Okay, i’m gonna try something a bit different today. Here are three stories that i’m toying with working on. I’ll give you the bits that are done (they’re all around 3-400 words or so.)…and YOU get to vote for which story gets finished first. All three stories will be done at some point, but since *i* can’t choose, i’m going to make you all do it for me!
The poll will appear at the end of the final story bit, and just for fun i’m gonna add Dreamspinners on the poll, which was Tuesday’s story.
She awoke in the darkness, alone.
Yet her pussy throbbed with a strong, sharp beat. Restlessly she scissored her legs, feeling the slick wetness coating her thighs. She’d done it again, she mused. She’d had an orgasm in her sleep, while dreaming of Troy.
“Who did that?” she wondered, feeling the slow ooze trickling down the back of her thigh. She reached down and touched her pussy. The smooth mound of her vulva was wet and sticky, as was the swollen lips of her pussy. Her clit was hard, extending out, her little-girl dick, he had called it, laughing.
The memory still brought a sharp pang of pain.
Her fingers delved deeper, into the core of that wetness. Her inner labia, hot and slippery. The entrance to her fuck tunnel. Still quivering in post-orgasmic reaction. Reaching underneath, she felt the wet sheet. Soaked. And her rump was also wet. Shaking with reaction, missing Him, she curled into a tight ball, and wept.
He watched from the shadows, wishing he could reach out, reach her, soothe her. Yet in this place and time, all he could do was watch, and yearn. Touch her mind, her body, while she slept.
He craved, as he never had before in this life. Or, un-life, as the case may be. Yet, he was here. Able to appear as a spectre, if he pushed hard enough. And he pushed hard to be with her.
The woods were a silent mystery that beckoned him. Growing up, he’d been drawn to the green verge at the edge of their manicured lawn. Time and again, he’d come home, alive and recharged after finding tiny waterfalls, fit only for the insects who inhabited those dank and dark places, or quiet bowers covered in ivy, suitable for any Shakespearean maiden, or a curious boy.
The trees welcomed him, he felt. Their arching crowns, their shelter from the hot, turgid summer days; and from the way their limbs were limned with the first tentative snows, to their gold and auburn hues in autumn~in all their seasons, he felt their joy and blessing.
Now as an adult, his job was forests and trees.
He watched for coyote dens, and the return of Eastern Wolves. He saw barred owls, and their impressive cousins, the snowy owl, who flitted on ghostly, silent wings through the canopy.
He knew the snakes of the ground, the flowers in hidden verges, the rush of spring runoff streams, and the temporary vernal ponds, with their hurry-up swell of amphibian life each spring.
He rarely saw people here. The occasional lost hiker, the furtive hunter, the boy scout troops practicing survival was about it.
His cabin was at the edge of Federal lands, and was built with special permission from the Feds. As a land management ranger, he wasn’t quite a recluse, though truth be known, not far from it, either.
Tall and lanky, he strode less with purpose and more with respect for the land his footsteps covered. His otter-toned hair was heavily shot with silver now.
He lived alone and he preferred it that way.
If he got lonely on those long winter nights, he would sit in front of the fireplace and draw.
It was always her face he drew. A nymph of the forest, of his imagination, he had taken to calling her Ivy. He had drawn her hundreds of times. Sometimes clinging to trees, sometimes laying on the rocky soil, and on occasion, frolicking naked in a bubbling pool at the base of cascading water.
And on those still rarer occasions, when he pined for a woman, he would head into town, find a girl at the local house, and relieve himself upon her.
She danced through the sun-dappled forest. Her hair was long, vibrant trailing curls of richest bark-brown. A spattering of freckles decorated her small nose, while a faint pink blush bloomed on her cheeks. She was barefoot and bare bottomed. What need did she have, after all, for human trappings?
She’d moved to the little town to get away from the fast pace and struggles of living and working in the City. She had no ties, which was pretty sad, if she thought about it overmuch.
Which she didn’t.
She knew small towns could be ‘exclusive’ or cliquey but coming in as a teacher at the high school would give her a bit of cachet, she supposed. She loved the wide, tree-lined streets, the sound of crickets instead of sirens at days’ end, the walk to work from her modest house.
She’d moved just after the school year had ended, and spent the summer snuggling into her house at the end of a dead-end street on the outside edge of town. Not that there was much town to be on the edge from, she thought with a grin.
She stood on her front porch, looking up the street as she watered her geraniums. She’d started school a few days ago, setting up her classroom, getting familiar with the staff, the school, the program.
Tomorrow the real test would begin, when students arrived. Somehow it almost seemed surreal. Her summer had passed so quickly!
From her porch she could see the spire of the Methodist church, picturing the white clapboard building in her mind. Beside it, Gilly’s Five and Dime, and a bit further, Jone’s Hardware. Across the street was the Daily Grind, a coffee and sandwhich shop, and at the end of Main Street, the Bounty House Inne.
She’d stayed there a few weeks while looking for her house, getting daily updates from Camille Bounty on the comings and goings of the residents. She’d been thankful for the immediate friendship of Camille. Tiny, permanently waved and blonde, the older woman was a ‘native daughter’ of Leighton. Her Mam and Pappy had a place out beyond town, still growing tomatoes and beans and corn for Liddey’s Grocery. Wouldn’t come and live with Camille, they would make it on their own, thank you very much.
Sarah had met them a time or two, when they’d stopped in on their way for morning delivery. Thin, tiny as Camille, yet with a robustness that defied age, they were two peas in a pod. Charles and Clarice Bounty had been married for nearly 60 years, with eldest daughter Camille settled in town, and younger son Calder off somewhere or other in the West, she never did hear what he did.