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I'm changing the title from Farmers Daughter to "Wicked Game..
🕑 Added 2023-05-10 16:08:09 +0000 UTC I'm changing the title from Farmers Daughter to "Wicked Games."This is really starting to get dirty. Love to hear detailed thoughts and feedback.
Chapter 8:
My mom and I can spend hours shopping, so this afternoon, that’s exactly what we did. We got home kind of late, since we decided to stop and eat at our favorite Mexican restaurant, so to avoid mom having to make dinner for dad once we returned, we brought him home a to-go order. He has already eaten it and passed out in his favorite chair, while watching the news.
I found a super cute, new outfit that I plan to wear tomorrow night, so I grab the store bag from the dining room table — our go-to “drop zone” to throw things when we first come in the door — and I head to my room to try it on again. I quickly pull off my shorts and tank top from today and slip on the new short, denim skirt, followed by a fitted black top. It fits like a glove against my body, the neckline a wide cut that sits below the tops of my shoulders on both sides, exposing my collarbone, and while it’s not technically a crop top, the waist of it falls about an inch above the top of the skirt, just giving a little peek-a-boo of skin. It feels flirty and sexy.
I slip on a pair of black high heels to complete the outfit and spin around in the mirror. I think Tyler’s going to like this. Maybe it’s mean, since I know there’s nothing serious going on with him, but I’d like to wield my newfound power a little and make him drool over me. This short skirt that just barely hides my ass cheeks is super intentional, too. I could say I’ve become somewhat obsessed with accentuating that spot below my ass ever since I paid it more attention in the bathroom mirror yesterday. It’s such a tease and I know it. I drop my panties to the floor, from under the skirt. Ohh, that feels even better.
I do another couple of spins, pleased with what I see and feeling giddy with excitement, when I hear what sounds like a car pulling up in our driveway. It’s so quiet here at night, since even our closest neighbors are at least a half-mile away, that you can hear a car coming from a mile down the road, let alone one pulling up our long gravel drive. Someone must be stopping by to talk to dad, but it’s nighttime, so I’m assuming it can’t be good news. Maybe a cow got out or something. Although, when that happens, it’s usually just a late night phone call instead of a house visit.
I walk over to my window and peek out of the curtain. The car didn’t stop in front of the house. It’s parked over at the hay barn. And it’s not a car — it’s a truck. I can make out the shape of it in the dim glow of the barn’s single light bulb, which hangs inside, near the peak of the roof. What is someone doing at the barn this late? I say “someone” but my gut already knows that what I’m seeing is Frank’s truck parked at the barn. I just can’t tell for sure since it’s so dark out, even with the barn light.
I walk over to my room door and glance out towards the living room, which I can only partially see from down the hall. It’s quiet out there. Neither my mom nor dad seem to have noticed the sound and no one seems to be moving around, so I walk a few steps down the hallway to get a better view. My dad is still asleep in his chair, and my mom has fallen asleep on the couch. Old people fun on a Thursday night.
I consider waking my dad up, so he can go see what the visitor wants or needs, but before that, I go back to my room, to the window, to make sure they’re still there. I don’t want to wake him up for nothing. I pull back the curtain again, just a little, and the truck is still there. Only this time, a man is standing in the doorway to the barn, unmoving and backlit. He’s just a shadow.
Hello, Frank.
What on Earth is he doing here at night? Did dad give him some kind of night chore to come back for tonight? I try to think of all the possibilities. It’s not planting or harvest season right now, which does usually entail longer work days, sometimes into after-dark hours. It’s not calving season, which requires middle-of-the-night checks on cows that are about to give birth, just in case they need help or have a high-risk pregnancy going on. Usually, those cows are kept on one side of that barn for observation, so that would be a plausible explanation, except we’re nowhere near the right time of year for that right now.
The shadowy man makes a small movement with his arm, then suddenly, the barn light goes out. I can’t see anything anymore. Not the truck, not the man, not the huge barn itself. Where the hell is the damn moon when you need it? I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen that barn light off. It’s one of those that just gets left on twenty-four seven, I assume to offer some light or point of reference to go by when they’re out working late in the dark. A lighthouse for land.
I stand stone still in the window, staring out into the darkness, waiting to hear the truck start up and leave. But I hear nothing. I see nothing. Not a flashlight or even the cab light from inside the truck. If it’s still there. If that is indeed Frank out there, I guess he’s not needing the light. Or rather…he doesn’t want it.
My mind is whirring, trying to figure out what to do. I can’t ignore it and just go to bed, because then we just have someone creepily hanging out outside, in the dark, not far from the house. Who could sleep through that? Besides my parents, obviously.
I think back to the stories my mom told me about Frank earlier. Is he trying to pull one over on my dad somehow? But if that’s the case, what could that possibly be? And why tonight?
I’m so close to just waking my dad up so he can go check it out, but then I think back further and remember my and Frank’s encounter through the window this morning. The way he stood watching me give him a strip show while he filled the water tank. It was eerily similar to how he was standing just now, under the barn light. It was hard to tell which way he was facing, but from his posture, it looked like he had been facing my window again. Is he still there? Standing in the dark? Watching my window?
My heart accelerates, in that same way it did this morning, as I come to the realization that he might be here, standing out in that barn alone, for me. I’m now torn between fear and curiosity. If he is here for me, what does he expect? A continuation of my little show this morning? He’s the one who left that time, though, so if he wanted more, he would have stayed and watched longer. Right? It strikes me that I’m still irritated about that. About him walking away while I was standing there so vulnerable and excited, like it didn’t hold his interest.
Suddenly, a devious idea illuminates my brain. Let's see if I can be more “interesting” tonight.
The thought sends butterflies through my stomach and simultaneously, a wave of heat radiates over my body. I slowly pull the curtains all the way open, exposing my softly lit room out into the immense darkness in front of it. I feel like an actor on a bright stage, staring out over a faceless audience sitting in a dark auditorium. My audience is out there tonight and I guarantee his eyes are on me. I can feel them.
I turn away from the window, walk over to my room door, and turn the lock. Moving slowly and quietly back towards my stage, I peel the little black shirt up and over my head, then unfasten the tiny skirt, letting it drop to the floor. I step out of it, leaving my high heels on. I pick both pieces up and toss them onto the bed as I walk over to my closet, open the doors, and pull out Frank’s oversized flannel shirt. I look at it and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing.
A quick peek in the mirror’s reflection of the window shows me that nothing has changed outside. It’s still dark. It’s still quiet. So I slip on Frank’s shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and I can feel the bottom hem of his shirt caressing the lower edge of my ass. That spot. My new favorite sneaky spot. I feel myself getting wet and the entire area between my legs starting to swell. I turn around to face the window. My heart is pounding so hard that I freeze for a moment, staring out into the abyss, trying to settle my nerves. I wonder what he’s doing right now. My imagination is going crazy. Maybe he’s jerking off out there, with his giant cock in his hand, watching his shirt drape over my naked body. The idea is starting to drive me wild. I can feel the wetness spread down to my inner thighs now, unable to be contained. Frank’s flannel is brushing softly over the tips of my nipples and they react with enthusiasm to the sensation.
I walk with delicate, deliberate steps over to my desk, stage left, grab my Discman which has my headphones already attached, and flip to a specific CD in my CD case (a playlist I made myself) and pop it into the player. This will help. Next to my Discman, there is a hairbrush sitting on the desk. I stare at it for a moment, then pick it up as well. I hook the back of the desk chair with my remaining free fingers and pull it over towards the window, placing it front and center.
Take your time, Fiona. Move slowly. I need to keep a steady pace, because I’m so keyed up right now that I feel like if I move any faster, all of the molecules in my body will shatter into a billion pieces. My instincts, my humanity, my nerves, my sexuality — they’re all operating at max capacity at this very moment. If they had a visible meter, the needles would be on the verge of breaking off. I am in control.
I take a seat in the chair, facing the window. What I’m about to do, I’ve never done before. Not like this. But right now, I really, really want to. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I am in control.
With shaking fingers, I carefully place an earbud into each ear, press the forward button on the cd player to track four, hit play and set it to repeat. The opening music to Britney Spears’ Touch of My Hand begins to play. I am in control.
With my ass positioned at the edge of the chair, I place my Discman on the open part of the seat right behind me, then return my hands to my lap. I take another deep breath and I recline my body back against the chair’s backrest as I stare straight out the window into the darkness. Britney starts to croon in my ears:
I'm not ashamed of the things that I dream
I find myself flirting with the verge of obscene
Into the unknown, I will be bold
I'm going to places I can be out of control
I close my eyes and I begin to slowly caress my hands up along my thighs, towards my belly, and slip them under Frank’s shirt, letting it fall open. I focus on my touch, as I continue up to my breasts, squeezing them together, before stroking my fingers around my nipples, then higher, up to my neck as I let my head fall to the side, taking care not to snag my earbuds out of my ears. I spread my fingers as they slide up into my long hair, tousling it as I massage my head, causing wisps and strands to fall over my face. The music is drawing me further in:
The small of my back, the arch of my feet
Lately I’ve been noticing the beautiful me
I'm all in my skin and I'm not gonna wait
I'm into myself in the most precious way
I open my eyes as I lower my arms back to my thighs, my gaze following my fingers. I feel like I’m watching someone else’s hands touch me, instead of my own. My heart is beating out of my chest and my breathing is slow and heavy, as I slide my hands down to between my knees and spread them open, wide. I dare to lift my eyes back to the window. It’s strange to me how the infinite darkness before me feels like a spotlight. I’m caught in the tractor beam of a black hole. I still feel you out there watching, Frank.
My fingers glide along my inner thighs, reaching to where my slickness has spread all over my skin between them. With my right hand, I split my middle and ring fingers into a “V” and slide them down the sides of my pussy. It’s soaking wet, swollen and warm. It’s pulsing, yearning to be fully touched, and I can’t take it anymore. I slip a finger into its folds, and my body reactively arches in the chair. I stroke that finger in and out a few times, swirling around my clit with each pass, before sliding in a second finger. God, that feels good. I want more.
My left hand has made its way up to my breasts and is taking turns rolling each nipple between my fingers. My head is swirling and I’m still stroking myself, harder now, with my right hand and I’m about to slip yet another finger in, craving more, when I remember the hairbrush I brought over with me. I forgot I had dropped it onto the floor when I first sat down. I lean over a little and fumble around with my left hand to find it under the chair. My other hand doesn’t stop stroking. It can’t stop. I stare at the brush once again, contemplating its round, rubber sheathed handle. Should I do this? I want more. I need more.
I look back up at the window, out into the abyss where I envision the grown man that’s watching me in the shadows, groping his erection. Then my focus shifts to notice my own reflection in the glass. Hello, again Fiona. Through lustfully heavy eyes, I study the mirrored version of me, fully on display, fucking her own fingers. This is what Frank is seeing. It’s so fucking hot.
Decision made. I turn the brush in my hand so that I’m holding it by the soft, bristled end. The Britney song starts to repeat, and I bring the handle up to my lips, opening my mouth and sliding it in and out to get it wet. I know I don’t need to, since I’m wet enough as it is, but I want Frank to watch me suck it. I tease my tongue around the tip a few times, and then bring it down to my entrance, removing my fingers. I spread my lips with those fingers, and slowly push the handle into myself. Oh God. I inhale sharply at the pleasant intrusion, and while it’s not a particularly large brush — it glides in easily — it’s foreign to me and hitting a spot my fingers couldn’t reach. The sensation makes me clench around the handle, making it fit tighter and feel larger. Yes, right there. I plunge it in and out as I start rubbing my clit with my free hand. I watch it penetrating me and I can slightly see each thrust moving within me through my belly, and this observation sends me into a tailspin. I pick up the pace — thrusting, squeezing, rubbing — and my climax is building rapidly.
It reaches a peak, and I’m just at the tipping point, when I see the barn light suddenly turn on again. Oh my God. I see that ominous silhouette in the doorway once more and the sight causes me to panic. Oh no….no, Fiona! Pull it back! Oh my God! I want to stop, but I’m too far gone at this point and I just can’t. My toes are curling, my legs are tensed up, I grasp the side of the chair seat with my left hand to steady myself, but my other hand keeps automatically thrusting the brush handle, and despite my attempt at resistance, the visual confirmation that he is indeed still there watching, pushes me into my release. How did he know I was about to come? I try to hold my breath as I submit to my climax. My body jerks as pleasure ripples through me, and I come hard on the brush handle, trying with everything in me to not moan or scream. I don’t know what I would do if my parents heard me.
Then, as my orgasm dissipates, I drop the brush and yank the earbuds from my ears with one pull of the wire. The sound of my own gasping breath within the sudden silence of my room is surprisingly intense. I stand up before I’m fully ready and walk to the window on shaky legs. Frank’s shirt is draping off of my shoulders, my skin is glistening with sweat and my hair is still disheveled from playing with it. I must be quite a sight.
The shadow man remains in the barn doorway, but it’s only been a few seconds, and I don’t want to lose my moment. I’M ending this one, Frank.
Without further delay, I pull the curtains closed and take a few steps back to sit in the chair, catch my breath and wait. The seconds tick by like minutes, but finally, I hear the truck start up and slowly creep down the driveway to leave. Once I feel like it’s been long enough, I peek through the curtain. The truck is gone. The barn light remains on.
I stare out at the barn, immobile. What did I just do? What was HE doing? I try to process what I understand about what just happened: An old man snuck out to my house and watched me masturbate through my room window. I orgasmed — with a brush handle — right in front of him. A smile starts to play on my lips. I almost feel proud of myself.
Oh, Frank….what a risky, wicked game we’re playing.
