using them to "eat" hers, I taught her to relax. Within seconds my tongue was teasing her teeth. She was a quick learner, she was.

Then her hand slid to the front of my pants, where all that blood that had left my brain, and which I blamed for my "blackout," had collected in my penis. Her hand found the long lump and squeezed at it as she explored this new and fascinating thing that she was experiencing.

That got my attention in a very sobering way, because I wanted nothing more than to use what she was squeezing for its intended purpose.

But I knew I couldn't.

"Oh man Jill, we have to stop this!" I finally managed to say. "Girlie girl, if you were older than you are ..." I panted as she squeezed hard. "We can't!" I gasped. "Listen here. I'm going to make you cum one more time and then I'm running away. Afterwards, I want us both to forget this ever happened!'

Paying no attention to the defiant look on Jill's rebellious face, I got back down between her sweet thighs and wildly attacked the young pussy between her legs. My mouth kissed, my lips sucked, and my flicking tongue licked. I nibbled her clitty and her hips bucked hard.

This sweet, pleasurable chore didn't take as long as I thought it would. After a mere five minutes of furious pussy consumption, I heard the girl cry out as another orgasm grabbed hold of her. Her body jerked against my face and sprayed me with feminine cum.

Still, I continued licking, sticking my tongue as deep as I could into her pussy hole and slurping up all her juices. Her whines and whimpers were such music to my ears.

It was too much. I had to do something. I was determined not to fuck her, but I had to do something. I elected to jerk off right then and there. I rolled over, shoved my pants down, and gripped my little friend.

I was so engrossed in jerking the cum out of my balls that I didn't see her sit up and examine what I was doing. She apparently wanted to help, because her hand came to stop mine and then push it away, to be replaced by hers.

I was pretty sure Jill didn't really know what to do. Her slim, long fingers were wrapped around my thick, pulsating cockshaft! But did she know how to give a hand job? Part of me hoped she did, but part of me wanted her to never have touched a cock before.

The answer was: 'apparently not.' She made several clumsy attempts at fondling and groping. She squeezed my semen-filled testicles experimentally. She pulled and tugged on my pubic hair. It was all quite fun, but not very satisfying.

I'd already blown it - no pun intended - and I supposed it couldn't be so terrible if I adopted the idea that right now was as good a time as any other for this girl to learn about hand jobs and what they produced. Using one of my hands, I guided Jill's hand in the time honored movements that induced semen to squirt from a penis.

Inexperienced she might be, but she caught on to the manual mechanics of pumping a cock in a very short time. At first, she timidly stroked with slow movements. Gaining confidence, she increased the tempo.

I knew I couldn't last long before blowing my wad. I'd been hard and ready for quite a while. My mouth was still full of the delicious taste of young pussy flesh. My nose was still filled with the intoxicating scent of musky turned-on girl juice.

My swollen erection decided it was time to jump on the orgasm bandwagon.

I should have warned her, but I was too involved in the anticipation and the feel of that first pressurized stream rocketing through my prick. Hot, creamy cum shot out and struck Jill's chin. She jerked, but didn't let go. Her jerk changed the trajectory of the next spurt and it hit her right nipple. Then she got it aimed upward and a two foot arc of white landed on the grass to my right. She continued to jerk until I stopped her when it got too tender.

She finally spoke for the first time since I had lost control and stepped blithely off the cliff.

"Oh no!" she suddenly moaned. "It's shrinking! I thought it was supposed to stay hard so you could ... you know ... do it with me."

I took some really deep breaths, trying to settle down. "Jill, sweetie," I finally answered. "This is what happens to a man's cock after he's had a good hand job and cum all over the place! And I'm not going to do it with you. You are my friend's too-young daughter! Now girl, get dressed and run on home. I shouldn't have done this in the first place. Please just forget it happened. Now, go one home. We will never ever do anything like this again!"

Jill lowered her head and smiled demurely, "We might do it again," she said coyly. "I think anything is possible, don't you agree?"

"No I don't!" I answered adamantly. "It's not possible for this to happen again. Besides, you're not interested in this kind of thing. You don't even have a boyfriend!"

"I've always been interested in it," she said calmly. "Just not with the boys my friends at school are interested in it with." She stood up, scooping my cum off of her breast and examining it closely. "I was pretty sure it had to be fun, but I had no idea it would be that much fun. And I'm almost eighteen. I'm pretty sure this is going to happen again, Bob." She rubbed spermy fingers together and then, to my astonishment, dropped them to her puffy vulva and rubbed the sperm into her pussy lips. "Mmmmmm."

"Stop that!" I snapped. "In there is the last place you want my sperm, young lady!"

"Feels good to me," she sighed. Her rubbing went on uninterrupted.

"Will it feel good if your belly swells up with a baby in it? Don't be an idiot, Jill."

"I'm not an idiot," she complained, finally pulling her fingers away from her pussy lips. "I just know what I like. I liked that, Bob. I liked it a lot."

"This is wrong, sweetheart," I moaned. "Remember that," I said. "Because it's not going to happen again. Your mother would take a shotgun to me if she found out I even touched you!"

As I turned my back and walked away from the promise of further taboo temptation, I heard Jill's voice defiantly declare, "Don't bet on it, Bob. You might lose!"

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