Tempest of LiesChapter 34
- 4 years ago
- 22
- 0
LenaChapter 23 free porn video
Jay’s turn:
It’s summer ... unbearably hot, and this being Louisiana and us being in the middle of a forest full of living, breathing, transpiring trees – humid. Yeah, I know – born in this state. Should be acclimated.
Nope. Hot and miserable, but it’s MY place, and work must get done. I’m looking at my wife puttering about the kitchen and I like how we live. I’m not quite ready to kick back and pay other people to do my work, even though we can certainly afford it. We’ve taken the advice by our coin broker and released a good bit of our stash of ante-bellum gold coins and we stopped just shy of ten million dollars. Most of that’s in investment accounts. We’re not touching principal. The dividends and interest are paying quite well. And there’s a bunch of coins in reserve, some of them are low-grade, valued above bullion value due to their age, for sure, but still useful. Gold doesn’t’ ever sell for nothing.
So I’m out in the mid-morning, hoeing a couple of rows in our garden. Garden? Why not? I know we can drive into town and hit the supermarket and buy just about any imaginable vegetable under the sun, but I’m following in Dad’s footsteps – a home garden is something we should have. My stuff’s better. Summer here is actually hot enough to STOP things from growing – some things, but I know what I can grow, and I know how to space out the plantings so we don’t suffer under a suplus of, say, zucchini, although we’ve hauled many a basket of our produce to church and now our storefront is likely to see a few tubs of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers that mere hours ago were still attached to vines.
I’m becoming very domestic. So’s Lena. I thought the goats would’ve been enough. Wrong. We’ve got chickens. Fresh eggs are nice. I suggested that we incorporate a spare rooster into our diet and I was informed that his name was ‘Little Charlie’ because the flock’s big rooster is named Charlie. Where’s we get a second rooster? Somebody in town thought that raising chickens was a bright idea until the city fathers pointed out a livestock ordinance. We adopted the flock.
I guess I’ll give the spare rooster to Bill. Lena doesn’t ask questions about livestock that Bill takes away. It’s her ‘plausible deniability’ reaction to a city girl living in the country.
Oh, and we’re the aunt and uncle who live in the country, so it’s summer and that means that Lena comes to me and says “Cathy called...”
My sister. She’d rather tslk to Lena, most days. It’s that ‘old, experienced mommy to new mommy-to-be’ thing, so I don’t mind. So, “What’d y’all talk about?”
“They’re gonna come up next Friday evening, leave Saturday evening.”
“Okay. Or they could leave Sunday morning...”
“Maybe. Not written in stone. But we’re keeping the kids for the week. Cathy and Sam’re running off to Vegas for a second honeymoon.”
“Oh, okay...” Not a particularly unpleasant thought, all in all. They’re bright, relatively well-behaved kids. I’m already running down a list of tractor rides and a trip down to the creek. There’s a deep spot that serves as a swimming hole. Lena and I have not only cleaned out a bit of debris, making it user-friendly, but we’ve used it. The creek will mostly dry up in a few weeks of summer, but until then, the deep spot stays cleaned out with the fresh flow. We don’t go skinny-dipping there any more since Lissa moved in next door and Lena told me that SHE goes there.
So now it’s G-rated. Mostly.
I finish my hoeing and head across the yard to the house. Lena meets me on the back porch with a pitcher of lemonade.
“Cool off, muffin,” she says, sitting on the lounge next to me. “You have that place looking like your dad’s...”
“It’s genetic,” I said.
“You got the good genes,” she said. “We;’ll pass ‘em on to little Jimmy.”
Oh, yeah ... miracles of modern technology aside, several of the ladies at church have used various old wives’ tales to determine the sex of our child and decided it’s a boy.
“We don’t know it’s a ‘Jimmy’ yet. Few more weeks, they’ll do a sonogram, then they’ll be able to tell us what color to pain the nursery,” I said.
“It’s a boy,” she said confidently. “I distinctly remember saying ‘All you girl sperm, hold off. I need a boy.’ So if it’s a girl, it’s YOUR fault that your sperm are as hard-headed as the launcher.”
“When, princess, have I been hard-headed, ever since you and I started hanging out together?”
giggle. “I see that look in your eye...” she smiled.
There’s an easy comfort in sex after conception is assured. Lena and I, we’re there. I see changes. The ‘young girl’ conical titties that so enthralled me, they’re beginning to round out subtly, but they’re the set of titties I adore most on the planet, so I notice. And it’s a common thing in the aftermath of happy and purely recreational sex for her to take my hand and place it just above her pubis to see if I notice that change. Two months. Maybe. Maybe not.
Doesn’t matter. She’s beautiful in that natural way I wanted to see a woman – make-up-free, hair pulled into a short ponytail, chambray workshirt and oversized shorts, sweaty and speckled with hay because she thinks I shouldn’t have to do the work all by myself, and...
“The goats say you don’t sit and talk with them,” she told me.
I raised an eyebrow. “I know YOU talk to the goats. They talk back?”
“Sure they do.”
“And we’re having a baby? You’re mental?”
“I commune with nature, sir.”
Indeed she does. Our homestead is a playground for Lena. In the garden, the tomato plants are hers. She and I had looked over seed catalogs. A south-facing window in our house had played the part of nursery for the varieties she chose, planting seeds in little peat blocks to start them, then transplanting her block of tomatoes, big juicy ones for salads, little meaty ones...
“You don’t know the first thing about canning,” I said.
“There’s YouTube. And books. And I remember watching your mom...”
“You couldn’t’ve been ten...”
“Still watched. She showed me because I’d listen...”
In Louisiana, we can put in the spring garden before Easter. If diet makes you live longer, I’ll be freakin’ Methuselah. Overplanting greens means that when you go back and thin them, you end up with a pile of leafy things you’d pay fifteen bucks to eat at some foodie-glitzed eatery in a big city with some light-loafered ‘wait-person’ lisping about ‘an artisan mesclun with a house vinaigrette’. We saw it as a way to make use of the produce from seeds we’d paid for.
Mila
- 03.10.2020
- 20
- 0
Karma Ain t Always a Bitch Ch 05
- 4 years ago
- 36
- 0
Hectic Day Of Work Turned Beautiful In Bus
- 3 years ago
- 20
- 0
