Luther Cunningham groaned as he tossed another tuft of hay into the pile. He squinted at the dissipating sunlight on his vast farm and wiped the sweat from his forehead as rested on the fence. He made for a good compliment to the landscape. At 45, Luther was well-maintained from his constant manual labor; he had strong hands and forearms, a good head of wiry, black hair, and lacked the fat girdle that plagued many middle aged men's stomachs.
He saw a black car approach the farm. It must be his nieces, Lorelai and Anabelle, he mused. His brother, their father, had died in an unfortunate factory accident. As their mother had left the family when they were young, they were basically orphans. Luther and his wife Greta agreed to take them in.
From the distance he saw them step out of the car. He was astounded at how much they'd grown. He saw a little blonde head and a little redheaded one enter their family home. He washed up and went to greet the girls.
****
When Luther entered the kitchen, Lorelai and Annabelle were quietly sipping cups of tea as Greta made supper. He went up to the girls to hug them.
"Such grown up young ladies," He remarked, grinning at them. The both smiled back obediently, and he asked, "How old are you now? You're much taller than the last time I saw you."
"15,"Muttered Annabelle, before taking another sip of tea. She was shy, this much was obvious. She'd developed his brother's freckles, and inherited his red hair.
"18," Lorelai answered. She easily favored her mother, who had been well-known to be immensely beautiful. She had her iconic golden-hair, wavy and down to her waist. She was a pale, fragile looking thing that almost seemed to glow. Her green eyes were large and sad, but not fearful. Luther was mesmerized by her.
Greta had not addressed any part of the present situation. Her back was to them, as she was cooking. Luther would have bet his whole flock of sheep that she was sitting there with pursed lips, as was her custom. As he had many times before, Luther considered shaking her by her shoulders, to get a reaction if nothing else. But there she was, ever stoic and with her stern, brown bun. They hadn't had sex in many years. Eventually, something in Luther diminished, and he hadn't even felt fire anymore. Lorelai seemed to spark it within him. But he didn't know it, not yet.
****
It had been two weeks since the girls came to stay at Cunningham farm. They were respectful, polite girls, and were learning much from Greta. So far, they'd been taught sewing, the making of jams and other preserves, how to cook various recipes, and how to properly pluck a chicken.
Luther had also shown them their modest library, hoping to give them some access to the smaller, homelier pleasures. Lorelai had a habit of staying up late and reading by lamplight. Both Luther and Greta had found her asleep on the table in the wee hours, and lead her back to bed.
"Insensitive girl," Greta remarked, "no consideration for the cost of fuel."
Hateful old hag, Luther thought. But he said nothing. He hadn't said much for a long time. It wasn't worth the effort.
It was on such a night that he found Lorelai again, this time asleep in his favorite red armchair, book fallen to the floor. He picked it up and saw she had been deeply immersed in The Count of Monte Cristo. A good choice. She was supine and delicate. Even in the darkness, light found Lorelai. Her lucent hair covered half of her face, and her limbs were a pale blue sticking out from her starchy, white nightgown. He brushed her hair from her face. She was indeed lovely. Her eyelashes cast shadows over her rosy cheeks. He felt a stirring in his pants that unnerved him. How long had it been since he'd lusted after a woman?
He picked her up and took her to her bedroom, which she shared with her sister. Annabelle was a deep sleeper, much like her sister. He tucked Lorelai in, and saw that her dress had ridden up a bit. She had creamy thighs. Without thinking, he stroked along one up from her knee. She's so beautiful, he thought. His member throbbed as his finger went up her leg, to the edge of her dress. He thought, however briefly, of going further. Then Annabelle coughed. He covered Lorelai with the blanket and left the room.
****
The next Sunday Luther was sorting his tool closet. There was terrible storm this evening, and he had been mending fences. He was exhausted and sat a moment on the edge of his work bench. He realized he heard singing, and began to look around. He went to the opposite wall, which faced the interior of the house, and looked through one of the small holes in the wood. He realized he was looking into the bathroom.
Lorelai was bathing, and singing something he'd never heard before. She was illuminated only by candlelight. There was something ethereal about her voice, just like the rest of her. Her hair was pinned up, and a few escaped strands were stuck to her sweaty neck. She was lathering her long and delicate legs. Then her arms. She plucked a washrag from the tub depths and washed at her neck and back. Luther was transfixed. He blew out his lamp and stilled his breath so she wouldn't notice him.
He put his right hand in his pants and freed himself. He thought about her soft lips, her inviting legs, and her smooth skin. He started to pump himself while imagining her hand around him instead, hesitant, but brave. He thought about kissing her neck as she lay in that bathwater. His dick was swelling larger than he remembered in his hands. He hadn't indulged in such fantasies for a long time, and he was having a hard time feeling his legs.
She had lain back and rested her head on the edge of the tub. What a perfect vision she was! Innocence and purity and inspiration to the basest of urges. He pumped harder and faster, trying to remain quiet. He saw a line of sweat fall from her neck down to her cleavage. His balls were tightening at the pleasure.
Then the door to his closet opened. "Luther!" Cried Greta, "Where are you? It's almost suppertime."
"Here, woman," He answered. He zipped himself up and walked towards the door to her.
"Why are you in the dark?" She demanded.
"My lamp died."
"Ahh, well c'mon already." She then went to knock on the bathroom door. "Hurry up girl, you've been in there long enough." With an internal groan Luther realized he'd miss seeing Lorelai get out of the water. He was sure Botticelli had missed the ideal model for Venus by a few centuries.
****
The girls had been with Luther and Greta for a few months now, and a sort of routine was established. They'd made a content enough household among the four of them. Lorelai had approached Luther about learning some of the harder tasks as well, despite them typically being the man's work. Speaking over Greta's objections, Luther responded that he was happy to teach her.
He found her not be meek, nor to be the type to complain at physical tasks. After a long day of thatching roofs, they were unloading the wagon in the barn. Luther sat on the back of the wagon to take some water. He offered it to Lorelai as well, who was eager to accept. She sat next to him and drank. There was nothing she didn't do beautifully, he thought. He noticed she had a smudge on her forehead, and went to rub it off. She smiled in gratitude, and bowed her head.
They sat there for a little while. When Luther went to stand he groaned at his sudden back pain.
"Let me help with that," Lorelai said. She went to sit behind him, and started to massage his back. Her fingers worked magic, as he felt much of his tension loosen. Her hair brushed forward as she worked, and her long braid draped over his right shoulder, releasing the scent sweet of jasmine. His dick was hard again. She dug at the knots in his back.
"You're very tense, uncle".
"You can blame your aunt Greta for that," He said, half-joking.
"She's so mean to you, when you work so hard," She remarked, "not that I am not grateful!" she said, coming around to his side again. "I really am. To both of you. I just-"
"Shh," He said, grabbing her hand, "I know". Her hand was so soft. He was sure his was coarse and rough in comparison. She smiled at him, and misgivings fell away. He pulled her closer to him and kissed her.
"Uncle..." She started.
"You're a vision," he said.
"Uncle, we can't."
"Please, Lorelai. Submit to me." He kissed her again, rougher this time. She let out a small gasp. He pulled her until she was sitting on his lap. He pushed the hair out of her face with his hands, cupping her at the cheeks. Then he kissed her deeply, holding her hard around her waist. She was pushing his hands away but he kept them taut. His tongue stuck inside her small, cherry mouth. She tasted so sweet, and he drank at her youth hungrily. She was so small, that he felt equally aroused and protective of her. His hands roamed over her work clothes as he continued to lick and kiss at her mouth.
Then he picked her up and laid her down on the hay covered wagon. She looked so helpless lying there. His dick was pressing against his pants. He hovered over her and kissed her again, more gently, as he plucked at her shirt, pulling it from her pants.
"Uncle, you must stop," She said, pushing futilely as his hardened chest. She had to admit he was an attractive man, especially for his age. His strength both terrified and thrilled her. He ignored her, pulling her shirt up to her wrists, and using it to pin her wrists above her head. She was a dream-those green eyes widened with fear, arms outstretched, and breasts sticking up in the chilly evening air. He went to her neck and bit her. She wriggled and half-moaned, half-squealed.
"Don't you dare yell," He warned, his hand reaching for a nipple. He pinched. She moaned and turned her head. Unlike his wife's, her breasts were perky and small. He squeezed the nipple, and rolled it around his finger, before licking it, and sticking it wholly in his mouth. He sucked at it wantonly, pausing occasionally to roll it between his teeth. Lorelai was digging her feet into the wagon, moaning, and thrashing at this.
"You don't want me to stop," He whispered. "Tell me to stop if that's what you want. Tell me you don't feel good." Lorelai just looked up at him in wonderment. Taking this as agreement, Luther reached his hand into her pants, keeping her wrists pinned still. He watched her face transform as his finger found her clitoris, and started to rub it. He put his leg over both of hers to keep them still as he kept working at massaging her most intimate part and chipping away at her resolve. He felt her wetness and the alluring folds between her legs, dreaming of a day when he might explore her more openly, perhaps even by fornication.
He groaned at the thought of this and stopped touching her as well. She mewled but he wanted to keep her as hungry as he was. He resumed fingering at her clitoris. The sight of her thrashing helplessly was making him harder yet. He was certain his dick was reaching previously unattained lengths. How could a man think while this aroused?
