Reckless: Shades of a Vampire (4 page)

“Am I now?” she had said, the redness in her cheeks deepening, her button tucked away between her legs throbbing. 

He had touched the tip of her chin with the outstretched fingers of his right hand, lifting it upward, to his gaze.

"Yes," he said. "You are blushing."

She had smiled.

“I know,” Emma said.

Emma nodded toward the house, three-quarters of a football field away.

“He’s home,” she said, referring to her father. “He’ll get me if he sees you. He might get you too. I’m sorry. It’s just…he thinks you are a hippie and a heathen.”

“And he doesn’t like you around boys,” Michael said. “I get it.”

“Walk with me,” said Michael, nodding toward the back of the parsonage grounds where a cluster of pecan trees gathered.

“No,” Emma said.

“He’ll find out.

“I have a better idea.

“Meet me at Mr. Denton’s barn on Sunday night. About eight o’clock. He won’t know.”

Michael’s smile widened.

"What will we do?" he asked.

"Whatever you want," Emma said. 

He moved his hand to bottom of her left cheek, brushing it softly with the backside of his fingers. He looked into her glistening eyes.

“Until then,” Michael said.

“Until then,” whispered Emma.

Michael turned and slowly walked away.

Emma watched his Wranglers wiggle as he stepped, and she rubbed her cheek with the tips of the fingers from her right hand, watching the stitching on the pockets of his jeans fade away with each step until she could no longer make out the detail. She poured the water from her pale onto the ground, turned and trotted to the house, reciting in her mind with breathy anticipation the line that had lingered -- until then.

Yes, Emma sighed. Until then.

For Emmaline Margaret Mays such reality spelled a problem, since, by the time she had told her father she felt bad that Sunday night just as the snake handling was about to begin and that she was going home from the service early, her heart was running in complete starvation mode.

She wanted to swallow up Michael Mooney in one big bite.

Gulp, just like that.

It’s all she thought about for every moment of every day since they had parted upon the promise -- until then. She wondered if the bulge in Michael's jeans was a big as it looked. She what it might feel like if she wrapped her hands around it. She wondered what it might feel like if he rammed it inside her.

On the Saturday night the day before they were to meet Emma had wondered what it might be look to wrap her legs around Michael. She had taken her pillow when the house had grown quiet at night, turned it longways, hiked up her gown, and wrapped her legs around it. Emma had humped her panties-clad crotch against the pillow, pretending to kiss the air she imagined was Michael's face as she worked her body against it, exploding into orgasm after just four or five pumps.

She had lost count.

Her pillow had become so wet when she came that Emma couldn't sleep on that side. She had turned it over, bedside down, when she went to sleep, drifting to the scent of her hopeful come.

On the Sunday afternoon before the evening church service on the night they had promised to meet, Emma had sat under an oak tree on the back of the parsonage grounds that cast a cooling shadow 15 times as long as her outstretched legs.

Lounging in the shade, while picking up acorns from the ground and tossing acorns to her left, she had imagined what Michael’s skin might feel like against hers.

Emma had dropped open her mouth repeatedly at varying degrees of openness in practice of the kiss she so longed for. She had flexed her right bicep and clutched it with her left hand, imaging she was gripping Michael’s arm.

In her room later that day, Emma had picked her newest dress off a hanger in the closet, a bright blue one she and her mother made just weeks before, and pulled from the top dresser drawer undergarments she had washed and folded the day before.

Emma had pressed them to her nose, and inhaled, smelling the early summer sunshine and lazy afternoon breeze they had absorbed from hanging outside on the laundry line. She exhaled and smiled, ever so slightly, without breaking her lips.

Instead of walking to the evening church service as usual, since her parents went early so her father could prepare the building and his notes ahead of time, Emma went early and rode with them to the sanctuary, taking a seat in the back of the family Taurus.

The afternoon sun was still strong enough that she did not want to sweat on the long walk and wrinkle her fresh wardrobe. In the backseat, she cracked her window every-so-slightly since the air was hot and leaned against it for the breeze.

Until then, she had thought.

At the church, Emma had stared into the stained glass window behind the pulpit from the moment she had taken a seat, thinking of meeting Michael as promised as soon as she could break away. She did not catch a word in the service until her father said “Amen,” signaling the end before the snake handling.

And that had been her queue.

Emma had looked to her mother, who had leaned over to talk with a friend just as her father had called for the deacons to get the snakes. When the congregation had begun to sing a hymn, Emma had risen from the pew and walked on tiptoes to the front, telling her father she was feeling ill and going home.

“Okay,” her father had said. 

Once Emma was free of the church’s side door, in the evening’s dusk amid the smell of honeysuckle in the foreground and the sound of locusts whirring in the trees in the background, she had moved in a walker’s stride at a trotting speed toward the barn at the Denton farm where she and Michael had pledged to meet. In a low breathy voice, she had sung the chorus lines repeatedly as she moved from the hymn the congregation had started singing as she left.

Nearing the barn at the Denton farm, Emma had seen Michael’s image in the fading light. He was leaning against the doorway.

He didn’t look up.

When Emma had reached Michael she had stopped directly in front of him, not more than three inches away. The wind had quieted with the fading sun, but she was so close she could smell his breath.

It reminded her of fresh cut grass.

She could smell his skin, too. It made her think of a fresh, ripe plum that begged to be eaten.

Emma wanted a bite.

Michael had looked up, his eyes connecting with Emma’s eyes. He had pulled his left hand from behind his waist, presenting a wildflower that looked like a daisy.

“Ahhhh,” Emma had said.

She had smiled, taking the flower and placing the stem behind her right ear so the petals aligned with her radiating cheeks. Emma had reached with her left hand and grasped Michael’s t-shirt, just above his right bosom.

She had pulled him downward, opening her mouth slightly and licking her lips from top to bottom, and from side to side. Emma pulled Michael’s mouth into hers.

Their tongues had connected, rubbing, searching, and pushing. Michael had begun moving his mouth around her face and neck, so that her chin began to bead in a mixture of sweat and saliva.

“Emma,” Michael had whispered.

As the sun gave way to the light rising from a partial moon, Emma and Michael had stepped in accord to the inside corner of the barn door, as if slow dancing to a song they knew by heart. Out of view from the roadway and with just enough light to see one another’s outline, they had fallen onto a thin pile of hay covering the barn floor without letting go of their interweaving grasp.

“Michael,” Emma had said.

On the ground, Emma had run her hands inside his Michael’s shirt, and up and down his back while she thrust her tongue into his so hard she could feel it pulling at the base. Michael reached his hand underneath her left thigh and squeezed.

“Ahhhh,” Emma had murmured.

She had hiked her dress up to her waist by bending her knees and spreading her legs. She had wrapped her legs around his jeans-clad pelvis and pulled Michael’s torso into her exposed lace panties with a hard pull.

She had felt his strength, and he felt her warmth against him. 

Michael reached a hand to between her legs, squeezing his fingers between their bodies. He felt fine, soft hair peeking from her panties. It was moist. Her rubbed her crotch, and hot wetness oozed from panties.

"I'm touching your virgin cunt," Michael had said.

"Yes," Emma had said, thrusting against his hand. "You are touching my virgin cunt. Only my hand has been there before.

"Ahhhh," Emma sighed.

Sweat had dripped from Michael’s face to hers as she pulled him in, closer, with every bit of strength she had in her legs by squeezing them tighter and tighter around his thighs.

Emma had moved her mouth down the side of Michael’s face and down to the softest spot at the top of his neck, just under his jawbone. She had opened her mouth, encapsulating a circle the size of a tangerine with her lips, and she sucked with a probing, licking tongue.

She though she could taste his lifeblood drawn to the surface.

Emma had released her mouth, tilted her head slightly up, to Michael’s ear, and she spoke directly to him in a breathy voice.

“Take me,” Emma had said.

“What do you mean?” Michael had said. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Emma had said.

Michael had kissed her cheek.

“I'm surprised to hear you talk that way,” he had said.

"I have never said that word before," Emma whispered. "But I say it now. Fuck me. Fuck me now."

"Emma, no..." Michael had said.

“Fuck me!” Emma had said, raising her voice. “Please, Michael. Take me now and fuck me!”

He had wanted to unbutton his jeans, pull away Emma’s lace panties to the side, and plunge his cock deep into her pussy, taking her completely. But Michael had thought of her father, of how he would never approve of Michael, or of Emma dating at all.

He had thought of leaving Emma alone on Sand Mountain while he went away to college.

He had thought of impregnating her since they had no protection.

And he had thought that maybe they should get to know each other first, like a proper relationship.

Michael had stood up.

“I asked you to fuck me,” Emma had said, hungrily pulling him back. "If you don't, I might go crazy. I might just explode. I'm begging, you, please...fuck me."

“No,” Michael had, tucking in his shirt.

He had looked down at Emma. Her legs were splayed apart with her lace panties still revealed, as her dress was remained gathered around her waist.

Tufts of her blonde locks matted to her cheeks. Her face was covered in sweat.

“I want to,” Michael had said, “but we…we shouldn’t…you shouldn’t.

“Go home, Emma,” Michael had said.

Michael had leaned against a wall, wiping sweat from his brow. He cock bulged in his pants and Emma could see it throbbing within his jeans. She had begun to cry, whimpering softly like a kitten in a corner alone.

She had sat up on her knees, pulling dress down to touch the hay-covered floor so it covered her underwear and legs.

She had wiped tears from her face and looked up at Michael, leaning against the doorway, chin down.

“Go home Emma,” he had said, without looking up, in a voice that sounded as if he were shooing away a straying dog.

She had stood, brushing hay from her back and tugging at her twisted panties to straighten them. Michael had looked down, and she began walking away, toward home, still quietly sniffling.

When Emma had reached the fence before the blacktop county road that separated the Denton farm from the parsonage, she had looked back to see if Michael was coming after her.

He was not.

In the barn, Michael had turned to the wall, clinched a fist with his right hand, and pounded it into the timber siding with all his strength. 

"Ahhhh," he cried out, falling to his knees.

Michael looked down at his bulging crotch. He unzipped his pants, and pulled out his erect cock with his left hand. Crouched against his heels, Michael had spit on his aching right hand, and then wrapped it around his cock. 

He remembered touching Emma's virgin crotch. He remembered the warmth. 

Michael pumped his hands up and down, but only a few times, until cum shot from his cock to against the barn wall.

"Until then," Michael thought.

At home that evening after meeting Michael in the barn, Emma had begun dealing with that very problem: wanting what she could not have, and in the very worst way. She had tried to distract herself from the persistent shock waves of being with Michael in a warm bath. But her body, and mind, still burned like a noonday sun, searing inside and out.

Emma had felt nerves she did not know she had begging for attention by tingling on the ends the way a wailing baby calls out to be held. Emma had wanted to feel bad for pouncing on Michael like an animal raging in lust. She wanted to feel bad for doing and feeling what her father had worked so hard for so many years to keep her from.

Emma knew her father wouldn't approve. She wasn't wed, and she lusted for Michael with all her being. She did not have her father’s approval to so much as sit in the family den with Michael, much less approval to meet him in secret and beg that he take her, completely. And, she had never even touched a man before in the simplest of ways, yet in the barn she had tried to maul Michael like she was a hungry tiger and he was a lamb.