A House Where Nobody Lives

I was browsing through an older section of my music collection the other day and came across a gem of a song that I hadn't paid any mind to recently and listening to it, I was reminded of some of the old whitewashed farmhouses I knew of growing up in the woods of Maine. They are nestled among endless field stone walls and overgrown paths through thickets of tall white pine and sugar maples, birches and old white oaks. Every house has a multitude of stories, some comic and others tragic; most of them secrets known only to the inhabitants long since departed from the stage.

Tom Waits wrote the song and put it on an earlier LP back when vinyl was king and before 'fresh dough' pizza fooled us into thinking we'd never experienced real pizza before. Dover Pizza used to buy their shells frozen in tall stacks and thawed them for quick baking when hungry teenagers popped in for a cheese or pepperoni pie; we didn't know they weren't golden. Hell, they tasted great.

This story has the usual disclaimers; if you are looking to pull pud, burn your favorite bitch or scream 'cuck shit', well this one isn't for you. None of the characters are based on actual people or events. The couple of people who I absolutely don't give a rats ass about comment wise know who they are.

Once it held laughter

Once it held dreams

Did they throw it away

Did they know what it means

Did someone's heart break

Or did someone do somebody wrong?

...Without love...

It ain't nothin but a house

A house where nobody lives

- T. Waits

Reality is a life long event.

The silent puff of snow kicked up with each lift of the leather webbing as the old man crossed the drift only to meet another before him. The storm out of the Gulf of Maine started yesterday afternoon with a dead calm; muffled sounds falling flat to the ground in anticipation of the fury beholden to the thick clouds above. He should have known with all his years of experience trekking through these woods that it was a big one yet still he launched himself into what had become a weekly jaunt; a journey back to a time caught forever in the walls and joists of that old woods camp way back in from the back forty.

The weather worn cedar siding of the camp blended in with the wintery grey of the sap grove it set in with the swirling snow beating white pastel abstract portraits against the windows and eaves. A heavy boot kicked the snow off the door step and with the snowshoes mounted, crisscrossed in the deep bank of snow, John Dawes opened the camp and trudged inside before pushing the door shut tight against the forces trying their best to enter the safety inside the heavy timbers.

Thirty minutes later a crackling fire and a pot of robust coffee stoked the room to life as the storm continued to rage outside. Warmed over beans and what was leftover of a can of brown bread were the fare for supper. It had been this way for over fifty years now. The roof had been repaired and a new stove pipe a couple times but other than that the camp had well stood the ravages. Now, with the soft light of a couple kerosene lanterns, the old man waited for nightfall and a restful sleep in the bunk over next to the stove.

John Dawes clipped the end of the cigar and lit it off the stove before settling back into the rocking chair and watching the embers click and pop in the fire before him. It was 1936 when he and his two brothers built the camp. Of course it was yesterday or so it seemed; all those years ebbing past to find him sitting there in solitude. It might have been loneliness but if so he was at least content.

Fifty plus years of memories were replayed here often and always with the same result; each time he went back to the beginning...

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The farmhouse had been built in 1917 on 78 acres of woods and pasture on the north side of Howell's Bend Road. It was pretty much like every other farmhouse in the neighborhood. Along the five miles of dirt road there were a dozen families scratching out a subsistence living by the time John and Sylvia Dawes purchased the place for $650 in 1934.

The old mill upriver from town provided a meager existence to supplement the money brought into the household through the sale of pulpwood; twenty five cents an hour in the spinning room for maybe 20 hours work if he was lucky. Sylvia sold eggs and butter in town once a week and when the road crews started laying gravel John would shovel dirt for a day and collect his pay at the end of the shift.

It was the height of the Great Depression and as the old newspaper man had said, 'times were tough, tougher for some than others'. A man could work himself to death and his wife or widow might find herself on her back for some pug of a man just to feed her children. In John's case, he was a stout, rugged man and hard work made him stronger.

Sylvia was another matter. The couple had married in 1932 and lived in an upstairs flat in town with a stipend from her parents. It was always intended that Sylvia would attend Teacher's College down in Orono when she graduated from the Academy but Hoover's economic malaise brought that notion to a stuttering end. Instead she found herself as a subsistence wife down on the farm. Sure she was in love and her parents knew it but there was still a lingering taste of middle life in her constitution and the finery of her parent's comfortable world was a bit beyond reach.

A couple evenings after moving down onto the farm on Howell's Bend, the house down for the night and John, freshly scrubbed from the evening's chores, approached his bride and slipped the nightclothes off his muscled torso. Sylvia, as with most of their encounters lay there open for him. The missionaries from the Baptist church would have boasted in the prowess of their doctrinaire endeavors.

Their love-making was gentle, measured as necessary for the decorum of the day.

"Honey, you didn't use the tin." She whispered above her arousal.

"I know. I'll pull out."

John tapped her deep and built to a crescendo before pulling out and emptying onto her mons. Beads of sweat collected in the valley of her bosom as they lay there contented with their pleasures.

Birth control along Howell's Bend consisted predominantly of the husband pulling out or slipping a sheepskin out of the small tin and over his Johnson. There were no pills to take in 1934 and several of the housewives there and in town were wary of putting one in the oven in the midst of the Malaise...

With the arrival of each fall every household on the road busied themselves with finishing the garden harvest and loading silage into the barn for feeding livestock. Seasoned firewood logs needed splitting and loading into the woodshed and a breeder working through the Maine Grange would make his rounds with a couple of his prize bulls to make sure the milkers were set with calves for spring...

He was an interesting fellow; college educated out of Orono and for a rather young fellow, had an endless supply of stories from his travels up and down the back roads throughout the county. By most accounts Wendell Acker fancied himself a ladies man while many of the farmers in the neighborhood referred to him as Wendie out of earshot since he struck most as being a bit on the effeminate side of things.

Everybody in the neighborhood might have poked fun at him in jest but to a man they all wanted his services. He had three of the best prize bulls in the state; two Guernsey and a Holstein.

"Good to see you, Wendell. I've got all three of them close to their time. We can put him in the rail pen on the other side of the barn tie-up." John pointed to the old grey weatherworn tall barn behind the garden past the main house.

"He's about ready to get it done there, John. You'll be the first on the road this year." Wendell grinned widely as he pointed to the brutish specimen behind him in the short trailer. The enormous animal licked his broad tongue across his face while eying his captors.

"I've got a room ready for you upstairs. Sylvia changed everything out and I think she's even carved out a blue hubbard for baking since you liked it so much last year... just pulled it from the garden this morning."

Sylvia had been fresh on Wendell's mind when he pulled off the road onto the two track drive to the Dawes place. She struck him as out of place in this farmer's world and seemed more of the kind of young girls he spent much of his college career wooing to their naked backs once they were free of the clutches of Father and Mother.

She was of medium height, maybe 5'5", 120 lbs. if she was wet. Sylvia usually dressed modestly, every button fastened up with only the fullness of her firm breasts outlined by the gingham dress so much the rage among these simple farm wives. With raven hair and chocolate eyes the only other distraction was the firmness and shape of a hidden bottom behind the flow of that same dress.

She was finer than that farmer Melvin Clay's wife a half mile in the other direction but then Mrs. Clay had a predilection for the dirty, especially when Melvin was off cutting wood on two day jaunts. The previous month Wendell had pulled in the yard just a few minutes after Melvin had disappeared out of view through the woods off the north pasture.

He would be gone and the treasures of the farm untended to except for the overseer found in the person of his wife of twenty years. Ten minutes after Melvin shut the ignition off his Ford , he was in Melvin's bed.

"Jesus, Wendell, that is big." The plain looking housewife whispered as the travelling breeder pushed his oversized erection deep inside a rather over-excited woman.

"Oh my god, don't stop." She continued on.

He knew the routine with the wife. He would fuck her for several minutes and she would quiver in an orgasm and at that point he would take her the way he wanted. He didn't carry a tin of condoms as it went against his preferred constitution.

When Mrs. Clay approached her peak, he began laying it deep and just as she started to subside he emptied his nut deep inside the inviting farmwife; in some sense just as his bulls did their cows. He was a man and he saw it as his god given right.

Of course when the deed was done the guilt and worry would set in for the wife and she'd excuse herself to a wash basin to try to rectify the cost of her lust to the tune of Wendell's incessant post-coital whistling. She wasn't alone; he'd done the same to half a dozen subsistence wives in the county since picking up this route. It made him feel important, powerful, to cuckold these simple farmers, almost his privilege.

Truth be known, the breeder bulls weren't really his; they belonged to his father over in Hiram along with the shiny blue flatbed but some things are better left unsaid. As long as he brought in the fees, his father never asked any questions.

Wendell's thoughts came back to Sylvia. As they entered through the pantry and the kitchen back door, Mrs. John Dawes was setting the table for the dinner to come later.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Dawes. You are looking very nice today." Wendell offered. Sylvia stopped what she was doing and smiled back at the man accompanied by her husband.

"Why thank you Mr. Acker. I hope you'll enjoy dinner this evening. I've got a baked squash and a fresh hen I just plucked this morning."

Wendell's eyes lingered a bit longer than necessary on his desire as he eagerly looked forward to the evening. As was custom among the families here a room would be readied for his stay while his bulls took their cows. It was usually for a couple nights if they were ready; occasionally longer for the slow breeding. It was during such a stay that Wendell cuckolded Melvin Clay several times in his own bed. The thought of doing the same with Sylvia Dawes never left his mind throughout the evening and occupied his late night meandering lust lying in the soft bed upstairs over the master bedroom on the main floor...

"John, Pete Stutzman's kid just came running in a couple hours ago and he said they need some help real bad. One of their neighbor's barns caught fire last night." Sylvia yelled out to her husband as he returned from the tie-up pen.

A barn fire this late in the fall was of concern to every farmer in the neighborhood and beyond. Livestock needed shelter and if it couldn't be raised up quickly, they'd have to board out the animals until spring. Wendell's bull had done it right to one of the cows and now the other two were ready to freshen. The breeder man had to stay put with his critters.

"All right. I'll gather up my tools and load some hardware. Did he say who he had coming along besides the kinfolk across the road?"

"No, he just said they saved the animals but the barn went up; lucky it didn't take the house too." Sylvia replied.

The next morning John fired up his flatbed and headed for the Stutzman farm to join up with the other men from the neighborhood to raise a barn. With donated timbers and hardware it would be framed in a couple days and with good luck enough boards could be stripped out to provide sufficient siding to shelter the animals through the winter.

For Wendell this was a gift from the Celtic goddess of Áine; to have John pulled from the home so suddenly. He had taken note of Sylvia's glances and interest and read the subtle body language. She'd initially resist with token effort but once the tongue and fingers worked their charms her resistance would melt away just as it did with the others. That Clay woman, well, there never was any resistance with her. That was her sport.

Later that evening after dinner Sylvia stoked the firebox with a couple pieces of dried oak to take the fall chill out of the house. With the evening chores out of the way the young wife looked forward to relaxing in the front parlor, often with a cup of tea heightened a bit with an ample portion of John's applejack.

"Mrs. Dawes, I have to say this is the finest apple hootch I've ever tasted." Wendell smiled over the rim of the mug in his fingers.

"Oh please, you've called me Sylvia since we first met. That's what I call John's mother." Sylvia giggled over the formality.

The breeder man watched his desire as she settled into the upholstered finery of the large chair next to the stove. He could feel the tightening in his trousers with the anticipation of what the evening might bring and his eyes imagined the rising and fall of each breast freed of their constraints with her nipples erect and standing upon their areolas.

Sylvia sipped the warm tea with its intoxicating relaxation. She could feel the heat of the drink rising up from her soft neck and the warmth spreading across her cheeks. Of course she didn't realize it but the eyes gave her away; glassy, lidded and accompanied with her infectious giggle.

It always worked this way. With alcohol the trick was to add just the tiniest drop to the drink; not enough to knock her out but enough to take any real struggle out of her until her body betrayed her objections and she became his property until he was sated.

"Nooo... Wendell. I can't." Sylvia tried to object but her words slurred off her lips sounding more like a buttery invitation than an objection. Her arms were weak and could only brush against the strong arms of the house guest.

Wendell's arms lifted the skirt of the dress up from underneath her firm bottom as he pushed her thighs open against the arms of the chair. His eyes caught the sight of lace rather than an expected abundant expanse of white cotton that most often protected the prize sought among his previous seductions.

Sylvia exhaled followed by a sharp intake when Wendell's fingers found the sides of the lacy undergarment and pulled it aside to reveal the moist, dark-haired sex of the farmer's wife. With a quick motion his strong fingers reached under her ass and pulled the lace garment off and down her thighs with her legs now upon his shoulders.

"Jesus, that is fucking nice." Wendell muttered as he gazed at the naked pussy before him.

Sylvia just stared at him through those glassy eyes as he picked her up in his arms and walked back toward the couple's bedroom on the main floor. There was only the briefest struggle as he laid her down on the bed and stripped her out of her clothing.

At this point the naked wife could only moan an objection as Wendell stepped out of his trousers and pulled his shirt up off his smooth torso. The liquor and the sedative had played their concerto to the desired effect and as Wendell removed his shorts his erect prick bobbed before him in victory.

"Fucking delicious" the man whispered as he positioned himself between the woman's thighs and opened her sex with his mouth, his tongue running up and down her moist vagina.

Sylvia's body was unprepared for the assault on her senses. She and John had never engaged in such wanton and forbidden practices. Their mating was one of caresses and touching and his kissing her breasts before culminating in close missionary sex.

A low moan emanated from her lips as Wendell continued plying her pussy with his lips and tongue. She knew it was wrong and she fought it in her mind even as her hands rested on Wendell's scalp. As he continued her body betrayed her conscious objections and her soft thighs began to tremble to his touch.

The woman's musky scent filled Wendell's nostrils as he worked the soft wet pussy before him. As his fingers massaged the cheeks of her ass he felt the building orgasm draw close. Short pants of excitement escaped Sylvia's lips as the man continued his exotic feast of her sex. A few moments later she burst into a frenzied, soaking orgasm fucking her pussy into his mouth. Her nipples were erect and hard, her firm belly heaving with every exhale.

Wendell Acker rose up from his prone conquest and began stroking his erection while he made continuous eye contact with his object of desire, the famer's wife Sylvia. John Dawes was not a small man as the things of lust might be concerned but Wendell was extraordinary by the accounts of most women having experienced his charms.

His cock grew to its full length and with the veiny girth greater than the grasp of any woman's hand. Bending down he took one of Sylvia's nipples into his lips and tugged at it gently, her glazed eyes watching him. He pulled the loose foreskin back from his prick's bulbous head and moistened it with the wetness of her channel.

Rubbing it up and down and around in the opening to her soaked pussy, Wendell locked his eyes on the wife and began to enter into her. She was aware of her fucking and with her thighs opened wide he entered her, stroking an inch in at a time until he found almost all of it enveloped in her buttery hot cunt.

It was then that Wendell began his obscene fucking of his conquest, building the thrusts of his prick into her and swiveling his hips in just the right motion as to elicit the sexual surrender of the pursued woman. Until now Sylvia had always attained her sense of sexual satisfaction by using her fingers often times after John had fallen asleep. This was different.

The long drawn out moan grew into a guttural release as Sylvia began fucking the cock inside her and her overstuffed sex burst into an intense vaginal orgasm wracking her entire quivering body. Lifting a thigh and placing her calf on his shoulder, Wendell bottomed his prick inside her and with deliberate strong thrusts brought himself to the edge of his release. He gazed into her eyes and knew it was time.

It was a long, deliberate breeding; his prick emptied one burst of seed after another deep inside Sylvia's womb, her cervix bathed in his potent sperm. Half way through his orgasm the milky ejaculate began oozing out the side of her vagina coating the base of his prick. For the last few spurts he held himself deep inside his conquest until he was satisfied...