Small Town Secrets

1972 in a town just outside of Utica, New York.

***

I lifted the last of the plants into the back of the station wagon under the watchful eye of Mrs. Birdsall, and after I closed the back securely I brushed my hands together and rubbed them on my jeans.

"There you go, Mrs. Birdsall!" I announced loudly in my deep bass voice. "All set."

"What time do you get out?" the woman whispered, even though nobody was near enough to hear anything that was said.

"Not till six," I said softly, and the pained expression on her face that she made after I spoke made me sad as well.

"How about tomorrow?" she asked.

"Till nine tomorrow night," I said, but quickly added that I didn't have to come in until one.

"Do you want to - tomorrow before work?" she asked hopefully.

"You know the answer to that," I said, and the woman with the sad blue eyes and the usually forlorn expression perked up when she heard my reply.

"He leaves at 7:30," Mrs. Birdsall said.

"I'll be there at 7:35," I replied.

"No, I'll pick you up," Mrs. Birdsall said. "Don't want you walking all that way. Nine o'clock - usual place?"

"Can't wait," I replied, and as she always did, she made a big show out of putting a dollar bill in my hand as a tip.

"Thank you ma'am," I responded in my usual hammy way, nodding at her before heading back in to work.

I would look at the note that was under the dollar bill later, when I was alone. It had a little heart drawn on it, with a short but sweet line written underneath it.

"Love you Zeke," was all it said, and after I glanced at it a few more times during the course of the workday, eventually I would throw it out like I had the rest of them.

No good could come of anybody seeing that note, even if it was unlikely anyone would know who wrote it to me. You see, this was 1972, and in the rural area we live in, notes like this wouldn't go over well.

You see, in the first place married women weren't supposed to write notes like that to single guys, especially if the woman in question was 48 years old and the guy was less than half of that. If the married woman's husband was a county sheriff, well, that just made it a whole lot worse.

What really made the whole scenario unacceptable, and downright dangerous on every level, was that the hand that had passed the love note I've described to you was lily white, and the hand that had accepted it was as black as night. That, dear readers, was a combination that was not only unacceptable, but potentially lethal for both of us.

So as I sit here thinking about tomorrow, anticipating my meeting with Kathy Birdsall, the sheriff's wife, I'm also thinking back to that first day, back in the spring...

***

I had delivered out to this house out in the sticks before. It was a big old farmhouse that had been renovated, and the woman was a good customer of the Agway that I had been working at since I returned home from college.

"Be nice to Mrs. Birdsall," the store manager had cautioned me. "She's the sheriff's wife. He's good to us."

What that meant was that he ripped up tickets that drivers got while making deliveries, and overlooked little things that go on during the course of business.

Of course, I was nice to everybody, so I didn't need the warning. I was pretty popular, especially for a black guy in these parts. I especially liked the ladies, and they seemed to like me fine too.

I guess being good at sports helped my popularity when I was back in high school, and for a time in college, for as long as that lasted until I bombed out in class. I was a good athlete, but not good enough to warrant the special consideration that an All-American would get who had a 1.8 GPA, so I ended up back home after a couple of years, waiting to get my draft notice along with everybody else my age.

So when I arrived at the Birdsall place, Mrs. Birdsall was there waiting. She was a rather plain looking woman who made little effort to make herself as pretty as she could be. She had a decent figure, as far as I could see given the bland clothing she wore, but what struck me from the start were her eyes.

Mrs. Birdsall had pale blue eyes, but instead of being sparkling and vibrant, they were dull and empty. It was as if they, like the rest of her, had been drained by some sinister force, robbing her of life and the urge to live. Her hair was red, but the color was muted, like the woman herself.

All she seemed to have was her gardening, and her land was a direct contrast to the woman responsible. The flowers and shrubbery was flourishing; alive and blooming brightly, which was such a direct contrast to their caretaker.

I felt bad for the woman, which was pretty pathetic given that we were in such different worlds, and she was so much more prosperous than me.

"Zeke," Mrs. Birdsall said as she met me while I got out of the truck in her driveway that day. "So good of you to come over so quickly."

"Happy to oblige," I said, pleased that Mrs. Birdsall had called me by my nickname instead of the clumsy sounding Ezekiel as many in the town still did, most likely because they knew I didn't like it. Not so much the name but in the way they said it, dragging it out to make my name sound as stupid as they were.

Mrs. Birdsall showed me where to stack the stuff in the barn, and after I shooed her away when she tried to help unload the decorative bricks and various stuff she had bought, I unloaded the truck alone.

Mrs. Birdsall watched me from the patio in back as I moved back and forth with the hand truck, and when I was finished I had worked up quite a sweat. Carrying the itemized bill over to her, she ushered me inside her kitchen so she could sign it.

Inside it was refreshing compared to the steamy outside, and I felt the sweat cool on my body, the perspiration stains practically covering the entire uniform shirt.

"My word, Zeke," Mrs. Birdsall exclaimed. "You're drenched."

"Sorry," I answered lamely, figuring I was dripping all over her kitchen.

"Have a lemonade and rest a bit," Mrs. Birdsall said, and since it was almost lunch hour I had some time, so I agreed.

"I feel so bad about you having to unload all of that," Mrs. Birdsall said as she took a big pitcher of lemonade out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter.

"It's all part of the job," I said while my eyes went to the frosty vessel, which looked so good that I was tempted to just say skip the glass, but I waited while Mrs. Birdsall reached up for a tumbler. "Besides, I need the exercise."

"I doubt that, but still, I picked a real hot day for you to have to deliver it all," Mrs. Birdsall said apologetically while I brushed it off as no big deal.

"Oh, that's a nasty bruise you have there," I said casually when I saw the huge black and blue on Mrs Birdsall's arm when her sleeve rolled up while reaching for the glass.

Mrs. Birdsall quickly tugged down the sleeve and tried to pour the drink, but by the end her hands were shaking so badly that she nearly couldn't do it. She was upset, her face straining as she bit her lip.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it," I stammered, watching the woman fight for her composure as she handed me the glass.

"You're fine," she managed to say.

"I should leave," I said after draining the glass, and was getting ready to apologize again for whatever it was I said or did, when she reached over and put her hand on my arm.

"Please," Mrs. Birdsall said in a whisper. "Don't."

So I stood there frozen while we both looked at the hand on my forearm. The slender fingers so pale and soft with their painted nails on my coal-black sweaty skin at first just rested there, and then began to gently stroke my arm.

When I looked up, Mrs. Birdsall was looking up at me, and those sunken eyes were now pleading along with her voice.

"Please don't go."

I stayed. The delicate woman with the sad eyes was facing me, her fingers tracing my name patch and running along the border of the sweat stains under the arms of my shirt, and then she was reaching up and putting her hands around the back of my head, pulling me down as I bowed at the same time.

Her lips were soft, much smaller than my own, and when mine covered hers I felt her body surge in response. Mrs. Birdsall practically jumped into my arms, grinding into me as she offered herself for the taking with her body language.

***

I had followed her down the hall and into her bedroom. Their bedroom. Pictures of the happy couple all over the walls - an illusion I would later learn - and the bed. Unmade, the plush sheets were still wrinkled from the couple that had been on them last night.

Mrs. Birdsall closed and locked the door behind us, and then went over to the curtains and closed them. The light of day still found its way into the room, making it a bit too bright for the hostess, but it was just fine for me.

We looked at each other for a moment before Mrs. Birdsall began to unbutton her blouse. I undid the buttons of my shirt as well, the two of us standing four or five feet away from each other. I would have been happy to undress her myself, but she seemed to be so skittish that I decided to play it her way.

Her blouse was off, exposing the pale skin beneath it. The bruise on her arm was even more obvious, and now I noticed another discoloration on her other bicep. Several brown marks, like fingers had grabbed her, were around her bicep.

I set my shirt aside, feeling Mrs. Birdsall's eyes on me. My skin was shiny from perspiration, and in an ideal situation I would have loved to take a quick shower so I was a bit fresher, but that wasn't going to happen.

Mrs. Birdsall was now taking off her slacks, revealing pale and slender legs and a bottom that was a little full and not as firm as it once was, I'm sure, but not unattractive. My work pants fell to the floor, my ring of keys making a loud clatter when they hit the rug, and as I stepped out of them I pulled my socks off, leaving me with my boxers remaining.

Mrs. Birdsall was staring at my boxers, her eyes fixed on the bulge that was visible along the inside right leg of the briefs, as she pulled down her panties. She didn't have much hair between her legs, just a pert little triangle of red fluff around the lips of her sex that didn't hide the sweet opening.

I kept my boxers on while I watched Mrs. Birdsall, who was nervously fidgeting as if she was having second thoughts, before at last she reached back and unhooked her bra. She pulled the harness off, exposing breasts that were neither large nor full and sagged noticeably without support.

Even more pale than the milky freckled skin above her collarbone, her breasts hung loosely before Mrs. Birdsall put her arm across her chest to partially shield them from my eyes. She had incredible nipples though, big puffy aureoles with over-sized pegs for nipples that dominated the modest tits they were centered on.

Now she was waiting for me, alternating between looking at the carpet and at me, but when I started to ease my faded boxers shorts down her eyes were focused between my legs. Judging my her startled reaction when she saw my cock, I suspected that it wasn't anything like what she was used to seeing.

"I'm not..." Mrs. Birdsall said as she tried not to look at my semi-flaccid cock which swung from side to side as I stepped out of my shorts. "Never been with a man - besides my husband."

I nodded, taking a step toward her as she spoke. Soon we were right in front of each other. She was so self-conscious of her body - especially her breasts - that she kept trying to hide them somehow from me, her nervous twitching making her all the more appealing to me.

My interest was obvious enough, as my cock had begun to rise from the vertical position it was in before, starting to point in Mrs. Birdsall's direction somewhat. She seemed to be both attracted and repelled by my cock at the same time, adding to the conflict already inside of her.

Perhaps it was the color of my manhood that was off-putting, which was every bit as black as the rest of me, or maybe it was the fact that I wasn't circumcised. I had been told on more than one occassion that the long foreskin that fully covered the fat knob of my cock made it appear even more threatening than it already looked.

Maybe it was the size of my dick that made Mrs. Birdsall nervous, but if she was worried about how big it would get when fully erect, she had nothing to fear there. I was just about the same size hard as I was right then and there, for whatever reason, so the 8 or 9 inches she was flinching from was all there would be.

More likely was the fact that she really never had been with another man before. Possibly this wasn't just another middle-aged white woman wanting to taste some forbidden fruit every once in a while out of boredom.

Maybe she was driven to this moment - driven maybe by the bruises on her arms or the scars I wouldn't see until later; scars that were both physical and emotional. All I knew that this woman needed something that she wasn't getting, something she seemed to need desperately, and I was getting an idea of what it was.

All I needed to do was hold my hands out, leaving them there for her to take. Slowly, I watched Mrs. Birdsall's hands come up, tiny fingers weathered by time - gardening - life. Now her hands were in mine, and the hands that could palm a basketball effortlessly took those little hands and held them gently, rubbing her slender wrists with my thumbs.

"If you would rather not," I said. "I mean, I understand, Mrs. Birdsall."

"Kathy," Mrs. Birdsall said.

I brought her slowly towards me, trying not to jab her with my cock as we came together, and then my hands let go of hers as I put my arms around her. Our bodies touched, with Mrs. Birdsall's face only coming up to my chest.

Thankfully, while I was still dripping with sweat I was clean, and the aroma that was coming off of me was pure testosterone if Kathy Birdsall's actions were any indication. Her pink tongue dragged over my nipples and up to my neck, seeming to drink in my desire, and Mrs. Birdsall got more aggressive and less self-conscious as she kissed my upper torso passionately while repeating my name softly.

Her press of her very soft breasts against my stomach flattened the plaint flesh, and my hands slid down her back and found her supple buttocks equally giving. So soft and smooth she was, and this middle aged woman had gotten me so excited by that point that it would have taken her old man bursting into the room with his guns blazing to stop me.

"Zeke," Mrs. Birdsall kept gasping as we landed on her bed, the floral scent of the bedding rising into my nostrils as we hit the surface, and while it was my intention to go down and taste that sweet pussy first, Kathy's clawing at my shoulders stopped my downward flight.

"Please," Kathy Birdsall said, and suddenly I was between her legs, bringing the fat head of my cock between the lips of her sex and plunging forward.

Mrs. Birdsall was tight, tighter than either of the two virgins I had experienced in my younger days, and it felt like I was tearing Kathy up as I pushed my way into her narrow opening. She was crying, perhaps from pain, but she kept pulling me into her despite it all.

From then on, we fucked. I've made love many times, and wanted to make love to this woman too, but for now - for this moment - she didn't want that. She wanted to be taken, savaged like an animal by an animal, and her feral look and actions had me acting just like her.

It actually lasted longer than I thought, considering that I felt like coming soon after I slid my cock into that tight pussy of hers. We started on the bed and ended up on the floor with most of the bedding, with Kathy fortunately landing on me when we rolled off the side.

We hardly missed a beat, and when she came for the third or fourth time I was coming with her, filling her womb with what felt like an absurd amount of cum. The thought that my black man's seed was saturating the womb of this middle-aged white woman only occurred to me afterward, but Kathy later explained that it was okay because she couldn't get pregnant.

"One of the many things I can never do right," Kathy would explain after I expressed my concern as we embraced on the floor.

Her husband had told her that she was to blame for them not being able to conceive during their many years of marriage, so I was at least grateful for that.

"I know what you must think of me," Kathy said after we got the bed together, and her pale white fingers toyed with my flaccid ebony dick as it rested on my hip while I rested on my back, with Kathy on her side facing me.

"No you don't," I told her, which was true because this had come along so suddenly that I was still in shock.

"I guess I just reached a point where I felt I had to - I don't know."

"He beats you, doesn't he?" I asked, my fingers tracing the outline of the bruise on her arm.

"Only when I deserve it," Kathy said sarcastically, and I noticed that the damage was done in places where it wouldn't show.

I thought about that arrogant son-of-a-bitch slapping around this poor little lady and my blood boiled just thinking about what it would be like to punch that fat bullying bastard in the gut just once so he could taste how it feels.

"Why me?" I asked. "I mean, I'm really glad and all, but..."

"I figured that you're a lot like me in many ways," Kathy said. "We're a couple of people that don't even exist in the eyes of a whole lot of folks in this town. You're always so nice to me when I come into the store too."

"Can't argue with any of that," I agreed.

"Think I got carried away," Mrs. Birdsall said as she looked at some of the marks she had put on me during our tryst. "Hope this won't get you in trouble with anybody."

"No, I'm single," I said, looking at the scratches she put on my arm, and it wouldn't be until later that I saw what she did to my back, but I felt no pain.

"You're only the second man I've ever made love with."

"I'm honored."

"No, I mean it. Clint and me - we've been together since high school," she said, referring to her husband.

"About being honored, I meant that too," I said as my cock started to get thicker and longer as Mrs. Birdsall stoked it gently. "I know you aren't the kind."

The kind - coal burners - were legendary in this neck of the woods. A lot of woman in the trailer park or out in the sticks that want to piss off their man go find themselves a brother to do the dirty deed with. I can't say I never played the game in the past, but it got boring after a while, not to mention dangerous.

"Is it like this all the time?" Mrs. Birdsall asked. "Making love, I mean. What we did was - whew!"

"That was crazy alright," I admitted. "I think that if we ever made love - I mean really make love - you might like it even more."

"Too bad you can't show me that," Mrs. Birdsall said.

"You keep doing what you're doing and you might find out," I kidded while looking at the way she was running her hand along the underside of my cock, which had flopped back onto my stomach.

"Really?" she asked. "You would be able to do it again?"

"Sure. I was going to take lunch after this stop," I explained.

"No, I meant you would be able..." Mrs. Birdsall started to say as my cock stiffened in her hand. "Oh my."

Mrs. Birdsall's pale fingers fingers were wrapped most of the way around the shaft of my cock, and after her eyes moved back and forth between my manhood and my eyes, she leaned over and bought her mouth to the black-cherry hued head of my cock.

"Oh man!" I groaned as I watched the mature redhead's lips slid over the head of my cock, pushing her mouth down almost halfway before gagging a bit and pulling back.

Mrs. Birdsall wasn't an expert cocksucker, but just watching her do it was enough for me to get excited, so after I pulled her off of it I rolled her onto her back. This time I was gentler and we were both more like lovers and less like animals, caressing each other tenderly as we explored each other passionately.