The day was far too hot to be making jam. She perspired, and I sweated, as the hot jam bubbled. It's a time consuming business; picking the apricots through to putting it in jars and sticking on the labels. After the apricots, we hesitated, and wondered whether we'd start the figs; or go to the city to count in the New Year with the crowd.
Conscience got the better of us, we thought about the trading table and the cause. We chose to do the figs. We picked them, cut the ends off, cut them up; and hurried, so that perhaps we could do both. The heat continued into the evening; a forty five degree day into a thirty nine degree night.
It was prudent to wear long sleeves, the hot jam bubbled and spat while we stirred. When it was my turn not to stir I opened my shirt to allow some air flow. Cheryl looked at me a moment in a coy kind of way, not meeting my eyes with hers, but with a lingering look she gazed at my chest before she busied herself with the stirring. When it was my turn to stir, she left for a moment, to return without her bra and all but the one most strategic button on her shirt undone.
We'd met only two nights before at a quiz night sponsored by an environmental group and during a break we started to talk. I guess I had been attracted by her vivacity when she answered questions. There was no doubt about her being a woman. As we talked it was difficult to avoid being lost in her cleavage. She told me she was the president of an organization devoted to planting native trees in her district.
We talked of global warming and of how our grandparents led lives that we should emulate; they kept things that we now throw away, like balls of string, and the pencils they used to the very last piece of lead. We also talked of making our own preserves rather than waste the world's resources transporting things unnecessarily around the globe. I told her of my apricot and fig trees, both full of fruit, but not enough jars and no recipe. It seemed that everything I needed she had, and we were both enthusiastic about helping the earth, along with ourselves, particularly as the trees were organically grown.
She thought that selling jam would help her tree planting club. We swapped addresses and phone numbers and set the date for two days time, New Year's Eve. Perhaps we could join the revelers in the city to see in the New Year after the jam was made. She would bring a change of clothes.
Jam making is always unexpectedly slow. At first the bubbling brew is interesting but the luster soon wears off as the boiling jam spits up on to one's hands and arms. Sweat was a problem as it gathered to drip off my nose and chin. While I stirred, Cheryl mopped my face with a damp flannel and the relief was wonderful. When she took her turn at stirring I did the same for her, the sensuousness of both giving and receiving was beautiful.
The boundaries of my face seemed to extend with tender understandings after I took my shirt off. The flannel found its way around my neck and later included my chest and back until my whole upper torso was mopped. She kept her shirt on and I wasn't nearly as adventurous. I extended to mop her neck and gave an adventurous, quick stroke down her cleavage. We drank lots of fruit juice and water. Later, shyly, she raised her shirt so her back and belly could be mopped.
Cheryl was surprised by my neighborhood of tall trees with lots of bird life and she loved the parrots and corellas she'd seen as she drove her little car up my drive. She was also surprised by the rain water tanks I had in my front and back yards, they were my effort to combat the prevailing drought, cope with a bush fire and keep my trees alive. Through the window, as we tended the jam, I showed her the trees I'd planted with a view to harvesting them for firewood. She asked if they were manna gums as I'd told her of the koalas in the area. We'd both seen the pictures of desperate koalas accepting drinks from people in the recent heat wave.
So many concerns, with the economy crashing around us and the River Murray becoming a salt water trickle, we both thought that soon self sufficiency would be necessary. Happily, we were making a start. Best of all was that the recipe she brought had all natural ingredients with no cane sugar! I had to promise not to give the recipe to anyone.
As we talked Cheryl became more confident. She talked with more animation and her hands were very expressive as they added to the meaning of what she was saying. She touched me, small touches to my shoulders and to my arms as she talked. Her tone changed too, becoming softer and she looked more into my eyes as she spoke.
Cheryl wanted to know whether I had a spade. She asked whether I had experience in growing native trees from seed, and whether I'd be interested in joining her organization, it was free to join. In three years they had planted twelve thousand trees and next year they were hoping to more than double it.
I've never talked to anyone like Cheryl, she was delightful and had a captivating giggle as she explained her organization's mission. There was more, I was sure, as she hinted at some things and left others unsaid. I wasn't sure what it was but I was interested.
As the organization only had ten members she thought they'd done extremely well. They planted trees on farms and because it was a free service the farmers often provided food and weekend accommodation. Sometimes it was very rudimentary because they planted along fence lines that took them well away from the farm house; but it was ok because they had portable showers and slept in a big tent. There was no privacy but it was a lot of fun and the work wasn't forgotten. She said that they really needed more male members. Underneath the conversation was a comfortable tension of double entendre. There was also an unspoken understanding that we would deal with the jam first and wait to see what happened second.
While I stirred the jam I watched as she moved around the kitchen; she tidied, prepared the jars and did other things. Her breasts moved under her shirt, they swung as she stooped and turned; it was hypnotic. That single button stayed closed and I wondered how it could, especially when she bent over and her breasts hung to stretch her shirt, strain that button and show her very deep cleavage.
She didn't seem to mind me looking, it was impossible for me to avoid. At times I wondered whether I was being encouraged to look. Her nipples pressed their forms into her shirt and as they moved with her breasts, they left a trail of stretched fabric in their wake. I could see the shapes of the little bumps on her areolas too. Frequently she leaned over me to catch a little jam to test for set, with her hand gently on my shoulder and her soft breast pressed in to my back. It was tantalizing when she reached up to open cupboard doors; her shirt rode up and the sides of her breasts were exposed. I waited to see her nipples flash before me, but they didn't.
At every opportunity we touched; it was beautiful communication as we touched for emphasis, for understanding, for a feeling that had developed between us. It was a feeling we both knew we shared and didn't want to damage through anything poorly considered.
When we changed roles we rubbed up against each other and my cock sank into the soft flesh of her bum as she backed into me. Sometimes I was in front of her and felt the softness of her breasts on my back as we exchanged places. Neither of us moved the chair that took so much space and made it necessary for our passages to be so close.
