Summer Stream Awakening

Lord, it was hot! That's what everybody in town was saying. The old men playing checkers outside Simpson's Feed Store remarked on this fact while mopping away sweat with faded blue bandannas. The women entering Bradford's Store probably felt it worst. The manner of dress mandated by the moral codes of 1906 left them breathless from the binding of tight corsets and floating in perspiration under the insulating layers of cotton and silk. If men were hot, they could open a shirt collar, and if working in the fields, they could remove the shirt entirely. A woman was expected to keep her buttons buttoned unless in the secrecy of her bedroom. Even in the dark of night, the temperature dropped only a few degrees, and men and women alike tossed fitfully in the humid hell that closed in after the evening breeze subsided. Only the crickets and junebugs seemed immune to the heat. They continued to function as they had since there were crickets to sing at the stars and junebugs to buzz in frustration at the window screens.

It was just as hot in the half-acre garden that bordered the little stream known as Wright's Crick. After turning the bend behind the barn, Wright's Crick spilled into the Red River and followed the network of waterways until the red topsoil from Miles Sherman's tobacco field settled onto the great delta of the Mississippi. In the small patch of soil next to the barn, Rachel had planted the garden that would furnish fresh food through the summer and fill the root cellar for winter.

The initial planting had been time consuming but easy work. Mike and Bob, their two strong mules, made short work of turning over the half-acre plot and disking it level. Rachel had spent a week planting seeds, potato eyes, and tomato and sweet potato plants. The potato eyes and sweet potato plants, and some of the seeds had come from her mother. Rachel had sold eggs all winter to pay for the rest. She hadn't been able to afford the dress material she wanted, but she and Miles could live without a new dress. They couldn't live without the garden. Today, she was weeding as she did every other day. The weeds were thieves in Rachel's mind. They stole the water and nutrients that swelled the tiny plants into production of the major food resource for her and Miles. The crimes of the weeds were to be punished by death, and although hot and tired after only two hours with the hoe, Rachel still took great pleasure in uprooting the villains.

Miles and Rachel had been married a year ago at the church in Cumberland Ridge. The marriage was one of necessity, really. Rachel was twenty five, and her parents were concerned that she would follow in the footsteps of Miss London, the town spinster. Miles was thirty, and had worked hard to buy the ten acres of rich bottomland. He was ready to begin a new life, and needed a woman. Rachel happened to be one of two available women in Cumberland Ridge. At seventeen, Grace Ingram was the prettier, but she had shied from Miles' advances. He called on Rachel's father and asked for permission to court her. A year later, Rachel walked down the aisle to the accompaniment of Miss London's piano.

To say that love was or was not present in her marriage would be far too simple an evaluation. Miles was a good husband. He treated her with kindness, but to construe love from his actions would have required a stretch of her imagination. Rachel felt more a partner in his life than a love. Miles cared for the crop of corn and tobacco that furnished their meager income, for the cow that gave them milk and a calf for beef each year, and for the hogs that would fill the cabin attic with hams, bacon, and sausage. Rachel ran the household, tended the garden, and cared for the chickens. She and Miles shared in all work and all rewards equally.

Rachel couldn't have said if she loved Miles. She felt safe in their small cabin, and secure in the knowledge that Miles was there for tasks that were beyond her strength or skill. Miles was a gentle man, and had never raised his voice to her. When compared to the lives of her friends, Rachel's was as full as one could ask. Her mother had told her love would come as the years went by, and Rachel saw no reason to doubt her mother's words. She knew she depended on Miles and he upon her; the relationship was acceptable.

Rachel reflected on her life as she ruthlessly eliminated the weeds from her precious plants. Her small circle of girlfriends had often talked in private of the secrets of love and marriage, and if one thing was missing from her life, it was the intimacy she had expected with her husband. Her mother's thoughts on the subject were that a proper wife allowed her husband access to her body as he desired, and that the proper wife should lie quietly until he had satisfied himself.

Her wedding night was filled with the unknown. The cotton nightgown hid her charms until Miles lifted it to her neck. He mounted her after a few minutes of exploring her breasts, and was abruptly stopped by the dryness of her passage. A bit of saliva remedied the situation, and Rachel's maidenhead was quickly swept into memory by one deep thrust of pain and blood. In a few minutes, Miles had spent his seed and rolled to her side; in a few more, he went to sleep. The next night was the same except she did not bleed and the pain was less. After the first week, Miles settled into her loins only on Sunday night.

In the year of her marriage, Rachel had witnessed changes in her feelings during their Sunday night couplings. At first, she had dreaded the assault on the most intimate part of her body, but as the months went by, she began to feel a growing tension as Miles plunged in and out. She became aware of the rise of her nipples when Miles moved against them, and sometimes wrapped her arms around him in an effort to increase the contact. Little by little, her body was awakening to the sensations of his organ slipping through her lips. Rachel also knew that, as time progressed, the wetness that spilled over her thighs after their union was more than Miles' seed, and felt that she was never ready for him to leave her body.

Rachel swung the hoe at a particularly large milkweed. She had missed it before, and now it threatened to suck the life from a sweet corn plant. Her swing decapitated the invader. The cut stump immediately oozed white sap. Rachel bent to touch her finger to the viscous white fluid, and remembered the stickiness in the soft brown curls that guarded her sex. She never bathed until the second day after their Sunday night coupling; her mother said bathing afterwards reduced the chances of children, and Rachel's heart yearned for a child at her breast. All her girlfriends had children by now. On her infrequent visits to town, she would visit them and hold their babies. When she sat with a tiny infant against her chest, something deep in her core felt complete.

Row after row of beans, corn and other vegetables were rid of their parasitic plant brethren by careful, short strokes of her hoe. The sun was high overhead when Rachel stretched to relieve the cramp in her back and pulled the sweat-soaked lock of hair from her cheek. It would have been time to fix dinner for Miles, had he not gone to town. The mules needed to be re-shod and the ten mile trip would take him most of the day. It was too hot to eat anyway. Her dress was soaked through with sweat at the armpits and over most of the bodice. Drops of salty sweat ran from her neck to her chest and dribbled between her breasts. She knew that her bloomers were also soaked; her soft thighs rubbed against the material when she walked and the feeling was the same as that of the wash cloth when she bathed.

It was too hot even to bathe, she thought. To fill the tin tub with hot water would have required reviving the fire in the stove and heating up the two-room cabin. The bath would have been more like steaming herself, and she would be sweating as soon as she finished drying. Bathing was much better in the winter. Sinking into the steaming tub of water that sat before the kitchen stove was exquisite after the chill of the cabin. Even more invigorating was rising from the water into the cool air. Her entire body would erupt into goose bumps until she wrapped the heavy blanket around herself and went to dress. If she could only feel that blessed chill today, even if for only a moment.

The mockingbird cackled in the tree and then flew across the garden. Rachel followed his flight to the creek. He flared to a stop at the water's edge, waded in, and began to splash water over his back.

At first, the idea seemed ridiculous. To be naked in the light of day was contrary to everything her mother had taught. A drop of sweat escaped the saturated fabric of her bloomers and ran down the inside of her thigh. Another drop formed on the tip of her nose, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. She saw the smear of red Tennessee mud created by the drop. Suddenly, Rachel felt dirty. She was dirty from the sweat and dust of the garden. She was dirty from Miles' seed that seeped from between her thighs. She wanted to be cool and clean more than anything else.

The idea turned sideways in her mind to present the possible complications. Someone might see her. Within hours, all of Cumberland Ridge would know of the brazen hussy who ran naked around her husband's farm. But this was nearly impossible, she thought, because no one ever came this far from town. Miles would not return before dark.

The other side of the idea was pleasant to imagine. Cool water soaking the dust from every pore. Cool water flowing over the soft curls that covered her mound. Cool water rinsing through the waist-length mane of brown hair that sat piled in a sweat-soaked bun on top of her head.

It was a simple action to walk to the water's edge, and would never be interpreted as anything other than curiosity. It was a safe action, and gave her time to examine the idea from all perspectives. The idea turned again, and Rachel let her hand dabble in the water to sample the promise as the thought changed from ridiculous to plausible. She unbuttoned the sleeves of her dress and pulled the cuffs to her elbows before plunging her arms into the flowing water. Heat swept away from her slender white wrists in the ripples of the water.

Rachel blamed her actions on some form of heat sickness. Within minutes, her shoes, dress, and bloomers lay draped over a clump of willows and she waded into the stream. Coolness caressed her ankles and bade her to sit and talk for a while. She gasped as her hips touched the water, but quickly sank into the knee-deep stream. The sensations were a delirium of rushing cold and tingling skin. The gravel bottom brushed gently against her hips as she sat in the shallow water. Buoyancy lifted her breasts to the surface and caused them to bob in the eddy of current created by her body. The feeling was not at all unpleasant. Rachel reached to undo the tight bun and lowered herself to the surface. Her hair streamed around her face as the twin tails of a comet. She leaned back on her arms and immersed herself in the flowing fluid that washed away the heat.

She turned to face the current and spread her legs wide. The soft caress of the water shimmered over her thighs to brush softly at the hidden petals of her sex. As she always did when she bathed, Rachel separated the soft lips and allowed the water to lick at the inner folds that guarded her passage. She sat for a time in this position and allowed the heat to flow away with the current.

With the relaxing effect of the stream came the onset of fatigue, and Rachel had difficulty keeping her eyes open. It was amazing how quiet the stream was in the middle of the day. By evening, birds would be singing in the trees, and the crickets would be scraping out their mating calls in counterpoint to the loud chirp of the cicadas. Now, the only sound was a lone dragonfly and the mud daubers that buzzed at the stream edge. Rachel watched the slender wasps leap into flight after gathering a bit of mud from which to fashion a nest. Her eyes lost focus as she tried to follow their scampering mud gathering and subsequent departure. The bobbing of her head was disconcerting, so she placed both elbows on her knees and formed a prop for her chin. The heat was nearly gone, and with it departed her will to remain awake.

The man's voice was only a whisper, but it stirred her half-awake.

"Close your eyes, and don't turn around, don't even turn your head."

Rachel felt a cool, wet hand on her shoulder.

"Don't scream. I won't hurt you."

Rachel sat on the bottom, helpless to do anything and fearful of what any action might cause. Her thoughts of what might happen next were answered by the hands. One slipped around her shoulder to cup the breast that bobbed in the current. The hand was cool against her skin, cool and smooth as shoe leather. It brushed gently at the underside of the firm globe and sent tiny shivers through her body. Rachel felt her nipples grow firm and lift from the dark circles of the nipple beds. The touch brushed the taught, bumpy nubbins and sent shocks running deep in her belly.

"You like this, don't you?"

Rachel could not answer. Her fear of reprisal was as strong as the wonderful sensations flowing between her breast and her womb.

"If you don't answer, I'll stop."

"Y-yes. It feels nice."

"Good." The voice remained a whisper, but took on a commanding tone. "Take your breast in your hand and squeeze gently, now."

The squeezing caress was an action she had never contemplated before this time. Good girls did not touch themselves except when washing and when the woman's curse caused them to be unclean. Young girls were told that such touching would make them unfit as women, and that men would think them wanton. Rachel did not understand why touching herself caused the same feelings as did the touch of the unseen man, but the feelings were there.

"Does that feel nice too? Answer me now."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, it feels nice."

"Does your husband do this to you?"

Rachel was struck dumb by his question. How dare this stranger ask such a thing? Why did he even think she would answer? The light brush across her nipple caused her to flinch and she barely suppressed a gasp.

"Well, does he?"

"No."

"Would you like him to?"

"I - I don't know."

"Hmmm, perhaps he doesn't know how you...react. Rub your nipple now, but do it softly."

Rachel's fingers slipped around her breast and touched the stiff nipple. She tried to remain quiet, but the combination of the cool water and her touch forced a mewling sound from her lips.

"Ah, I thought as much. You enjoy your own touch. Pinch it between your fingers."

She could not ignore or disobey the command of the whisper. The light pinch shot a burst of sensations through her body, and her head sagged.

"Harder, pinch harder, and twist it between your fingers."

Rachel squeezed firmly and rolled her fingers. The sensation would have been unbearable but for the moan that formed in her throat.

The whisper remained slow and quiet as it continued to direct her in this exploration of her own body.

"Stroke your hand down your body to your thighs. Go slowly now, and feel your own touch."

Rachel complied.

"Good. The skin is soft, isn't it? It's as soft as down, and you like the feel of it against your fingers, don't you."

"Yes."

"Move your hand up and between your legs. That's right, just so you can feel the soft hair. Slip your finger through the hair to the opening."

Her hand worked the finger through the tangled curls to the slight parting of flesh.

"Spread your legs so that you can feel all the way down."

Almost before the whisper had completed its command, her thighs spread wide and her fingertip traced the lips from top to bottom. Rachel shuddered from the intimacy she felt with her own body.

"It's nice there too, yes?'

"Yessss."

"It's much nicer inside. Move your finger inside and gently stroke yourself."

The finger slipped easily between Rachel's swollen lips and touched the frail tissues inside. Her head bent back as she moved the finger up and down. She began to breath deeply and tremors flowed deep inside her belly.

"I suppose your husband doesn't do this either?"

"No..., oh."

"But you would like him to, wouldn't you?"

"Yessss."

"There is a small nub at the top of your slit. Find it with your finger."

Rachel shook uncontrollably upon touching the little button.

"Yes, you have located the center of your pleasure. Now, rub it, but very gently at first."

Sensations racked her body, and Rachel found it difficult to remain sitting on the stream bottom. Her hips rocked into her fingertip of their own volition, and her deep breathing was replaced by occasional low moans.

"Do you feel your body becoming tense?"

"Yes..., oh...., oh...,yes."

"Do not move your hand, but rise to your knees and lean forward."

Rachel did as the whisper instructed. Had the sensations in her sex not been so exquisite, she would have felt foolish on her knees and one free hand. The flowing water nipped at her nipples as they dangled just at the surface. The pleasure of the finger overpowered every other thought.

"I shall enter you now, but do not stop touching yourself."

The hand remained a cool presence on her shoulder, and Rachel dared not move. The feeling of fullness was the exact feeling that Miles caused when he lay on her each Sunday night. All men must feel the same, she thought. Then, the motion of her finger lent a new sensation to the fullness and Rachel pushed her hips back at the member that impaled her.

"That's it, thrust back against me. It increases your pleasure, does it not? Would you wish me to stop."

At that moment, Rachel thought of herself as little better than Wanda Avery, the short dumpy woman who lived beside the livery stable. It was well known that Wanda would lend her charms to any man for the exchange of what goods or money the man might have. Rachel felt as wanton, and did not care. Her body now directed her actions and controlled her thoughts.

"Yes..., please no."

"No? You do not enjoy this?"

"Yes...please don't stop."

"Very well, but you must rub more firmly."

Rachel cried out when she increased the pressure on her finger. The little nub of flesh had swollen and she accidentally brushed over the tip. Her hips bucked and she cried out again.

"Just keep rubbing. It is almost to end."

Rachel did not hear the whisper. She heard only the pounding in her ears and the moans that forced themselves through her lips. She saw nothing but the flashes of light that burst against her closed eye lids. Her body began to stiffen, and she increased the pressure of her caress once more. The shudder began in her knees and raced to the center of her belly. Her full-feeling passage began to contract. One more brush across the very tip of the button caused her belly to ripple, and Rachel cried out at the surge of release that swept from head to toe.

She stayed in the same position for a moment before realizing the full feeling was gone. The cool, soft hand remained on her shoulder, and she waited for the whisper. It did not come.

Rachel opened her eyes a crack and glanced to the side. A large oak leaf lay draped over the smooth white flesh, the palmate form feeling as fingers against her skin. Another leaf brushed against her breast and tickled the swollen nipple. She gathered the courage to turn around. She was alone in the stream. How had the man managed to appear behind her so silently, and then to leave in the same manner? Rachel felt between her silken lips and found nothing but clean, satin-soft skin. She lifted her hand and inhaled. The odor that Miles always left on her was not there. A glance at the position of the sun spoke the reality of the fatigue-induced dream.