The cabin was the apex of a triangle whose other vertices were a large, half-stone half-wood house and a forest-green barn with a mossy roof. A sibilant curve of creek bounded the property on one side while close-packed white oak, dogwood and pine formed a protective backdrop.
It was a rare free weekend for Eliot and Cass. His work usually dictated that their stolen hours together were spent in interchangeable hotel rooms. The weathered Appalachian cabin with its knotty floorboards and screened porch was a delicious contrast, even if the “stove” was a George Foreman grill. At least there was an electric kettle.
A gloriously unconducted orchestra played around them: loose harmonies of stream and leaf, careless torrents of bird song and the percussive insect sounds. Cass poured boiling water into the cafetière and inhaled as the coffee grounds frothed to the top. The cabin was just one large room with a toilet and shower tacked on, pine smell rising from the walls. Cass and Eliot sat at the wooden picnic table on the sun porch, straddling a bench, knees touching.
“What do you want to do today?”
“Apart from you?” Cass widened her eyes in mock surprise and blew a puff of steam at her partner.
“That’s a given, right?” Eliot ran his hand up her thigh, sliding his fingertips under the frayed edge of her cut-offs.
“I’ve gone full South What do you think?”
He appraised the tight white tank top that did more to accentuate than conceal her cinnamon dust nipples, and the hacked-short Levis that ended just below her hip crease. “The hair needs work.”
“Closer to Jesus?”
“Huh?”
“The higher the hair, the closer to Jesus.” Eliot laughed, shook his head and sipped his coffee.
The sun was burning off the dew by the time they finished a breakfast of griddle cakes with apple butter. Pulling on sneakers, they headed out to explore. They’d met one of their hosts on arrival, a tall young woman with a thick ash-blonde hair and a sugared drawl. They’d watched her walk away then caught each other’s eyes and grinned. Looking was fun – though not as much fun as doing. There was no sign of anyone, though, as they set out.
Cass and Eliot walked along the creek until the under-brush got dense.
“That’s copperhead turf,” Eliot said, catching her hand. “Let’s head back.”
A lap of the farm revealed a pasture an agglomeration of doe-eyed dairy cows, a pen of gregarious black-and-white pigs, and a couple dozen chickens strutting here and there. An Australian heeler ran to greet them then hurried off on a private errand.
“Hashtag serious country vibes,” Cass remarked.
“I don’t think it’s done for effect.”
“Didn’t say it was.” They were moseying parallel to the invisible line connecting the barn and cabin.
“A double swing. I always wanted one.”
“Not something they have in the West?”
Teasing each other about the backwardness of their respective places of origin was part of the argot of their relationship. Cass caught his eye and stuck out her tongue. “That’s right. Folks there still pushing cars with their feet, like the Flintstones. Come on, let’s try it.”
“He felt his cock jerk as he pictured her lowering onto his face, her pussy parting like dew-damp petals beneath his probing tongue.”
Eliot followed, lingering far enough behind to admire the swing of her hips and the muscles of her calves. She was neither skinny nor plump, but an equipoise he found irresistible. Her bum was ripe enough to give a little jiggle when he slapped it, firm enough to bounce his fingers back; thighs were meaty enough to offer pressure when she straddled him. He felt his cock jerk as he pictured her lowering onto his face, her pussy parting like dew-damp petals beneath his probing tongue.
Cass hoisted herself into the seat and eyed his crotch. “What’s on your mind?”
He responded with a smirk and gave the swing a push. She dropped back, letting her torso sway with the motion. Her breasts moved beneath the flimsy fabric of her top. “Get on.”
