Farmer Delphine: Just a Bit of French Leather

For several months now Sarah has come and gone from her bed. It's not unlike befriending a stray cat, Delphine often thinks wryly, but all in all it's been a highly satisfactory arrangement. Sarah fucks with sybaritic abandon, offering her lean and astoundingly supple body with a joyous ardor that usually makes up for the arm's-length prickliness of her personality. Often after a bout of sex she disappears for weeks without a word; other times, like tonight, she falls asleep in Delphine's embrace, or spends hours pacing about talking, her small figure looking lost in an oversized flannel shirt that Delphine had unearthed out of the back of a closet.

Aware that she herself had treated many past lovers in much the same manner, Delphine empathizes all too well with the desire for distance, the fierce, almost irrational need to keep from being emotionally subsumed. She accepts Sarah's physical presence for what it is and abides by her unspoken rules, and only occasionally wishes for something more.

Noting the time, she sighs and attempts to slip out from the sleep-heavy limbs wrapped around her.

"Nggghh. Where you goin'?"

"I need to get ready for bed." Absently she kisses the top of the dark head pillowed on the round of her shoulder, inhaling the scents of sex and sweat, of sweetly floral shampoo mingling with the faintly acrid traces of the cigarette Sarah had smoked earlier. Kneading the nape of the slender neck, she marvels again at the texture of the tiny hairs there, so fine and downy that they seem to elude her touch.

A puff of air gusts warmly over her chest. Slightly chapped lips press a soft kiss to her throat. "Hate to break it to you, Blondie, but you're in bed."

"To sleep," she chides, stroking the tips of her nails up and down the length of Sarah's back, gliding over defined columns and planes of muscle, around knobbly promontories of sculpted bone. "The alfalfa in the north field is in the bud stage already and I want to be up early to get the third cutting in."

The sleek body draped over her tautens in a lazy stretch, then relaxes again. "Not tomorrow, you won't."

"What?"

"Di'n't say you could stop, did I?" The girl burrows closer in tacit approval, all but purring as Delphine resumes her delicate scritching. "My mum says it's going to rain tonight. Ground'll be too wet even if you cut high."

She can't help frowning. "The weather reports are clear. There hasn't been a cloud in the sky for days."

Sarah shrugs. "Don't ask me how she knows what she knows. Mum says it's gonna rain, then it's gonna rain."

Delphine makes a noncommittal sound but her resolve is wavering. Siobhan Sadler may have come late to farming, but Delphine respects her deeply and had learned long ago that there were things the mysterious Irish woman somehow intuited that you just didn't question.

Besides, the beautiful naked girl in her arms is a powerful reason to reconsider her plans.

It's the smile that finally undoes her, the wickedly slow upcurve of the corners of the generous mouth that harbors invitation and promise. "Fine. You win." Rolling Sarah over, careful to brace her weight on her elbows and off the tiny firm swelling that had just recently started to protrude at the lower part of the flat belly, Delphine leans in for a deep kiss that tastes like every secret she had ever kept from the world.