Summer, 1962
I’m having a very awkward time getting used to things down here. Wade has brought me to Mississippi to meet his family, to unofficially announce our engagement. My family, back in Connecticut, knows all about him; they’ve known him for five years. He first met them back when we were classmates at NYU. I went on to Cornell from there, studying History, and he moved over to Princeton, to study law. He often spends holidays with my family; my parents already treat him as a son.
His family, on the other hand, seems to be having a difficult time getting used to me. I knew that it would be a little strange, me coming down from New York, visiting the South for the first time. Wade has told me a lot about his relatives: his neurotic mother, his domineering father, and his pretentious sisters. He detailed all of their quirks and strange practices to me long ago, reiterating everything the week before our flight, making me more nervous about the trip than I had originally been.
He’d warned me to tone down my brashness, my “city-fied ways”. He said that they were country people, rarely leaving the farm, as he called it, and on those rare occasions, only venturing to the smaller southern cities like Vicksburg or Montgomery. Before he’d come to New York, the largest city Wade had ever visited was New Orleans, and that had been a trip to attend a funeral when he was ten years old.
People often wonder what Wade and I have in common. They wonder what a middle class girl from Connecticut can see in a farm boy from Mississippi. We still wonder about this ourselves sometimes; some days I can catch Wade staring at me in disbelief, as if I am a stranger to him.
Mrs. Harper treats me as if I was a foreigner, and she just can’t seem to get my name right. I’ve always thought that Ingrid was a simple enough name, but apparently, it doesn’t roll across her tongue too easily. The way that she says it, with her intense drawl, makes it sound more like “Ingrate” than “Ingrid”. I think she’s stuck on the story behind my name as well. When she’d asked me what type of name it was, I told her that I was named after my mother’s Swedish nanny. I think Mrs. Harper is still confused by the whole Swedish thing.
Mr. Harper, an old fashioned man, doesn’t really like me. I can tell already. He doesn’t like the fact that I refuse to defer to Wade. I always look him in the eye, and I speak my mind. I think the first strike against me was the fact that I’m a grad student. I should be married by now. When we met, he’d even asked me why I was still single, wondering if there was something wrong with me. I think he’d like a more subservient woman to marry Wade. He must think that I’ll cause some trouble down the road.
Wade’s sisters seem to be surprised to find out that being a New Yorker doesn’t automatically translate into being a socialite. I think they’re a bit dismayed that I’m not the real-life version of Holly Golightly, and that my life is not a replay of the film, “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. They thought I was crazy to allow Wade to take me down to the creek behind their house to swim, especially after they’d told me about traveling to the country club to swim in the olympic-sized pool.
Wade and I have tried to steer clear of the house. He loves to drive around; we go for a long drive and a picnic lunch each day, exploring some new territory and frolicking in the grass before trudging back to the fortress that the Harpers call a house. We usually end up having sex during our picnics as well; I’ve already ruined one dress from rolling onto a slice of blueberry pie, as well as suffered from serious sunburn.
We’ve come to this, rolling around in the damp grass like teenagers, all because Wade is afraid to do it in the house. I can see the way that his family has rubbed off on him. He can fuck me in broad daylight, in the middle of an open field, for all to see, but he can’t touch me under his parents’ roof, even in the dead of night.
Of course, I’m supposed to be the blushing virgin. Wade, who usually doesn’t think about such things, is starting to play into this archaic notion, following his mother’s orders by sleeping in his old room, while I sleep at the opposite end of the hall, in one of the three guest rooms. On the first night of our stay, I tried to give him a good night kiss; he held me at an arm’s length, afraid that his parents or one of the servants was watching, and gave me an innocent peck on the cheek.
But this hasn’t stopped him from requesting the occasional blow job. It’s been a new thing with him, on this trip. He usually doesn’t ask, unless I’m on my period, but since we’ve been here, he wants one at every possible opportunity. Whenever he knows that the house will be empty (empty of the family members; the servants are always there), he’s nudging me, slyly rubbing his cock whenever I’m turned in his direction. Sometimes I give in; sometimes I don’t, on principle. I usually refuse whenever we’re too far away from the bathroom, or whenever there’s no sink close by. I’m beginning to wonder if Wade has some sort of exhibitionist leanings.
This morning, he was practically buzzing with anticipation. We’d found out that his mother would be out visiting friends all day, his sisters would be shopping in Vicksburg, and his father had a business appointment in the afternoon. He wanted to do it in the pantry, asking me to spread the cook’s famous strawberry preserves all over him. I could only stare at him after he made this odd request, but he looked so excited at just the thought, like a kid on Christmas Eve, that I had to do it for him, just this once.
He told me that I’d like the preserves. Tillie, the cook, is known for her superior cooking. She’s been with the family since Wade’s parents were first married; in fact, Wade grew up with her son, John. He’s mentioned John once or twice, but only in vague references to other things.
Wade pulls me into the dark, stuffy pantry, his handsome face grinning from ear to ear, and his ocean blue eyes twinkling. I close the door behind us, insisting on some small bit of privacy, just in case Tillie comes back early from her shopping. He pulls a jar of a red concoction from the top shelf, whispering that he hopes Tillie won’t notice right away that her inventory has been offset by this pilfering rogue. I giggle, watching him carefully unscrew the top. He sticks a finger in, offering it to me first. I lick it with relish, giving him a teasing prelude.
He opens his pants, pulling his shorts down enough so that his firm cock points up at me. I slather it with the preserves, making a sweet, sticky mess with my hand, trying to be careful not to get fruit all over the place. He’s eager, pumping his hips already, before I’ve even opened my mouth. I’m hoping that he doesn’t cum all over my face; he’s done that before, getting overly excited the first few times that I went down on him.
The preserves are delicious; I spend a long time just savoring the taste of the strawberries. Wade’s cock is hot and hard, pulsing each time I stroke my tongue up the length of it. He gasps when I lick the head, slowly twirling my tongue around his hole, before sinking down on it with my open mouth. I can hear him moaning now, over the sounds of my sucking. He grabs my head, stroking my long red hair in his hands, guiding me to where he wants me to go.
When he’s all the way in me, I grip his balls, tickling them with my fingernails. He’s making hissing sounds, now; I can tell that he’s close to coming. Just as I’ve decided to let him fuck my face, I hear footsteps outside the pantry door, and voices coming from the kitchen.
Wade, panicking, shushes me, even though he’s the one who’s making noise. I’m straining to hear what they’re saying. Wade has stopped breathing; I can feel his stifled heartbeat in his throbbing penis.
‘Go on in there and get him out for me,’ Tillie says. ‘I know it’s just that boy in there playing with hisself again.’
‘Mama,’ a deep voice answers her. ‘Maybe you should leave the room. He’ll be embarrassed enough as it is…’
‘He ain’t too embarrassed to be pulling on his johnson in my pantry…’ her voice trails off.
I’ve stopped breathing now, too. Wade has a look of dread on his face. This whole situation, entirely his fault, seems ludicrous. I can hear the devil talking to me, urging me to have a little fun with this. Maybe I can coax him out of his exhibitionist leanings.
I’ve never let go of his cock, even as we hear heavy footsteps approaching the pantry door. I’m squeezing him now, hard and fast, knowing that he’ll be spurting in a matter of seconds. His body’s jerking, trying to get me to stop. He tries to silence the last few moans as he cums, spilling his semen all over my sticky hand. I finally let go, wiping my hands on a towel as he tries to catch his breath. There’s a knock at the door, and I stifle an evil giggle as Wade tries to find his voice.
‘Roy, come on out of there, right now,’ the man says through the door.
‘What are we going to do?’ I mouth silently. Wade shrugs his shoulders, flinching as the man outside pounds on the door again.
‘Roy! You want me to come in there?’
Before we can move, the door opens. The sudden light blinds me, and I stumble, falling into this strange man’s arms.
‘Oh!’ I look up into his dark face as he catches me, blushing in spite of my vicious prank. His hands are large and warm, gripping my arms for a second so that I can catch my balance.
‘Oh! Sorry, Ma’am. Wade?’ He looks at my fiance in disbelief.
‘John,’ Wade says awkwardly, still trying to fasten his pants. ‘Gee, I haven’t seen you in a long time.’
It’s painful to look at Wade, with the wet spot on his now zipped trousers, so I stare at the floor, waiting for someone to say something.
