Orchard Flower (Version Bravo)

by Lubrican

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

Chapter Fourteen

Eventually I nudged Jill awake. She was in my arms, her head burrowed into my chest.

"You probably need to be getting back home," I whispered.

"No," she said petulantly. "I like it here."

"Your mom," I reminded her.

"She knows where I am," said Jill.

"She'll be mad."

"She'll get over it." She burrowed against me and draped a leg over mine, rubbing her wet, sperm-drenched pussy against my thigh. I could feel the smear she left there.

"What about Zack?"

She pulled her head back from my chest and looked at me through tousled hair.

"Zack might be in my bed," she said. "Besides, this is my bed now," she said softly. "Our bed," she corrected. "This is where I want to be, and where I belong."

Have you ever had one of those moments where you were in the presence of something miraculous? We had made love three times, which was astonishing enough in and of itself, but the fact was that the second and third times had seemed so natural to me that I hadn't even thought about it until it was over. I was dog tired by then, of course, and was pretty sure my dick wouldn't get hard for two or three days. It would dangle around down there unable to even look up at me with a frown while it grumbled about abuse and violation of warranties and such. But when she said that ... when she said it was OUR bed now ... the finality in her voice sent something through me that was almost electric and a minor miracle occurred.

My dick got half hard almost immediately.

She didn't know it, because I was lying on my back and her knee wasn't touching me there. And what was even more shocking was that I could enjoy the feeling of that penis lifting it's bleary-eyed head up and looking around, saying "Whazzit?" like a man does after a night of hard drinking.

It was so comfortable there with her in my arms, and there was the sudden knowledge that, in the morning, that half hard penis could be awakened again and would actually perform if instructed to do so!

That was the rest of the miracle. I felt completely comfortable letting the opportunity pass, because I knew there would be another one whenever I wanted it.

That calm faith in the future I was feeling, and which kept Jill there in our bed that night, was completely lacking a quarter mile away.

Zack was lying in bed in the guest room (Lynne had cleaned it out) with a completely hard penis, thinking about stroking it. He didn't want to, which was a bit odd, because he'd beaten off every night for the last two weeks, thinking about being here in this house, with the woman who was down the hallway from him this very instant.

But she had always been a fantasy before. Now he had actually spoken to her, and seen her and even held her in his arms. Now she was a real person to him and now that he knew what Lynne was really like, the fantasy seemed crude and low class. It was like the difference between looking at a fine oil painting of a nude in a museum, and a cartoon in Penthouse. You just didn't beat off in the museum.

Down the hall Lynne lay in her bed. It was the same bed she'd lain in for years. She hadn't gotten rid of it when Paul died, but since then she'd somehow taken over the whole thing. She wasn't aware of tossing and turning in the night, but she often woke up across the bed from where she'd fallen asleep, or found herself lying sprawled across the whole thing, arms and legs spread out comfortably.

She couldn't get comfortable tonight, though. She felt hot in the old, thin flannel shirt she always wore to bed as a nightgown of sorts. It had been Paul's ... her favorite ... and was normally comfortable, like an old shoe. But tonight it seemed to pull and bind at her.

Her mind had been a whirl when she first closed her bedroom door and leaned on it, like she was afraid he'd follow her in there. She had her own very quick fantasy in which he did follow her in, and what flashed through her mind left her gasping for air. It was rape ... except that in her mind she didn't resist in any way. That had been discounted ... pushed firmly away because she knew he'd never force himself on her. She just knew that. She didn't know him well at all, but she was sure of that part.

Now as she squirmed in bed she realized she was excited, and began to examine that. It wasn't from that short, violent fantasy. That was gone, like a dream of seeing a purple cow would be gone once it was examined and found to be flawed.

Now she remembered his arms around her. How long had it been since a man had held her like that? How long had it been since she'd felt a man's passion pressing against her? How long had it been since a man had been brazen, looked her right in the eye and said "You excite me!"

Dennis didn't count, because she couldn't actually remember him holding her. One minute they had been making out like teenagers, and the next he had been groaning and whimpering in his completion. It had been almost devastatingly unsatisfying, and she was absolutely sure that Paul had been staring down at her, frowning.

She looked around the dark room and then closed her eyes, still rolling them, looking for any hint of the spirit of her dead husband.

"What should I do?" she whispered to the still room. "What do you want me to do?"

There was no answer and she opened her eyes again. It didn't seem crazy to her at all to have a conversation with someone who wasn't there.

"I mean I know I can't do anything with him," she said, thinking of Zack. "He's just a boy. And Bob is taken by our baby. Can you believe that?" Her voice went up. She flung her right leg to one side and shoved the covers down. "She really loves him. It's obvious. It's crazy, but I can see it. And he's just head over heels for her." She stared at the ceiling for a while. "Maybe that's the problem," she said softly. "It was all right at first. I missed you but I was able to go on. She needed me. But now she doesn't need me any more. She needs Bob, and that leaves me all alone. And you're not coming back."

Her mind drifted, letting memories of a young Paul float through her mind. They were sharp and clear, and yet viewed as though through a slightly fogged window. She felt the yearning for him that was both physical and mental, and the pain of knowing that these memories were all she'd ever have.

At some point she realized she'd fallen asleep and was dreaming. That's because she became aware of a huge face, looming over her. She knew it was Paul, but there seemed to be old, wavy glass between them that kept her from seeing what was in his eyes. Then, so suddenly that in her dream she sat up, he turned and walked away from her. In an instant the dream shifted and he was on a tractor, pulling a plow, breaking up the earth. He looked over his shoulder at her and she realized the misty glass was gone. He was wearing the shirt that she could feel pulling at her body, which somehow told her clearly this was no dream.

"What?" she asked, agonized. "What should I do?"

He turned away from her and plowed. She watched for what seemed like an hour, but all he did was plow that field, getting it ready for some unnamed crop. He never looked at her again, as the tractor seemed to be farther and farther away from her until she realized it was leaving. He raised a hand, still not looking, but obviously waving ... waving goodbye!

"No!" she shouted. "Don't ..." She woke to the sound of her own voice shouting "go!" and looked around the dark bedroom frantically.

She was, in fact, sitting up in bed. But it was just her normal dark bedroom. It had been a dream. She had dreamed of Paul.

She frowned. Paul raised cattle ... not crops. She had asked him what to do and all he had done was ride the tractor. She didn't get it. Frustration tore at her and she unbuttoned the top button of Paul's shirt, where it seemed to be choking her. She closed her eyes and saw that hand lifted, almost negligently waving. It hadn't felt like a "I'll never see you again" kind of wave. It had been more of a "I'll see you later" gesture.

She flopped down in bed and kicked off the covers. It was hot. She unbuttoned the shirt the rest of the way and let it fall to her sides so that some air could get to her sweaty torso. The cool air felt good on her breasts, but she felt like she was lying naked, waiting for her dead husband to come to her. He wasn't coming, though. He had waved goodbye.

While plowing a field.

She frowned again. He'd been getting a field ready for a new crop. It was the first step in the cycle of life that farmers had used for thousands of years. You got the ground ready for the new crop, so that life, as the farmer knew it, could go on.

The imagery was so stark, and so clear, suddenly, that she barked out a harsh laugh.

"You've got to be kidding me," she breathed. Her hand went to her abdomen and rested there lightly. She always did that before she masturbated, and it occurred to her suddenly that she was about to do that. She couldn't believe it, but she felt the undeniable urge to slide a finger between her pussy lips and rub until she got some relief.

"You can't be telling me to go to that boy," she gasped out loud, giving in to the urge that seemed to control her hand and arm. She bucked as her finger scraped across her clit.

"You're my husband!"

It felt too good and even though she felt ashamed to be doing it, she continued to circle her clit with the tip of her finger. One finger became two and then three, pressing hard, trying to crush her little bud. Paul's image was gone from her mind, replaced by Zack's, as he sat at the table, looking at her. She remembered the feel of his arms holding her and his hard penis pressing against her ... quite close, in fact, to where she was now rubbing.

"You've got to be kidding me!" she panted again as an orgasm ran toward her on tiptoes, like it was trying to sneak up on her. She saw it coming, though, and as it washed over her she covered her mouth with a hand to stifle the groan. Her tightly closed eyes helped make it possible for the hand to remind her of his lips, kissing hers, and she thrashed in bed, legs wide, as she forced a finger deep inside herself and wagged it back and forth frantically.

It was good.

But it wasn't enough.

She could tell that, even as she kept bucking and thrusting at the finger prodding her pussy. She had no trouble bringing the image of Paul on that tractor back into her mind, and again she saw the wave. Again she cried out, "Nooooooo" and, to her amazement, she saw his face turn toward her again. He was smiling.

And then he was gone, and she was just lying in bed, with her finger in her pussy and the not-quite-good-enough after effects of an orgasm buzzing in her body.

"Damn!" she almost shouted.

She jerked her finger out of herself and sat up. Her feet seemed to swing to the side of the bed of their own volition, but she let them and stood. She knew what she was going to do now even though she knew it was crazy. She knew she shouldn't, but she also knew she would.

The twenty feet between her door and his seemed to disappear into an alternate dimension. The knob on his door squeaked as she turned it, but she wasn't trying to be quiet. Her eyes, adjusted long ago to the dark, saw his body carelessly sprawled on the bed. He was wearing boxers and her fingers wiggled in anticipation of pulling them off of him.

"Wake up!" she said, her voice almost irritated.

He jerked and lifted his head. "What?" he asked, instantly alert. "What's wrong?"

"I'm insane," she said, letting Paul's shirt slide off her shoulders to drop in a puddle on the floor. She was naked, and her pale skin was easily seen in the moonlight coming through the windows.

"What?" His voice didn't sound muddled at all.

"Take those off," she said, pointing at his cloth-covered groin. "They're just going to be in the way."

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