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In The Heat of Summer

a short story about passion

By L. M. WilliamsPublished 3 years ago 6 min read
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Moving to the middle of butt-fuck nowhere was never my plan. I prefer the city, the noise, the people. But when the office started making cuts and gave the option of 4 weeks severance or move to the "rural office" with moving expenses, I selected the latter.

Ramsey was not rural.

This little town could fit on the head of a pin. My arrival to this small colony felt like I doubled the towns population. Everyone knew everyone. Every knew of me. And I knew of no one.

It was as if time had forgotten this little hole in the wall town and I the unfortunate soul to bring it back to the twenty-first century. The last time something was updated here was before I was born.

Unbeknownst to me, I traded my nice city apartment for a one bedroom shack on the outskirts of a farm. The only farm here. As if doing me a favor, I'd been given a week's vacation before starting up the new job to acclimate myself to my new home.

The dusty floor boards creak beneath my feet every morning I walk from the bed to the kitchen to boil some water for coffee. Instant coffee. Knowing reminds me more of my college days and attempting to work off a hang over more than the burnt stench of shitty coffee.

Whilst attempting to choke down a bitter cup of scolding coffee every morning, I stare out into the field that separates my little home from the main house and barn. Green buds cover the ground, not yet obscuring my view.

The only view worth watching around here.

Gus is the man, truly the greek god, that owns this land. I haven't spoken to him much. But each morning at dawn I watch him leave the front door of his home and go out into the field to begin the days work. He starts by feeding the pigs and chickens in their pen and coups that lay between the house and the barn before going into the barn and grooming the horses.

Even at this distance, I can hear the old creak of the doors. The new patches of wood stand out like white at a funeral. The numerous paint jobs have not helped nor hid the age that sags beneath each coat.

When he exits the barn his dark thick locks are hidden beneath a worn cowboy hat. At first I thought it was ridiculous, but I've grown to find its character endearing. As the run rises and the day warms, he easily slips out of his long sleeved button up, exposing arms as thick as trees.

His day job consists of building a fence. His movements are so fluid, so at ease that it almost looks like he's purposefully taking his time when in reality he has managed to cover over half of his property since my arrival earlier this week.

Just after midday, he stops for lunch and to cool off from the highest heat of the day. He emerges from the house an hour or so later, looking refreshed and resumes his work from where he left off.

The heat still clings to the late afternoon air.

It doesn't take long before his fresh shirt is drenched with sweat, clinging to his body like a sloth to a branch, hugging every swell of muscle, kissing every crevice.

I want to be that shirt.

We have lived the past several days like this. Me watching like a horny teenager and him not knowing that his new neighbor is a potential stalker.

Except for today.

This is the closest he has ever come to the cottage since helping me move in. Tomorrow he will build the fence around this tiny building. He glances my way, tipping his hat before heading back toward the barn for his evening rituals.

I might have imagined it, but I felt his deep set gaze rove over my body. Take all of me in.

My knees buckle and I have to grab the window ceil to keep myself steady.

My heart races and a heat I haven't felt for quite some time blooms between my legs.

Barely composed, I glance up to see where he is only to match his gaze again as he stands in the mouth of the cave. He's removed his hat and his damp dark curls flicker in the warm breeze.

Never turning away from me, Gus reaches above his head and back to his shoulders where his muscles pull taunt as he grabs a fistful of his shirt and peels the damp fabric from his skin.

My breath catches as dribbles of sweat roll down his hard pecs and over his perfectly chiseled abs. It's as if someone sculpted him. There's no way he's real. I run my tongue over my dry lips, wanting to suck the sweat from his flesh. To feel his muscles tense beneath my bite as my teeth nibble down the length of him.

His pants hang low, pulled down from his large heavy belt. Those perfectly formed washboard abs curve down into a tight V like a landing strip, like an ever narrowing arrow pointing to the prize. His worn and dirty jeans strain at his hardening package.

Before I know what I'm doing, I'm out the door and stumbling across the field. My nipples are hard and swollen with want. My panties are damp with arousal.

The closer I get, the more definition his body gets. Dips and swells of years of hard work and labor have crafted his body into the perfect specimen. Small swirls of dark hair curl around his chest, matted down from the sweat of a long days work.

My arms are around his neck as his coarse rough hands cup my thighs, sliding up my dress and lifting me off the ground.

I wrap my legs tightly around his waist, his slick hot body pressing closer to mine.

His lips are sweet and salty as I hungrily devour him. Each kiss pulls me deeper into him. His fingers intertwine with my panties before he tears them off.

I gasp with surprise as he enters me, thick and deep.

My back is against the barn wall, the old boards groan as he thrusts into me. I groan with longing, the pleasure almost too much to bear. He hisses with pleasure as my nails bite into his skin, only encouraging his thrusts to go deeper.

He takes his time pleasuring me the same way he takes his time with building the fence, using each and every muscle to get the job done. Driving me right to the edge of climax before easing up, allowing the swell of pleasure in my abdomen to ebb and build once again.

Our bodies stick to one another as we pull and attempt to grow closer to one another, there still seeming to be this impossible distance between us--

"Ms. Clair?"

I blink, the harsh afternoon sun burning my eyes as the daydream fades away.

"Ms. Clair, are you alright?"

Gus, the sweating glistening cowboy of a farmer stands not but a few feet away from my porch, swiping the glistening sweat from his forehead.

"I heard ya' moaning and was worried that the heat had gotten to you."

All of the blood rushes to my face and I've lost all words. How could I possibly explain to him that I want to mount and ride him like a horse? That this was a reoccurring daydream? That I pleasure myself to the simple thought of his hands roaming my body?

"I'm...I'm alright." I manage.

Neither of us seem convinced, but he tips his hat and bids me a good day. And to let him know if I need anything.

I watch his tight butt sway as he walks back to his fence, slowly peels off his shirt to expose the length of his back and the deep ridges of his muscular shoulder blades as he reaches for a hammer.

fiction
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About the Creator

L. M. Williams

I'm a self-published author that enjoys writing fantasy/supernatural/romance novels and occasionally dabble in poetry and realistic fiction. If not writing, I'm a freelance artist and a full time mom.

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