by Jess Bentley
“That's right... that's it,” Hank growls, going faster and faster.
His hands on my shoulders keep me from being pushed too far away, counterbalancing his cock as he spears me all the way up to the hilt. When he comes, he yelps loudly, jamming me forcefully down onto his cock and pulling me backwards. I shudder and groan, trying to stay with him, trying to take all of it.
“God, you're magnificent,” Stan smiles at me.
He puts his arms around me and picks me up off of Hank’s wilting cock. Like I'm just a ragdoll, he picks me up and sits me on his lap, facing him, swiveling my hips in his hands to screw me onto his enormous, Coke can thick dick.
“Now you're ready for me,” he smiles. “Now you can take this big, daddy dick.”
I can't even speak. I realize he's totally right, I had to work up to this. Stan is the biggest, thickest cock of all of them. I never could have taken him first. But now, I need all of that. Every thick inch, stuffing me full, almost splitting me open.
He works my hips with his hands, lifting me up and down, moving me all around the way he likes it. I just hold onto his shoulders as he does what he wants with me, completely submitting to his superior strength and desire.
And I didn't know I could, but somehow I come again when he does. It's blinding, like a fireworks display. White lightning shoots in front of my vision. For a second I'm blind and transported to another place.
We all end up in a pile on the sofa again, legs wrapped over each other, arms everywhere. I feel drunk and woozy, but not drunk on wine. Drunk on cum, maybe. Drunk on these men. My fairytale men. My wolfpack, my five beautiful farmers.
Chapter 13
Vanessa
Boy, am I sore. It takes me a long time to get out of bed. My thigh bones don't quite feel like they fit into my hip sockets. My nipples spark like they've been sandpapered and my lips are bruised from kissing.
Which is all completely awesome.
Still, it's really hard to get out of bed. Carefully I roll over onto my side and fling one leg until my foot hits the floor. The rest of me just sort of follows after and I shuffle to the kitchen, determined to at least get a cup of coffee into my body. It has magical healing powers, after all.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror as across the floor, and I’m slightly surprised at what I see. Yes, I'm still the same curvy girl, but I swear got handprints on my waist. Is that a hickey on my neck?
Oh my God, I'm dealing with a pack of savages.
A watery goo dribbles out of me as I walk. I have to remember to mop the floor. Wow. I am a mess.
Still, I feel like a queen. I can't even imagine being anything less than this thoroughly wrung out. It's exactly the sort of theatrical exhaustion I imagined it would be. People in movies are always crashing into each other, breathless and desperate, clawing at each other until it looks like they're going to leave marks. Well, here I am, with a long scratch that goes from my left tit down the my right hip. I have no idea when that got there. And I don't regret an inch of it.
I pick up my old-fashioned coffee pot. It’s the stainless steel kind with the bubble on top. I set it on the gas stove and wait with my arms folded, resting my forehead on the counter. How long is this going to take? Long enough to take a quick shower? I hope so.
The water’s too cold, but I jump in anyway, scrubbing vengefully at my skin with the rough, pungent soap. I feel renewed in seconds. Positively baptized.
I slip on a pair of cotton panties and a skirt and T-shirt, knotting my hair high on my head. I notice the coffeepot is no longer making any noise so it must be done. I take it off the burner and pour out a cup. Grabbing it and my guitar, I head to the porch for a little solitary enjoyment of the morning.
The grass is still wet. I love to see the way the sunlight catches on the dew drops. There is a stripe across the small, weedy gardens where some animal must have run through just now. I should get to those little gardens, make something out of them. I realize it's getting late in the season, but I can at least prepare it for next spring, right? Get it all organized.
Huh. Sounds like I’m planning on staying. That’s a bit of a surprise.
Coffee invigorates me little by little and I tinker with the guitar, not really committing to a melody or song. Just playing around, plucking out notes. I stay on the low strings, trying maybe to harmonize with this late summer morning, this peaceful porch scene.
I could get used to this. Definitely.
It's strange how welcoming they have been. Not even a moment of real mistrust, just good-natured willingness. Even though they sometimes feel like a wolfpack, they really are like a sack of puppies, I realize. I feel like I have wandered into a den of golden retrievers or something, and have set all the tails to wagging. Yeah, it’s like that. That kind of loyalty, that kind of true welcome.
My guitar warms in my hands and I find myself drifting automatically toward a song. Nothing in particular, just a melody that obeys the rules of songs. Key of G. Something with simple quarter notes, something sounding like a folk tune.
I play for little while, catch myself humming, then hear something else. I stop, and the sound continues.
“Hello?”
To my surprise, Hank walks over for around the house. He offers me a sheepish grin.
“Were you whistling?” I ask, giving him a curious smile.
His boots are heavy on the porch as he climbs the steps.
“That I was. I didn't know you play guitar.”
“Well, I didn't know you whistle,” I counter.
“We all do a little something,” he answers.
“A little something?” I repeat, my fingers absentmindedly still plucking out the melody.
“Yeah, you know… Tim and Tom both play guitar. Charlie plays the cello or sometimes bass guitar. Stan plays piano.”
My eyebrows go up. “Wait, are you kidding me? Seriously?”
He crosses his arms and leans against the porch post, tipping his head to the side.
“No. Do I sound like I’m kidding? Is that funny or something?”
I shrug, not knowing what to do.
“No it, it's just that… Well, I don't know. It's just too perfect, you know what I mean? Like, are you guys for real?”
He laughs, taking his ballcap off and rubbing at his forehead.
“Funny,” he remarks. “That's what we keep saying about you.”
“I don't get it.”
He looks up again, shrugging.
“Are you for real? You seem like… I don't know. Like we made you up or something.”
“Like a fairytale!” I exclaim. “That's what I keep saying. This is all some big fairytale. Some big dream, and I'm gonna wake up.”
“Exactly,” he laughs. "Well, if it is a dream, I guess we better hope we don't wake up.”
“There’s coffee inside,” I offer. “Help yourself if you want some.”
“I think I'll do that,” he says.
He crosses the porch, and I hear his boots as he walks across my floor. My floor. That is so much fun to say. Something about having coffee already made, something to offer a visitor, makes me feel very right with the world.
My fingers move with a mind of their own, finding the melody, embellishing it, modulating it, bringing it back to the G chord. You always have to find your way back to the root note. It's like finding your way home, coming full circle.
Again, I realize I'm humming, just pulling notes out of the air, seeing if they fit. I hear the screen door open again behind me and hear a lower voice, a sultry timbre that picks up where I am, counterbalancing my melody with his own. In a breathy, unobtrusive way, he supports the melody, lifting it higher, rounding it out.
Without words, we sing together, letting our voices dance back and forth, trading the lead, calling and responding. After a little while, we resolve the melody, bringing the tones back down to the final, long notes, holding it out until it dies away over the dewy morning grasses.
For a few seconds
we just stare at each other, smiling and wordless.
“Well, that was pretty amazing,” I whisper.
“It sure was,” he agrees.
He sets his coffee cup down on the railing and sits next to me on the bench. His fingers trace the curve of my cheek and I lean into it, resting against his palm.
“Where did you come from?” he muses.
I can't answer because his kiss takes my breath away. His hands are in my hair, pulling me to him. His mouth is hungry and insistent, prying open my lips to force his tongue inside. I submit completely, letting him bite and suckle my lips, letting him drink his fill of me.
Before I know it, he's lifted me off the bench and carries me inside and we're striding toward the bed. He lays me down, fumbling with his jeans to free his thick, ready cock and lay astride me.
“I hope you’re ready,” he remarks, pausing. “Now that we've all had a taste of you, we won't be able to let up. You are going to have one of us at your door pretty much all the time. You okay with that?”
“It's what I want,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders.
I want him on top of me, to feel his weight. I wrap my ankles behind his thighs as he buries his cock in my sore, instantly wet pussy. The pressure is delicious, salving the tenderness immediately. This is what I needed, more and more and more.
Chapter 14
Charlie
“Stan, can you come here and take a look at this?”
Stan shuffles over, scratching his nuts through his boxer shorts, munching on a protein bar.
“What am I looking at here?”
I tip the laptop toward him, scrolling past the header on the email. His eyes go back and forth as he reads through the opening paragraph, with his eyebrows gradually going up.
“Wait a second, what she's saying?”
I shake my head, turning the laptop back toward me. “She says we’re running out of time, man. We need to make a decision.”
As he chews, his jaw works back and forth, all muscle and stubbornness.
“We have a harvest coming up, like right now. We can't do anything about that. How are we supposed to get this all arranged? We have to finish the harvest, put the house up for sale, find a place to live, not to mention inspecting the new orchards and getting visas and paperwork and shots and —”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I interrupt, holding my hands up. “You know that you don't have to worry about any of that. That's all under control. I got it.”
His nostrils flare as he chews the last of his protein bar.
“You got it,” he repeats with just a little bit of suspicion in his voice.
“Dude, I got it,” I reassure him. “All we have to do is pick. Portugal or Germany. Everything else will be handled.”
He nods slowly. “Portugal or Germany.”
“What are we talking about?” Tom asks, walking in with his shirt off and his hair all pushed to one side. When he turns around, I see the rake marks on his back from Vanessa's long nails.
“Portugal?” I call out, smirking, “or Germany?”
He fills up a coffee mug and gulps down half of it.
“Why you asking about that now?”
“Are you serious?” I ask, exasperated. “I’ve been working on this for over a year. You knew this was coming. What's the deal? What's the big —”
They look at each other, then at me.
“Oh.”
“Honestly, I didn't even think you were going to finish it all,” Tom shrugs. “I mean, I figured we would just end up here forever. You know. Which would be fine.”
“No, I don't know,” I insist. “That's really news to me. Stan? Is that what you thought too?”
He scratches at the patch of thick hair on his chest.
“Well… I just figured it would all take a while. It didn't seem so urgent. And really, there's a harvest, juicing… a lot of stuff going on.”
Frustration bubbles inside of me. Seriously, what have I been doing the last year if not putting together this deal?
“Okay, how about this,” I start again reasonably, “I'll put together a team of locals to do the harvest. Juicing too. We can get everything started here, get everybody trained. And then we can get started on… wait. Should we take a vote? Portugal? Germany?”
They look at each other again.
“You guys!” I yell out. “Focus! What the fuck are you doing?”
Stan shrugs. “Listen, I appreciate everything you did. It's just that… maybe now's not the right time to be leaving the country. It's a big move, Charlie. We can put it off til next year, couldn't we? I mean, what's to stop us?”
Seriously, I'm about to hyperventilate. I try to slow down my breathing so I don’t pass out.
“If I have to cancel the deal with Margarita, there's no saying there is going to be another deal. Like, ever. We might just be on this plot of land for another hundred years.”
“That wouldn't bother me,” Tom yawns. He downs the rest of his coffee. “It's worked for so far. Maybe we could… I don't know. Get settled in. You know. Family stuff.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Settled in? How much more settled in could we get? What kind of family stuff are we… wait a second. Is this about Vanessa?”
Both the guys back away, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders.
“Answer me. Stan? Tom? Are you telling me that you want to cancel all this because of Vanessa?”
They don't answer, shuffling further away and trying to look busy. I see Tim cross the doorway and then duck out of sight when Tom waves his hands in warning.
“We could take her with us?”
They stop. Slowly Stan turns around.
“I mean… I would have to talk to her about it. See if she's got a passport or anything. But it's possible. I mean anything’s possible. So, to be clear... is that what we’re talking about here?”
Stan rolls his eyes, then comes back over to the table and sits down heavily in a chair.
“Listen, Charlie,” he starts, “I don’t want to make it sound like I don't respect your work. We all do. We totally appreciate it. It's just… there's never been anybody like her. I don't want to mess it up.”
“I don’t want to mess it up either,” I admit, heaving a deep breath.
It's true. Over the past few weeks, we have settled into an easy rhythm. We take turns, with Tim and Tom usually going over there together. The rest of us wait eagerly for our turn, careful not to wear her out, careful not to rough her up too much for the next guy. But it's been a long time since we had anybody, and I suppose we’re pretty much a lot to take.
Yet she doesn’t complain. She welcomes us, giving us her body and her heart without reservation. Can I imagine leaving the country and just leaving her behind? No. It's weird to say, but I really can't.
“Okay, we'll ask her. I'll ask. You know… But if she comes with us, it'll seem pretty serious. You know what I mean?”
“I'm not afraid of serious,” Tom quips.
Stan presses his lips together and shakes his head. “You know what, I'm not afraid of serious either.”
I push the laptop away, nodding and starting to plan what I would say to her.
“All right. If that’s how you guys feel, let's ask her together.”
Chapter 15
Tim
She comes into the den, still kind of shy and tentative about being in the big house. I think it’s sweet, the way she hangs onto the doorway, leaning in and smiling at us all. I pick up the guitar and her eyes widen.
“What's all this?” she asks.
“Hank tells us you've been holding out on us,” I explain.
“I’m not holding out on you,” she smiles as she comes forward, her pretty blue dress fluttering around those sweet dimpled knees. "I mean, you must have seen the guitar in the cabin, right? You’re just usually too busy to ask me about it.”
“Yeah, I'm distracted,” I admit, snatching at the hem of her skirt and pulling her clo
ser, sliding my hands up her thighs as I drag her onto my lap. She sits astride me, those long, curvy legs covering mine. My cock is hard and ready for her now, and I wonder if we have time to —
“Oh, hold on,” Stan barks out, spoiling the mood. “You want some accompaniment? What are you playing over there?”
He plops down behind the piano and cracks his knuckles like a big show off. Vanessa cradles the Gibson in her lap, leaning back against my chest as she plucks out a few chords.
“Twelve bar blues? In E?” she calls out.
“Sounds perfect,” he agrees, banging on the bass notes like a pro.
She wiggles as she plays, grinding her ass onto my hips. I try to focus as all the blood leaves my head. All I really figure out is that she's really talented, and really juicy wet.
“Keep going!” Charlie says as he comes in, grinning. He grabs the bass out of the rack behind the fireplace and starts noodling, jerking his chin toward Hank when he sees him come in the room.
Hank just crosses his arms and starts whistling, those high notes dancing all over the melody. Pretty soon everybody's pitching in, yelling out an improvised blues line, maybe a snatch from one of the millions of songs that fit this particular tune.
Music is the universal language, something everybody knows. The song just goes on and on, endlessly reanimating itself every time somebody picks a new theme or joke to throw in.
Finally, here’s the big finish. The guys are all singing with Vanessa's sweet voice floating on top of all of us, her hands moving fast over the body of the guitar. The chord hangs in the air for a few more seconds, rising up to the exposed wooden rafters.
“You guys, that was amazing!” she exclaims. “We sound good together!”
“Of course we do, baby,” I whisper against the back of her ear, wrapping my hands around her narrow little waist. “Course we do.”