Things are getting spicy in my story....see what I did..... ..

Things are getting spicy in my story....see what I did.....

Chapter 5

I get back to the house and as soon as I walk in, the smell of pork chops with onions and green peppers floods my nose. Ooh, my favorite! I realize I’m starving, on top of being filthy, embarrassed and still damp. I need to shower, for many reasons.
I cross through the kitchen on my way back to the first floor bathroom, which is closest to my room, and my mom is standing over the stove, working her magic.
“Hey hun! You’re back! How was your walk?” She looks over at me and her expression changes from happy to confused. “What the heck happened to you? Where did you get that ugly shirt?”
I mentally flash through where I’ve just been and decide that partial truths are a good way to go. “Oh, I went down by the creek, but I accidentally fell in. No big deal, I’m fine,” I reassure her immediately. “The shirt—uh — I came across Frank over at the livestock barn across the road over there and he had an extra shirt in his truck that he gave me. It was already dirty from being in the truck,” I add, before that becomes her next question.
“Oh jeez honey, you gotta be careful down there.” She returns to flipping pork chops. “That was nice of Frank. Where’s the shirt you had on?”
Shit! My shirt! I left it on the rearview mirror!
“I…have it tucked into the back of my waistband. This shirt’s just big so you can’t see it.” Don’t over explain, Fiona, she’ll tell you’re lying. I don’t know why I’m lying. It wouldn’t hurt anything to say I forgot it in the barn. But for some reason, right now the truth feels more wrong than the lie.
“Oh, ok. Well, go get showered. Lunch is almost ready.”
“Sounds good, Mom.” I continue to head towards the bathroom. “Did you save the onions and peppers for me?”
“You know I always do, sweetie.”
I’m smiling as I grab a towel from the hallway linen closet, enter the bathroom and shut the door, locking it behind me. It’s nice to be home. My mom’s always been my best friend and while we talk every day when I’m off at school, there’s something so comfortable being in this house with her. I guess because this place is her. I don’t mean that she loves it here — quite the opposite — she hates the farm. She was a city girl that married a farmer and the farm won. But there isn’t an inch of this house that doesn’t have “mom” all over it. The furniture and decor, the smell of cookies baking, or fried chicken on the stove, the paint on the walls that hasn’t been changed since I last helped her paint it when I was probably 12. Maybe we should paint while I’m home this summer. That would be fun. The bathrooms still even have those cheesy peel-and-stick wallpaper borders that were all the rage in the mid-nineties. She maintains this house, therefore she is the house. No, she is home.
My dad, on the other hand, has little to do with this house besides eating and sleeping in it, and the occasional times during calving season when he hauls an almost-frozen baby calf in and puts it under heat lamps on the kitchen floor. Cows are idiots and will have their calves in the dumbest places, in the middle of winter. It’s up to my dad to find them and make sure they’re not dead, and if they’re not, try his best to keep them alive. And sometimes that means decorating the room we eat in with a baby version of the thing we’ll eventually eat. The irony of it all. I always loved it though. I never understood why he didn’t do it in one of the barns instead, but I suppose when it’s that cold out, neither he nor the calf want to struggle for heat out there. Plus, I think he knew I’d like to be a part of helping bring that calf back. My dad isn’t one to show emotion very well, so little gestures like bringing in a brand new baby kitten he found for me to hold, or putting me in charge of rubbing warm towels on a baby calf to help bring its body temperature up, were his way of showing love and affection towards me.
The farmland outside is dad, and the house is mom. And I can’t help but feel like I’m on the verge of shitting on both of them just a little.
I look into the mirror and my smile, full of nostalgia, fades. I’m a mess. My hair is disheveled and dull, with bits of hay dust in it, my damp leggings are starting to make my skin feel rashy and my shirt — Frank’s shirt — is filthy, and the realization hits me that I can almost see the man himself in this shirt, even with it on my body. There’s so much space under it that it’s unavoidable to feel what a beastly man he really is. It’s like I can feel him wrapped around me again. Ew.
I start unbuttoning it as quickly as I can and when it falls open, exposing my breasts, my memory flashes back to standing by that truck. I see myself, standing just like this, only in the reflection of the truck window instead…with Frank’s reflection in the mirror…with him watching me…with the cows and the birds, all watching me.
I feel a tightening, deep and low in my belly. My nipples start to clench into points and my face suddenly feels flush. Oh no.
I need to get in the shower and cool off. I turn on the tub’s faucet and after it warms up a little (I said ‘cool off,’ not freeze my ass off) I pull the little knob that switches the water from the faucet to the shower, whatever that thing is called and step in. I instantly feel the grime of the morning start to rinse down my body. It feels wonderful. I comb my fingers into my hair, and see the tiny pieces of hay making their way to the puddle at my feet and floating effortlessly down the drain. A few get stuck to my skin on the way down, so I grab the body wash and squirt a little into my hands before gliding them up and down my arms, across my belly and then up to my breasts. I cup them in each hand as I watch the water cascade over them. My nipples are still erect and I don’t know if it’s from the water pouring over me or from the intrusive thoughts I can’t seem to shake. I close my eyes and instantly images of being under a waterfall in that creek, which doesn’t really exist, flood my brain. I’m naked under it, relishing in the feeling of freedom and eroticism it gives me. I toss my head back to let the water rinse through my hair and there above me, at the top of the waterfall, I see someone — a man — watching me. He doesn’t move. I can’t see his face clearly, but he’s built exactly like Frank.
My eyes dart open in the shower; my breath quickens. Why? Why is this happening to me? I’m disturbed, yet I’m so fucking horny, I can’t stand it. Fuck it, let’s take care of this and get it over with. I sit down in the tub, but leave the shower running. I close my eyes again.
Now I’m sitting under the waterfall, off to the side, against the creek bank, just under the lighter trickles of water coming from above. The man is still standing up there. His face comes into focus and I see that I was right — it is Frank. He’s in his work clothes and he’s staring right at me, with his hand holding his cock over his jeans. He’s almost squeezing it, even, and I can see how much of a handful he’s got. My breathing gets faster and I glide my hand down to my pussy. I slide my fingers between my swollen folds and feel how slick I am. God, that feels good. I take my other hand and gently squeeze one of my breasts. I’m looking right back at Frank as I do it. I already feel my muscles contracting, deep inside, my climax starting to build. I slide the hand from my breast down to my clit and start rubbing it as I slide two fingers of my other hand into myself. I watch Frank, still gripping his cock, pulsing his hand on it like he wants to jerk off so badly. But he doesn’t. His hand is the only thing about him that’s moving. Everything else is stone still, but then his eyes — his eyes are growing darker — wanting. I stroke myself faster, both inside and out. My body flexes in response, my back tries to arch and I feel myself clenching around my fingers. Frank doesn’t take his eyes off of me, and I can’t look away. Even if I try, I can’t.
I feel like I’m on a runaway train. Not like this. I don’t want to stare at him as I come. Just open your eyes, Fiona, and it all goes away. But something about him watching me is fueling this animal in me that’s ready to explode. I rub myself faster, harder and suddenly, Frank — still locked into my gaze —gives me a slight smile and a nod. My body climaxes in response, crashing like a lightning bolt strike. My vision fades out. The waterfall and Frank fade away, as my muscles spasm over and over until the intensity dissipates like distant rolling thunder.
I slowly open my eyes and the shower is still spraying down on me. My lungs are somehow tired and I’m trying my best to steady my breathing when a loud knock on the door jolts me upright.
“Fiona, lunch is ready!”
Jesus, Mom! Could you knock louder?
I clear my throat. “Ok! Be right out!”
I lay back down in the tub. I just need a moment to regroup myself. Well that was a first. What was that? I don’t think I’ve come that hard in a long time, and I don’t understand why Frank was in my daydream. That’s what that was, right? A daydream? Did I just daydream about Frank? No, I daydreamed about being watched. He just happened to be the one watching me. Yes, that was it.
I pull myself up to my feet and my legs are so wobbly, I worry that I’m going to slip. I’m too youthful to need a Life Alert, but damn, this is dicey. I quickly wash my hair, rinse, turn off the water and grab my towel. When I step out of the tub, my reflection is staring back at me in the mirror. Hello, again. You look…different, Fiona. It’s true. The dirty, hay-ridden girl in the big flannel shirt that just stood here isn’t here anymore, not completely. The woman staring back at me now is flush all over, glowing. Her breasts look a little fuller somehow, and her eyes — there’s a gleam of something new in her eyes. The brown of her irises look lighter than before, almost golden, yet the look in them also asserts something a bit…darker…than before.
I think I look forward to getting to know her a bit better.