Sunday at the Lake
by Mr. Nobody
Chrissy has a picnic.


--This is intended for mature readers. Don't read it if you are offended by
explicit descriptions that are often sexually oriented and violent in nature.
Names are totally coincidental. The actions described herein are not endorsed
and would be absolutely unacceptable in reality. This is fiction, folks,
strictly adult-oriented fiction. If you have questions or comments, write:
assigning@aol.com. Thank you.--

It was ten-thirty and Davey sat in his truck, waiting for Chrissy. Sunday
school kids would soon climb the stairs and exit the basement of the small
church. Cars were arriving and parents were picking up kids, or parents were
joining kids for the eleven o'clock service. Davey and Chrissy had already
been at the eight o'clock, and then she stayed to teach Sunday school. Davey
went home. His parent's farm is ten miles outside of town. There he changed
his clothes, gassed up his truck, and then returned to fetch his girlfriend.

She'd be a little late coming out. The teachers have to move the partitions
that are used for Sunday school to make room for the reception that follows
the late service. That's when people congregate to eat cookies and to drink
coffee and weak punch.

Chrissy finally emerged. She's a pretty girl, probably the prettiest at the
local high school. She's tall and extremely athletic. Then again, Davey's no
slouch either, a big, strapping farm boy who stars on the football team. They
make a good couple, Davey and Chrissy do.

She called out to Mrs. Monash in the parking lot. The two talked for just a
moment. The elderly woman was leaving to tend to her ill sister in Cleveland
and Chrissy wanted to put in a kind word. She gave Mrs. Monash a kiss. Then
she waved at her boyfriend and hurried to his truck, sliding across the front
seat to kiss him as well. Her hand clutched a fist full of Sunday school
materials, plus her Bible. She was a conservative dresser today, as she
usually is -- blue, pleated slacks, a cotton sweater with a high collar, and
her favorite dress sandals. She wore pantyhose under her slacks.

She lives only four blocks from church. Her dad stood outside, waiting to go
to the eleven o'clock service, when the two kids arrived. Chrissy ran up to
buss her dad on the cheek and to gush about his roses on the vine. "Hiya, Mr.
Emory," and Davey shouted to him from the front porch. The two then went
inside. Mr. Emory smiled. He was proud of his roses.

Chrissy ran upstairs to change her clothes. Davey stepped over her little
brother, who was on the living room floor watching television, occupying a
strategic spot. He had just come home from Sunday school with a friend. "Hey
squirt," Davey called to him, and ducked the little boy's playful attempt at
tripping him.

In the kitchen, dressed for church, Chrissy's mom finished packing the lunch.
"How's my boy?" and she patted Davey's cheek and kissed the other, stepping up
on her toes to reach the tall boy and Davey stooping down to meet her. "You
kids know where you're going?"

"No. We'll find some place." The plan was for a picnic. They had done this
last week after church, but it had been more spontaneous, without the
sandwiches. This week they decided to go more prepared. It was Mrs. Emory's
idea to pack an entire meal.

"Okay. Well you two be careful, hear me? I added extra sandwiches like Chrissy
asked just in case you run into friends or need to share."

"Thank you," and he leaned to kiss Chrissy's mother on the cheek, taking the
old-fashioned picnic basket from her hand. Then his girl came bounding down
the stairs, the thudding sound of her feet too much for her mother's ears.

"Chrisssseeee, you stop running like that inside the house!"

"Okay, Ma." Chrissy smiled and put her arm around Davey's waist. She wore her
track team warm-up shell and matching pants, the kind that snap up the legs
and the front for easy removal. Underneath were her running shorts and a
school tee-shirt. Davey was in an old lumberjack shirt and jeans.

"It might be getting' cool out there. You have enough?" The mother looked at
her daughter and then to Davey.

He smiled, "Yeah, I have a sweatshirt in the truck. If it gets that cold,
we'll sit in the cab and eat."

"Okay, I'll grab something." Chrissy ran back upstairs for a sweatshirt. With
that, the two kids left, both stepping over the little boy on the living room
floor, waving good-bye to her father out front, and driving off south of town.
Chrissy cuddled next to Davey.

It's called Carter Lake, one of many that dot the foothills. It is a mildly
forested area, but too dry for anything other than evergreens and the
occasional Joshua tree. Carter is spring-fed. Up higher, in the mountains to
the distance, the lakes are volcanic in origin and fed by run-off.

It offers nice scenery, privacy, and, if the Fish Department has done its job,
ample trout. A small road leads to it, a road better suited for a truck like
Davey's. The teenager steered up the rise and down the other side to the lake.
In the distance they could see Mr. Baird's car. "Wow," Davey muttered,
"amazing he got that thing up here."

"Mr. Baird!" Davey shouted as he climbed from his truck. Chrissy waved and
went to the rear of the truck to grab the picnic basket. Davey walked over,
extending his hand for a shake. "Told ya we'd bring lunch."

"My-oh-my. Aren't you kids somethin'!" He was a small man, maybe in his very
late fifties. He lived in the big city, hours away. Three Sundays ago he drove
to this lake to paint and then two weeks ago he met Chrissy and Davey as they
happened by in Davey's truck. The three hit it off. He showed them how he
painted, his equipment, and some minor techniques. The pair expressed interest
in his craft.

"We'd like to watch you do this more. Do you mind?" Chrissy asked. That was
last week.

"I'd love it, but next Sunday's my last." It was then that Chrissy came up
with the idea of coming back today with a picnic lunch for the three of them
-- their way, so to speak, to make up for the intrusion.

Davey and Mr. Baird stood there and talked. "When you said you'd bring some
lunch, well heck, I had no idea." He looked at Chrissy lift the huge picnic
basket from the truck. "What on earth did she do, pack for an army?" The man
laughed. So did Davey.

"No, we've got a picnic quilt in there too. Chrissy's mom packed the lunch, so
you have her to thank. Wait'll you taste her lemonade."

"Well....," moved by the generosity, "I'm very appreciative." He put down his
paint brush and wiped his hands clean with an oily rag. He and Davey walked to
the truck. The grass around the shoreline was tall, so they used a foot trail.

Chrissy spread a large quilt on the soft grass. Fifteen feet ahead of them the
water of the lake lapped the shoreline. The sun was intense and hot, but the
breeze maintained an autumn chill. Each sat on a corner of the quilt in a
triangle of sorts. The basket sat in the center and Chrissy walked to it on
her knees and handed out sandwiches and potato salad. Then she poured fresh
lemonade from a cannister into three tumblers.

"Boy," smacking his lips, "I can't say enough." Chrissy and Davey smiled
appreciatively as Mr. Baird boomed in gratitude.

Davey rolled on his back, staring into the sun with a leg propped on his
elevated knee, bouncing his foot and dipping the remains of sandwich number
one into his mouth. Beyond his feet, Chrissy sat with her legs crossed and a
paper plate balanced on her lap. She ate potato salad with a plastic fork. Mr.
Baird faced both of them, using the top of the picnic basket as a tray for his
plate and drink. The three chit-chatted. Some of the conversation was between
the two kids, personal or family or school conversation. Most of the time all
three talked.

".... and when you finish this one, what's your next picture?

.... you kids grow up here; this your home?

.... rebuilt the engine, oh, two years ago, with my dad; I've got maybe forty
thousand miles on it since then.

.... dad runs a hardware store in town. Mom's a nurse. Nope, dad's the tall
one; I took after him, not mom.

.... well, it's a long story. Sold insurance for years, divorced, moved out
here, let's see, in 1970 and retired just two years ago.

.... oh, I don't know, Mom and dad want me to do something other than farm.
Depends if I get a football scholarship.

.... I run track. Just ask Davey. I can whup his rear! I used to do
gymnastics, but I quit.

.... for relaxation -- son, I paint for pure relaxation. And, no, I never sold
one. This one's going to a neighbor.

.... yeah, Davey won't admit it, but I'm faster than he is.

.... never was much of an athlete. My daughter played tennis in college. I
have another daughter, but she's not much into sports.

.... don't listen to a word she says, Mr. Baird. She may be buff, but she
ain't THAT good. He-he!"

Casual, aimless conversation. Peeks into personal lives. The enchanting ways
of two kids jousting in mild competition.

Davey rolled onto his stomach. "Oh, Jeez, am I ever full." He placed his hands
under the side of his face, as a pillow. Mr. Baird scooped up more potato
salad. Chrissy got up and grabbed the camera from the cab and stood over her
boyfriend and took a picture of him, and then one of Mr. Baird swallowing some
potato salad.

"Mind, Mr. Baird?" She handed him the camera.

Chrissy lowered and sat on her haunches, her knees touching Davey's head. She
reached forward and massaged his shoulders, the heat of the sun and the
fullness of his stomach nearly sending him to sleep. "Oh my, babe, don't stop.
That feels so nice.... so nice."

She smiled as Mr. Baird took a picture of them. "He loves this. My hands are
strong." She looked back at her beau, down his long body.

Mr. Baird chewed and took a deep breath of relaxation through his nostrils. He
watched Chrissy for a moment, then the boy. "You asleep, Davey?" but the boy
did not reply. Mr. Baird then wiped a dollop of mayonnaise from his shirt.
Then he took another picture.

"Almost." Davey's delay indicated his stupor from being massaged in the hot
sun. Chrissy stopped and slapped her hands on her thighs, and stood.

"Okay, buster. Enough." She took the camera and put it in the truck. Then she
began picking up plates and putting used utensiles in a plastic bag, working
her way around the quilt, bending over for this, for that. Davey rolled on his
side and propped himself on his elbow to talk to Mr. Baird as Chrissy went
about her way to and fro, taking the basket to the truck and returning with
three plates full of chocolate cake.

Mr. Baird's eyes grew wide. The man went on and on about the food. Chrissy
kneeled down on the quilt with her plate to her face and dug into the cake.
Davey played with his, running his fork through the icing. He looked up at
Chrissy, "Wanna rub me some more?"

"Heck no." She laughed, regarding his request as silly. "One massage is
enough, lunkhead. Eat your cake and consider yourself lucky I even massaged
you at all." Her playfully stern response earned a friendly stare from Mr.
Baird. She turned to him, pointing to Davey with a hitchhiker's thumb, "Can
you believe this guy?"

Davey smiled at Mr. Baird. "Yup, guess she's right. I should consider myself
lucky. Last thing I want is her gettin' mad at me. I'd be afraid she'd break
my neck with those hands."

"Come on, Davey! Really. You make me sound like some sort of beast in front of
Mr. Baird." Then her head nodded Davey's way as she whispered loudly to Mr.
Baird about her boyfriend, "He's just jealous. I can take him any day."

Davey overheard it. "Yeah, yeah, you and what army?" He shook his head and
winked at Mr. Baird with that one.

"See, Mr. Baird, see what I have to put up with?" She got up and put her plate
into a trash bag and placed the bag in the truck bed. Then she walked around
the quilt. Mr. Baird still worked on his cake, as did Davey on his.

Chrissy stood behind Mr. Baird. She looked down at him. Her head cocked, as if
contemplation had set in. She towered over the little man. He seemed so small
to her. Davey saw this happening and put his plate on the quilt, sitting up,
intrigued. Chrissy ignored Davey. Her mouth dropped open a tad and the lazy
smile and the unfocused gaze suggested a dream, or better, an urge. Her eyes
glanced by Davey even though Baird remained on her mind. She looked back down
on the man, and her right eyebrow arched.

She unsnapped the top button of her nylon shell, lifting her face and staring
off into the distance. Davey found her incredibly sensual to watch, even if
she still ignored him. Her mouth fell open and her jaw swayed slowly back and
forth. Davey felt a warm rush through his body. She used both hands. They
looked strong as she gripped the front of her shell. She stopped before
unsnapping the second one and made two fists that became tools to open her
shell, her jaw stopping as the snap popped, then swaying again. Then, the same
routine and the next snap, each snap some sort of escalation. Tugging, her big
eyes peering down her nose at Mr. Baird as the snap popped open to the barely
audible sound of a grunt, "Unnnnh." She spread her feet and shifted weight on
her hips, rocking them suggestively, the slick material of her pants making a
"zip-zip-zip" sound as her legs moved against each other. She slid opposing
fists to the next snap, "UNNNNGH!" and grunted more loudly, more invitingly.
She looked at Mr. Baird as if she didn't have any feelings about him.

She paused. The man was oblivious to what was going on to his rear. "Mr.
Baird, you look like you need a rub," her lower jaw rocking somewhat
insolently. She let the sides of her shell flap in the breeze. "Huh, Mr.
Baird, you need a rub?" speaking again.

Mr. Baird smiled in a way that more or less ignored her remarks, smoothing the
icing with his fork, then licking his fork. Belatedly, he responded, but only
after nodding at his cake plate. "Naaaah, Chrissy.... gotta get back to my
work." He scraped the plate one more time, licking his fork and pulling it
slowly from his mouth.

Chrissy let her chest swell and her shoulders roll back so the shell could
slide off her arms. Davey really enjoyed how good she looked, her sassy way
now, her lips puckering as she stared at the man. Her lips pursed, her sensual
smile pulling until her teeth were bared and gently bit down on her lower lip.
Davey felt his penis stiffen as he watched the shell flap in the breeze, her
arms reaching back behind her to let it catch in the wind and parachute to the
tall grass.

Her shoulders are broad and shapely, moreso than any other girl in school. She
knows it. At lunchtime she sits across from Davey in the cafeteria and her
legs reach under the table to discretely grab his feet, her toes playing with
his sock. She looks over his shoulder at Jennie Williams and then looks back
at Davey's face. She makes a comparison between herself and the completely
unathletic Jennie, a comparison so unfair it is sexy to hear. Her facetious
question about who has the best body or the best shoulders, her or the puny
Jennie Williams, makes Davey's erection so big he cannot think of how to
return to class without being noticed. Her toes pinch and pull on his sock.

Mr. Baird worked on his icing. "Say, Davey, who teaches art at your school?"
Davey ignored the irrelevant question and watched his girl sink to her knees
closely behind the man and place her hand gently on his shoulder.

"Nope." At the slightest sensation of Chrissy's touch, Mr. Baird smiled and
dipped his shoulder away. He did so courtesouly, without alarm. "No, Chrissy,
you don't need to...."

"Oh, just a small ruhhhhb! Davey likes it. Come on." She played hurt with her
voice, a plaintive voice.

"No," again dipping his shoulder at her second touch. A movement, a facial
expression, a tone now suggesting his mild irritation with her insistence. "As
much as I COULD use one, thanks anyway." He nodded to her boyfriend, "Do him
again."

"She means well, Mr. Baird," Davey said seriously, offering a reassurance that
nothing was wrong, that it was okay with him. "Heck, I don't mind. Let her if
she wants. Besides.... feels great!"

"Come on. I won't bite!" Her hand rested on his shoulder. It was a light touch
she applied.

Mr. Baird said nothing and sat up, acquiescing. She gently began a not so
terribly penetrating massage on his collarbones. "See," and Davey raised his
eyebrows as he spoke to Mr. Baird, "feels good, doesn't it?" Baird sat higher
to accommodate Chrissy, to keep her from having to lean forward so much.

"DAMN! MOTHER ALMIGHTY!" He jolted as if hit by lightning, his shoulders
lunging in unison, his body turning left and then right, and then left and
then right again to somehow, someway, break free of her.

But she kept her grip, sinking her fingers into soft, vulnerable shoulders.
She pinched hard, digging, not letting up, falling forward onto his back as he
attempted to crawl away on all fours, screaming wildly at her, "LET GO! LET GO
OF ME!"

Chrissy squeaked sadistic pleasure, her mouth falling open at how fun it was.
She tightened more. It began to feel good. She rode his back, rubbing herself
against him.

"What? What, Mr. Baird? That hurt, Mr. Baird?" She winked at Davey.

"DAMMIT, GET OFF! Why are you.... PLEASE, OH that.... tha.... hurts!"

Her smile was snotty. "How's that, Mr. Baird?" She bit her lower lip as her
strong hands pushed him down and buckled his elbows. She drove his head into
the quilt, piledriving him several times. Taunting, belittling, playing. "And
that, Mr. Bairrrrd, that hurt? Huh, Mr. BAIRRRRD?" Her hands twisted his weak
muscles and small bones.

"Yeah, what's wrong, my girl hurtin' you?" and Davey's impudent complicity
weighed in.

Her arm snaked the neck quickly, and decisively. A nasty shit-grin turned into
his ear, biting at his lobe. "Like that, fuckhead, huh?" and she jerked his
neck with a powerful crimping movement, her teeth tugging his ear, her lips
spreading.

She straightened up on her knees. Her right arm yanked his neck and pulled his
head up her side, and then let him slide down a tad, and then yanked and
pulled him again. She had good technique. Shoulders square and wide, the
teenage girl one-armed the man with absolute control, muscling him easily. It
aroused her.

He couldn't get his feet under himself to leverage against her. His legs
stretched out too far and never achieved traction on the quilt. His mistake
was in not reaching up to slap at her, to claw at her face, to pull on her
hair. Instead, he grabbed the arm in a fruitless attempt to pry it. Two hands
simply couldn't do it. It was pathetic. It was erotic. She stared into the
distance as he struggled cloyingly, finding him tedious. She tightened more.

Davey was nearly catatonic as his girl unleashed. His head tilted back, his
eyes half-lidded, and his pelvis bucked as his hand rubbed his jeans, things
happening too fast to unzip and masturbate skin on skin.

She was expressionless, arrogantly triumphant, her mouth wide, moaning as she
breathed. Her arm was relentless and worked the neck back and forth, up and
down, Baird's tongue rolling out puffy-like, his stare glassy-eyed and
unfocused, his defenses useless. The man reached for help, his fingertips
wiggling at Davey to make contact, "I-I beyyy-beyyyg, pleee.... pulllleeeez,"
but Davey only sat and watched the face slowly turn dark.

Her moans became deeper, huskier. She grabbed her fist with her free hand and
pumped Baird, pulling his head to her right breast, her mouth inches from his
scalp, her eyes studying the technique she applied. The grip vibrated her
face. "He's easy, Davey," staring at the top of Baird's head. Her bravura made
Davey's penis sting. She watched her arm with a feint smile, "See how easy?"
and she pumped. A sexy contrast between her brawn and his furrowed facial fat,
his lips fish-puckering and his spit bubbling, her arm an anaconda growing
stronger by the moment.

She moaned with hunger. "I think I'm gonna break him, Davey," her face riveted
to the man's plight, her arm jerking the neck to underscore just how easily
she could do it, "and when I do, Davey, I want you to cum for me. I want lots
of it."

She makes Davey cum alot when they are alone and beyond suspecting eyes. The
two are a known pair at school, but not the syrupy, public-type couple you see
hanging on each other at every social event. No, Chrissy is the sweet girl,
the good girl, the model girl. She's a girl who saves it for when she's alone
with Davey. You wouldn't know this Chrissy at school, at church, or at the
hospital.

After school is usually inconvenient. Davey has football and she has track
practise or work at the hospital with the elderly. The best time is after
church on Sundays, after she gets out of Sunday school. They can park for an
hour or two. Chrissy plants her foot on the steering wheel with her back to
the door, pulling up her skirt as her legs spread, and Davey can't control
himself. Maybe she sticks her foot in his face and makes him suck her toe, or
maybe she makes him lean forward and lick her shapely legs. He slides his neck
down her spitty skin, down to her panties. "I can break your neck." Her thighs
close on Davey and hold him until he cums for her.

One Sunday she holds him there, "So, how'd I look next to Blevins?" she coos,
asking as he nuzzles his nose into her crotch. She went to the front of Ms.
Blevins's class on Thursday and wrote a verse on the board, reaching up,
standing on her toes. Ms. Blevins stood there and read the verse aloud,
oblivious as ever. Davey looked at both of them, Chrissy on her toes, writing
away, and Ms. Blevins, a nice woman, but a scrawny woman so pitifully
outclassed. Chrissy looked so hot and healthy next to her, Davey leaked at his
desk.

Well.... remembering how Chrissy looked makes Davey nuzzle his nose harder
against her mound. She lets him sit up and spurt on the dashboard. He pulls
down his pants quickly and turns sideways so she can calf-fuck him, pointing
her feet to flex and slapping her calves against his football star organ. Her
legs go up and down, making him flow like lava, making her skin slippery,
gooey. Chrissy rocks her jaw for him the way that drives him nuts and rocks it
to the rhythm of her leg movements, her eyes drinking his semen, her chest
releasing a deep contralto of self-indulgence, "Ooooh, I love cum."

Chrissy stood looking down on the suffering painter who, by now, had assumed a
fetal position with his hands clasping at his throat. Clipping her heel on her
toe, she popped off her sandal, and then the other. She reached down, her eyes
never leaving Baird, and ripped open the snaps on both of her pant legs, then
untying the string around her waist and letting her warm-up pants drop to her
ankles. She kicked them away with a sweep of her left foot.

Wild, amazingly wild calves on the girl. Legs that drive Davey crazy, or any
sane male. It's often an impediment to normal behavior, so Chrissy usually
keeps herself in pants or slacks, exercising self-restraint when around
others. Most of the time.

Her best friend, a life-long friend, WAS sweet Betsy Truitt. Betsy WAS Davey's
girl. Chrissy bums a ride from Davey one day. She's almost sickeningly
dangerous in a skirt, a skirt that rides up her curvy legs as she turns and
faces Davey. Poor Davey, he can barely keep his truck on the road. "Something
wrong, Davey?" She stares at Davey's sweaty brow. "Doesn't Betsy have legs?"
Davey's never been alone with someone this quality. As the ashened boy drops
Chrissy at her house, he has to drive home in the winter air with his window
rolled down to dry his pants. He's never had to do this before, but it becomes
commonplace thereafter with Chrissy.

With her calves casually laced around Baird's neck that way, well.... it was
something almost too much for Davey to handle. A castrato would get a hard-on
seeing her sitting like that, looking that way, so preparatory to something,
so frighteningly dominant, her legs slowly serpentining him, playing, her look
so terribly indifferent.

Davey sat near her feet. She looked back and forth between him and Baird,
sometimes snapping tight on the man, sometimes allowing a grunt to accompany
the cadence of her pulsating constrictions, sometimes showing off by pressing
her calf on the face to show how much her muscle spread.

It was a slip-scissors. She slid her right shin under the back of his neck
with his face staring vacantly at the sky. Her left calf pushed down on his
forehead and bent his neck around her shin, pulling his mouth open in the
process. She amplified by elevating her shin, her top leg capitalizing on the
extra downward travel of his head.

Davey watched her calf flow across the forehead and eyes and nose, her feet
clasping together to form a fulcrum. A slightly dismissive smirk, the kind
designed to register nonchalance, automaticity. She never watched Baird. She
watched Davey instead.

Clean, steady, as if needing no rehearsal, as if preternaturally disposed to
this, she straightened her top leg and bent Baird backwards and down. Chrissy
peeked at her leg and gave out a sexy squeak, licking the bottom ridge of her
upper teeth. She looked very smug.

"Get over here!" she snarled at Davey. He scurried on his knees, nestling
himself as close as possibe to her, unzipping his pants with worry it might be
too late. It wasn't.

She was remorseless. She released her top leg and pushed the flat of her foot
down on his forehead. She pushed until the man's neck was so distended his
Adam's Apple stood like a big knuckle underneath the skin of his throat. She
stared straight into Davey's face as she pushed, seeing if Davey could take it
as much as she certainly could, seeing if it turned Davey on as much as it did
her. She had an evil smile and pushed until the pop in the neck made the man
shudder before quickly falling quiet. Her foot then began making sharp thrusts
against the head.

Her breathing intensified, working the broken neck as if working herself to
some climax. Her eyes closed, speaking while gulping air, "Cum.... cum on-on
my le-legs!" Davey blew gizz everywhere, splattering her tee-shirt and Baird
below. He moved his pelvis to aim at her thrusting leg. Eyes still closed, she
reached down, seeing by feeling, her hand spreading it around her skin. Her
upper lip curled like a nasty girl feeling good about herself, her face
cringing at the hot sting of arousal, her moans those of an indulgent brat.

Chrissy sits on Davey's truck tailgate twenty minutes later, her legs swinging
in the wind. She works on a second piece of cake and pulls the fork slowly
from her mouth. She extends her leg and stares at her calf. "Your cum's not
dry, even yet."

Davey asks her if it will remain on Baird's face and shirt. Chrissy studies
her skin, not paying much attention to Davey, rubbing herself with her
fingertip. "Mmmmm, still sticky."

"Chrisssseeee, what about him?" His anxiety shows.

She hops off the tailgate and walks over to Baird, dragging him by the arms to
the shore. She lowers him face down in the shallow water to obscure any
evidence. Davey watches her place her foot on the back of the head and press
it into the soft mud. "Well....?" she asks, looking up as the ball of her foot
twists back and forth. She steps on him, waving her arms to balance herself,
his head eventually sinking below the surface. She stands there balancing
herself while the big toe on her other foot skirts like a water nymph.
"Satisfied now?" nonchalantly, smiling at her toe playing about, not really
interested in Davey's worries.

They return to her house by five and Chrissy slumps against Davey in the cab
of the truck. "Seven-thirty? School?"

"I'll be here." You have mud on your foot, by the way."

Chrissy looks at her ankle and rubs the dried mud. "Let's check my front." She
pulls the snaps apart on her jacket. Both of them stare at the large splotches
across her school insignia. "No mud, no blood," pausing, lifting her head and
licking her lips, "just cum." She giggles and scrunches her nose, "Lots of
it!"

Chrissy slides out the cab and sticks her head back inside the window. "Mom
doesn't know what it is anyway." Davey watches her shapely butt swagger to the
door of her house. He hits the accelerator and drives home, again with the
wind blowing on his pants.

Inside, she helps her mother with dinner. Later that evening, she uses a
tweezers to remove a rose thorn from her dad's thumb. Her brother brings her a
homework problem for help. She combs his delicate hair when she's done. Then
she goes to bed and reads. She turns off the light and slides under the cool
sheets. Her fingers rub her shin. She picks at it and the crusty cum flakes
off. She sleeps like a rock.