Five minutes. She would give them five minutes to start, and that would give her enough time to hang the washing. If they were quick about it, she’d have enough time to bake a pie for supper. The apples were hanging heavy on the garden tree; it was time to taste their ripened juices. It would be apple pie with cold ice cream from the creamery. If they took longer, it would be a cake. Chocolate, she thought to herself. Chocolate and cherries, the last of the berries from the neighbour’s orchard. I’ll dust it with cocoa and make a fresh pot of coffee.
The sun beat down even as it drifted toward the soft horizon. The grasshoppers droned. Nelle wiped the back of her tiny wrist across her damp brow, dragging tea red tendrils of hair with it. Four more minutes.
One by one the shirts went up, fresh and clean and cool to the touch. Socks were strung like festival bunting beside them. It was such a pleasant feeling, hanging the washing. It felt good to stand back and watch it catch the wind, each empty arm puffing open like a windsock, each pillow case filling like a sail. Two more minutes.
Nelle bit the corner of her nail to control her excitement, a dirty habit her younger brother had mercilessly teased her for in their childhood. She looked at the barn, its red siding gleaming brilliantly in the long rays of the sun. She turned her feet toward it. The laundry’ll be done soon in this breeze. I might have time for another load before the sun is gone. She started walking, wiping her hands on her cotton apron.
At the barn window she stopped just off to the side, out of sight of the occupants inside, and leaned her shoulder against the warm wood of the window frame. It was the perfect spot with the perfect view. The corner of her nail went back between her teeth as she watched, enraptured.
Beyond the window, standing in the loose hay piled near the back, her naked husband Tom roughly pulled the clothing off Jamie the farmhand, dropping it, kicking it away from them. He pressed his face to the other man’s chest, inhaling his scent deeply, and then, with long, slow strokes of his tongue, licked away the beads of sweat the hose had missed. Lower and lower he licked, down the other man’s tight belly, sinking to his knees, nuzzling into the black thatch of Jamie’s crotch.
It was when he was on his knees that Nelle lifted the skirt of her gingham sundress, hitching it around her hips, and slid her hand between her legs. Her cunt was throbbing, her trembling, secret flesh was moist and hot. The scent of her arousal blended seamlessly with the scent of drying hay, the sun-warmed wood, and the crushed grass beneath her booted feet. Her knickers she had left on the cutting block in the kitchen to keep them from getting stained. There was no barrier between her fingers and her sticky folds.
Inside the barn, her husband took the farmhand’s proudly erect cock into his mouth, swallowing it smoothly with the kind of ease that only came from practice. Nelle couldn’t hear Jamie’s groan, but she could see it on his face, the way his eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitching. He took her husband’s head in his hands, fingers locked in his damp, brown hair, and, gently at first, then with more confidence, slid himself in and out of the man’s throat.