No Controlling Legal Authority

"Hay loft," he croaked and pointed toward a narrow ladder some distance away that led upward through another, smaller opening in the loft flooring.

"Come on," she urged him, and he followed as she sprinted to the base of the ladder. She began to climb, and he fell in behind her, putting his hands on the rungs above him, as her feet lifted from them. He looked up to assess their progress and was thrilled by the site of the rounded slopes of her butt flexing and rolling above him as she climbed. He quickly followed her through the opening and stepped off the ladder to her side.

"Gosh, this is awesome," she giggled when he joined her on the landing that was surrounded by mountains of hay bales.

It was a tiny, cleared space with barely enough room for the two of them to stand, and he had to press his body tightly against her just to keep from falling into the hole he had just climbed through. She turned to give him more room, and he stepped behind her and instantly he felt her lush, soft curves melting into his body. She leaned backward, toward him, pressing her back to his chest, and her jeans caressed his groin as she ground her buttocks against the front of his pants. The contact, inadvertent though it appeared to him to be, sent a wave of disequilibrium surging through his body, and he threw his arm around her waist to prevent himself from tumbling through the open hatchway. She turned her head quickly, smiling at him over her shoulder, and the motion brought to him the sweet scent of her hair. His intoxication was instantly complete; the pressure of her body against his, the eager, open invitation of her smile, the scent of her delicate nectar made him drunk with unfamiliar, untried excitation, and he staggered under the weight of his burgeoning emotions. An odd, burning sensation filled his belly, and the tops of his thighs tingled with a spreading warmth. A strange, unsettling compulsion seized him, and he tightened his arm around the girl's waist, pulling her closer against the source of his heat.

Sheer, vertical walls of baled straw surrounded them and towered above them nearly to the roof rafters far above. There was scant space in their little chamber on which to stand, much less to sit or lie down, and she tossed a doubtful look at him over her shoulder.

"I can't move in here, Caleb," she complained when she felt his pressure from behind.

"Through there," he said pointing over her shoulder to an insignificant looking gap in the straw walls that her hurried examination had failed to detect.

"There?" she questioned, and she stooped to peer down the length of the narrow crevice. It would be a tight fit, she thought dubiously, barely fifteen inches wide, but she could see a reassuring patch of bright sunlight way down at the end of the crevasse.

"Yeah," he said, "through there."

"What's that light coming from," she asked uncertainly, thinking for a minute that he was leading her out of the barn and back to her parents.

"That's just the door at the end of the loft, where we bring in the hay; we're not going that far."

He stepped in front of her and took her hand. Turning his shoulders parallel to the walls, he inched himself into the tunnel and pulled her in behind him.

The interlocking hay bales pressed against her front and back and loomed above her to the rafters. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic and laughed nervously, "This is just like Fat Man's Squeeze in Mammoth Cave back home."

"Keep going," he urged, tugging her hand. "We're almost there."

She wriggled a few feet further, and then, abruptly, the corridor widened, and she was relieved to see that, for a short distance anyway, many of the bales had been removed and those that remained had been formed into a kind of stairway that led to the uppermost reaches of the hay stack.

"See?" Caleb said as he stepped up onto the lowest bale. "We can't fill the loft completely, or there'd be no way to get on top to get the hay down to the animals. So, we build a stairway with hay bales, and we can get up there and drop the bales down through the opening in the floor over there, whenever we need to."

"You climb up there?" she asked skeptically, staring into the darkness at the distant top of the stack. Pinpoints of light randomly pierced the tin roof where the metal had rusted through and gave the effect of a starlit evening sky.

"Sure, it's easy," he answered readily, demonstrating his confidence by stepping onto the next higher bale, where he turned and tendered his hand to her. "Come on up. It's really stable; we interlock the bales when we stack them, so's there is no danger of them toppling."

Together they climbed the towering mountain of hay toward the roof. She could feel the heat building as they neared the top, and the air was becoming stifling. She was close to breathless and was about to complain, when he stopped on the step just below a shallow ledge. The ledge was a couple of bales deep and three or four bales long, and it was impossible to see until she had climbed right up to it.

"Here we are," he said a little out of breath himself.

"What's this for?" she queried. She could discern little purpose to the variation in the arrangement of the bales.

"Me and the boys built it last fall while we were puttin' the hay up. Made us a place to take a nap when nobody's lookin. There's plenty of room for three of us to lay down and sleep a little without anybody missing us."

"It's perfect," she said in a sultry voice, and she turned to face him. A fine sheen of perspiration covered her face and arms, and her skin tingled with excited anticipation.

He blushed anew and tried to think of something mature to say, but his wits had already deserted him. He had exhausted his resources just thinking of a place to take her, and he had no idea of what was expected of him when he got her there.

"I, uh," he began, reaching uncertainly for her, but she fended him off with a throaty laugh and a toss of her head.

"Sit down," she said and pushed him gently toward the ledge. "You want me to show you mine first, don't you?"

He backed into the low stack of bales and sat down heavily when his knees bumped the straw and buckled under him. He nodded his head and then gaped at her in awe as she reached behind her back and began untying her halter-top. She watched him watching her and in seconds she had untied the narrow ends of her top and was lifting it over her head. He gulped in astonishment at her brazenness as she slipped her top off and tossed it into his lap. Her pert, smallish breasts were milky white, almost pearlescent in the dim light, and he thought they were the most beautiful breasts he had ever seen. A film of perspiration had made them shiny, and she inclined her head toward her chest and blew on them, one after the other, too cool her hot skin, and her nipples puckered and stiffened immediately in her wind. She grinned wickedly, because his mouth had dropped open, and he was staring at her breasts like he hadn't ever seen one before, which she knew wasn't far off the mark, and she moved her hands to the clasp of her jeans and unfastened the button at her waist. His eyes followed her fingers like the children followed the Pied Piper, and he nearly fell from his perch when she unzipped her jeans and flashed him with a glimpse of her lacy pink panties.

He sat like a stone statue on the ledge of soft straw and watched as she hooked her thumbs into the waist of her jeans and began to wiggle her hips to help her shuck her jeans like she was shedding an outgrown skin. She was bending over and pushing her pants down, and all he could see was the top of her head and the points of her breasts dangling down, but then, she shook her butt again, and, suddenly, her jeans were sliding down the smooth columns of her legs toward her knees. He twitched his head to get a better view, but it didn't help, and he was too nervous to move further for fear that she might notice him and put her clothes back on. Her jeans were just to her ankles when she staggered unsteadily.

"Damn, I forgot to take off my shoes," she yelped, straightening to regain her balance.

He was dumbstruck and dumbfounded. He had never seen a naked girl, live and up close, before, but there she was, beautiful and naked, or nearly so, with her pants around her ankles, and her lush curves bared and on display for him. He gulped and felt the hot coil of anxiety in his belly tightening, and he was at once eager and delighted, but he was confused and frightened, too.

She giggled at her predicament and reached out for his hand. "Caleb, give me a hand while I take my shoes off, would you?"

He jerked toward her and grabbed her hand. She was standing next to him, close by, close enough to touch, to smell, to feel her presence in the short hairs on the back of his neck and the proximity of her overwhelmed him.

"Thanks," she grinned sheepishly as she took his hand, and, clinging to him for balance, she quickly stripped off her tennis shoes without troubling to untie them. Then, she looked straight at him, fearlessly, without a wisp of self-consciousness, and, tightening her grip on his hand, she bent, and, lifting one leg at a time, she pulled her jeans off and dropped them on the hay by his feet.

He watched her in stunned silence, the meaning and purpose of the events he was witnessing barely registering, and he was lost in the splendor of her nudity. She was still holding his hand, when she straightened up, and it occurred to him that, for the first time in his life, he was touching a naked woman. His heart raced and the hot rush of his blood throbbed in his throat so insistently that he feared for a minute that he might strangle on his own pulse.

She pulled him toward her and pressed the back of his hand against the soft, white skin of her belly, and he could feel the indentations her jeans had made in her flesh. She was hot to the touch and damp with perspiration, and she closed her eyes and moved his hand with hers to caress the slippery expanse of her tummy. She moved slowly, swaying to some primal rhythm, as she used him to stroke herself, and he let his arm go limp so as not to interfere with her desire. Her hand rose as though directing him toward her breasts, and his breath caught in his throat. He blinked and gulped and stared at her breasts, hoping against hope that she wouldn't stop the progress of his hand, although he had no clear plan for what to do if she took him there.

He was fascinated by her breasts and, most especially, by the revelation of the tantalizing shape and texture of her nipples. They were tiny cones of soft pink, nearly the color of her tongue, and not at all like the huge, flat, dark disks that covered a third of the breast like he had seen in the girlie magazines. No, no, hers were little pear-shaped breasts that sloped upward and terminated in tiny points at the tips of her little rounded nipples. He had been intrigued before by breasts just like them in his father's poorly secreted collection of Louis Icart erotic etchings. And, when he looked closely, leaning toward her while her eyes were still shut, he could see that her nipples had puckered and hardened, and he could sense the eager tension in her tissues, but he dared not act upon his observations. Unfamiliar, foreign urges surged through his young body; his eyes drank in the exquisite beauty of her upturned breasts, and his mouth watered hungrily for the taste of her pears.

"You have nice hands," she said softly, lifting his hand from her body and rolling it over with her own. She had opened her eyes and had caught him staring at her breasts. He was confused, bewildered, and, worst, afraid that she had become angry with him for looking at her. He nearly gagged in disappointment, when she moved his hand away, and he could almost feel tears of frustration filling his eyes.

"I like a man with nice hands. Yours are strong but gentle; they're not hard and callused like some are, that hurt you when they touch you or go up inside of you." She spoke in nearly a whisper, and he strained to hear her despite the deep silence in the barn, and, while she spoke, her fingers stroked his fingers and palm as though she was measuring him for a glove. He caught the words "inside you" and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. Thoughts, delirious daydreams in the main, swirled in his brain, and his fingers twitched under her touch.

"Your hands wouldn't hurt me, would they, Caleb?" she whispered coyly.

He shook his head emphatically. He didn't have a clue what he would do to her with his hands, but hurting her certainly wasn't one of the possibilities that suggested themselves to him.

"If I let you put your fingers inside me, you'll be gentle, won't you?" she asked softly while stroking his extended finger suggestively and studying his reaction.

He could scarcely trust his ears to hear her words correctly. The barn was spinning crazily, tilting on a weird axis and bringing him swiftly to the brink of collapse. The lurid eroticism of her words jolted him, and he reeled in sickening excitation. She was offering herself to him, to HIM, for God's sake; offering herself and telling him she was going to let him touch her, feel her, do things to her, before he had even asked, as if he could ever have asked someone so beautiful for so great a gift, and the awesome promise of her offer shook him to his roots. A wave of heat flashed through his face and chest, and it was followed in the next instant by the rush of the blood draining from his head and a cold, clammy feeling nearly like the dread of impending doom. His chest constricted, his lungs refused to expand, and he felt overwhelmed by breathlessness. Inadequate, unworthy, insignificant, the words sprang out of the confusion in his mind like wood nymphs conjured up by wicked witches to remind him of his shortcomings. He gulped for air and gaped as she made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and slipped it, like a ring, back and forth on his finger.

"You wouldn't hurt me, even if I let you put your finger in me this deep, would you, Caleb?" She spoke with a husky voice that was thick with sexual tension, and she slid the circle of her fingers down to where his finger joined his hand as she breathed the last few words.

He stared at her circling fingers in slack-jawed wonder and worked his lips to respond, but his words, had he any, he knew, would have perished in a meaningless gurgle in his throat. He was speechless and nearly thoughtless. He was but a captive sprite, a slave to her whims and pleasures. He was hers to do with as she pleased, and he would endure her pleasure willingly. She held him now; as surely as his hand lay in hers, she held his heart and soul in thrall to her will. She could be pitiless or kind, sweet or cruel, as her needs directed her, and he would abide her desires.

Time slowed to a stop. He could see the barn from the outside like in a painting with the sun suspended over its shimmering roof, perpetually in the two o'clock position. Pigeons roosting on the rafters above hushed their cooing and billing and settled in the high reaches to observe. Far below, in the stalls, the mares and colts, the fillies and the geldings ceased their neighing and pawing and fell silent. An air of hushed expectation hung over the barn, waiting, trembling, shivering with excited anticipation as Diane's fingers worked their suggestive magic on the boy.

"Or, like this?" she said with an even more sultry smile, and her thumb and four fingers closed around his two middle fingers like a sleeve, and she squeezed his fingers with her hand in a rhythmic milking motion.

He was sweating, of course, and trembling, and patches of perspiration were beginning to appear on his shirt. Beads of perspiration were gathering on his forehead and temples, and he brushed them away with the back of his arm and blinked to flush the sting from his eyes. He stared at her hand holding his fingers and foggily shook his head. His groin burned and throbbed disquietingly, and, between his legs, he felt a sudden, insistent, unexpected urge, almost like he needed to pee.

"No, no, I won't hurt you, I swear," he promised, and he fidgeted hopefully on his bench.

"Don't forget; you promised," she smiled, taking a step closer.

"I know, I know," he replied with his head nodding in confirmation.

"Do you like my breasts?" she asked without releasing his hand.

He nodded; his promise not to damage her had exhausted his vocabulary for the moment.

"They're sort of small, I know, but they are really firm, see?" and she placed his hand directly on her breast so he could judge it for himself.

Oh, Lord, he thought as his hand settled timorously on her breast. His fingers skated in the film of her perspiration like feathers floating on still water and barely indented her skin. The soft pads of his fingertips burned with the nuclear fires of discovery.

She arched her back, lifting her breasts toward him, and let him grapple with his ignorance for a moment. Then, she took his hand in hers and positioned it beside her breast with his thumb beneath and his fingers above the tender cone.

"There," she said when she had him properly placed. "Now squeeze it a little and feel how firm it is."

He pressed his fingers into her flesh, gently, of course, and was amazed at the resilience of her tissue. Smooth, incredibly soft skin concealed dense, firm flesh that resisted compression like his biceps did when he flexed his muscles, and he was intrigued by the texture of her. He pressed into her flesh, and she sighed in pleasure at his touch.

"Yes, that's it, Caleb, that's nice," she murmured as he kneaded her flesh.

He squeezed her tighter and her nipple poked toward him through the closing ring of his fingers. It darkened as his grip compressed her breast, forcing the blood into the tip.

"Oh, Caleb," she gasped quietly, "do both of them like that."

He reached for her instantly and seized her with eager talons, pouncing on her upturned titties like a hawk taking a rabbit. His hands closed on her slippery flesh, fingers curving, clinging, thumbs lifting, and she clasped her hands behind her neck and turned her face upward toward the starry blackness above her, while the boy fumbled toward the loss of his innocence.

"Touch my nipples, too," she urged. "They're sooooo sensitive."

He groped her, covering her nipples with his palms in an attempt to comply, and continued his massage from the front. The hard points of her nipples scraped his palms. He pressed her awkwardly, flattening her cones against her chest, hoping to please her.

"No, " she corrected him patiently, "do it like this," and she demonstrated with her own fingers how to take her nipple and hold it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Now, you do it," she said, removing her hand and replacing it with his.

She studied his fingers for a moment, satisfying herself that he understood, and then, she put her hands again behind her neck and looked away. She stood motionlessly, outwardly unresponsive, while he held her nipple lightly and assimilated this new tactile experience, and she let him find his way alone for the time being.

He copied what she had showed him and took her nipples between his fingers. Rubbery, he thought, almost stiff, and they reminded him of the tension in his penis when he became aroused looking at the pictures. Her puckered pink flesh peeked at him from between his pressing fingers, and he held her, uncertain as to how to proceed.

Diane savored the boy's novice, tentative touches with a relish that belied her own tender years. His fingers tripping timidly over her skin was thrilling her beyond her wildest imagination. She was starved for more, but he could give her only what she asked him for or showed him how to do, and his reticence was the catalyst for the accelerating combustion in her loins. She adored his stammering innocence and his halting progress toward maturity. She loved the control his inexperience gave her over him and his capitulation to instruction, but most of all, she was consumed by the certainty of his virginity. The slender fingers nipping at her nipples had touched no other, ever, and the sensations, the thrills, the wonder those fingers were experiencing were as new and pure as the morning mist on bluegrass, and that knowledge flooded her with a rapturous yearning.