Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/C/CLAY.TXT

Text File | 1994-07-04 | 14.4 KB | 232 lines

This is a re-posting of  CLAY COUNTY BLUES. This is one of my
favorite erotic stories.  Most of my other favorite stories are by
Diedre.  Her stories contain strong women like those in  Clay County
Blues.  I would like to dedicate this re-post to Dierdre.

Yellow Rose





A continuing piece of female/female erotica.  Beth, a sculptor, and Megan, a
writer live in a cabin in the North Carolina mountains with their  wolf-hybrid
dog, Cherokee.

                 Clay County Blues (Pt. 1)
                  (c) 1991 John H. Hopkins

     "Be damned if y'all ^look^ like dykes," the redneck  from the lumber yard
said through the open window of the  stake-bodied truck that had brought the 2
x 4's we were  going to use to build the frame for Beth's studio.  He  bobbed
the bill of his Camel Lights baseball cap in Beth's  direction.  "Little one
there's 'bout as fine as fine gets."
     He was right, she is.  Especially in the pair of  cut-off Levis and
shrunk-down Tar Heels Basketball tee-shirt  that didn't need any help from a
bra.  Which was a good  thing because Beth wasn't wearing one.  Yes, Beth is
fine  but it wasn't this particular redneck's place to say so and  I do
believe Beth took offense.
     She stood up from where she was sitting at the top of  the steps and
said, "What did you say your name was again?"   The redneck looked a little
confused as he watched Beth walk  over to the front door of the cabin and
reach inside.
     "Lester," he said.
     "Well, Lester," Beth said as she pulled out the  12-gauge Iver-Johnson
pump she keeps loaded with birdshot  and leaning against the wall just inside
the door, "I do  believe you fucked up when you decided to say something
disrespectful ^before^ you started that truck."
     From the expression on his face, I imagined that  Lester might have
created a serious laundry problem for  himself as he watched Beth jack a shell
into the firing  chamber of the shotgun.  He sort of froze for a second or
two and then started scrabbling at the ignition as if his  very life depended
on getting that truck started.  Of  course, for all he knew it did.
     Beth just stood there on the apron of the porch,  holding the gun her
daddy had given her against her thigh,  until the stake-body fired up and
Lester jammed it into  gear.  As the truck began to lurch off down our access
road  in the direction of RT 218, Beth shot off the driver's side  rear-view.
She turned around and looked at me.
     "I could shoot his tires, I guess.  But that only  means the asshole
would be on our property that much  longer."
     She turned back toward the stake-body and shot out  both the tail-lights.
That seemed to get old Lester right  motivated and in about fifteen seconds
all that was left of  him was a mist of North Carolina red clay hanging over
the  access road all the way down to the bend.
     Beth went into the cabin and came out again with two  long-neck bottles
of Rolling Rock.  She handed me one and  sat back down next to me on the top
step.  She took a swig  that drained the beer about a third and looked at me
with  the impish grin that still makes my stomach flutter.
     "You reckon old Lester went number one or number two  or both?" she said
and we started laughing in that helpless,  uncontrolled way that goes on an on
and just when it's  almost over, one of you starts again, and you finally stop
 because it's the only way you can get a breath.
     When the laughter finally petered out, Beth took  another long pull on
the beer.  The bottle was sweaty cold  and she rolled it across her forehead
and then across her  breasts through the tee shirt.  Her small, crisp nipples
stiffened in response, pinkly visible through the now-wet  fabric.  The fabric
wasn't the only thing that was getting  wet and I reached over and ran the
flat of my hand up the  inside of Beth's strong brown thigh.
     She pushed it away, laughing.  "No way, hon.  We don't  have much more
than an hour of daylight left and today is  the day I get that fucking stump
out ."
     Well, I had promised, so I drained the rest of the  beer and went into
the cabin with Beth right behind me.  We  put on steel-toed work shoes and
traded our tee shirts for  old, worn bikini tops.  I stared hungrily at Beth's
breasts  until they were covered, still horny and melty at the core.   She
caught me looking, just like she always does, giggled  and said, "The ^stump^,
Meg."
     We went down to the woodshed, got our axes and put  them next to the
stump.  There had been a long-leaf pine  standing pretty much in the center of
where we intended to  put Beth's studio.  We had rented a chain saw and cut it
 down.  The wood shed was piled high with the harvest of fire  wood the pine
had yielded.
     But we didn't have the money to bring in someone with  a backhoe for the
stump and neither of us wanted anything to  do with dynamite so close to the
cabin.  So we decided to  cut out our evening run and use the time and energy
to take  the stump out with axes.  We'd been at it for almost two  weeks and
it had looked like we were almost done when we  finished chopping the day
before.
     Beth walked over to the boom box and stack of  cassettes on the porch.
"Whaddaya want?" she asked.
     "What do you ^mean^... what do I want?  I spent two  hours last Sunday
making a Stones tape especially for the  day we finished this sucker for
good."
     Beth gave me the grin.  "I just thought maybe you'd  changed your mind
and would be into some Neil Diamond or  something."
     I fucking hate Neil Diamond and Beth knows it.
     I picked up a clod of dirt and faked throwing it at  Beth.  She put the
Stones tape in the machine and punched  the Play button.  As she walked back
over to the stump, the  opening percussion riffs to "Sympathy for the Devil"
came  rolling out of the speakers and across the pine-covered  hillside.  We
picked up our axes, faced each other from  opposite sides of the stump and
began to chop away at the  nearly severed roots that ringed it, the axe blows
falling  in rhythmic counterpoint to the music.  "(Whack) Please  allow me
(whack)... to introduce myself (whack)... I'm a man  (whack, whack) of wealth
and taste..."
     We were sweating inside a minute and the red-clay dust  was rising and
turning in the air as the axes bit into earth  and wood.  It settled on us
everywhere, mixing with the  sweat, making the long, dark French braid that
danced  against my back feel like the heavy hand of the hillside,  urging me
to greater effort.
     The root I was working went through first and, as  "Gimmie Shelter" came
on, I moved to my left and started on  the next.  My body was feeling smooth,
liquid and loose, the  way it had felt in a game when the first three jumpers
went  in and the crowd noise became a wave I could ride like a  body-surfer.
     From Beth's side of the stump I heard the sound of an  axe striking
nothing but clay and stopped a moment to look  across at her.  She grinned at
me, looked down at the stump  and said, "How the fuck do you like ^that^,
Lester, you  redneck, homophobic son of a bitch?  Now you just hang on  for a
minute here and I'm gonna chop something else off."
     She moved to the next root and the rhythm began again.
 We each went through two more before the first side of the  tape ended and we
looked at each other again across the  couple of yards that separated us.
     "Break," Beth said and propped the axe against the  stump.
     "Right.  My turn to get the beer."
     I fetched four Rolling Rocks from the cabin and we  drank them, two
apiece, sitting hip to hip on "Lester."  We  were dirty, sweaty, beginning to
ache.  The stump was about  to be history and I had never loved Beth more
since the day  we met.
     "Let's get back to it," I said and went over to the  porch to flip the
Stones tape.
     "Hey, Megan," Beth yelled.
     "Yeah?"
     "Love me?"
     Too often I say something smart-ass when she asks a  question like that.
But right then I was loving her too  much to play my usual games.  I turned
around and looked  right at her.
     "It probably isn't legal how much I love you.   Especially in this damn
state."
     "Then piss on the Rolling Stones, hon.  Put on Bonnie  Raitt."
     I put on the Bonnie Raitt tape I made, the one with  all the up-tempo
slide-guitar tunes from the albums she made  in the '70s with Will McFarlane
and Jon Hall on guitar.  As  I was walking back over to the stump our grey
wolf-hybrid,  Cherokee, came trotting out of the woods and went over and  sat
down on the porch.
     "What you been doing, Kee, hunting or getting laid?"  Beth asked him.
     Kee yawned and said, "Aroooo."
     Beth shrugged and said, "For a dog that talks as much  as he does, he
doesn't have much of a vocabulary."
     The stinging opening slide-guitar riff from "Sugar  Mama" came blowing
out of the boom box and we went back to  work.  By the time Bonnie had gotten
through "Good Enough"  and "What Do You Want the Boy to Do?," we were down to
one  last root.  Somehow it seemed to mean something that were an  odd number
of roots and that we would be working on the last  one together.
     Beth looked at me and raised her eyebrows by way of  asking a question.
I nodded to her to go ahead and take the  first blow.  She did and, as her axe
was on the upswing,  mine was descending.  Bonnie was into "About to Make Me
Leave Home" but Beth and I weren't into swinging with the  tempo any more.  We
began to accelerate the pace of the  rising and falling axes until we were
swinging them as fast  as we could, attacking the stump root furiously.
     "Leave Home" ended and "Mighty Tight Woman" came on.   I was near to
exhaustion and if I was at 6'1" and 170, I  knew damn well that Beth at 5'3"
and 120 had to be.  Just  when even five more swings would have been too much
my axe  went through the root and sank into the ground.  Beth  checked her axe
on the upswing and stood there holding it in  both hands, panting as hard as
Cherokee on a bad day in  August.
     Her body was covered in red clay dust and sweat, the  upper slopes of her
breasts were heaving above the cups of  the bikini top, her short, light-brown
hair was tangled and  dusted with clay, but her eyes were blazing in triumph.
I  spent ten years of my life banging bodies with the big girls  under the
backboards and I was glad, ^damn^ glad, none of  them had more than half as
much heart as Beth.
     We threw our axes on the ground and stood there for a  few minutes
getting our breath back.  Beth went into the  house and got Rolling Rocks for
us and a Miller Light for  Kee.  The dog has no taste in beers whatsoever.  I
went over  and backed the Jeep Wrangler up to a spot about ten feet  from the
stump.  We drank our beers while we fixed the heavy  tow-chain we keep in the
Wrangler around the stump and  attached it to the trailer-hitch on the back
bumper.
     Beth got in the Wrangler, put it in four-wheel and  stepped lightly on
the gas.  I picked up my axe, figuring we  were a ways from done yet, but the
stump came out so easy  that Beth drove about ten feet before she realized it
wasn't  putting up any kind of a fight.
     Ten minutes later the stump was down by the compost  pile, our axes were
in the wood shed and Beth and I were  sitting on the steps barefoot drinking
iced well-water out  of quart-sized mayonnaise jars.  Beer goes down real nice
 when you're working but you can't beat well-water when it  comes to fighting
dehydration.  We were both still soaked  with sweat.
     Beth flashed me the grin.  "Jesus," she said, "five  beers and a quart of
water and I don't even have to piss.  I  don't think I've worked that hard
since the day I left for  college."
     Beth grew up on a horse farm near Morristown,  Tennessee.  Her father
bred quarter-horses and Arabians and  it didn't matter to him that Beth was
small or that she was  a girl.  He expected her to work just like the biggest
of  the boys.
     Beth's father was a piece of work himself.  Beth came  home from school
one day when she was in ninth grade and  walked into the barn and told her
father that she liked  girls in the way that most girls liked boys.  Her
father  just looked at her like she was the most precious thing in  the world
and said, "Well, if that's the case, maybe I  better get old Willie B. to
teach you how to fight.  There's  likely gonna be a few times when it might
come in handy."
     Willie B. was her dad's foreman, a small black man who  had been a
lightweight boxer before he decided that training  horses was a better way to
make a living than losing fights  he could have won.  Willie B. taught her and
her taught her  real well as more than one redneck asshole like Lester has
found out the hard way.
     Beth finished her water and put the mayonnaise jar on  the porch.  "Now,
let's see," she said and started ticking  things off on her fingers, "I got
the base for the new  sculpture started.  We got the lumber for the studio
frame.   I shot the shit out of old Lester's truck.  We got that damn  stump
pulled up.  What the hell else was it I was planning  to do today?"
     She stood up and took off the bikini top, unbuttoned  and unzipped the
cut-offs and let them drop around her feet.   "Oh, yeah, I know.  I was going
to fuck Megan's brains out."
     She was standing there in a pair of light blue cotton  Jockey for Her
panties, her tennis-ball breasts stark white  against the dust covered
remainder of her upper torso.   Within seconds I was wet as I was ever going
to get.  I  stood up and started to take the bikini top off.
     Beth started down the steps and said, "I'm going to go  get the sauna
fired up.  Get the Vitabath and a bottle of  baby oil out of the house."
     She stopped on the bottom step and turned around and  looked at me.  I
wasn't wearing underpants and I could feel  a tiny trickle of my wetness run
out from under the leg of  my gym shorts.
     Beth shook her head and gave me the grin.  "Hon, we're  going to have to
work on this problem you have with  repressing your sexuality.  Bag those
shorts and put on a  pair of panties.  Nylon.  I got an idea."
     She turned around and began walking across the yard  toward the sauna.  I
stood there drinking in the sight of  her firm little bottom moving underneath
the tight bikini  pants.  I like looking at Beth's ass almost as much as I
like it when she gives me the grin and says, "I got an  idea."