Three years he'd been in the ground and I was still sticking my face in his coat every morning like a dog with a bone.
Before the boys came down. That was the rule. I'd get the coffee going and go to the hook by the back door where his old canvas chore coat hung, the one nobody else in this house was allowed to touch, and I'd lift the collar and put my nose right in the seam and breathe. Cedar. Bar oil. Him. And under that, so faint now I really had to work for it, that warm thick smell that used to fill the whole house when he came in from outside, fur that's been lying in the sun. "mmm…..", right into his collar. My nipples went hard under my nightgown. My thighs pressed together all on their own and there it was, that slow warm slide, my pussy getting wet over a coat on a hook with the coffee maker gurgling behind me.
You're a widow, Dell. Three grown sons asleep upstairs and you're creaming over a coat.
Every breath I took left a little less of him in that seam. I took one more. Then another one, a greedy one, and my hips actually moved, a little roll against my own nightgown. The wet fabric dragged over my swollen folds. That was so pathetic I laughed into the canvas.
The stairs creaked. I hung it back up so fast the hook rattled.
Jace. Shirtless, scratching his belly, hair sticking up on one side. He reached past me for a mug and his bare chest brushed my arm, like he hadn't just caught his mother humping the air in front of his dead father's coat. He'd caught it. Nobody gets away with anything in this house. Their noses are worse than mine.
"Morning, Ma."
"There's coffee."
Don't you dare blush. Pour the man his coffee.
I poured the man his coffee. And my eyes went where they had no business going, down his stomach, flat and hard and brown from the truck, past those three pale scars low on his side, the ones he got the night we ran, down that line of dark hair into the waistband of his sleep shorts. The shorts sat low. I could see the soft heavy outline of his cock resting against the fabric, the head of it making a little ridge. My pussy clenched and more wet slid out of me.
No. Absolutely not. That's your son, you disgusting old woman. Look at the coffee.
I looked at the coffee. My face went hot, and hating myself didn't dry one thing up. It never once has, I don't know what's wrong with me.
He took the milk out and drank it straight from the jug.
"Glass," I said. Too high.
He grinned at me over his shoulder like he could smell exactly what kind of morning I was having. He probably could.
I should tell you how we got here, because you're going to wonder.
They killed Pascal three springs ago. The family across the lake, up north where we lived before. Them. One night in April he went out to see about something on the lake road and didn't come back, and I found him by the culvert in the morning with his throat torn open.
We ran that same night. I grabbed his coat off the hook and that's all I grabbed. Cal wouldn't let anybody write on a single box, not even KITCHEN, because a word on a box is something somebody can read. Me, who used to label the spice rack. Now it's a white house at the end of a gravel road north of the city, and the boys run a moving company, and Jace painted PASCAL in big navy letters down the side of the truck. I yelled at all three of them in the driveway. Anybody with a nose can follow a name.
Cal didn't even turn around. "It stays."
It stayed. That was the first time.
Rook came down next and I swear the stairs complained.
He had on an old undershirt because yesterday's work shirt was in my wash basket split straight down the back seam. That happens with them when the change sits close under the skin all week and their shoulders won't stay the size of a shirt. The undershirt was stretched so tight I could see every slab of muscle through it, and when he reached up to the cupboard for a bowl it rode up. All this skin. His belly thick and brown over the waistband of his work pants, and the start of that same dark trail of hair his father had. He stood there with his arm up and his nose in my cupboard, sniffing around for the cereal.
Look at the stove. The stove, Dell.
I looked at his shoulder instead. That big round cap of muscle where the arm goes in, the exact same shoulder his father had, and I used to put my teeth right there when Pascal was buried deep in me so I wouldn't scream the whole lake awake. My pussy clenched so hard I had to grab the counter. "hh.." It came out of me before I could stop it. Rook's head turned. Just his head, the way he does, before his eyes catch up.
"You okay, Ma?"
"Fine. Hot. It's hot."
He looked at me one second too long and went back to his cereal, and I went to the sink and ran the cold water over my wrists like an idiot. I could smell myself. Sweet and thick. They could too.
Cal came down last. Dressed already. Navy shirt with PASCAL RELOCATION across the chest in white and CAL stitched over the pocket, sleeves rolled up, and his forearms, oh, his forearms. Thick, roped, dark hair running down over the backs of his hands almost to the knuckles. His father's arms. He took Pascal's old clipboard down off the nail by the back door, the clip still bent where Pascal used to chew on it, and tucked it under that arm like it was his.
The gray had come in at his temples the summer after we ran. All at once, right at the sides, the same place Pascal went gray, and every time I looked at it something in my belly went soft and hot and stupid.
He walked past the coat. He didn't look at it. His nostrils moved once.
"You were in it," he said.
Not a question.
"Drink your coffee," I said.
He drank his coffee and looked at me over the cup. I turned and faced the sink with my thighs pressed together and my pussy throbbing and all three of my sons in that kitchen with their noses, and I thought,
they can smell you. Every one of them can smell what you are. And right on the heels of it, worse,
Good. God, let them.
We ate on the back porch that night because the kitchen was an oven. Steaks barely cooked, the way they like them, blood running out on the platter, tomatoes from my buckets cut thick with salt. And Pascal's chair at the head of the table. The ladderback with the split seat. Nobody had sat in it for three years.
The boys came up the steps smelling like other people's apartments. Cardboard, sweat, somebody's cat. And on Cal's collar, sweet, a drugstore body spray, cucumber melon. I'd smelled it across the Agway counter on the woman who rings up my chicken feed and calls everybody hon.
Good for him. That's none of your business. Good for her.
I picked up the platter. Rook took it right out of my hands, both hands under it the way he takes a box off somebody on the stairs, and walked it past the empty chair and past me and set it down in front of Cal.
Cal first.
Cal forked his steak and passed it on like that was just how it went. The juice ran down the side of his hand to his wrist and he licked it off, quick, without thinking, and I felt it on my own wrist. Pascal used to take my hand on nights like this and lick the juice off the inside of my wrist, right on the pulse, looking at me the whole time, and I'd have to change my underwear before the dishes.
My pussy remembered. It clenched right there on the porch bench, a slow thick squeeze, and "mmm….. oh, that's.." a warm trickle slid out of me into my underwear, and I put a tomato in my mouth to shut myself up.
Steak juice on a wrist, Dell. You need a cold shower and a priest.
"Website one for Saturday," Jace said, thumbing his phone. "Fourth floor walk up, no elevator. Marie something."
He said it to Cal. I opened my mouth to tell him Saturday was open, and Jace didn't even look at me. They were all looking at Cal.
"Keep it," Cal said.
Rook wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Car at the end of the road again," he said. "Same one."
"I know," Cal said.
Nobody looked at me. And I smelled it, or I thought I did, that smell I hadn't had in my nose since the lake. Cold ash. A woodstove somebody let go out in the rain. Them. My stomach dropped right through the bench and I got up for the salt that nobody needed.
"Sit down, Ma."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even look up from his plate. And I sat. My knees just did it, and my pussy clenched on those three words, one squeeze for every word, "hhn....", because that was Pascal's voice. Sit down, Dell. My body has been doing what that voice tells it since the diner on the lake road.
That's your SON telling you to sit.
I ate my steak and didn't taste one bite of it. I sat on that bench so swollen I could feel my own pulse down there every time I chewed, and I looked at the empty chair so I wouldn't look at the man to the right of it.
Thursday is sheets and town. I had mine on the line by eight, white cotton off my bed flapping in the hot wind, and I drove in for groceries and the bank. Then the freezers went down at the Price Chopper and they shut the doors on everybody and sent us home, and I came up the gravel two hours early with a gallon of milk sweating through the bag onto my thigh.
The truck was in the drive. It shouldn't have been. And a silver Corolla was pulled up on the shoulder by the stockade fence with a big dent in the back quarter panel, and before I even got the engine off I heard her.
A woman. Over the cicadas. Over the whole house. High and broken and absolutely, completely not hurt.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
I went in the front door. I put the bags on the counter. I went to the window over the sink because I am apparently that kind of woman now. A gallon of milk, a box of Raisin Bran, and my son's bare ass in my kitchen window. Thick and flexing, his work pants shoved down his thighs.
My sheet was in the grass. Pulled off the line, one corner still clothespinned, dragged down into the clover, and the Agway woman was on her hands and knees on it with her yellow sundress shoved up to her shoulder blades and her cheek right on my clean cotton. My sheet. Off my bed.
And his shirt was on the picnic table. Folded. Square, with CAL facing up.
Pascal folded his shirt exactly like that. Before anything. Before he'd even kiss me.
Rook was at the stockade fence by the road with his arms crossed and his back to the yard. Jace was leaning on the wire fence at the woods line chewing a piece of grass, watching the trees. Guarding him. Nobody told them to. And Rook's head turned. His head first, then his eyes, and they came right to the kitchen window and found me standing there with my groceries, and he looked at me for one long breath.
Then he turned back to the road.
He let me stay. Or he left me to it. I stayed.
Cal was behind her on his knees in the clover with nothing on top, and God forgive me, I looked. I looked at all of him.
His back was right there in the sun. Brown and wet, sweat running down the long groove of his spine, and on either side of it those two thick ropes of muscle working every time his hips went, in, out, in, out, and his shoulders, Pascal's shoulders, wide and heavy and bunching up every time he pulled her back onto him. A drop of sweat started at his shoulder blade and ran all the way down into the hollow above his ass and I watched that drop the whole way like my life depended on it, my mouth hanging open, my cunt throbbing so hard it hurt.
That's your son, you sick, filthy woman. Turn around.
I didn't turn around. I couldn't make my body do it. So I made myself look at her instead, like that was any better.
Her face was turned toward the house. Right toward me. Her cheek was mashed flat on my sheet and her eyes were wide open, big and shocked, staring straight at my window and not seeing one thing in it, and her mouth was hanging open in a round O. Pink frosted lipstick, the same pink she wears at the register, and it was smearing off on my clean cotton every time he shoved her forward. Her bleached hair had come out of the clip and it was stuck to her forehead, the dark roots wet with sweat. Every time he went in, her eyes went wider. "ohhh.. oh my God.. oh hon.. oh my God, hon.." Like he surprised her. Like every single stroke was the first one and she couldn't get over how much of him there was.
I've made that face. On the boathouse planks with my cheek on the boards, the first time Pascal went all the way in, I made that same stupid face, eyes popping, mouth open, no sound coming out. And "mmhh.. oh God, he's so.. hhn.." my pussy clenched right along with her, on his stroke, like it was me he was going into.
That's not you out there. That's the Agway woman. She rings up your chicken feed.
"Don't.. don't you stop.. don't you ffffucking stop.."
He didn't stop. He had one hand spread on the back of her neck, the whole hand, his thumb up under her ear, his fingers in her hair, holding her face down in my sheet, and the other hand on her hip with the fingertips dug in so deep I could see the dents from the window. And that was Pascal. That was how Pascal held a woman down. Like she was his and she wasn't going anywhere till he said so. I'd had that hand on my own neck more nights than I could count and I felt it there right then, standing at my kitchen sink, a hot heavy weight on the back of my neck, and the wet came out of me so fast, so fuckin fast, I felt it soak through my underwear into the seam of my jeans. "nnh.. fuck.."
And she quit being shocked. I watched it happen. Her eyes went half shut and she bit down on her bottom lip and she started shoving back at him. Meeting him. Every time he drove in she threw her ass back to take it, hard, so the slap came twice as loud, and her whole body rocked on the cotton. Her tits had come out the sides of that yellow dress, big and soft and pale under the tan lines from her straps, swinging under her and slapping together on every stroke, her nipples dark and dragging on the cotton. Her soft belly was shaking. She had her knees spread wider in the clover than I'd ever have thought that woman could get her knees, and the insides of her thighs were wet all the way down, shining in the sun. And her hands were grabbing at everything. My sheet. The clover. She tore up a whole fistful of clover and grabbed my sheet again and yanked on it so hard the corner on the line popped the clothespin right off.
My clothespin. I heard it ping off the line.
She's tearing up your sheet. She's on your sheet in your yard with your.. with Cal.. and you're standing here jealous of her. JEALOUS. Of the Agway woman.
I was. I was so jealous my chest hurt. Not of her having him, not that. Of her having that. That push. The weight behind it. The thing I got every night of my married life and haven't had once in three years, and there she was in my yard getting every bit of it and shoving back for more like she'd paid for it. And I hated myself so much for being jealous that I clenched again, harder, and I was so wet in my jeans it slid when I squeezed my thighs together. "nnh.. look at her.. mmh.."
I put my hand on the windowsill. The wood was hot from the sun. I pressed my hip into the edge of the sink until it hurt and it didn't help, nothing helped.
Go put the milk away, Dell.
I didn't move. I watched my son fuck a woman on my sheet.
His cock was thick. I could see it when he pulled back. Darker than the rest of him, shiny with her, veins standing out along the underside. The head stayed buried in her even on the outstroke, like he didn't want to leave. Her pussy was stretched around him, pink and wet, and every time he pushed back in I watched her lips cling to the shaft and then give. She was dripping down her own thigh onto my clean cotton. I could hear it. Wet. Soft. The same sound my own cunt was making inside my jeans while I stood there with the milk sweating a ring into the counter behind me.
"mmh.. God.." My hand came off the windowsill all by itself and went flat on my belly, low, right over the snap of my jeans, and pressed there like that was going to keep anything in.
Hands where you can see them, Dell. On the sill. Now.
I put it back. Cal pulled out all the way. His cock stood out heavy and wet, curved up, the head flushed dark and shiny. He stroked it once with his fist, slow, spreading her cream down the shaft, and a fat clear drop came up out of the slit at the tip and sat there shining, and my mouth came open like it was my cream he was spreading. Then he lined up again and gave her just the head. Just the fat end of him, her lips stretched tight around it, and he held it there and pulled it out and put it back, out and back, while she pushed back blind trying to get more, "pleeease.. hon.. please..", and he made her wait, and
give it to her, God, just give it to her was going around in my head like I was the one on my knees out there. Then he pushed all the way in. She cried out. High. Broken. And I cried out with her, "hhn.. God..", a little one, right up out of my chest before I could stop it. He stayed deep and ground against her, rolling his hips, slow, and my hips rolled right with him against the edge of the sink.
His ass. God. He started driving again, and every time he went into her the sides of it went hollow, two deep dents, and his thighs went hard as wood, thick and dark with hair and shaking with it, and down between them his balls hung heavy and full, dark, swinging, slapping up into her clit every time he hit bottom, I could see them swing from the window, and the whole drive came up from his knees in the clover through all that muscle into her, slap, slap, slap, wet and loud across the yard, and her crying out on top of every one. He wasn't showing off for her. He wasn't trying to be good at it. He was just fucking her, hard and deep and heavy, his whole weight behind every stroke, no hurry, no mercy, the way his father fucked me, and my body had that rhythm in it down to the bone, and my hips moved against the sink. They really moved this time. A little hump against the edge of the steel, "mmhh.. fuck..", and I bit my own knuckle.
Go on then, hump the sink. Rook's got his back to you. Nobody's watching you but the Lord.
Then he straightened up on his knees to get deeper and the window got the front of him.
His chest heaving and wet, dark hair on it stuck flat down the middle. His stomach going hard in ridges every time he drove. That line of hair from his navel running down to where he was going into her, shining. And his hand slid off her hip and spread flat on her back between her shoulder blades, brown on her white, the backs of his fingers furred dark right to the knuckles, and pushed her down flat into my sheet. Pascal's hand. The exact span of it. The exact same push.
"ahh….. look at him.." I said it out loud in my kitchen. Just out loud. With the window open.
Shut your mouth. Rook can hear a cat breathe.
Flat like that she couldn't push back anymore. She couldn't do one thing but take it. And she started begging. "please.. please, hon.. oh God, right there.. right.. don't.. hon.. ho.. hhnn.." The hon came apart. It came apart in my yard. Every time he hit bottom it broke off shorter, "hon.. ho.. hh.. oh..", until it wasn't a word at all, just noise squashed out of her mouth into my sheet. She reached back with one hand, blind, and grabbed for him and got his thigh and dug her nails into it and pulled, like he needed the help. Her knees were sliding. Every stroke shoved them a little further apart on the cotton, and they were green from the clover, and her toes were curling and uncurling in the grass behind her.
"make me.. please make me, hon.. make me.. I'm.. oh God, I'm.."
I said that. Almost word for word. I used to beg Pascal like that, make me, make me, with my face in our mattress, and he'd make me wait for it, and I'd hate him and drip on the sheets. My clit was throbbing so hard against the seam of my jeans I could feel every beat of it, swollen up fat and sore, and I pushed my crotch into the cabinet door under the sink, just once, "nnh.. make me.." to make it stop. It made it so much worse.
Make me. You're mouthing it. You're standing at your own sink mouthing make me right along with her. They should lock you up.
The smell came in the screen, cut clover and her body spray gone sour with sweat and her pussy, sharp and plain, and under all of it, so thick out there in the heat it made my knees weak, fur that's been lying in the sun, the smell I'd had my face in that morning, the smell of every night I ever had with Pascal. I shut my eyes and it was the boathouse. The planks. The lake slapping under us. That hand on my neck.
That's his father's back you're seeing. Say it. Pascal.
I opened my eyes and it was still Pascal on my sheet, it was Pascal, and then he turned his face to the side and it was Cal.
Two days of stubble on his jaw and the gray at his temple wet with sweat and stuck down, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes caught in the shade of the maple, gold, flat gold all the way across, and I'd seen that gold over a coffee cup at a diner counter when I was a waitress with my own rent to pay, and my pussy squeezed down so hard on the sight of it that my knees went and I had to hang on to the faucet.
Your son. Your son. Your son. I said it in my head like it was going to fix something. It didn't fix one thing. I was creaming in my jeans at the kitchen sink like a fool. Soaked to my knees.
Then she went quiet.
All at once. The begging just stopped, and her mouth stayed wide open on my sheet with no sound coming out of it, and her eyes squeezed shut, and every bit of her went stiff. Her back bowed up under his hand. Her thighs started shaking, fast little shakes, the backs of them jumping. Her fingers were clawed into my sheet so tight her knuckles went white. Her face was red, her chest was red, and she wasn't breathing. I could see it from the window. Not one breath. And he slowed down. Slow and deep, all the way in and holding it there, grinding, keeping her right on the edge of it and not letting her go over.
I quit breathing with her. My thighs were clamped together so tight they shook too, my pussy squeezing and squeezing on itself, puffy and swollen, my lips stuck together in my underwear and a trickle running down the inside of my thigh into my jeans, right on the edge with her, and I held on to that faucet with both hands. "nnh.. not yet.."
Don't you dare. Not at the sink. Not with Rook at the fence. Don't you DARE cum before she does.
Before she does. God. What kind of a thing is that to think.
He pulled almost all the way out and drove in once more, hard.
She came. Loud, so loud the cicadas quit, this long high cry with my sheet in her teeth, and her whole body bucked under him and shook all over, her ass shaking, her thighs shaking, her tits jumping, her knees going right out from under her in the clover. And she squirted. I saw it. When he pulled back it came out of her around him in a gush, splashing on his thighs and running down onto my sheet in a dark wet spot that spread and spread, and then another gush, and her fists were full of clover and she was crying oh god oh god ohhh gooood into the cotton, and she was clamping on him so hard I saw his stroke catch.
Pascal made me do that. One time. I thought I'd peed on him and I cried, and he laughed into my neck until I laughed too. And my pussy clenched so hard on that, on her gush, on that dark spot spreading on my sheet, that a hot little spurt of wet came out of me into my underwear and I almost went over. Right there. Standing at the sink. My knees bending, "hhn.. ffuck.. hhn..", and I bit my knuckle and held it, held it, my clit pounding, and it went back down. Barely. It sat there swollen and mean and throbbing.
Oh God. Do it again. Make her do it agian.
He didn't stop. He held her down by the neck right through it and kept going, and his other hand slid off her back and reached under her and found her clit. I couldn't see his hand but I saw what it did to her. Her back arched. Her fingers scrabbled on the sheet. The high sound went higher and then broke into something shorter, sharper, repeated. She was cumming again, smaller and meaner, sobbing and laughing and shoving back on him for more, "hon.. oh you.. oh you son of a.. hhnn.." I could tell by the way her thighs started to shake and the way Cal's rhythm changed, slower, deeper, like he was holding her there.
My own clit jumped right along with hers, like it was his fingers on me, and I rocked down on the seam of my jeans, once, twice, against the cabinet door. "nnh.. yes.. like that.."
Then I saw it. At his root, when he pulled back. The swell. Dark and thick, wider than the rest of him, pushing at her every time he drove home, kissing her and not going in. My whole body knew what that was. My own cunt clenched on the shape of it from across the yard like it remembered every single inch, "mmmhh....", and I was dripping, actually dripping, standing up in my jeans at the sink.
He'll seat it now. He won't let her go.
His balls drew up tight under him. I saw them go, pulled up hard against the root of him, and his ass locked.
He pulled out.
All at once. His fist around the root, holding the swell outside of her, and he came on the small of her back and on my sheet, his head hanging, his shoulders shaking, this low rough sound coming out of him that I felt in the windowsill under my palm. Then he leaned down over her. His mouth went to the side of her neck, right where it turns into the shoulder. His lips pulled back. I saw his teeth.
He stopped there.
One breath. Two. He breathed in at her skin, long, smelling her. Smelling to see if she was the one. The way Pascal smelled me over that plate at the diner.
Nothing. No teeth going in. No word. He lifted his head.
Her neck was clean.
My hand was at my own collar. Under my fingers the old scar was beating, the curved row of dents with the two deep ones at the ends, right where Pascal put them.
Not her.
He knelt up off her. His cock was still half hard, shiny, dripping, and a thick string of his cum and her cream stretched from the head of it to the small of her back and then broke and landed on my sheet. "mmh.." I felt that one land. Low in my belly, like it landed on me.
Look at the fence. Look at the maple. Look at anything else in this world.
I didn't look at anything else.
She didn't move for a long time. She lay there flat on her belly on my sheet with her dress shoved up and his cum running down her back, her legs still open, her knees all green, and every few seconds her ass jumped. Just jumped, all by itself, little shocks still going through her. The insides of her thighs were shining and twitching. Her face was turned toward the house again, flushed red right up into her hair, and her eyes were open and glassy and not looking at one thing, and her pink lipstick was all over the cotton and all over her chin. Then she laughed. Out loud, into my sheet, weak and silly.
"Jesus, hon.." she said. "Jesus H. Christ.."
She rolled over onto her back. Her tits fell to the sides, blotchy and red, the nipples still hard, and she put her hand down between her legs and cupped herself and flinched, and laughed again, and her belly shook. "I can't feel my.. hon, I can't feel my legs.."
He reached down and tugged her yellow dress down over her, over her tits and her belly and down over her thighs, careful, almost gentle, and smoothed it down flat with his hand. Then he tucked himself away and zipped, and sat back on his heels in the clover, and didn't say one word to her.
"You.. you call me, hon. You hear? You call me.."
"Go on home," he said.
And I was glad. I stood at that sink and I was glad he didn't say he'd call, glad all the way down in my wet underwear, and I hated myself so much for it I put my forehead on the cupboard door.
She's a nice woman. She saves you the dry bags of feed off the bottom of the pile, Dell. She calls you hon too.
She sat up and found her sandals and her hair clip in the grass and walked out to her car barefoot on legs that kept going soft on her, with the sandals swinging off two fingers. She waved at Jace. Jace lifted his chin. Rook opened the gate for her and didn't look at her. Cal stood up in the middle of the yard, bare to the waist, and turned his face to the road and breathed in, long, and the gold went out of his eyes, and he picked his shirt up off the table and buttoned it from the bottom up, the way his father did.
Then he came up the porch steps, and the screen door opened behind me and banged shut.
I didn't turn around. I turned on the cold water and put my wrists under it again. Twice in one week. It hadn't worked the first time either, and I stood there and watched it run.
Don't turn around. You're a woman at her own sink washing her hands. That's all you're doing.
He came up behind me. Close. He wasn't touching me, but I could feel the heat coming off him through the back of my blouse, the whole yard still on him, clover and sweat and her sweet sour body spray, and under all of it him.
"That all the bags?" he said.
"That's all of them." It came out thin. "Freezers went down at the Price Chopper. They sent everybody home."
He reached past my ear, that forearm right there by my face with the dark hair on it, and took the milk off the counter. Still sweating. Warm by now, probably turned. He put it in the fridge. He put the Raisin Bran up in the cupboard. He folded the bags flat the way I like them and bent down and put them under the sink right by my knees, and I stood there with the water running and my jeans soaked through at the seam and my thighs pressed together so tight they shook.
"You see the car?" he said. "Coming up the road."
"No."
That was the truth. I hadn't seen one thing on that road. I'd been listening to her.
He didn't say anything. Then he breathed in.
Long. Slow. Right at the back of my neck, his chest coming up so close I felt his shirt brush my shoulder blade and go away again, and he held it. Smelling me. Smelling every last thing that window did to me, the wet in my jeans and the cream in my underwear and the sweat on the back of my neck, and he let it out slow over my collar, right over the scar, and the scar went hot under my blouse, "hh..", and I shut my eyes.
He can smell it. Rook saw you and now Cal can smell you, and you're standing here at your sink with the water running like a bitch in heat.
He didn't say one word about it. Not one.
"Lock the doors tonight," he said. The screen door banged, and he went down the steps to the truck.
I turned the water off and held on to the faucet with both hands until my knees came back.
When the yard was empty I went out barefoot and pulled my sheet off the clover. It was still warm. I didn't put my face in it. I swear to God I didn't. I washed it twice on hot and hung it back on the line with the same pin, and my underwear went in the wash too, and I stood on the porch afterward in clean ones with my arms crossed, so ashamed of myself I couldn't look at the truck.
That night I put the box fan in my window and turned it up as high as it would go. Any one of them can hear a floorboard settle from the far end of the yard. I'd given them enough to smell for one day.
I lay down like a woman sneaking a cigarette, fan roaring, door shut, in Pascal's old gray undershirt, the one so thin you can see through it, with the hole at the collar where my scar shows. His pillow was on the left. I hadn't washed it since. I hadn't even put my face in it since spring because there was hardly anything left, one little thread of him way down in the stuffing, and every breath I took of it used some up.
I shut my eyes and the yard was right there.
That back. The sweat running down it. The two ropes of muscle working.
No. Not that. Pascal. Think about Pascal.
I was a waitress at the diner on the lake road that summer. I had my own trailer out past the marina and my own car, a brown Citation with a door that only opened from the inside, and I paid for every bit of it out of tips, thank you very much. He came in on a Tuesday and sat at the counter with his sleeves rolled up and those arms on the counter, that dark hair running down over the backs of his hands, and when I set his plate down he breathed in. Long. Right at me. His nostrils moving. And when he looked up something at the back of his eyes caught the light from the window, gold, there and gone, and I poured his coffee straight onto the counter. Just kept pouring. It ran off the edge onto my shoes and I stood there with the pot in my hand and my underwear gone hot and wet in one second flat behind my apron and he watched me do it.
I pulled his pillow down between my thighs.
You're spending him. That's the last of him and you're going to rub it all out on your own pussy.
I pushed my hips down on it. Old fool. My undershirt rode up and it was my bare pussy on his pillowcase, and I was so fucking wet from the whole day, from the window, from the sink, from the porch last night, that the cotton went dark under me the first time I moved, one long wet smear. I dragged myself along it. The seam of the pillowcase caught right on my clit and let go, caught and let go, "mmh.. mmh.. there..", and my nipples went tight against that thin shirt till they stung.
The hand came next. Spread on her back, the dark hair on the knuckles, pushing her down flat into the cotton. I watched it push her down behind my eyes and I felt it land on me, right between my shoulder blades, hot, heavy, and for one second it was Cal's hand on my back, it was, and I shoved my face into the mattress and said it out loud into the sheet.
"Pascal."
Push me down like that. Please. Just one more time.
And it went back to him. The boards under my cheek. Damp. Smelling like lake water and gasoline. Pascal's hand.
I rocked harder on the pillow. My hand went up under the shirt and found my nipple and pinched it, rolled it, pulled on it the way he used to pull them with his teeth, and it shot straight down into my clit where the seam was rubbing, "hhn.... fuck..", and my hips went faster, grinding, and the pillow was so wet it squished, and I was close, already, my belly going tight, my thighs clamped on his pillow, "ah.. ah.. please..",
The floor creaked in the hall.
I froze. Hand on my tit, pussy pressed down on the pillow, throbbing right on the edge of it, so close my thighs shook from holding still. I listened. The fan roaring. The house. One board settling, that's all, nobody's feet.
Lie still. Let it go down. If you cum now you'll make a sound and every one of them will hear it.
It went down. Not all the way. It sat there swollen and sore and mean, and I rolled onto my back and dragged his pillow up under my head, wet side and all, and let my knees fall open.
I reached down and spread myself with two fingers, just to see how bad it was. Bad. I was puffy and hot, my outer lips swollen up and sticky, stuck together with how much I'd already leaked, and when I opened them the inside was glossy and creamy, so wet it ran down onto the sheet the second the air got at it. My clit was hard and poking right out, throbbing in the wind off that fan. I touched it once with the pad of my finger and my whole body jerked on the bed. "hhn.. God.."
Pascal used to do that. Just one touch, light, and I'd already be shaking. All the rest of that summer, after the boathouse, he came in at closing and sat in the back booth with his coffee, and when the cook was banging pans and the last old men were paying up at the register, he'd catch me by the apron string going past. He didn't rush. I'd put my hand down in his lap like I was wiping up a spill and he'd be hard in his jeans, this thick ridge running halfway down his thigh, so heavy I could feel the head of it through the denim, and he'd let me hold it and not let me do one thing about it. Then he'd put his hand between my legs, right over my uniform, and press. And I'd cum like that. Standing up. Fully dressed. With the coffeepot in my other hand and my teeth in my own wrist so I wouldn't scream with somebody ringing up a slice of pie three booths over. Then I'd go fill the ketchups like nothing happened.
The Citation wouldn't start the night of the coffee, so I walked the lake road home in the pitch black, and something in the trees on the uphill side kept right up with me, not even trying to hide. I didn't go home. I ran down the marina path. I was running and I was not running away, I want you to understand that. I was running toward the boathouse because I wanted to be caught there.
Two fingers. I slid them in and they just went, to the knuckles, no push at all, I was that wet, and the sound under the fan was filthy, this soft wet click every time I pulled them out. I curled them up, hunting for the spot Pascal used to hit without even trying, and found it, and my heels dug into the mattress. "oh.. ohhh.. right there.."
And the yard came back with it. Cal pulling all the way out of her so I could see how thick he was. The veins. Her pussy clinging to him on the outstroke, pink and stretched and dripping. One slow stroke of his fist, spreading her all down his shaft, and then back in her, slow. The same way Pascal used to when he wanted me to feel every inch. When he wanted me to know who I belonged to.
He caught me in the door of the boathouse.
His heat hit me first, from behind, so hot it was like somebody opened an oven at my back. I spun around and hit him. My whole fist, right in the mouth, as hard as I have ever hit anything, and his head went to the side and came back and he was laughing. Bleeding from the lip and laughing, low, in his chest.
"No," I said.
He turned me around and put his hand on the back of my neck.
And the yard came right back with it. That hand on the Agway woman's neck, his thumb under her ear, holding her face down. Cal's hand. Cal's. My cunt clenched on my own fingers, hard, a filthy wet squeeze, and I bit the pillowcase.
It's Pascal's hand on your neck on those planks, Dell. Say it.
"Pas.. Pascal.. please.." into the pillow.
Pascal's hand, taking me down onto the planks, all the way down until my cheek was on the boards and my knees hit and I felt the slivers go in, one in each knee, these bright little stings. The boards smelled like lake and gasoline and old rope. And out on the water the loons started up. God, the loons. Out on the water in the dark making that long high wail they make, on and on, and it sounded like sex to me, everything sounded like sex to me that night, and he shoved my skirt up over my hips and the air off the lake hit me right where I was wet.
"No," I said into the boards. And I pushed back against his hand. Back. Toward him.
He didn't give it to me. I felt the heat of him on the backs of my thighs, and then the head of his cock, fat and hot and slick, dragging up through me. Just the head. Up my slit, slow, over my clit, and back down, and he'd nudge it right into my hole, open me up the littlest bit, and pull away. Then again. I could tell how thick he was from just that much. His balls swung against my clit every time he leaned in, heavy, and I jumped like he'd slapped me. "No.." I said, and pushed back on it, and it was gone. "No.. no.. please.." He growled down in his chest. "Not yet." The head again, up and down, my cream all over it, so wet I could hear it over the loons, and every time it touched my hole I opened for it and every time it went away I followed it back with my ass up in the air like a fool. "please.. Pascal, pleeease.. please, I cant.."
I did it to myself on the bed. Pulled my fingers out and dragged just the tips up and down, kissing my own hole and pulling away, and I couldn't stand it four strokes, "please.. fuck..", begging my own hand like an idiot.
Three fingers. I pushed the third one in and the stretch made my mouth fall open and I turned my face into his pillow and bit down on the case to keep it in, "nnh.. fuck.. nnh..", the cotton going wet under my teeth, the heel of my hand grinding my clit.
He went into me in one push.
It didn't stop. The fat head of him spread me open and the rest of him just kept coming in after it, in and in, so hot it was like being filled with something off the stove, and the stretch burned and kept burning and I made a noise into those planks I'd never made in my life, "ohhhh.. oh God..", and he didn't stop until his hips were flat on my ass and something way up inside me had been shoved over to make room for him. He held there. His hand on my neck. His breath hot through the back of my blouse. I clenched on him and he made that sound, that low rolling growl down in his chest, the same sound that came across my yard this afternoon and up into the windowsill under my palm.
That sound was Pascal's first. Cal got it from him.
Then he fucked me.
No trying, nothing careful. He pulled back until just the head was in me, and I could feel every vein on him dragging out of me on the way, the thick one underneath most of all, and then he slammed home with his whole weight behind it and his balls slapped up wet against my clit, and pulled back, and slammed home, slap, and my knees slid on the planks and the slivers went in deeper, and I pushed back to meet him every single time and said no "no.. mmh.. no.." and pushed back. The slap of it went right out over the water. The loons answered it. He had my hip in his other hand and something at the tips of his fingers pricked me, five little points on each side, holding on, not breaking the skin.
His thighs against the backs of mine. Hot and hairy and going hard as wood every time he drove into me. And for one second behind my eyes they were the thighs in my yard, the ones I watched shake from the kitchen window, and I said his name again, harder, "Pascal..", into the pillow, and dragged it back where it belonged.
Three fingers going hard now, my wet running down the crack of my ass onto the sheet, my other hand twisting my nipple through the undershirt so hard it hurt, my heels digging holes "hhn.. so full.. mmmhh.." in the mattress. And the tomatoes on the porch needed watering. Of all the stupid things. I was fucking myself on three fingers with my face in a dead man's pillow and I remembered I forgot to water the tomatoes.
Then the swell.
I felt it before I even had a name for it. A thickness at the root of him, kissing my hole from the outside at the end of every stroke and then going away again. And every stroke it got bigger. Harder. It pushed a little more each time, my rim opening up on it a little more each time, and I didn't know what it was and I was scared and I told him so into the boards. "What is.. what is that.. don't.." He didn't answer me. He stopped moving and just held it there, pressed right up against me, so I could feel how big it was. Hot and round and pulsing all on its own, and every beat of it went right into me.
That afternoon I'd stood at the sink thinking now, now he'll seat it, and in the yard it had pushed at her and pushed at her and never gone in.
Pascal's went in.
He pushed. My body said no, tight, clamped shut on it, and he leaned his weight into it and pushed again harder, and I felt myself start to give. The burn came up my spine. Worse than the first push, so wide I couldn't get a breath past it, my rim going thinner and thinner around it, my hands flat on the planks clawing for something to hold, "no.. no.. Pascal, it's too.. it won't go.." And his hand stayed right where it was on my neck and he said one word to me, low.
"Breathe."
I breathed. "hhh.." And on the breath it went.
It went in.
This thick deep give and then the catch. I felt myself close up behind it. Felt it seat, wedged right inside my rim, "ohhh.. fuuuck.." fat and burning, and then it swelled even more once it was in, swelled until I was stretched on it so tight I could count every pulse of it in the ring of me. I pulled forward on my knees to get off him and he came right with me, and the swell tugged at me from inside and wouldn't come out, wouldn't budge, and I was tied to him on the boathouse planks with the loons screaming and his hand on my neck.
"I can't.." I said. "I can't get off.."
"No," he said.
Four fingers. I bunched them, all four, thumb tucked under, and I pushed, "nnh.." and it burned, this good stupid stretch, my rim going thin around my knuckles. I held them at the widest part. Right where it caught. I held them there and clenched down on them and waited for it to hold me.
It didn't. It couldn't. All I had to do was stop pushing and my own hand slid right back out of me, easy, wet, and I lay there with it on my belly, open where he should have been, and cold there.
That's your own hand, Dell. It slides right out.
"hhh.. hh..", into the pillow, and it was closer to crying than moaning. I put three fingers back in and kept going.
He couldn't fuck me once it seated. So he ground. Little circles of his hips, the swell rolling around inside me over a place nobody had ever touched, my cream running out around it, round and round and round on it, "oh.. ohhh God, I'm.." and I came. The first time. It came up from somewhere so deep in me I couldn't even find it and I came on that swell with my face on the planks and my mouth hanging open, clamping on it, clamping, and every clamp made it pulse, and on one of the pulses he came. Heat. A flood of it, scalding, pouring in deep behind the swell and stuck there with nowhere to go, filling me up from the inside until I could feel it in my belly, heavy and hot, and he groaned against my back and ground and more came, and more.
Then his mouth was on my neck.
He pushed my hair off it with his nose. He breathed there, long, right where my neck goes into my shoulder, his breath hot and wet, and he opened his mouth and laid his teeth on me.
Just laid them.
That afternoon I watched teeth come down on a woman's neck in my yard and stop there, and hold, and lift away clean. Cal's teeth. Cal's mouth. And my son's mouth was on my own neck behind my eyes for one sick second and I jammed my face so deep into that pillow I couldn't breathe.
On the planks they didn't lift, Dell. They went in.
I put my thumb on the scar.
I could feel all of them on the planks. The whole row resting on me, and the two long ones at the sides pressing a little deeper than the rest, not breaking anything yet, waiting. My whole body went still on the swell. The loons stopped, or I stopped hearing them. He held his teeth there so long I felt my own pulse beating up into them, long enough that I could have said no a hundred times, and I didn't say anything. I tipped my head. I tipped my head over to the side for him and gave him more of my neck.
He bit.
The pressure came on and built and built, his jaw closing, the long ones going in first, deep, and the pain went bright and white and sharp and then spread, burning down my arm and down my back and into the place where we were tied, and I came. On the bite. "Ahhh..! fffuuuck.." With his teeth in me. So much bigger than the first one I lost the planks and the lake and my own name, my cunt clamping on that swell so hard I could feel every bit of it, and he pulsed and filled me again, and with his teeth still in my neck he said it right into my skin.
"Mine."
I pressed my thumb into the scar as hard as I could stand it, right into the two deep dents at the ends, and the old pain bloomed in the exact same spot, and I turned my face into his pillow and it took me.
It took its time. It came up from deep in my belly, long and low, and it just kept coming, my fingers deep, my thumb in the scar, my teeth in his pillowcase, and I held every bit of it in my mouth against the cotton. I couldn't make a sound. I made a sound. "mmmhhh.. mmmmhh.. nnnghh..", into the wet case, my back coming up off the bed and my heels shoving the sheet down to the foot of it, my thighs shaking around my own wrist, "Pas.. Pa..", his name broken in half in my teeth, and it rolled and rolled through me with the fan roaring over it, and right at the very top of it, right at the top, it was a back I was seeing. Brown and wet in the sun with a drop of sweat running down it. In my yard.
Then it ran out and left me lying there wide open with my hand sliding out of me. I breathed in, down in the pillow, hunting for him, and got one breath, fur and sun and the back of his neck, so faint, and then I couldn't get it again. That's what made me cry. That, and the back I saw at the top being Cal's.
On the planks he held me until it let go. He put his nose in my hair while we waited and his thumb came around and wiped my cheek, clumsy, like he didn't know how yet. "You.. you okay? Dell. You're okay," like he was asking me and telling me both. Then it let go a little at a time, and the heat of him ran out of me down my thighs onto the boards, and he got up and buttoned his shirt from the bottom and stopped at the end of the dock. "Lock the door behind me, Dell. Others will smell me on you."
I locked it.
And I didn't stop.
That's the part I'd like to leave out. I lay there crying with my hand still wet and it didn't go down. It sat there throbbing worse than before, like the first one had only been warming it up, and I rolled over and shoved his pillow back down between my legs, wet side up, and got on top of it.
Go to sleep, Dell. Roll over and go to sleep like a normal person.
I put three fingers back in from underneath and rode them and the pillow both. The wet sound was loud even over the fan. Squelching. Disgusting. My thumb found my clit and went in tight little circles, and I could feel how puffy I was, my folds parting and sticking and parting again every time I pushed in, and the cream ran down my wrist and onto the case. Into what was left of him.
Then the kitchen table came. I hadn't let myself have that one once in three years.
The night before they killed him. The kitchen table in the lake house, the one with the scarred top. He walked in from the woods at dark smelling like cedar and blood and the thing he wouldn't tell me about, and the boys were still out on the lake with the boat, and he didn't ask. He didn't say one word. He pulled my dress up and my underwear down and bent me over that table with his hand flat between my shoulder blades. Just like Cal's. Keeping me down. I looked back over my shoulder and watched him take his cock out. Thick and dark and so hard it stood straight up off him, veins roped all down it, the head swollen up purple and wet at the slit, and his balls full and tight under it. He rubbed it on me. Only the tip of it, up and down my slit, slow, while I begged him across that scarred table, "give it to me.. please, I've been wet since lunch, give it.. please..", and he made me wait for it. He always made me wait for it. Then he pushed inside me in one long stroke, so thick it still burned going in after all those years, and "ahhh.. fuck.." I came before he even started moving. Just from the stretch. From being full of him. From knowing he was the only man who had ever been inside me and the only one who ever would be.
The next night he went out to see about something on the lake road.
"mmmhh.. yes.. just like that.." I was saying it out loud. Quiet, into the sheet, but out loud. My fingers went faster, curling hard on that spot, and my clit was so swollen it hurt under my thumb, every circle shooting sparks up my back. My tits were dragging on the mattress through that thin old cotton every time I rocked, and I got my other hand under me and pinched one, hard, the way Pascal used to when he wanted me louder.
And it was Cal's ass I got. Not Pascal's. Cal's ass going tight and locking when he came, the muscle jumping in the hollow of it, his hips jerking in those little pulses with his fist shut around the root, and all of it going on her back. Thick. So much of it. Running down into the dip of her spine and off onto the cotton.
"hhn.. god.. Pascal.. mine.." I said his name. I meant it. I was trying to mean it. But the picture in my head was Cal's cock coming out of his fist half hard and shiny, that string of him stretching off the end of it and breaking. Cal's voice behind me at the sink, low, asking if I saw the car. Cal standing right at my back with the water running, breathing in, smelling exactly what watching him did to his mother, and then putting my milk away.
You're thinking about your son while you fuck yourself on your dead husband's pillow. You're going to cum remembering Cal's ass locking up while he came on that woman's back, and you're going to call it Pascal. That's what you're doing. That's what kind of mother you are.
That should have stopped me. God help me, it made me ride harder.
I pulled my fingers out and put them in my mouth. Me. Thick and sweet and salty underneath, a taste I hadn't had on my own hand in so long I'd almost forgot it was mine. Pascal used to make me do that. After he came in me he'd pull out slow, all of him sliding out shiny and wet with both of us, still thick, and run his fingers through the mess between my legs and push them in my mouth and make me suck them clean while he watched, while his cum leaked out of me onto the sheets. He liked seeing it. He liked me knowing I was full of him and nobody else was ever going to have me like that.
I sucked them and rolled my hips on the pillow. The case was soaked through and sticky, and I was grinding my bare pussy on the last of my husband with my son's cock in my head and my own fingers in my mouth. My clit dragged over the hem of the case. Over and over. It built sharp and mean down low in my belly, my thighs shaking, my toes curling on the sheet, "fuck.. fuck..", and I couldn't stop seeing it. The string breaking. Landing. Her yellow dress going down over her thighs under that careful hand.
"ah.. ahhh.. ffffuuuck.. I'm gona.." It hit me so hard I didnt get a say in it. My own empty hole clenching and clenching on itself, greedy, wave on top of wave rolling through me, and I gushed. Hot. All at once. It came out of me in a rush and soaked the pillow and the sheet under me, and then again, more, and that was the second time in my whole life. The first time he laughed into my neck. Nobody laughed this time. My hips bucked. I bit down on my fingers and the collar of his undershirt together to keep it in, and a sound got out past all of it, "Ahhhh..! oh God.. ohhhh..!" high and broken, into the shirt that used to be his. My clit beat against the case. More cream pushed out of me, thick, on and on, onto the pillow I was spending, and I kept grinding through it, chasing it, rubbing my swollen folds and my clit on the wet cotton while I shook all over, and it went white at the edges of my eyes and then all the way white, the fan and the room and the dark all gone.
"mmmmhh....nngh.. yess.." It went on longer than it had any right to. Little aftershocks, one on top of the other, every one making me clench and leak and whimper "hh.. mmh.." into his shirt. My legs wouldn't quit. When it finally let go of me I was limp and sweaty and the fan blew cold over my wet skin and my soaked pussy and I shivered hard. My fingers were still in my mouth. I pulled them out slow, and strings of spit and cream hung off them to my lip for a second and broke.
The pillow was ruined. Dark and sticky under me. I didn't have to put my nose in it to tell. The last little thread of him was gone. Used up. Rubbed out on my cunt while I came thinking about my son's ass. All I could smell now was me, strong, all over that bed. Rook would get it from the stairs. Jace would. Cal especially. He'd know. He'd stand in the doorway and breathe in, the way he stood behind me at that sink, and know exactly what his mother had been doing in her dead husband's shirt with her dead husband's pillow between her legs.
I rolled off it onto my back and lay there with my legs open and my pussy still twitching, still leaking, and I thought about the way Pascal used to hold me after. His hand on my hip. His mouth on the scar at my collar. That low sound he made when he was still inside me, going soft, and not pulling out yet. Like he wanted to stay.
I pressed the heel of my hand on my clit and held it there, not rubbing, just pressing, and felt another slow trickle slide out of me onto the sheet. Downstairs somebody ran the kitchen tap and shut it off, and I held my breath until the pipes quit knocking in the wall.
I was going to have to wash that pillowcase. Or throw the whole thing out. Or put my face in it one more time first, even though there wasn't anything of him left in it. Even though all that was on it now was me. My cream. My mess. Proof I spent the last of him on the way his son looked when he came.
I turned my face into the collar of his undershirt and breathed, and my nipples went tight all over again, and between my legs I was already getting wetter. Again. Like my body hadn't just wrung itself out. Like it was waiting for the next time one of them walked past the coat, or licked the juice off his wrist, or told me to sit down in that voice.
Quiet, "mm..", into the shirt. Into the fan, so it wouldn't go one inch past my door in that house full of noses.
I got up off that ruined sheet with my legs not working right and went across the room in his undershirt and turned the lock on my bedroom door. It made a small hard click under the fan.
Down below, the back screen door opened, quiet, and shut. Somebody went down the porch steps and out across the yard, gravel and then grass, and then I couldn't hear him.
Friday the heat was up before I was. I had my collar buttoned to the top over the scar and the coffee going and I did not go near that coat. Pascal's mug was upside down on the shelf. The truck was ticking out in the drive.
The phone rang on the counter.
I reached for it. My hand was a foot away when Cal's got there first. He didn't look at me. He didn't need to.
"Pascal Relocation."
I was at the sink and I could hear her, thin and tinny through the phone. A woman talking too fast and sorry about every single thing. She'd booked on the website for Saturday morning. Could they come later. Like four. He'd be out all day and she needed the whole day to get everything in boxes, it was the fourth floor, there wasn't an elevator. She was sorry. She was so sorry.
Cal's nostrils flared.
There was nothing in that kitchen but coffee and the plastic of that phone and me, and he breathed in like she was standing right there in the doorway. Long. His whole chest going up under the navy shirt. His pen stopped dead on the clipboard. The ballpoint sat there on the paper and leaked, a blue spot spreading, and some of it got on his thumb. And in the light from the window the backs of his eyes caught gold. His father's gold.
The scar under my collar went hot.
A diner counter. Coffee running off it onto my shoes. A man breathing in over a plate I'd just set down.
I pressed my thighs together at the sink and held on to the edge of it with both hands.
Don't you start. Not this morning. Not after last night.
"Four thirty," Cal said. "What's the name."
She told him.
"Marie," he said.
His thumb was on the clip of his father's clipboard, right on the two little dents where Pascal used to chew it. He wrote MARIE at the top of the work order and pressed so hard the blue went through to the copy underneath.
He hung up and looked at the blue on his thumb. "Small job," he said. "I'll take Jace."
"Take your brothers," I said.
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Author's Note:
Thanks for reading, make sure you register your vote, that helps me a lot and it keeps me motivated to post new stories.
This is a prelude to my recent release called Claimed.
Thats a story about taking and claiming of Marie, not a love story but a brutally messy erotica.
You can find Marie's story here: payhip.com/LilaHartBooks
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