by Jess Bentley
“What's going on?” Charlie asks, smiling when he catches sight of Vanessa's excited gait.
“Apparently we've got a new tenant,” Hank explains.
“Seriously?” Charlie asks. “I thought you guys were hitting the road. What brought this on?”
“Stan is experiencing some kind of temporary insanity,” Hank says wryly.
I punch him lightly in the shoulder. Or, I thought it was lightly, but the way he starts rubbing at it maybe I misjudged my own strength. “Shut up, man. Vanessa's parents need to take off or something, so I guess she is going to be staying here.”
“With us?” Tom asks.
Stan turns around, raising both his hands.
“No. By herself,” he enunciates. “The cabin is hers, got it? All of our arrangements are the same. She lives here, for as long as she wants.”
“Really?” Vanessa grins breathlessly. She sweeps her arms out as she looks around at the weedy flower garden, the split rail fence around the slate patio. “You don't mind if I stay here?”
“It's practically just a shack, Vanessa,” Stan shakes his head apologetically. “I don't think it's much to get excited about. It just seemed like the best solution at the time…”
“My hero!” she exclaims. “Can we see the inside?”
Chapter 8
Vanessa
It's absolutely perfect. The guys march me down one of the orchard rows and it just appears out of nowhere, like I wished it into existence. The dirt path turns into stone, curving in a sinuous S between slightly overgrown flowerbeds, maybe with a couple of scraggly tomato plants here and there. It doesn't look like anybody's lived here in a while, but it is still completely gorgeous.
The stone chimney is straight and thick, and the shingle roof looks completely sound. It's weathered and squat, looking like something straight out of an old-timey photograph. The porch is deep, cast into shadow by the wide eaves but I can make out the wide front window and a couple of rocking chairs.
“There's indoor plumbing,” Stan grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But that's the only real improvement. Don't get your hopes up here, Vanessa, it's really pretty rustic.”
“Oh my God!” I yelp in spite of myself. “It has a cellar!?”
“Oh, geez, you don't want to go down there,” Charlie says, wiping the engine grease from his hands on the front of his bluejeans, which stretch across a beautiful set of hips. “Let's just walk around the living room, okay? Hopefully we are not going to surprise any raccoons or anything.”
But I can barely hear him. I'm completely enchanted by all this. Stan pushes open the front door for me and I just walk inside, holding my breath.
There is a big, oval woven rug in the middle of the living room and an overstuffed sofa with two small tables in front of it. The kitchen is small but serviceable, and the stone hearth is wide, taking up almost a quarter of the room. It's black with age, streaks of soot running toward the ceiling.
“Did people really cook here?” I ask, running my finger over the wrought iron hook.
“Yeah. Our great-great-grandparents built this house first. They cooked here, lived here for years. They had babies here.”
“Seriously?” I ask, trying to figure it all out. Of course they did, but it seems so strange. “This is really, like, where your people are from? Like right here in this same space?”
Tim shrugs. “Well, yeah. I mean, everybody stayed pretty close to home I guess.”
I have to bite my lips together. I don't know what to say.
“It's not that bad, right?” Charlie asks uncertainly. “Hey, are you okay? I mean, if you really hate it we could probably find you a bedroom up in the big house? Vanessa?”
I wave my hand in the air, trying to figure out what I'm feeling. I swallow hard.
“No, it's pretty perfect,” I choke out. “It's just… I mean, your whole family has been here all this time. Like really together. Like really all the time. I mean… it's just so…”
Stan puts his big, thick arms around me, holding me close. I'm not really sure what I'm feeling, but it's making me shake all over.
“Take your time,” he murmurs against my hair. “It's a lot to take in, I get it.”
I force myself to breathe in and out, drawing comfort from his large, sturdy presence and his deep, masculine scent. Behind us, I hear the sound of windows scraping open and doors squeaking on their hinges.
“All clear on the raccoons,” Hank observes. I hear the tap go on in the bathroom. “Well seems to be working too. And hey, you've got lights!”
Stan brushes his palm against my hair. I almost want to purr, feeling relief seep through me at his touch.
“So, what do you think?” he asks me.
I push away from him, gently resuming my inspection. It really is an adorable space, rustic and tidy. Quaint. Charming, even. There's a large fluffy bed in the corner with a slight valley in the middle. A chest of drawers stands next to a modestly sized closet.
“I think it's completely perfect,” I admit. “I mean… I couldn't come up with anything better. I think it's completely amazing.”
“Okay, then, it suits you,” Tom grins, raising his eyebrows. “And Stan, quit hogging the girl, would you? You're not supposed to keep her all to yourself, you know.”
Stan backs up with his hands raised. “My bad. Sorry if I got carried away.”
I raise one eyebrow and squint with some sass.
“Is that how it really is with you guys?”
“All for one and one for all,” Charlie shrugs. “Sometimes Stan gets carried away, since he's the oldest. He thinks he’s in charge.”
“Well sometimes Charlie gets carried away because he's got the biggest mouth,” Stan observes wryly.
“Whatever. Just ask Hank. It's basically his job to keep score,” Tim shrugs.
Hank scoffs. “Whatever. I'm not keeping score. I trust everybody to do their stuff.”
“Their stuff?” I counter. “Is that what I am? Stuff?”
“Not just stuff,” Tom winks. “The best stuff.”
“Oh, I'm the best, am I?” I challenge, perching both fists on my hips and squaring off. They line up in front of me, smiling and eager like they enjoy facing off. “The best out of what, exactly? What, do you have a stable or something around here? Is that where you keep the extra girls?”
“Hmm...That's not a bad idea,” Tom muses.
Stan immediately punches him in the shoulder. They seem to do that a lot.
“Don't listen to him! He doesn't get out much and apparently forgot how to show any manners.”
“So are there?” I ask again, looking right at Hank. He's the most guarded, I can tell. He only hangs back by half an inch, but I feel he's holding something back.
“Other what?” he asks.
“More women? Hanging around, I mean?”
He shakes his head. “No. There haven’t been any other women in quite a while.”
“Are you serious?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
It hardly seems likely with this group of intensely handsome men. They’re basically a rugby team full of sex appeal. I bet if any women in the county know they’re out here, those women are very interested.
“We work all the time,” Charlie explains. “Like, all the time. We don't get out much, you could say. And our tastes are not to everyone’s liking. It takes a special kind of woman.”
I feel them crowding me, urging closer. My heels scrape backward on the wide wooden floor planks and I realize I've backed up into the arm of the sofa. They're all staring at me so intently, I feel their eyes skating along my skin, warming me up from the inside. My thighs brush together, humid and sticky. It's hot in the cabin, almost too hot to breathe.
“Well, you know what they say,” I whisper hoarsely, “all work and no play…”
Something holds them at bay, I feel it. It holds them all back, like caution. Like we've all reached a bridge in the road, some kind of gate. And all I have to do is reach out
, make a move to cross the gate.
Should I? Can I?
“You're really all in this together? All agreed?” I ask one last time, just to be sure.
They nod silently, their eyes careful and expectant.
“Well then,” I say, pushing as much confidence into my voice as I can. “Let me look at you. Like you looked at me… let me see.”
Charlie raises his eyebrows at me, then glances down at the front of his jeans. They all track my eyes as I stare down at the front of his jeans too. I see the bulge there, the suspicious knot where he's got some kind of erection going. I want to see it. I want to see all of them.
He totally understands me. He reaches down and flicks open the button of his jeans, letting them fall to the floor just like that.
I'm transfixed by it: this thick shaft, poking up under the hem of his T-shirt, peeking out at me, winking. It's almost beige all the way along, veiny and thick, curving upward slightly.
Next to him, Tim and Tom execute the same smooth move simultaneously. Their cocks are mirror images of each other: one angling slightly left, one angling slightly right. Their balls are high up underneath their shafts, fringed with a short wreath of dark hair.
Hank reaches into the front of his jeans with one hand, jerking himself slightly as he unfastened the button with the other. They fall down slowly as he drags his cock out in his fist, rubbing his thumb over the tip which is darker brown, flatter and wider.
And last, Stan. He plants his heels shoulder width apart, then unbuttons his jeans with both hands. He bends over to shove them down along with his boxers, all the way down to his ankles. When he stands back up again, he perches his hands on his hips and rocks back slightly on his heels, waving his thick erection in the air.
“Well, what are you going to do with all of these?” he challenges me.
My heart flops once. I don't exactly know, but it's too late to turn back now. Some deep hunger awakens inside of me, making my mouth water. I slide from the arm of the sofa to my knees on the ground in front of them and glance at each of them in turn. I want to see their eyes, at least for another moment before I focus on their cocks.
At hip level, the aroma is almost intoxicating. A manly combination of clean sweat and salt, it's so intense. I almost swoon, but then force myself not to give in. Not to give up. I’m going to cross the bridge.
I twist slightly to face Stan’s fist-sized, thick cock.
And I open my mouth.
“Fuck, Vanessa,” I hear him groan. “Fuck, yeah, are you sure?”
Instead of saying anything, I let my tongue slide out, let it cover my lower lip and open my mouth wider. He shuffles forward, his cock in his fist, his wrist rolling as he squeezes it tightly. With his free hand he holds the back of my head as he guides the head of his erection across the tip of my tongue.
“Oh my God, yeah,” he grunts. “Jesus, I want to fuck that little mouth.”
He's holding back, I can tell. His hand works the shaft while his other hand holds my head still. He's not pushing into my mouth, just restraining himself to the tip of my tongue, rolling that fat knob over my lips over and over again, dousing me with his sticky pre-come.
“Where do you want it?” he groans tightly. “Fast! Tell me!”
“In my mouth!” I barely get out before he's coming over my tongue in hot, graffiti stripes.
Just like clockwork, he lurches back and Hank immediately steps forward. I blink, catching his eyes. He bites his lip and guides his hips forward. Tentatively I reach up and run my palms over his thick thighs, gripping him for balance.
Hank is slower, more tentative. He plays the head of his cock around the rim of my mouth, then slides along the valley of my tongue, brushing the roof of my mouth over and over again. He withdraws, then thrusts in jerky movements, abbreviated and controlled.
I close my lips around him, sucking gently and diverting my breath through my nose. It's easier than I thought it would be, closing the back of my throat so I can still breathe even with his massive manhood threatening to choke me out.
His hands grip my shoulders as he plunges to the back my mouth, holding there, trembling slightly and then calling out, his voice strangled off at the end. I feel my mouth fill with his seed, slippery and salty with something sweet underneath as it slides down the back of my throat. Eagerly I gulp it down, even as he pulls away.
“I'll try to be gentle,” Charlie says, smiling self-consciously as he sidles into place.
He brushes my hair back sweetly, sighing as he slides his dick all the way to the back my throat. I close my lips around him and suck gently, rolling my tongue over the taut skin. His cock is smaller than his brothers, but still bigger than I thought it was going to be. Now I see how well it fits in my mouth, how he responds to the suction by pistoning against it, rolling his hips upward with every stroke, cradling the back of my neck for balance.
Suddenly he pulls out, the head of his dick popping against my lips with a lurid sound. His come dribbles across my chin and down my neck, sliding between my tits in my tank top.
“Shit, that's hot,” he murmurs as he backs away. I want to say something, but there's no time.
Tim and Tom line up in front of me. The angle toward each other so I'm looking at both dicks at once.
“Wait…” I object.
Tim strokes my cheek.
“Just open your mouth, honey,” he instructs me. “We’ll do the rest. Trust me on this.”
Obediently I force myself to open my mouth. I have no idea how I'm going to do this but he's right. They slip around each other as both of their cocks stuff their way past my tongue, past my teeth. I try to relax and open my mouth further, but I am being wedged apart anyway, invaded, blinded by the mass of them. I reach around and hold on, falling back toward the sofa as they drill my face, taking of me whatever I can give them.
Just when I think I'm about to suffocate or choke, they both come, their seed mingling, splashing out the corners of my mouth. When they withdraw, my jaw is sore and I rub it self-consciously.
“Oh, sweetie, that hurt you? So sorry about that,” Tom whispers. “But fuck, that was amazing. That was…”
“Amazing,” Tim repeats, his voice a thickened, satisfied sigh.
Wobbling, I try to stand up. My fingers find the chenille of the sofa as I gather myself, smiling though my lips feel cracked and raw, and my throat is already aching.
But they can't take their eyes off me now. Though they looked like they were ready to eat me before, they look absolutely worshipful right now. Like I could ask them to do anything for me. Like I could send them on any kind of mission, any kind of quest.
What I see in their eyes is absolute devotion, like nothing I've ever felt before.
Chapter 9
Stan
I wake up at dawn, eager to start my day. After puttering around the shed, I find an extra set of rubber boots, some work gloves, and some pruners.
As slowly as I can, I trudge through the orchard. Inspecting the trees as I walk by, I bounce fruit against the palm my hand like we do, to gauge the water content. Apples are mostly water, and just like grapes, that's a way you can tell when they're ready other than color.
But when I see the roof line of the cabin come into view, I get that feeling in my gut again. That tight clench. That twisting.
I want to hurry but force myself not to. I don't want to seem too eager. Don't want to seem too into her just yet.
But there's something about her, that's for sure. She's soft, but brave. I see her thinking over her options sometimes, puzzling whether to retreat or advance. And she always seems to pick advance as her strategy. She just marches on forward into the future.
She's my kind of girl, definitely.
And so far, all the guys are on board. Even Hank, who pretends to be shy or something, he's into her. I can tell. At least the way he had his dick in her mouth, he sure seemed like he liked her.
Makes me wonder if we could have had somebody perfect j
ust dropped into our laps, just like that. Does the universe work that way? It sure hasn't in the past. When Tim and Tom brought home their cheerleader girlfriend, they almost had me convinced she was a godsend. She was like an angel. But no, she was just a temporary tease. We barely got her broken in before she ran off to college.
I felt cheated, to be honest. I told the guys it was to be expected, that every relationship can't just work out, just like that. Especially not with what we are trying to put together here. Things can’t always just be perfect.
But still, it stung. She was beautiful. She was sassy and perky too. Things I like. And for a second I let myself hope that we were really settling in, that we were really all on the same page
Because frankly, we need to be on the same page. I don't know how this business works out if we’re not all here. I don't know how we keep the family together. I sure couldn't run the orchard by myself. Nobody else could either. If Charlie finds himself a girlfriend and runs off, we’re screwed. We need something to bind us all together, someone to bind us all together.
Is Vanessa that woman? Really?
There was a moment I thought she really understood. She talked about family like it was some kind of fairytale. Something she longs for. Talked about our staying in one place like it was ideal for her.
Does she mean it? Odds are, she doesn't. She was not brought up like this. Sounds like her people are practically Gypsies. In fact, if I'm understanding her right, the longest she has ever been in one place was when she was in college, all by herself. That doesn't sound like family to me.
The morning dew soaks the hem of the cuffs of my jeans as I trudge down the row, finally within sight of her front door. There she is. She is sitting on the front porch with her feet bare feet up on the split rail fence, a cup of coffee in her hands. She waves overhead when she spots me and I automatically wave back.
