Stainless Steel Dream Ch 2

"Fuck! Damnit!" David threw the socket wrench to the ground and clutched his torn thumb. He sat hard on the cement. That was the last straw. Five hours he'd spent trying to get the junkyard-restored radiator in place, but the blasted thing refused to fit - this despite Juan Marco's assurance that it was "just de one". Now he was out fifty bucks and he was still without a ride. That last cross-country trip took a toll on his old Mustang. The tires were shot, the windshield pitted from the dusty Midwestern highways, and the steering made an odd noise. Unfortunately, his financial state was such that buying another vehicle was out of the question. Hell, even next week's groceries seemed a questionable prospect.

The job opportunity in New York City dissolved before he hit Texas, but the company didn't bother to get in touch with him the cell phone number he'd supplied with his resume. Instead, they left a message at his apartment, and like an idiot he didn't bother to call in to check his messages at home. What a waste of a trip, he thought. Wrecked car, dashed job hopes...why did he take the damn trip in the first place.

A silver house appeared in his mind, then disappeared.

He took his key ring out of his pocket. He fondled the strange, silver key - the only "souvenir" of his trip, if you could call it that. If you asked David, he'd say it was also a "souvenir" of his brush with his own latent insanity. It had all seemed so real...the strange silver house, the girl with the green eyes, the incredible lovemaking.

Sighing, he tossed the keyring to the ground. It landed with the strange key on top, reflecting sun straight into his eyes. He squinted. What did it all mean?

He went into the house and grabbed a cold Sam Adams out of the fridge. His phone rang. He slumped dejectedly into his La-Z-Boy as the answering machine clicked and whirred. A woman's voice crackled through the small speaker. His mother.

"David? Are you there? It's Mom. I have some very bad news, dear. Gramma Jane has passed away. They're holding services-"

He jumped up, grabbed the receiver. "Hello, Mom?"

"David? Are you screening your calls again?"

"Yes, Mom, I am. What were you saying about Gramma Jane?"

"She passed away, David. In her sleep." She paused. "I'm sorry, baby."

"No..." David slumped back into the recliner, disbelieving. Gramma Jane was only 67, for crissake, and healthier than anyone he knew. She was also the only family member David gave a crap about. He had planned to stay with her in New Hampshire for a few weeks while his New York apartment was readied, but after his would-be boss gave him the news that not only could they not hire him, but they were also laying off 20% of their sales force, David had driven straight home to the West Coast, disgusted. Fuck. She was going to cook him chicken pie, and they had planned a fishing trip, just like they'd taken when he was a lonely, awkward young boy. Now there would be no more trips with Gramma Jane. Ever.

"...$50,000, plus the house. You were always her favorite, so it's no surprise, but you'll need to get all the legal stuff sorted out, and-"

"What? Huh? I'm sorry, Mom, I missed that. This is...overwhelming."

"I know, dear. It's just that Jane left you her house on the East Coast, along with what's left of her savings, which looks to be about $50,000."

"Fifty THOUSAND dollars?" David repeated.

"Yes, dear. Gramma was quite a saver, you know that. Too bad her money skills never rubbed off on you!" his mother chuckled. She was always pleased at the opportunity to needle him about his lack of financial smarts. Money came and went for David, though it was less a matter of his intelligence (as he was a bright guy) as it was a matter of apathy. Money just didn't matter to him. Saving it, maintaining it, watching over it - all that bored him to tears. He liked the freedom money could buy, but just couldn't bring himself to care enough about the stuff to mind it well. Thus, despite a string of high-paying sales gigs, he still sat near penniless, busting ass on his broken down Mustang convertible.

Until now, that is.

Grief still sunk into him at the news of Gramma Jane's passing, but the life raft that the money and house represented buoyed his mood a bit. Certainly, $50K wasn't a fortune, but it was a tidy nest egg - enough to help David get back on his feet and then some. And the house..he'd dreamed of living in that New England cottage on a tidy 2 acre plot since he was a kid. He finagled the necessary info from his mother, then got off the phone before the guilt tripping could begin. He sat in silence, wondering how such a wonderful new start could come from such a sad event. Unconsciously, he rubbed the silver key between his thumb and forefinger.

The funeral was a crowded affair. Gramma Jane was the type to get involved in her community, and representatives of an assortment of clubs and charities attended. Then the reading of the will and the probate garbage began, but thanks to Jane Belman's excellent planning the transfer of all properties and monies went exceptionally smoothly. By summer, David had packed up and was on his way to the lovely cottage at which he spent most of his childhood.

As he drove into the maple-framed driveway he was struck by how small the cottage looked. But it wasn't until he was actually inside the small white ivy-covered building edifice that he realized how much he'd grown, and how little the house had grown. The countertop that he once jumped onto lay at hip-level, and the endlessly long kitchen tile now seemed a tiny, cramped space.

Shaking aside his nostalgia, he unloaded his belongings, went into town for a pizza and groceries, then settled in his new bed for a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, he made a ham & egg omelet with toast, then spent the next week dusting away cobwebs, cleaning, and painting. 8 days later, the cottage was restored to his childhood cheerfulness, and David finally felt at home.

He decided to celebrate his efforts with an afternoon at the creek that bordered the property to the north. In his lawn chair and sunglasses, he gazed out at the New England greenery and the dimples of sunlight on the water until his lids grew heavy with the afternoon sun.

A crackle of twigs woke him suddenly. "Oh!" he exclaimed, half awake. Turning quickly, he was stunned by the sight of the Girl. She wore an unfashionable but lovely sundress. Her slender hips pushed out the fabric; her nipples made lovely dents in the cotton. Her hair shone in the sun, but it didn't match the light in her eyes.

"Hey! Where did you go? Who are you? I-" he started.

"Ssshh..." She knelt and put a finger to his lips to silence him. She replaced the finger with her own lips. They kissed slowly - lightly, then deeply. She untied the top of her dress, then stepped out of it, exposing her porcelain body to him.

So many questions burned in his mind. Who was she? Why was she here? Was he losing his mind? But all thought disappeared as she looked deep into his eyes and rubbed her hands across his bare chest.

She straddled him, her soft, moist netherlips brushing against his naked stomach. She pushed her small breasts against his face, and he greedily accepted her hard pink nipples into his mouth. Her back arched, and she moaned softly. She sat on his now-raging erection and kissed his lips softly.

He ran his fingers across her bound hair. "So lovely," he murmured. She smiled shyly. His fingers found the clip that help her tresses, and in a click they fell across her shoulders in a shower of gold. He ran his fingers through the fine strands, gripped the mass in his hands. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure. She rocked back and forth on the swelling in his pants - her clit on fire, her scalp singing.

"Oh!" she moaned as a quick, hard orgasm ripped through her. Her back arched. He watched, his erection growing even harder at the sight of her firm breasts arched, her trim stomach pulled in, her face a mask of pure pleasure.

She fell against him, then shimmied down the length of his body until her head lay in his lap. She unfastened his shorts and extracted his stiffness from them. She licked the bead of precum from its head, then began to pull all of her golden hair into his lap. At first, David didn't understand what she was doing, but when realization hit him, he moaned with desire.

She began to wrap her tresses around his painfully erect cock. He gasped at the feel of her silky hair, so tightly wound around him. The tips of her hair fell across his crotch, teasing his sac. Then she wrapped her hand delicately around him and began to move the soft hair over him, up and down.

"Ohh my God!" he exclaimed as sensation radiated through him. The sight of himself disappearing to the golden mass increased his pleasure, and he soon found himself close to orgasm. "You should stop," he warned breathily. He was afraid of soiling her hair.

She looked up at him and smiled as if she read his thoughts. Instead of stopping, she increased the rhythm of her hand, the silky hair moving tightly over his cock. His pelvis pushed forward and he grunted, squirting streams of his manhood across her cheek and her wrapped tresses.

"I'm sorry," he said breathlessly. "I-"

"Don't be," she smiled. In an instant, her hair was pinned up atop her head, though not quite as neatly as before. Streaks of his come glazed her flushed cheeks. He eyes radiated a green glow that was at once lovely and fierce. She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. "I love you, Davey. I always will."

Davey? He suddenly felt like a child. Davey was his childhood name. Before he had a chance to speak, she'd donned her quaint sundress and disappeared into the trees. He searched for an hour, but as before he found no trace of her. He would've thought it was a dream, or that he was going mad, were it not for the golden strands he found in his shorts later that night. He collected them, taped them to a card, and gazed at them in front of the fire. He fell asleep and dreamt of hair and green eyes and long white arms.

The next day, he decided to put the mystery woman out of his mind by cleaning the attic. His first impulse was to spend the day searching the creek banks for her, but he knew she wouldn't be there. She seemed to exist solely to drive him nuts, and he'd be damned if he was going to let her. Next time she appears, he swore, he would pin her down and make her explain. He would resist her porcelain flesh, her golden hair, her soft pink lips... His cock stirred in his pants, and he sighed dejectedly.

Dust covered every surface in the attic, and the air tasted stale and old. He opened the windows, but no wind came to clear away the aged air. He shuffled through the bags of old newspapers, old clothes, and knickknacks that Jane accumulated. He swept and dusted and bagged for a good 4 hours.

After he cleaned away half the room, he happened upon a small black lacquered chest in the corner. Since it had been buried beneath other boxes, it was free of dust and cobwebs. He tried to lift its lid, but found that it was locked. The fact that it was locked made him even more curious, and he looked for a way to pry the chest open, but it was too well made. Then, after a few minutes of staring at the silver lock, a strange idea came to him. He reached into his pocket for his keyring, and brought forth the mysterious tiny silver key that had appeared in his pocket in the desert. He inserted it into the lock and turned. A "click", and the lid popped open.

"Strange!" he whispered aloud. Inside were old photo albums - so old, that photo corners were used to hold the black and white pictures in place. A house - this house, he realized. His mother as a child. He'd seen photos of her before, and knew her curly blonde hair and silly grin. He turned the page, and his heart stopped.

His mother was holding a fishing pole over the creek. A tiny woman was helping her bait the hook. A tiny woman, the little girl's mother...in a quaint sundress...with blonde hair pinned atop her head.

Jane? he thought, incredulously. Gramma Jane.

He closed his eyes and ran his dusty fingers over his face.