by January Rowe
If he told her to wait for his attentions, that’s exactly what she’d do.
And they often played that game. He’d order her to kneel on the bench. She’d wait, fully aroused, her ass in the air, her exposed cunt swollen and glistening. She’d never beg or cry. She would just wait, open, willing, until he decided the time was right.
Jillie’s voluptuous cotton-covered bottom was now canted high. He hummed appreciation. She looked so fine on the spanking bench, even in her white underwear. Her thighs trembled.
Blood pounded in his veins, in his head.
The time was right.
He tugged off his shorts, his shirt. She cried out with anticipation as he pushed aside the crotch of her panties. Her eagerness set him afire. Grabbing her hips, he shoved into her sex from behind.
It had been far too long since he’d fucked her.
They crashed together like two lambent storm clouds, thick and heavy with electricity.
He pumped into her heat, mindless with need. She tilted her hips to allow him better access. He thrashed into her, power pouring out of him. She accepted the impact with soft sighs. Shifting his hands to grasp her waist, he drove into her, harder and deeper. Edgy, unrestrained, he rode her mercilessly. The pleasures of possessing her ripe body radiated through him.
Even as the flames of lust threatened to turn him to ashes, he wanted more. Much more. And she wanted more, too. Her hot channel vibrated around his cock, urging him on. He raced with her, higher and higher, his blood burning.
Her raspy cries finally forced him to find control. He eased up. They now moved synchronously, tightly, rocking with a rhythm that came from years of love and lovemaking. As darts of sharp pleasure spiked through him, he knew he was the luckiest man alive.
She faltered, her orgasms overcoming her pace. Her breath came in gasps. She shuddered. Her pussy clenched around his cock, milking him. Molten hot, he erupted deep inside her.
Still embedded in her, he held her close, luxuriating in the intimate contact. The scent of sawdust, Tung oil, and sated desire settled over them.
He released her to lie down on the workshop floor. She climbed atop him, still wearing her rumpled dress.
He kneaded her ass. “You are an amazing, amazing woman.”
She snuggled against his neck and sighed. “Do you think Poppy’s okay?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
He listened, but all he heard was their twinned heartbeat. “I don’t hear her. Maybe Poppy really is starting to adjust to life with us.”
“I hope so. We’re getting the hang of being parents, too, aren’t we? I was scared that I loved you so much there wouldn’t be enough love left over for a child. But there is.”
“You make a wonderful mother. I love to watch you with her. How you teach her the difference between weeds and flowers. The way you comb her hair in the morning, so careful and gentle.”
“She’s going to get friendly toward you, Tern. Jaeger was just the first. You’ll be next.”
“I’m not worried.” He looped his arm around Jill’s waist, hugging her closer. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe she’d wanted to be a mother. Had she yearned to have his babies? It couldn’t happen. He’d had a vasectomy long ago, so that they could travel unimpeded. “Do you regret not having children with me, Jillie?”
She stretched out over him, warm and giving. “No. Never. I don’t regret anything about you.”
His blood beat stronger. If Poppy stayed asleep, he’d soon be enjoying a second helping of Jill.
Jill sat up to straddle him. “I’ve been thinking we should get a little television for Poppy. We wouldn’t have to spend much. They have them at the thrift store.”
“Why? Why would you want to get Poppy a crappy, low-definition, bulging-bulb TV all covered with greasy dust to watch shit shows and advertisements?”
“To fit in. You know, so when her friends start talking about some cartoon character or Justin Beiber, she’ll know who they are.”
They couldn’t afford a TV. Even one from the thrift store. He didn’t want Jill to worry about how much the lawyer was costing, so he hadn’t discussed finances with her.
Pretending it was principle, rather than cost, he said, “No TV.”
“I know a TV isn’t really our style, Tern. But I wouldn’t let her have it in her room or anything.”
The conversation frustrated him. Why wasn’t she accepting his no? “I’m sorry, Jill. No television for Poppy.”
She lowered her eyes and nodded. She would never defy him. At least on such a minor matter. He suspected she would challenge his authority if she believed he was endangering Poppy. Having a TV was not one of those things.
* * * *
In the middle of June, the judge gave Jill and Tern temporary custody of Poppy. The little girl was theirs, at least until the next court date. Abele told Tern that the expensive part of the battle was about to begin. He didn’t tell Jill how much it was going to cost.
He worked his ass off making dungeon furniture, hoping to save up enough to pay the upcoming legal bills. The ball of anxiety contracting his stomach seemed to get worse every day. He downed antacid, keeping the bottle hidden in his workshop.
Jill was happy mothering Poppy. She painted Poppy’s bedroom a light purple, the girl’s favorite color. Ever imaginative and thrifty, Jill also sewed up a cute comforter using two clearance bed sheets. It had a wild, graphic print in purple. The comforter depicted a TV cartoon character. Poppy adored it. The bedding just made him feel guilty.
Sitting right in the middle of Poppy’s bed was a giant pink panda, a gift from Jaeger. She named the creature Pinkie. Poppy adored Jaeger. She loved to climb up the cop like a human ladder. She called him “Yay-Grrrr,” claiming he was a stuffed tiger. Jaeger often brought over some sort of girlie gift. The macho man had a deep tap to his feminine side. He knew exactly what a little girl would treasure.
Tern didn’t have much of a feminine side, nor did he have a funny name, and he sure couldn’t make interesting explosion noises. It took Poppy a lot longer to like him. She was, however, mildly interested when he offered to show her how to make wooden birdhouses. The little muffin had natural engineering skills, if not carpentry skills. As they constructed birdhouses, Poppy started thinking of Tern as a nice guy. Tern suspected it was mainly because he was related to Jaeger. He was grateful, nonetheless.
Perry, the faraway Quinn brother, sent Poppy a box from Africa. Inside were several exotic wooden masks and three beautiful carved elephants. Jill didn’t approve of the masks, saying they were too scary. Poppy insisted on decorating her room with them. Tern dutifully made low shelves for the display of the African artifacts.
* * * *
June passed. July arrived. No word from Kim.
The lawyer bills kept coming.
When he wasn’t building dungeon furniture, Tern made a sturdy fixed-top table for the kitchen. He also built a set of simple rigid frame chairs out of oak. They had tons of gorgeous antique tables and other pieces stored in the attic, but he wanted something rough and tumble. That way Poppy could color and paste and make dioramas when she started school. In the meantime they used the table for dinner. Jill cooked wonderful meals using the converted woodstove. They’d yet to make pancakes, but she experimented with all sorts of meaty stews. She’d even started to bake.
They were settling into a vanilla-ish life.
* * * *
In the deep of the night, after they had a session of sex, Tern felt most at ease. And it was when he was the most relaxed and accessible that Jill would present him with the day’s domestic problems. This night she talked about Poppy.
“Tern, I’m worried,” she said.
“About?” he replied, stroking her warm, freckled stomach.
“Poppy. She’s so closed off.”
“She’s made friends with the neighbor lady’s dog. That black lab.” Just today Poppy had run over to pet it. The dog wagged his tail round and around. He e
ven gave her a lick on the chin.
Tern fondled Jill’s nipples, enchanted by their response. His Jillie was so sexy. Ever since that night on the spanking bench, his libido was nearly unquenchable. Now that Poppy slept alone, they had sex at least twice a night.
“But Poppy doesn’t like kids,” she said. “What’s going to happen when she goes to school? We have to expose her to other children.”
“Expose?” He jerked down the sheet to gaze at his wife’s luscious, giving body. Desire thundered through him. “I do like the sound of that word.”
“Tern, please. Listen to me. I need your advice.”
“I heard you. I was listening while I was admiring you. They call it multitasking.” He pulled her over on top of him. “You said Poppy needs to play with other children.”
“She does. So how am I going to get her the kid contact she needs?”
“Contact? You’ve got to stop sidetracking me with those suggestive words.” He suckled a nipple. She squirmed, appropriately distracted. He licked the other nipple, giving the hard tip a gentle bite. She spasmed. He chuckled, delighted with her sensitivity. “Okay, how about this? We can invite CeCe’s kids over?”
She wriggled wantonly against his thickening erection. “CeCe’s kids are all boys.”
“What’s wrong with boys?”
“They’re boys. Always out to wreck things. All they do is play war. They yell and scream and run around. I want her to make friends with a little girl.”
Jill was overstating gender differences. When they were kids, he and his brothers rarely played war. They built forts. And pretended to be spies. All very quiet, hush, hush.
“Okay,” he said. “We’ll be on the lookout for a sweet, peace-loving girl.” He rolled over to straddle Jill. He slid into her. She was so hot, so willing.
* * * *
A few days later, Jill’s wish for a friend for Poppy came true. The neighbor lady, the one with the black lab, had a granddaughter who was visiting for a few weeks. Jill and Grandma conspired to get the girls together.
Grandma brought over the little girl. Her name was Shania. A cute moppet with a big pink bow in her blond hair, she knocked at the door with Grandma. Shania carried a pink plastic tea set on a pink plastic tray. After a moment of mutual shyness, the little girls went up to Poppy’s room, each carrying a plastic teacup, jabbering away. Jill was in full bloom, grinning from ear to ear, thrilled to see her plans brought to fruition.
Tern went back to his workshop.
An hour later, a series of blood-curdling, girlie shrieks and the sound of running feet brought him out of his workshop. What the hell? Something was scaring the girls? A fire? An intruder? A spider?
None of those things. Evidently they just liked to scream. The two little girls ran down the stairs, holding Perry’s African masks up to their faces. They circuited the house once and then pounded back up the stairs, screaming the whole time.
Jill stood in the entryway, laughing.
“Boys could do that,” he huffed.
He returned to his workshop, locking the door behind him. His latest project was building an elegant queening chair. He was making it out of European walnut, his favorite wood. Fine textured, hard, with a spectacular wavy grain. He headed over to his lathe to make the legs. Soon he was absorbed by turning the wood.
He took great pride in his work. He wasn’t one of those guys who made dungeon furniture out of pine two-by-fours, or—even worse—out of veneered plywood, and sold it on eBay. Most kinky folk were willing to buy the shoddy stuff, just as long as they could disassemble the furniture and stash it into their closet when they weren’t using it.
He thought of himself as an artist. A starving artist.
Before Poppy came along, he and Jill had a comfortable life. His furniture and her sewing paid for their bare-bones, but satisfying, world adventures. It also paid for the real estate taxes on the house.
He stopped his lathework to pop an antacid. Another lawyer bill had come in. Once he paid it, they’d nearly be tapped out. And it was about to get worse.
Abele was intent on finding Poppy’s father so they could start the proceedings to terminate his parental rights. The lawyer presumed a father would be listed on Poppy’s birth certificate. Unfortunately Tern and Jill didn’t have the document. They didn’t even know where Poppy was born. Abele tried California first, then Nevada, with no luck. The search for Poppy’s birth certificate meant more time, more records to search, more lawyer bills.
Tern’s artistry wasn’t bringing in enough money. He had to readjust his thinking. Long term, his little family would always have a place to live. And short term? He had to get a well-paying job.
Chapter Five
Jill was alone with Tern in the big house for the first time since Poppy had come to live with them. The little girl had gone to her very first sleepover. Ever since the playdate with Shania, Poppy had become a regular social butterfly, making friends all over the place. She was spending the night with the Ranson triplets, two girls and a boy. They were sweet kids, very athletic.
Poppy seemed happy with her new life. She never talked about her mother. It was as if Kim didn’t exist at all. But Jill thought about Kim all the time. Where was she? What was she doing? Did she miss her daughter?
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No scampering feet, no incessant questions, no screams of delight. Kind of lonely. The only noise was the sound of Tern’s power tools.
Jill was fixing Masoor Dal on the old stove. Tern loved Masoor Dal, and he enjoyed it super spicy. Way too spicy for Poppy. He deserved a nice dinner. He’d been working tirelessly, building dungeon furniture and repairing the house. He’d made some odd changes in recent days. It was as if he was trying to drag them into the twenty-first century in a matter of weeks.
They now had a computer and Internet. Why? Weren’t those computer games even worse than TV? And just yesterday he brought home a pair of fancy cell phones to replace their clunky prepaid. Why would a man who disdained most modern conveniences buy all that electronic gear?
Everything he did lately seemed driven, almost frantic. Including sex. Frenzied and animalistic in the quiet part of the night. All heat. All penis. Not that she was complaining. Sex with him was an adventure.
She stirred the stew, thinking she might take advantage of the sleepover to do some corset sewing after dinner.
Now for the Tadka. She heated the peanut oil in a saucepan, and then threw in a handful of spices, quickly sautéing them. Scraping the sizzling spice mixture into the stew, she called for Tern when there was a break in the machine hums and grinds.
Moments later, Tern strode into the kitchen, a sprinkling of sawdust on his chest and shoulders.
Were those new worry lines on his forehead?
Stretching an arm around her shoulders, he gave the stew a hearty sniff. “Mmmm. Lentil Soup. Love it.”
They sat down to eat. He gulped down the stew, making appreciative noises. “You’re a great cook, Jillie.”
Contentment washed over her.
After he finished his third serving, she expected him to jump up and run off to his workshop like he usually did. Instead, he reached across the kitchen table, clasping both of her hands in his.
His work-roughened touch evoked raw desire. Although they had frequent sex, they hadn’t played. And now that they were alone…
Anticipation gripped her. He was always building some amazing pieces of furniture and she adored giving them a test run. Especially the bondage stuff. Or would he add to her scarification? Their anniversary had come and gone, and he hadn’t enlarged her tree. Her breath snagged.
“Jillie,” he said.
His expression, normally so serious and unyielding, was strangely tender. Sweet, even. His lips were relaxed, his body canted forward. His gentle, devoted demeanor was what some women might call romantic. His posture and look unsettled her. Tern didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. He was a solid man. He was trustworthy, hardworking, and hono
rable. He could make her body sing. But he wasn’t the sort of man who gave her chocolate and roses.
“Sir?” she asked.
“We need to talk.” He caressed her inner arms with his large hands. “The lawyer’s getting crazy expensive. Making dungeon furniture isn’t bringing in enough money.”
He’d never discussed finances with her before. The money situation had to be grim.
“I can help,” she said. “I’m going to get back to sewing my corsets tonight. Once Poppy starts school, I’ll become productive, I promise. Just another—”
“Slow down. The lawyer is my responsibility, not yours. And I’ve solved the problem. I got a new job. It pays extremely well. After a few months we’ll be clear. Ready for our new adventure as parents.”
“A job?”
“Yes,” he said. “In Pope, North Dakota. In the middle of the shale oil fields. I got the job over the phone.”
“You’re going to drill oil?”
“No, heart. I’m going to do construction. I’ll be building apartments for the oil workers.”
North Dakota sounded dismal. So barren and cold. But as long as they were in North Dakota all together, none of that would matter.
“When are we leaving?” she asked.
“No we. Just me. I’ll be living at a ‘man camp.’ No spouses are allowed, and certainly no children.”
Surely she’d misheard him. They’d never been apart for more than a few hours since the day they’d met. “You’re going alone? Poppy and I are staying here?”
“Yes, Jillie.”
“But you’re an artist,” she said. “How can you even think about doing construction?”
“Because it’s what my family needs me to do.”
His gentle demeanor was gone. His stance turned stiff, his eyes narrowed. He was warning her off further discussion. But she was too scared of a separation to back down. There had to be another way.
