I like to watch you work. I suppose I’m not supposed to linger near you, cocking my head and watching the muscles flex and regroup across your arms and shoulders.
In summer your shirt drenches with sweat and I can almost see the hair on your chest and under your arms through the coarse material.
Some days it rains and I catch you with your head skywards, cursing the grey clouds, the Lord, but mostly the frugal landowner and his refusal to hire another man to share your heavy load. I heft the basket of firewood higher on my hip, noting the brief, startling throb between my thighs before I pick my way through the mud back to the house.
It rains for five days almost solidly. There are brief respites of sun before the land is sodden again. And you work on, in a heavy oilskin.
Wednesday morning like any other the rain is fine, like icing sugar. I forgo my heavy cloak and boots, insisting that running my errands barefoot will be quicker and have me back at the stove in minutes, rather than the hour it might take otherwise. The farmer’s wife nods and says nothing.
Kindred souls, you have left your yellow coat behind and are working in shirtsleeves once more.
Our eyes are fixed as I approach, closer, closer until I could reach out my arm and feel the very tips of my fingers brush your chest. Your shirt is wet through, and bulges at the arms. I watch you wipe your brow, so close now I can hear the rip as the muscle triumphs over mere cloth. Your skin is brown and taut beneath the translucent white.
I move towards you, my task forgotten, and trace my finger along the frayed edge of the fabric. Only once does the nail graze your biceps and elicits such a sharp intake of breath, I wonder if I have hurt you.
I unbutton your shirt; you rest your chin against my forehead, shielding my eyes from the downpour, intensifying with every minute. The garment discarded, I place my palms flat against your chest. Your heart is racing.
I am thinking how marvellous the sensation of your thatch of hair is under my hand as you reach downwards and your hand travels between my thighs, towards my cunt, sympathetically damp as the weather.
“Il pleur entre mes reins comme il pleut sur la ville.” I say shyly, and though your jaw remains set, your eyes crease in recognition and laughter, your fingers gripping the upper flesh, not venturing further.
“Please.” I whisper, the noise caught on the high winds and the roll of thunder in the distance, surely creeping further.
I lay down in the soft, ravaged field and raise my skirts above my waist, watching you unbutton your britches, releasing yourself; the weapon I felt pressed fast against my belly. Soon you are on your knees before me, your prick in hand, admiring my cunt, framed with fine sable curls, and molten. Before I quite realise it, you have your head closer, your mouth investigating this new terrain, that is also wet and fertile.
Your tongue slips further still, and I squirm into the earth – you grab my wrists and hold me fast, but the animal is awakened now and you raise your head so you can bear down upon me, enter me, as floods rise around us and the rhythm of the rain is your rhythm, our rhythm – endless and borne of silent passion.
You fuck me with fury, but not without care – smoothing my brow and keeping the rain from my eyes as much as you can. When you reach up to grasp my breast through my thin blouse and underthings, it is painful – but when I look down to see the palm print of mud and filth against the pure white, I smile. I smile thinking of the thick mud sucking at my back and thighs as you fuck me, and the white fluid you will expel within me. I smile thinking of tomorrow, when you will fuck me again. Our heads are close, you kiss the bared skin of my throat and I shiver into the mud.
I pull you closer to me and hold you within me as you quicken, your grip on my breast stronger, your thrusts powerful, relentless possessing every inch of my unassuming farm girl’s body.
You begin to buck harder, your mouth is hot and constant against my ear and you moan sweeter than a hummingbird and collapse against my quaking body.
Only then do we realise the rain has stopped.