The Day After Tommy Dean

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This is a follow-on story to "Halloween in the Hollow" (https://www.literotica.com/s/halloween-in-the-hollow) for those who don't believe in the paranormal.

)

*****

I stood there in the mottled light coming in through the only window in the dusty, worn-wood shed, running the Monet-patterned scarf through my fingers and trying to reason with having found it here. I'd almost allowed myself to believe that what had happened here last night—Halloween night—had just been the result of a combination of Lawrence's story about the construction of the Skyline Drive, my want, and too much wine and imagination. But when I'd come back today, the day after Tommy Dean, I'd found my scarf here. So, I

had

been here last night.

But if I'd convinced myself in reviewing the evening after Lawrence had left my Harrisonburg apartment last night—after we'd had sex—that having had sex with a young mountain man, Tommy Dean, here earlier in the evening had just been my imagination, why had I come back today? Why had I driven up into the Blue Ridge Mountains from the Shenandoah Valley floor, past Sherando Lake, on a Saturday afternoon and once more found the overgrown driveway winding back into a mountain hollow until I'd found the old, desolate farmhouse I expected not to find?

But I knew the answer to that. The sex with the presumed mirage—the young, dark-haired, blue-eyed, mesmerizing young man with the shy smile and the beautiful baritone singing voice and equally beautiful cock—had been phenomenal. I wanted it again, and I had to assure myself that it was all a drunken, wanted and wonton, coupling with a mirage. A spirit fuck on a night when, drunk on wine, I'd overheard my date, Lawrence, speaking of the legends of the spirits of the mountain folk coming out on Halloween night to vent their anger at having been removed forcefully from the mountains so that the Shenandoah National Park, and its mountain-top-skimming Skyline Drive, could be built.

I hadn't intended to come back up here, but I had, my body refusing to take direction from my mind. I'd told Lawrence I wouldn't be going into the university today—I was a new teacher in the English Department at James Madison University and Lawrence was the chair of the History Department—and he'd been disappointed, until I'd relented.

We had coupled in my apartment last night. He'd been more than proficient at it and wanted to meet with me at the university today and couple again. But I'd said I had other things to do. Even then I must have known that my "other things" was to drive back up here and check out my imagination. I hadn't rejected Lawrence as a lover, though, even though I'd found him a boring, self-possessed conversationalist. I had relented, agreeing to meet him tonight, if he liked. Of course he would like. Neither of us had been naïve about why we would meet. He was a randy mature man taking what he could as long as he could, and I was promiscuous.

I moved around the shed, which was dominated by the old, squeaky brass bed and its soiled mattress. I knew it was squeaky for the obvious reason, and I thought of that as I looked around, making sure that the shed was deserted and trying to pull up images of the shed that would make the previous night real to me. The images returned to me of being saddled on Tommy Dean's pelvis, solidly skewered to his groin, as he lay on his back and looked up to me with that slight, reassuring smile of his, working my breasts in his hands, as I rose and fell on his ramrod hard, thick shaft.

That image certainly had seemed real enough to me. More than seeing it, I could still feel it—him inside me, possessing me fully, to the quick, with his throbbing cock.

I pulled away from the thoughts, though, and escaped the shed, my breath caught in my throat. It had been so dusty in the shed, I thought—although I knew it wasn't the dustiness of the small building that had stolen my breath. I stood there, rubbing the silk scarf against my cheek, only slowly becoming aware of the sound coming from farther up the slope in the hollow, somewhere from behind the farmhouse.

Humming, I first thought. But then I realized it was singing—low, melodic, lush toned. I turned and walked into the trees, toward the sound. He was kneeling on the ground, at the muzzles of four sway-back horses, tethered to trees, that were pushing him to get to the pan of water he was putting down on the ground. He looked up at me and smiled.

"Tommy Dean," I whispered.

"There you are, little darlin'," he said. "You came back."

"Yes, I came back," I murmured. And now I fully realized why I had. At the same time all thoughts that last evening had been an illusion evaporated—and my spirits soared. It hadn't been my imagination that I had been laid like I'd never been laid before.

"You left so quickly that I didn't get your name."

"It's Virginia . . . my friends call me Ginnie," I said.

"Ginnie," he said, like the name had religious significance. He stood, extended a hand toward me, and I put mine in his.

He laid me down in the moss under the trees, several paces from the horses. One his arms encircled my waist as he came down on top of me. His mouth covered mine, closing off anything I could have said, and his free hand went under the hem of my skirt, brushing the material up to my waist. He was going to fuck me there and then. It couldn't be too soon for me. I lay back, docilely, on the moss, murmuring, "Yes, fuck me."

"Comin' right up, Little Darlin'," he whispered back.

With one deft move, he had my panties off and his fly unzipped. The free hand glided between my thighs, his fingers gliding lightly up the inside of my thigh from my knee to almost paradise—and then the other leg. I readily opened them to him, spreading them, placing my heels on the ground and tilting my pelvis up—taking his fingers inside of me and his thumb on my clit. I gasped and writhed, ineffectually, under me as he drove me crazy with his fingers, making me wet and putty to his will.

"Yes, yes, yes," I sobbed.

The penetration of his fingers took on a rhythm of penetration and withdrawal and I fell into that, moving my hips with him, giving him little gasps at the deepest penetration and the off-beat flick of his thumb. When I begged him for his cock, he rolled over more in line with my body, on top, went up on his knees, and as I gasped and groaned, he entered me thick and throbbing. Then deeper and deeper yet. I panted and gulped air. I arched my back, and then, when he started to move inside me, I moved with him, panting and moaning and sighing.

The two of us moving together in the primeval dance of the fuck.

"Yes, fuck me!" I cried out.

"That's what I'm doin', Little Darlin'," he answered, with a low laugh. "I'm leavin' my mark; markin' Simpson territory."

Grunts and groans accompanied frenzied clutching and thrusting on both of our parts, him hovered over me, with both fists planted in the moss on either side of my shoulders and me with my claws in his shoulder blades, our eyes glued together, each experiencing the ecstasy of the other with our eyes, until, arching my back and thrusting my hips up into him, I cried out my gasping flow. My hands flew to his buttocks and I held him to me there, my claws digging into the soft flesh and holding him as close into me as possible and squeezing with each blast of seed into the spongy quickness of me, as, with moans from me and grunts from him, he came deep inside in one, two, three, convulsive jerks.

I had never, ever, ever been fucked like that before.

"I think that done for you, Little Darlin'," he whispered.

Yes, that most certainly had done for me.

Afterward we lay there, stretched against each other, my buttocks stretched over his lap, he still inside me. He nuzzled his muzzle into my throat and said, "I didn't think you'd come back."

"I had half convinced myself you were a mirage last night."

"Does this feel like a mirage?" he asked, moving his shaft inside me.

"No, not in the least," I answered. "But last night . . . you were here, but it was as if you weren't. None of you. Not you or your parents and brothers. The house seemed so . . . so deserted . . . even with you in it." In my dream from the previous night—a dream that hadn't been a dream—there had been a complete family here. Not just irresistible Tommy Dean, but two hunky—older and rougher-looking than Tommy Dean—brothers, both gorgeous in their own ways; a father who was an older version of his sons; and a mousy, but spunky, small woman who hardly looked sturdy enough to have borne three strapping sons or to have coupled with her husband without being shattered like a porcelain doll.

"We don't live here. We live further up in the hollow. Ma likes to can here and we'd gotten and deer and dressed it. It's stretched on one of the horses here. We still have to cut it up before goin' on home."

"The others? Now?"

"They're off berry pickin'. Ma wants to can her some blueberries before we go on home, and she knows of a late-season patch near here."

"And us . . . you and me? Now?"

"Now I take you into the shed and fuck you again proper, on the bed."

And that he did.

* * * *

"So, you want to go to the house for some dinner—Ma will have rustled up somethin'? Or do you want me to bring somethin' back here for you?" While we were making love on the squeaky bed in the shed for the countless time, we'd heard Tommy Dean's family coming back from berry picking. No one came looking for us, though. For Tommy Dean. They had no reason to know that I was here—that I had come back for more of Tommy Dean.

"I'd have to put clothes on to come to the house, wouldn't I?" I said it to be joking, but not for the first time, Tommy Dean hadn't understood it.

"If'n you're ready for the other men I guess you wouldn't have to." He said it with such a straight face that I hesitated before I laughed. But then he laughed too, so I guessed that maybe he could manage a joke better than I could.

"Here would be nice, I think," I answered.

He dressed—which just meant pulling his bib overalls back on and buckling them at the chest—and left then, saying he'd bring me back something in a while. When he was gone, I cleaned myself with the water in a chamber pot on top of the small bureau, using a rag for a hand cloth, and dressed enough to look decent—skirt and blouse, no foundation garments—and made a trip to the outhouse.

It was dark already and although I could see that there was lantern light in the farmhouse and people moving around in there, no one saw me. I did my business, fighting hard to not even think about spiders, and then came back to the shed. I entered, leaving the door open, and walked over to the bed, smoothing the rumpled sheet out on top of the soiled mattress. There was only one sheet and it didn't fit too well.

I jumped when I heard the door close behind me.

"You scared me," I said, turning. "I didn't know you'd be—" But then I abruptly stopped in confusion and sudden fear. He'd been behind the door when I'd come in. It wasn't Tommy Dean. It was one of his older brothers. He was naked and leering at me. He was a handsome, muscular man well into his prime and very much primed. There was no doubt what his intentions were.

"Tommy Dean will be right back," I squeak, my voice wavering.

"Who fuckin' cares?" he growled.

I backed up defensively to the bed, but there was no place to go. No place to hide and no room to maneuver around him. He was tall and powerfully built. I was no match for him.

"You gonna fight me, pretty darlin'?" he asked in a husky voice. "I want you too. Tommy Dean says you're a real peach of a lay."

I certainly was going to fight him. And when he came at me, I had my hands raised and my claws out. I jerked my knee up to catch him in the groin, but he was too fast and too clever for me and turned his thigh toward me, taking the knee there. He grunted in pain but then laughed.

"Like 'em feisty, like that," he said in a low voice.

His eyes were flashing and he was grinning even as I raised my hand to slash his face with my fingernails. But he grabbed my wrist before I could reach his face. I was more successful in raking my nails across his chest, but he was matted with black curly hair there, which blunted the effect of my attack. He pushed me and I landed on my back on the mattress.

He came down on top of me, heavy, naked, erect, pinning me to the bed. Quickly and with a minimum of effort, my skirt was off, my blouse was off, I was as naked as he was. He was pushing, thick and hard, against my thighs, pushing in between them no matter how hard I tried to keep them closed. He forced my arms above my head, gripping my wrists with his fists. He forced his knees between my thighs and spread my legs with them. His mouth was at my breasts, biting them and sucking my nipples as his hard cock positioned itself. He was as thick and long as Tommy Dean was—no, he was thicker and longer. I cried out and arched my back as he thrust inside me. Pulled back and thrust again; pulled back and thrust.

I collapsed, all resistance draining out of me. There was nothing to fight. He was inside me. It wasn't like I hadn't had a man inside me before. It wasn't like I didn't like having a man inside me.

And then we were doing it, melding into a rhythm, and, as embarrassing as it was, the glory of sex overcame the indignity and forcefulness of the penetration and I was moving with him. He was a hunk and a half. His mouth came up to mine and I responded to his kiss, opening to him. I moved my pelvis with him, taking him thick and deep. Giving in to him, willingly—hungrily—I spread my legs more, raised my pelvis to him higher, opened fully to him, taking him deeper in the sponginess of my passage, caressing his throbbing, searching shaft with undulating passage muscles, as he glided in, out, in out. I felt myself blossoming for him, becoming one with him. I didn't know any other way to describe it other than being at the height of ecstasy.

"Yeah, like that, sweet baby," he murmured in my ear. "Tommy Dean told me you was a pussycat soon as you got spiked. Sweet pussy. You want it. Now we're workin' it."

I almost didn't notice as the thrusts lessened in intensity and became more intimate in exploration of my inner passages with the bulb of the unsheathed cut cock that he had two lengths of rope and was tying my wrists to the brass rungs of the bed overhead.

His hands freed now, he used them to explore my body and to run one hand between our bellies, moving fingers into my folds above the root of his slow-pumping shaft and finding and working my clit. If I'd been in ecstasy before, now I was in heaven. He could do anything he wanted to me now—and he did it, throbbing, thrusting, searching, caressing.

"Sweet pussy. Wet for me. Let me in deep. Ahhh, yes, like that."

I had initially been crying out, of course, when he wasn't possessing my mouth with his. But the cries of violation and demands that he stop had gone unheeded from any possibility of rescue, and, as he settled into the fuck, with which he was naturally good, my response sank into groans and moans, and, I'm afraid, of murmurs of what I liked and what I liked better.

Total surrender. Not just surrender. Wanting it. Getting it.

"Yes. Deep. Fuck me deep!"

He laughed.

We were in a natural rhythm, melting into one grinding unit, when Tommy Dean entered the shed, carrying a plate, covered with a paper napkin in one hand and a glass of beer in the other. He set the plate and glass on the bureau, sat in a partially undone cane-seated straight chair almost right up to the side of the bed, and unzipped himself. He took out his dick and started stroking himself off as he watched his brother fuck me.

"You fuckin' her good there, Jack?" he asked.

"I'm fuckin' her good, Tommy Dean," came the answer.

I opened my mouth to vent my frustration at Tommy Dean, but then felt so helpless—and so embarrassed that I was enjoying the coupling, in spite of being assaulted against my will, or at least I had intended that it was against my will—that I turned my head to the other side and stared at the misaligned wooden slats of the wall of the shed. The planks didn't fit tightly, and I could see that night was coming on, the blue seen through the slats turning from a deep blue to black.

Jack fucked on, and I moved my hips with him.

"This here's Jack, my oldest brother," Tommy Dean said in a casual voice. "He's got the most knowledge of us brothers in fuckin' women. He'll do you right."

I let out a sob of frustration, but I couldn't disagree that he was doing me right. He did me right for several more minutes, being able to make me explode for him before he tensed, let out a gruff, "Oh Shit. Fuck, fuck, fuck," stiffened, and released inside me.

I lay there, panting, turning my head back toward Tommy Dean in time to watch him spout his seed onto the side of the mattress.

Jack rose off me, pulled my right thigh over my left and gave me a stinging slap on the rump, and winked at Tommy Dean and said, "She'll do nicely. Sweet pussy."

I lay there, on my back on the bed, drawing my knees up to my belly to hide my privates—nonsensically, as both men had fondled, used, and abused them already—and watched through eyes misty from frustration and anger at myself from the sexual satiation I felt, as Jack pulled on his bib overalls, buckled the top together, gave me a grin, said, "That were nice, pretty darlin'," and left the shed.

I jerked my head around to face Tommy Dean. "You just sat there and let him do . . . that . . . to me."

"I didn't xactly just sit here," he said with a grin. He was holding his cock in his hand and it was three-quarters stiff again. "I liked that. I liked that a lot, watchin' you and Jack do it," he said. "Jack's right. You got a sweet pussy. But you know it, don't you, Little Darlin'? You like havin' a man's cock in you."

"Untie me now," I said wearily. Again, I was angry with myself. Seeing Tommy Dean fondling his thick shaft—and knowing how beautiful his young body was—I was feeling tingly all over again.

"I don't think so. Not just yet," he said in a strangled sort of voice. "Sorry that your dinner's gonna be really cold by the time you get to it."

And then he was standing up from the chair, not putting his dick away, but rather pulling his overalls off. He was naked, and erect, and beautiful . . . and on top of me. And inside me. And we were moving as one, me wanting him again as much as I had wanted him last night and repeatedly earlier today. And as much as I had wanted his brother, Jack, once he had mastered me.

After he'd done me again, he released me to allow me to eat and to go to the outhouse and then to clean myself with the rag and the water from the chamber pot. He walked me to and from the outhouse, though. When we got back to the shed he tied my wrists to the headboard again and just didn't respond to my objections or my questions about what was unfolding here.

He sat there, nude on his chair, as I lay on the bed, and strummed his guitar and sang me love songs—some sweet, some highly suggestive—as, exhausted, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up in the night, he had gone to sleep himself. He was hunkered down in the straight chair, his arms hanging over the guitar pressed to his chest.

As quietly as I could, I worked on the ropes at my wrists. They weren't tied tightly or very well. Being careful not to wake him, after I had slipped the bonds, I silently pulled my skirt and blouse back on, found my purse, and tip-toed out of the shed door.

The other brother—Billy Bob was his name, as I remember, the middle brother—was sitting by the shed door, just in his overalls, snoozing. At least he was snoozing until, in surprise, I jostled his body as I came out of the shed.