Digging Holes for Seeds

4:40.

Nothing changed. In the other room, I could still hear Jon working. Boxes being moved, set down, shifted. The rattle of a metal shelf as weight settled onto it. The scuffle of feet. Ten seconds past. Worry began to gnaw at the bottom of my stomach. He had to see me–right? I mean, this couldn’t the one day that he stayed late. But my parents were out of town, and maybe he’d decided to–the wooden door creaked open. Without warning. The sound of booted feet entered the room; by the sound, I could tell he hadn’t seen me yet. Every nerve in my body felt electric. My heartbeat faltered slightly; I almost missed the stumble in the sound of his boots, because the two matched one another so perfectly. Fourteen seconds past.

“Jesus almighty–”

The roughness of his voice was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck rise. The bass of it. I realized, at that moment, I’d never really noticed Jon’s voice. I’d never seen him smoke, but it sounded like he did; deep, and a bit scratchy around the edges. Likely something he’d done for years, and quit not long ago. Both smoking and speaking, that is.

I tried to picture it. How he saw me. Nothing but my back; the knot of blonde hair, the bare curve of my back that pushed out to form the cheeks of my bum. The straightness of my legs. The rope that connected me to the ceiling. How the light from the open doorway must, from where he was standing, silhouette my nakedness.

“You alright, girl?”

I almost laughed. If I did, I knew the sound would come out almost hysterically. My nerves felt nearly raw from anticipation; my legs trembled, not from the position, but with exhilaration. I spread them slightly, forcing myself to the front of my feet, heels lifting further away from the ground. I wondered if he could see it–the wetness between my legs; or whether it was hidden in front of the curve of my bum. It was the word: girl. Pronounced in his gravel-chewing voice. He doesn’t know my name–it’s very nearly enough to make me laugh.

I don’t say a word. Instead, I close my eyes as he steps forward. Small stones pop under the leather soles of his boots. Behind my eyelids, the light from the doorway is only a faint halo in the darkness. His breathing is deeper than mine. More steady. From behind me, he feels… worried. Disbelieving. A bit curious, but mostly worried. In a sturdy kind of way.

“Hold on now.” His voice comes from just behind me. I can feel him, now; not just by intuition, but actually feel him. His hands going between mine, fingers working the rope around my wrists. The heat of his breath moving the small hairs around the back of my head, where they’ve escaped from my braid. As his hands close around the knot, I feel his body against mine. His chest, swelling against my back as he breathes. The rough material of his work pants brushing up against the back of my bare bum; I don’t know whether it’s intentional, by him, or because I arch back slightly to rub myself against him.

I can’t help it. At the contact, a soft whimper escapes me. Between my arms, his hands fumble and come to a stop. For a moment, there’s silence–broken only to my ears by the sound of my heart beating. Against my bum, through the tough material of his khakis, I can feel his cock stir to life. Pressing the cloth-covered zipper into me. I’m almost panting, now; and he can tell. I know because he’s gone completely still, but I can feel him studying me. Considering. His thought turning over like the engine of an old truck.

“Hmm,” the sound isn’t quite coherent enough to be a word. Something between a grumble and a growl, from deep inside of the man’s throat. It’s enough to make me shiver. Arching my back, I press myself against the front of the man’s pants and rub myself, slowly, up and down. I can feel the stiffness of his erection, through the fabric. He must be able to feel how wet I am, even if he can’t see it. Under the hanging scent of dust and fertilizer, my own arousal smells almost strong enough to overpower them.

My breathing flutters as his hands fall away from the rope. They slide down the sides of my body, his thick fingers catching just above the indents of my hips. I feel it slide around; palm pressed against me, fingers spread, until his hand rests just below my stomach. It’s large enough, or at least feels large enough, that it covers almost the entirety of my pelvis. He hasn’t said a word, since he stepped behind me, but I feel him. The pressure of his hand pulling me back, against his pant-covered cock. The slow exhale of breath, like a horsehair brush over the back of my neck, painting me with warmth, moving the small hairs found there.

My body nearly sagged, pulling down against the overhead rope, as his hand went between my legs. It wasn’t like any touch I’d felt before; not unsure, not searching, not even trying to pleasure me. He simply reached down and cupped his hand over my vagina; ring and middle finger pressing slightly harder than the others, parting the wet lips around them, but not going inside of me. Holding me. Feeling me. An act of possession so casual that it made my legs feel weak. On the right side of my body, I could feel his arm pressing into the soft skin between my rib and my hip; the round length of it, the small hairs that stood up over his forearm almost ticklish against my bare skin. I could feel my wetness, almost dripping over his fingers as he held them still. Not inside of me, but against me. My inner muscles matched my breathing; tight and fluttering.

“Tell me the time, girl.” My eyes found the clock immediately, staying for a second as the black hand ticked forward over the round white and red face of it.

“Four forty-two,” It felt strange, to speak. My voice barely sounded like my own; open and breathless.

“Tell me your name.”

“Amy,” I tried to concentrate, but the feeling of his fingers between my legs made it a losing battle. Part of me wondered why he hadn’t moved them, but another part didn’t care–didn’t want him to. I could feel his breathing, against my back. His cock pressed into me from one side, his fingers from the other; somehow, the pressure seemed to be going in the opposite direction. Pulling me apart, like the threads of an old sweater. Behind me, I heard his low grunt. The tips of his fingers curled, and I let out another low whimper as they grazed my opening, between the slick folds of my labia.

And then the hand was gone. His breathing was gone. His body was gone. The suddenness of it was incredible. Part of my body wants to stand straight up, rigid with surprise, and the other part wants to collapse in on itself. Only the rope around my wrists, and the weight on the other end of it, kept me upright. Behind me, I heard the clink of a belt opening. The whisper of clothes being pulled down over bare skin. I could tell, by where I heard the sound, that he hadn’t taken his pants off. He’d simply dropped them over top of his boots.

I exhaled, hard, when the head of his cock moved between my legs. I exhaled harder when he pushed inside of me. The wet lips of my vagina opening around his width, first almost pushing back and then pulling forward. When he began to move, each thrust was measured. Workmanlike. His hand came back, making a hard incurve between my legs.

Pleasure made my head spin. Somehow, he knew. His palm pressed into the flat space of my pelvis, fingers curled over the slight mound beneath. Not for my own enjoyment, but to steady me for each thrust. His other hand wrapped around my breast, hard nipple squished against his palm, fingers digging into the skin. For the same reason. That’s what did it–how each touch could have been for my pleasure, but wasn’t. It was almost callous, the way that he held me. The way a man would hold a board, to guide it through a saw-blade. To hold me in place, while he fucked me. Functional.

That was what finally did it. Not the deep pumping of his cock inside of me, not the grip of his hands, not the sliding of his fingers over the top of my pussy; the word–Functional. The feeling of being used. Just another piece of farm machinery, to be worked hard, with purpose, and then to be put neatly away until the next time. I felt my body tightening; not just from the rope, but deeper inside. A knot, inside of me, pulled so tightly that it frayed, slipped, gave way.

I don’t know if I made a sound, as I came. My thoughts went blank, and I felt the muscles of my cunt gripping hard against his cock. If Jon noticed, he gave no indication of it. His deep breathing had taken on a distinctly coarse quality, each thrust punctuated by a grunt. If he was worried about somebody walking in on us, about being seen fucking me like this, he certainly didn’t seem to be. With each motion, he drew himself nearly outside of me before thrusting back once more.

It didn’t even feel like pleasure. It felt like work, and the pleasure was only incidental–both for him and myself. He used himself like a shovel. As if he were in the field once more. Digging holes for seeds.

It was the way a man fucked. And he made no attempt to hide it. Inside of me, I felt the knot re-tying itself; stretching taut once more. My entire body was trembling, now. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight, feeling his hand match the reaction against my chest. It was his own orgasm, that finally pulled me loose. The locked-down tightness in the muscles of his arms; the deeper grunt than the ones previously. Burying himself inside of me, he came. His cock throbbed, and I shook around it as my own orgasm overtook me; the quivering squeeze of my cunt pulling him deeper.