Orchard Flower (Version Bravo)

by Lubrican

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

Chapter Six

Since I didn't have a plan, I didn't talk about the plan as we rode alone. She didn't ask. We had done this before, just riding side by side, looking around, inspecting things, enjoying nature. Finally she spoke.

"So what did you and Mom talk about when she went over there last night?"

"You," I said, for lack of anything else to say.

"Was she mad?"

"She wasn't happy."

"I didn't mean to tell her," she said. "But you made me so angry!"

"I'm sorry about that," I said, thinking 'there's that apology she was talking about.'

"I couldn't believe you said you don't care about me." Her voice was tight.

"That's not what I meant," I said. "You should know that. We're pals ... buddies ... best friends."

She reined in and sat there, staring at me. "I may not have a lot of experience with sex, but I know you don't DO that with just friends!" she said forcefully.

"I know!" I held up a hand. "Let's not argue, OK? You know I do care about you. It's because I care about you that I care about your sex life too, Jill. I'm tremendously honored that you chose me to be your first. But that's something you can only give away one time, and when you go to college and find some great guy who knocks your socks off, it would have been really nice to be able to give him that gift. But you can't now. That's all I was trying to say. We let things get out of control, and there are consequences when that happens. That's all."

"Nothing got out of control," she said, a stubborn caste in her voice. "I wanted to do that with you, and I'm pretty sure you wanted to do it with me too. Why can't we just enjoy that?"

"Jill, I'm forty-eight years old. You're eighteen. In ten years you'll be in the prime of your life and I'll be an old man. Why would you want to marry an old man and then push him around in a wheel chair for years?"

"Maybe I like old men in wheel chairs," she pouted. "I don't care about that. I care about how I feel right now. Besides, who said anything about marriage and where we'll be ten years from now? I know things could change, but I know how I feel right here, today. Why can't I enjoy that now?"

"Seriously?" I asked. "Because if you're serious ... if this is just a crush, or a fling or whatever you want to call it, that would make everything a lot easier. Your mom would feel better, and I would too."

She looked sideways at me. "Are you saying you'd have a fling with me, Bob?"

"Technically," I said, trying to keep the subject unemotional, "I'd be a lot more comfortable having a fling with you than thinking about a long future that might end badly for both of us. I don't want to break your heart, Jill, but I don't want mine to be broken again either."

"Do you still miss her?" she asked curiously.

"Yep," I answered instantly.

"Were you thinking of her while we were ...?" She didn't finish.

"No," I answered truthfully. "I did afterwards, but not during."

She looked away and kicked her horse with her heels. It cantered ahead and I got a good view of a healthy young woman bouncing up and down on a horse until I caught up with her.

She suddenly pointed to a place they called Bald Knob, where a huge house-sized boulder broke the surface of the pasture. The top of the rock was probably forty feet by forty feet. At this time of year, a few hours later in the day, it would be too hot to touch with bare skin, but this early in the morning it just held residual warmth from the previous day.

"Let's go over there," she said. "I want to show you something."

I loped along beside her for the half minute it took to get there. She hopped down and put hobbles on her horse. I did the same. She took her saddle bags and slung them over her shoulder and then started off across the rock. I followed. When we got to roughly the center, where the rock was the flattest, she stopped.

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I told you to," she said firmly. "And don't peek, because if you do you'll ruin the surprise and I'll be very angry. In fact, close your eyes and turn around."

I thought things were better, so I didn't make a fuss. I had no idea what she could show me from up on Bald Knob that I hadn't seen a hundred times before, but I was willing to play the game.

I heard the saddle bags thump onto the rock, and then scraping sounds that I imagined were things being taken out of them. I had no idea what that could be, and began to get interested in this game. I heard two thumps that I couldn't identify, and some rustling sounds. There was the snap of a sheet being whipped in the wind, which was very odd, but just as that happened she said "Don't peek!" so I stayed where I was.

I'll be honest. I did open my eyes. I hoped the shadows would give me some information, but I was facing east and the sun was in my eyes.

"OK, you can turn around now," she said. She sounded nervous, and I had Outer Limit type visions of her with a gun, intending to regain her pride through violent means.

The reality hit me just as hard.

She had, as they say in polite discourse, disrobed ... completely. And her clothing wasn't all she'd removed. Lying on the blanket I'd thought was a sheet being snapped open, she was completely devoid of the pubic hair that, yesterday, had so tickled my nose.

"I'm bald on Bald Knob," she said, sounding like she might burst into hysterics at any second. "I did it last night, while I was trying to figure out if I was injured."

"Injured?" I asked in a dreamy voice. She was up on her elbows, with her heels drawn up about halfway and her knees leaning apart like doors on broken hinges. If you looked up "fuckable" in the dictionary of sex, her picture would have been the perfect illustration. Her breasts were heaving, which was the only indication that she was in some distress.

"It really hurt when you first went in me," she said softly. "And then it felt so good and I rubbed so hard I was afraid I might have hurt myself."

"You shaved," I sighed.

"Roberta Victor, another of my friends in school, said that men like a shaved pussy." She said it matter-of-factly, but somehow it sounded so sexy that I jerked.

They say time flies when you're having fun. I don't know about that, but time flew for me right then, because I thought about a dozen things while a few seconds ticked off.

I thought about how insensitive I'd been the day before. I thought about how good she looked, one component of which was how willing she looked. There could be no shred of doubt that she was offering herself wholeheartedly, whether she was misguided or not. I thought about what she would likely think if I turned around, got on my horse, and galloped back to the house. I thought about whether or not I could actually make myself do that. I thought about how much I wanted to be with this girl, who wanted me in a way that I wasn't used to, and made me feel fabulous. I thought about the fact that my prick had a mind of its own and was already rock hard, old man or not. And I thought about what I'd said to her mother ... that I wouldn't hurt her daughter's feelings.

"I want you," I croaked.

"I want you," she replied, sounding less nervous.

"This is crazy," I moaned.

"I don't care," she said softly. "Are you hard for me Bob? Is it all long and hard like it was yesterday? I want it in me again. Don't you want to put it in me again?"

"Yeeeesssss," I groaned.

It occurred to me, about the time I was taking my socks off, that I was being had again. If I wasn't a dumb prick waiting to be used, and if she wasn't playing me like a fiddle again, then my name wasn't Bob MacAllister. My bobbing prick didn't care, of course. It was just humming. If it could have talked it would have been panting, "Let me at her! Oh boy! Oh boy! She's gonna be so tight and warm and juicy! Oh boy! Yummmmmmmmm."

Which may be why a bit of perversity arose in me, requiring that I reclaim control of the situation so that I wasn't a complete patsy. Either that or there's a little cave man in all of us that can be let loose in that particular situation.

Which means that, when I got between her thighs on my hands and knees, and that rock was really hard on my knees, I used her body as a mattress. I am ashamed to say that, for a few minutes, I really didn't care too much about this girl that could make me lose my resolve so easily. I lunged into her, letting my full weight rest on her body. She rocked upwards, gasping for air as my chest tried to crush her breasts flat. My toes and hands aided me in going deep in one long rush. The sudden feel of tight, hot pussy all around my prick was so satisfying, and the feeling of being the master, on top of her, pinning her to that blanket, made me feel powerful.

Then one of her whimpers got through to the human being still resident in some part of my brain, and I suddenly craved hearing that whimper be one of joy, rather than discomfort.

I pushed up onto my arms, so she could breathe, and took some weight on my knees. I knew they'd be sore afterwards, but I didn't care.

Then I fucked her. I didn't make love to her. There wasn't any romance to it. I had been played, and now I played her body. I knew what to do and how to move, and I took her to heights that she screamed from. I had no urge to cum at all. It was all about wearing this woman out ... giving her all that she asked for and so much more that she hadn't been aware was out there. At some point after her gut wrenching gasps that signaled what I was sure was her third orgasm, I relented and rolled, so that she was on top.

If I'd thought she'd get up and run, I was totally mistaken. She didn't have a lot of experience at this, but she remembered the day before, and how to move so that her clit was rubbed. She lunged wholeheartedly, our sweaty bodies slipping this way and that. I tried to capture a nipple, but she was moving too much, so all I could do was lick her breasts, like some demented, but friendly dog.

She groaned again and froze this time. The only movement was internal as her pussy muscles spasmed and jumped. Then she couldn't hold her breath any longer and a shuddering rasp of air left her lungs as she collapsed on my chest.

Suddenly I did want to cum. I was in full control of my faculties. This wasn't the mad rush to completion of the day before. I had worked on this woman, made her go where I wanted her to have been. I rolled her over again and she whoofed as my body crushed hers again. With jackrabbit thrusts that made my lower back burn like fire I thrust into her until the soothing semen that I knew I shouldn't deposit in her was flowing through my prick. It burst out as I pushed harder, instinctively trying to get it as deep as possible. In those few seconds I tried to breed Jill Simmons. It was so wrong, but it was so intentional. I was of two minds, and the one that wanted this to never end basically bitch-slapped my common sense until it was lying curled up on that rock, whimpering.

As the last few pulses of liquid danger transferred from my body to hers, they were so sweet that I almost cried. I wanted my whole body to dissolve into that last quarter ounce, and soak into Jill's being so that I became part of her that could never entirely leave.

The sadness I felt was instant, as I realized that could never happen. We would always be of two bodies. She would go off to college and meet a strong young man, who would take my place between her thighs. He would breed her, and she would love him, and his children.

The only solace I had was that I knew she would never entirely forget me. That new man, that interloper, whoever he was going to be, would never have this moment with her. This moment would forever be mine.

That was the point at which I lost it. By 'it' I mean control of my brain and mouth.

"I love you," I whispered into her hair.

Sometimes we bandy that phrase around too much. "I love you." Those simple three words can carry a lot of weight. Weight is a good metaphor for that phrase. If you lift a lot of weight a lot of times, you get stronger. If you lift a little weight a lot of times, your muscles get more defined. You can lift too little, which means things get into bad shape. And you can lift too much, to the point that lifting takes over your entire life, or begins to be taken for granted.

I hadn't "lifted weights" since Vicky. That I didn't marry her until I was thirty-three should show how rare love was in my life. Jill made me want to lift weights again. She had already begun defining my muscles ... the one between my legs for sure. The metaphor starts getting muddy right here, because it sounds like I was in lust, rather than in love. Actually, it wasn't an either/or situation. I was in lust and in love, and it was blindingly obvious to me, just as soon as I uttered those three little words.

What you have to understand is that lust is easy to identify. It raises its hand and jumps up and down like Horshack in the TV show Welcome Back Kotter. Love, on the other hand, kind of sneaks up on you, or can, anyway, until you suddenly realize that, even if you can never touch her again, you have to have her in your life or you'll be miserable.

Her response was a lot less complicated.

"I know," she whispered. "It's what made me love you too."

Now most adults will tell you that an eighteen-year-old, whether male or female, doesn't actually know what they really want out of life. They're too young. They haven't had time to experience enough to make any intelligent choices. They think they know. In fact, they're often quite positive that they know.

But they don't. We adults know that.

So I was pretty sure that Jill just thought she loved me. She was, after all, caught up in the moment, just like I was. Or at least I assumed that. And, what her mother had said about her going off to college and meeting lots of interesting boys was true. It happens all the time. The boyfriend who gets left back home most often stays there and is replaced by someone who is much closer in a geographical sense.

All this was going through my mind as I lay there, naked, still on top of Jill, who was also naked. My penis, still drooling a bit, was still inside her, though it was thoroughly soft now. As I thought of that, her pussy muscles squeezed and my prick was pushed out of her.

"Ohhhhh," she complained softly. It was obvious what she was complaining about.

I decided, at that moment, that what I would just have to do was let her get me out of her system before she left for school. She thought she knew what she wanted. What I had to do was show her what she was actually getting, and illuminate the flaws and mismatches I knew were between us. One of them was that at my age, I wasn't going to be able to give her what, or at least as much, as she wanted.

"You killed it," I teased.

"It better not be dead," she said, her jaw working against my chest. "I want to get to know it a lot better." She was clearly using the word "it" to refer to my johnson.

"It is not as young as it once was," I said gently. I could tease, but I also had to tell the truth. She needed to understand that.

She pushed me off and sat up, suddenly full of energy. "It's such a beautiful day!" she exclaimed, looking around.

I was busy looking at her body. Her breasts were perfectly proportioned for her build, round, firm and very white. Her nipples were a color I'd have to have called tan, on areolas the same shade, or maybe a little darker. From ten or fifteen feet, they'd be invisible. My eyes dropped lower and took in sperm-smeared bald pussy lips, which made my penis try to wake up. I looked at it next. It was smeared with white and looked the worse for the wear. It felt damn fine, though. My eyes slid back to her. I could look at her like this all day.

"It is beautiful," I sighed, not talking about the day at all.

She glanced down, and her eyes told me she understood exactly what I was referring to. She smiled.

"Thank you," she said. She scooted back and stared at my soft prick. Her right finger went to it and pushed it sideways. "I can't believe it can be so soft but get so hard."

"It's soft a lot more than it's hard," I said.

"Has any woman ever sucked it?" she asked. I wasn't quite prepared for that, and thought back to the few times Vicky had tried it. She wasn't much into it, but knew I liked it and did it as a special treat for me sometimes.

"Yes," was all I could get out.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "I hoped maybe I could be the first."

"What?" My mind was jerked back to the present.

"Well you were my first, and I kind of hoped there was something I could do for you for your first time."

"Not necessary," I said firmly. "You couldn't do anything for me that would make me any happier than I already am." I meant it too. I just didn't think about the impact of saying it to her.

"Does that mean I can't suck it?" she asked, frowning.

"Do you want to?" I asked, amazed that she'd even think about it, especially considering the condition it was in at the present.

"I think so," she said, still staring at it. "I mean you suck my pussy, and I thought that was nasty, but obviously you love it, and I love it too. Did you like it when your wife did it?"

Youth so often just says what's on their mind. They don't think about the way they say things, or how it might affect the listener. But I knew that, and there was only a little pang of loss. Actually, as I imagined Vicky watching and listening from wherever she was now, I also imagined her saying "She just fucked your socks off, and you're worried I'll get upset if she gives you a blow job?"

"I did," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"I already know what your stuff tastes like," she said. She pushed my limp penis around with her finger some more. "But there's some of me on there now too."

"You taste delicious," I said, without thinking.

"I can tell," she said dryly.

Then, without further ado, she scooted down more and leaned forward. The finger she'd been pushing it around with was joined by some more which she used to get the slippery thing to stand up. Then, just like that, she sucked my limp prick into her mouth, sucking strongly. Her tongue got busy and I realized how food must feel when it realizes it's about to be chewed and swallowed. I sat up in alarm, but she didn't bite, and it felt wonderful, so I flopped back down and groaned in delight.

She promptly spat me out and looked up, concern on her face. "Am I hurting you?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh hell no," I said, raising my head.

"Good."

She went back to figuring out how to do this thing. Either she was a natural, or a quick learner. I'd only had one woman ever do this before, though, so what did I know? I learned right along with her.

One thing I learned was that my johnson had a lot more in him than I gave him credit for. She had been happily sucking and humming and playing with him for five or ten minutes, I suppose, when I realized he was hard again. I couldn't believe it. She knew how to masturbate me, and she did some of that, but not with any real intent to produce anything. It was more like she just enjoyed stroking it, in-between kisses and sucks. Her fingers explored my balls too, poking and prodding and feeling around. She was gentle, though, and I didn't even have to warn her to be careful.

When she sat back up, I didn't know whether to complain or compliment her.

"I got it hard again," she said proudly.

"You did, indeed," I said.

"I like it when you're on top of me," she said, clearly making a suggestion.

I sat up first, and then stood, while she lay down right where I had been and spread her legs, expectantly.

OK, gentlemen ... what would you do?

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