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Gully Washer
If you are under the age of 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do something else. This material is Copyright, 1996, Uther Pendragon. All rights reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping one electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is included. Reposting requires previous permission. If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to me at anon584c@nyx.net. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. |
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Gully Washer
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They lie apart on the sheet in pajama bottom and opaque nightgown. Too hot for these, as well, but the kids and grandkids are here. After an eternity he sleeps. The lightning rouses him. It was close, but there is no afterglow to suggest fire. He lies there appreciating the breeze for a moment until the rain drums in. He is reaching to lower the first window when he really wakes up. This is the sleeping porch. The deck had taken twelve years' rainstorms, and winter snows for that matter, before the walls went up. He smiles more nastily than Ginnie would like to see and goes down the hall to Cheryl's room. He pounds on the door until Kevin sounds awake. "Gully washer. Close your window. I'll get the kids." He goes into the grandchildren's room. The doorway still has muggy air though he can feel sudden coolness two-thirds of the way to the window. He drops the window down to one inch above the sill, grabs all the grands' treasures from the sill, and drops them at the foot of David's bunk. He leaves the door open. He lowers the bathroom window to the same one-inch clearance. He pisses. He wipes himself down with a washcloth, soaks the cloth again, and takes it and two towels with him. He closes the windows from the sleeping porch into the living room on the way back. Ginnie is awake. She wipes her face and neck with the washcloth. "Finish the job. No one is going to see us." She strips and dabs herself. The breeze has already cooled the room and stray drops hit him where he stands. He drops his pajamas, and she slides over. They kiss. She had found tiny lines around that mouth and thinks herself aged. He finds a tongue that knows every crevice of his mouth and just what it does to him. This was the sweet mouth he'd kissed when he didn't know how, but it was more. This mouth had said, "I do." When the first company was going down the toilet, and he told her that she could take what her father had built -- this lodge included -- if she left, this mouth had said one word, "Never." He kisses all of that. He kisses down her neck and down to her breast. It is a lot looser than when he'd first touched it. She has started to go back to hiding them from him, as she did at first. But she really can't hide her breasts from him. There, he had cried when Billy was in the hospital, and they realized that the bankruptcy that they had feared and cursed and wailed over had really taken jack shit from them. He'd seen them suckle two children, and she'd let him taste. He could see them in his mind however hidden from his eyes. The nipple still knows him and perks right up. As he sucks there, he drinks loyalty, shared terror, and shared passion. She stirs as she has stirred, as she stirred at seventeen. He kisses down her belly. It is wider and looser than the belly he rested his head on at 16 as he told his dreams to his girlfriend, giving of his egotism in the only generosity a young man knows. It has held two children as well as its share of good food. It yields still its quota of memories. He lay on this belly in bliss on his honeymoon, sated for the moment but seeing the breasts rise inches from him. He saw this belly round with the life that they had started. He had been kicked through this belly and left many trails with his lips, matching this one, down to her muff. Each trail has informed the next, leaving blazes in his mind if not on her skin. This way to the navel tickle. This way to the fur. This way to the sniff of her want. This way to the glorious taste. This way to the proof of desire. This way to the entry to glory. This way to the tunnel of love. This way to the ecstasy. This way, twice if never again, to the awe and terror of parentage. This way, finally, to satiation and sleep. "We shouldn't," she says in her lovely voice. Meaning they would. He'd come to her with a choice. He could stay an employee, or he could throw everything in the pot for a new business. "We could lose everything," he'd said. "Not everything," she'd said. "Not the kids, not us, not our love. Just the peripherals." He loved that voice. He'd loved it before then, but he loved it more since then. Love and desire are a little different, however. He reaches her valley and her scent. Until now, he could have cuddled her to express his love. Now, lust starts to harden him. Her mortise is drier than it was before the hysterectomy. It isn't as dry as it was in the field that day, though. If he could go back, he would kick that young animal in the butt, though his hip pains him enough as it is on wet days. This beautiful spirit had offered up her unwilling body to him, and he'd been too stupid and greedy to realize that. The present dryness will cause no hurt, but it does not provide the wealth that he spread over her folds in the years between. He deals with that. His hand barely touches her, stroking her hairy lips twice before spreading them. He kisses that ancient wound, well healed, fully forgiven, even forgotten, since followed by two deeper cuts, now healed and forgotten as well. Then he licks upward. Let her moisture wait for him. He brings an offering of his own to her sensitivity. As he begins, she relaxes back. She knows the way as well as he. First the kiss, then the lightest licks, then the sucking and licking until she tenses. As his kisses increase in intensity, he hears her little squeaks. They tell of delight. No one else has ever heard them, save the babies when they were too young to understand. This is his love, this is his life, and she lives and loves here too. She relaxes, and he closes with one long, non-demanding kiss. He lies there listening to her breathing and feeling the occasional spray. The real rain doesn't reach the bed, but some tiny droplets do. He thinks about those squeaks, she makes them almost no other time. She certainly doesn't know she makes them in orgasm. She almost certainly doesn't remember the sounds she made when her pregnancy test came back positive. She probably didn't notice making the sound when he told her that he'd bought back the lodge. He keeps very few secrets from her, only one concerning business. This lodge is hers, not community property. She'd signed the papers, as she'd signed everything he'd asked her to sign in their married life. Everything else that they own they own together, his shirts and her dresses when it comes to law. This lodge is hers. Because she'd hid the fox like a Spartan when he'd lost it. And because she'd squeaked when they got it back. If it were his lodge, Cheryl would be on the sleeping porch and the owner would be in the master bedroom. Billy, when he came to visit, too. Tonight, however, it is cooler here. He reaches for the KY and anoints a finger. He eases it inside her and twists it around. Soon, his rubbing is pressing down, stretching the sheath slightly. He gets another load of lubricant and rubs it into the first inch of her mortise. He can't see anything, he certainly can't see her arms reach out to him. But he'd been here a thousand times. When she reaches out, he feels the shift and moves up her body. She holds his shoulders and then runs her hand down his side. She takes him in her hand and squeezes him gently. She finds his ear to kiss. It is enough, he firms in her hand and she places him. History informs and deepens his love for her. Lust, however, is only of the present. He begins the road forward. He pushes in, gains the tightness of the entry. He thrusts and enters fully. He moves out and in, and he firms completely. Mortise and tenon, locked together, they are one flesh. He rocks in and out and returns from the past. She is silky smooth from both the tube's lubrication and her own. He moves through clasping slipperiness, sliding in and out. This is eternity, or should be. Sensuous pleasure, salted with knowing her pleasure, sweetened with love. He drives forward and hears her quiet gasp in his ear. He tongues her ear for a minute, and then she turns so she can reach his. She licks, he swings faster, she gasps again. Then she faintly bites the lobe. He moves back, his face well above hers, and drives in hard at the new angle. She tenses, and is almost there. He drives forward quickly and eases back slowly. Four more times and there is a quiver around him. Her squeaks sound different in this position. That is less from having his ear so much nearer than because his thrusts partly move her air. Thrust. "Eek." Thrust. "Eek." Her mortise clutches tight and trembling around his tenon. He drives mindlessly into that pulsing warmth. There is no history. No memory. No past. Just now. "Eek." Now! "Eek." Now! "Eek." Now. "Eek." Now. ... Now. Experienced, he turns as he collapses. Experienced, she moves her arm just in time. They lie there, he not quite on top of her except at the middle. The air blows cool, but slow enough that little rain is coming in. He needs to be in pajamas when the grandkids wake. He's too heavy on her thigh. He should move. Soon. |
The End
Gully Washer
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1996/
2001/06/13
2002/04/08
2004/04/28
For another story about another couple making
love during another rainstorm, see:
"Forecast"
This story is indexed under:
Wedded Lust
The directory to all my stories can be found at:
Index to Uther Pendragon's Website
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