The Farmer 

The farmer's wife and I became close friends during the long winter afternoons while we worked on quilts. The wooden quilting frame her husband and my husband Ralph made the year before Ralph died was set up in her front parlor. The two of us found great solace working in the natural daylight streaming through the parlor windows. We finished twenty-four quilts by ourselves during that ten-year period, and another eight with some of the other ladies who occasionally came around.

It was only natural after she died that I stay on to look after the farmer who had supported me since my husband's death. I usually cooked enough supper for both of us, taking it up to the big house just as he was coming in from the barn.

He didn't keep animals anymore, but he liked to go out to the barn in the afternoon, puttering around, building things he never showed me in the room next to the old woodshed. When it was almost sundown he'd come in and wash up, watching me set the table for the two of us, peering into the pot on the stove, sniffing the hot muffins cooling on the counter.

After I washed up the supper things, I often sat with him a bit before I went back to the tenant house, where I had continued to live after Ralph's death. The farmer usually walked to the back door with me.

One night just as I was saying goodnight he came up to me real close and hugged me. It felt good to me, so I hugged him back. Even though I already had my jacket on for the short walk back home, I could feel his warmth through it. Suddenly I felt his cold hand on my bare back; he'd reached up under my jacket and my blouse to touch my bare skin. Before I realized what was happening, he moved his hand around to the front, and squeezed one of my breasts!

"Why don't you come lie by my side?" he coaxed me, pointing to the living room. "I'd like to play with you some more."

I was surprised, but glad. I followed him into the living room, where we lay together on the couch, kissing and touching. I played with his uncut johnny, trying one thing and another as they popped into my mind. The loose skin felt like I had cream on my hands. My mind and his johnny became one, with my hand in between as the talking tool.

Almost every evening after that we played on his bed. When he got his fill of being touched and stroked, I showed him how to touch me — gently on my breasts in the beginning, but later, firmly between my legs. He delighted in his new-found pleasure of making me feel good.

Eventually we had sex all the way to the finish, and then we began to try different places in the house to experience our passion. We even tried it on his workbench in the workroom next to the shed, and on the old quilting frame, which came crashing down before we got finished!

Now I sleep in the farmer's bed, all night every night.

(from Hunterdon Girl Fantasies)