The Runaway

The doorbell rings once, twice, three times.



There is an annoyed tapping of a shoe on the floor of the porch. At last, the door is yanked open. The man who opens it looks frazzled. His hair stands on end as if he has run his fingers through it multiple times.

“Are you Will Redbud?”

He pauses before answering, looks at the woman standing, so obviously impatient, at his door. She is short, somewhat round. Her red hair is blowing in the fitful wind. A quick flick of her hand tucks a wayward strand behind her ear. He watches as the wind pushes it off again. She spears him with a quelling look from annoyed blue eyes.

“Well? Are you? And if not, could you point out which house is his? But really I believe I …”


“Well at least he got that right.”


She turns quickly, shaking out her long denim skirt. Stomps her foot and spurts out a quick, “dammit, stop that!”

His gaze follows hers.

“Oh.” He responds, cautious. “That. Yes. Well, do come in, will you. I just started some coffee.”

“Tea. I am not a fan of coffee, Mr. Redbud.”

She tugs the blowing hair, twirls it around her finger a moment, tucks it behind her ear again.

“I have some tea somewhere. Please…” His voice trails off but she catches the scowl, the subtle shake of his head aimed towards her left hip.  “You might want to stop doing that…” He points at her hand raising to smooth her hair yet again. “He’s rather attracted to that.”

“Yes,” she says, her voice husky for a minute. Clearing her throat she continues.

“He was certain that  this was the correct address. He told me all sorts of tales about you, I’m afraid. Not all of them were..ah…”

She pauses as if looking for a word. He thinks she may be blushing a bit. He turns, leading the way to the kitchen. She snaps in a quick, audible breath as they walk down a hallway towards the back of the house. He gestures her to a chair at the wooden table. It is sturdy, well made, with thick squared-off legs. As she sits a bit gingerly,  he digs through the cabinets. After a moment that feels somehow longer, she continues.

“…..flattering. And then he spun an absolutely outrageous tale.”

Turning to look at her, a tin of tea in his hand, his gaze sharpens.

“He did? Do tell me all about it.”

She doesn’t look at him, but around the kitchen. It’s homey, warm and obviously the center of the house. The view out the wide window over the sink features a bird feeder with a dozen goldfinches clustered around, cheeping loudly as they fight for their turn at the seed stations. She smiled at them. He catches her look, smiling himself.

“Yes, they just started coming back,” he said, pointing at the birds. There was a sudden flurry of feathers, and the rather forlorn swinging of the now-empty feeder. “Ah well, that was nice while it lasted.”

Her lips thin into a tight line.

“You don’t have a cat.”

It was a statement.  He gave a sheepish smile, shaking his head.

“No. I don’t.”

The teapot boils, sings. He turns away, pours the steaming water into a thick white mug.

“So, you say he told you a wild tale. Care to share it? You’ve come a ways, I think. You could sit and enjoy your tea.”

Her eyes dart around the room, a bit nervous. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she raises her eyes, looks at him.

“Parts of this are….”

“Yes.” He interrupted. “I understand the source. Tell me anyway.”

An unexpected giggle made him look again. She was pretty when she laughed. He enjoyed her blush.

“You’re a strange man, Mr. Redbud.”

“Not really. But one does have a reputation…”

She took a deep breath.

“I’m going to tell this exactly as he told me. I warn you–outrageous.”

He spun a chair around, rested his forearms across the back. Shooting him one last look, she took a deep breath and began.

Her car was broken, a wisp of steam pouring from the hood. Popping the lever, she hopped out, kicked the tire in a fit of pique.

“He did not say a fit of pique.”

“Mr. Redbud.”

“Trust me. I know him well. He’s disgusting and distasteful, but he’d never in a million years say “fit of pique”.”

She sighed, rolled her eyes.

“Okay, so I’m adding some details. Roll with it Mr. Redbud.”

Sending him what she hoped was a quelling glare over the rim of her glasses, she continued, her hands wrapped around the warmth of the mug.

Her head was under the hood, the hissing of steam loud enough to muffle the sound of the truck that pulled up behind her. Suddenly there was a presence beside her. She jumped as his voice startled her.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“NO! Gosh, you startled me! It’s…just overheated. Once it stops steaming I can add some water to the radiator and it will be fine.”

His hands rest on the front edge of the car, his right hand inches from her left. She noted the grease under his nails, the thickness of his fingers.  Something tickled her ankle and she kicked it away.

But whatever it was, it persisted. She was about to turn around and see if there was a snake, but the large hand patted hers, then covered it lightly. 

“Don’t you worry about a thing, little lady. We’ll get you up and running in no time. Always ready to help a lady in distress.”

Whatever was running up her thigh was distressing. It tickled at…

“I’m not sure I should go on, Mr. Redbud.”

He blinked.

“Yes. You definitely should continue.”

She sighed. Rolled her eyes again. Squirmed a bit in her seat.

“Very well.”

…at her panties now. The touch was teasing, tentative almost. She wondered why she’d felt compelled to wear a skirt today. She always wore jeans. But it had been hot and the idea of a cool breeze on her legs as she drove had been compelling. A breeze stirred the hem that fell to her ankles, or she assumed it was a breeze. The tickle at her panties had her very aware that the air was still, hot, and humid.

“You know, I think that might be too many details. He’s usually pretty terse in his stories. Almost cut and dried. They have a recurrent theme. I’m pretty familiar since …well…you know.” He gave a wee shrug as if to say ‘I have no idea how that thing wound up here of all places.’

“I appreciate a bit of background with my stories, so…” her voice trailed off. “It helps to set the mood.”

“Mars, Venus.”

“Yes, I think so. May I continue? Although obviously you know where this is heading.”

To his credit, he didn’t snicker, grin, or make any sort of foolish remark. She watched for it, but he held onto his faintly curious expression. With a brief and silent prayer to the powers that be for patience, she continued.

“Of course her panties were soon pushed aside. One part of her brain wondered why she didn’t run, didn’t leap back into the relative safety of her car. Her fingers were curled onto the fiberglass edge of the car. Footsteps came up behind her, as the man returned. He paused for a moment, then stepped beside her, saying nothing. His silence however, was pointed.

“Wait. Pointed? What the hell does that mean?”

“Its called foreshadowing. He knows you see? About the….about…”

He waved a hand, shaking his head, frowning slightly. She knew he’d write this story differently, but hell, that’s what perspective was all about.

“There was a faint moan at the first penetration. The mechanic carefully dropped a cloth over the dull silver knob, turning it slowly. The hiss of steam grew louder, almost covering her gasp as her pussy and ass were breached simultaneously. He seemed to ignore the ripples  moving beneath her cotton shirt, the sudden jutting of tits. The rising gout of steam puffed from the hot radiator, bathing the two of them in a cloud of overheated air. The heat from between her thighs was even more intense. 

For a moment his hand covered hers, patting gently as she began making a steady ‘ung ung ung’ sound. His voice seemed to come from far away, or perhaps he was merely whispering.

“Try not to cum.”


“Wait…that’s it?”

“Well,” she was blushing now, having said so much out loud to a virtual stranger.

“There must be more. She comes. I know she does. They always do.”

Her blush deepened, and she rose in a rush, almost knocking over the mug which still had a bit of warm liquid in it. She noted that there was a sparrow sitting on the feeder outside, and in a flashing flurry of feathers it was gone. The feeder swung quickly to and fro. Taking up the mug, she took a hasty gulp, coughed, and muttered.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Grabbing her keys, she twitched her skirt back into place, and took off down the hall to the front door. His hand on the jamb stopped her headlong rush. His voice was a faint whisper against the hair on her neck.

“Did you cum?”

Her only response was a quick in-drawn breath, that may have been a sob. Yanking on the door, she scurried to her car.

“Like all the hounds of hell were after her,” said the voice behind him, the chuckle all too apparent.

“You’re disgusting.”

“I know.”

“I can hear you smirking. Welcome home.”

There was no answer to the grudging comment, just the sound of the backdoor opening and closing. He figured it was time to take the bird feeder back down before there were no more songbirds in the neighborhood, and frankly, getting feathers out of the tub drain was a pain in the ass.


(i realize, re-reading this, that if you are a new reader you won’t ‘get’ some of the cross references between W. Redbud and the woman…go here and here and here…just to get started on who, exactly, is the hidden star of this sordid little tale. 🙂 ~nilla~)