Welcome to Part 2 of my The Fertile Lands series! This is the story of Adelaide, mother to Henry and Clara. It can be read as a stand alone story. If you enjoy this story and have not done so already, please read Part 1: We Grow With Milk and Honey.
Happy reading!
Trigger warning: There is a very brief mention of child death. Skip the last page if this is something that triggers you.
ADELAIDE
Intro:
I bit down on his leather belt trying to stifle my wails so as not to wake our sleeping child. My hands reached out ahead of me and gripped the edge of our sturdy dining table, my swollen womb pressing into the solid wood.
Large, familiar, calloused hands dug into my fleshy hips, holding me steady as he impaled me from behind with his large cock. I had been in this position innumerable times before, on this very table and in many places around our homestead. I relished the way he groaned when I bent over for him, the way his cock penetrated the deepest parts of my core.
As his semen rushed up his shaft and into my fruitful womb, I once again felt bathed in his love. A love so pure and complete that I could never bear to live without it, now that I have known it time and time again.
He showered my back with gentle kisses as his hands wrapped around my bulging belly, comforting our unborn child. I pushed up off the table, his cock slipping from me, and wrapped my arms around his thick neck. He lavished my shoulder, my neck, with the sweetest little nips as he moved his hands up to my milk-laden breasts.
"I love you, my precious Addie. I could never express just how much I do."
I smiled and turned my face to meet his mouth, kissing him deeply. My husband by only our decree, my one and only love.
I dropped my hands from his neck and caressed my rounded belly. "I know, sweet uncle. My womb is again heavy with your love for me."
***
My father was a vicious man, full of spite and vitriol that he loved to unleash upon me, his youngest daughter. My mother had died giving birth to me and he never ceased to remind me. He blamed me for the loss of his soulmate and refused to speak of her again after my birth.
My older sisters remembered her though, and they would whisper quietly to me at night telling me sweet stories of her. They never blamed me for her loss and their kindness was the only thing that kept me tethered to my family.
By the age of 16, my sisters had all married and left me alone with him. By then, he was a drunken mess, more often than not passed out in the field or holed up in his room, cursing my name under his whisky laden breath.
I learned to stay quiet within the confines of our home, slinking against the wall so as not to draw his attention to me. On certain nights, when something I did or said sparked his rage, he would lay his hands upon me and bruise my skin with his hate.
After he beat me and tore open my flesh, he would sob into my lap, begging me to never leave him like my mother and my sisters did. My shaky hands would stroke his greasy hair and I would remain silent until he succumbed to a drunken slumber.
My wounds always healed, the bruises fading into nothing, but his words left their marks on my soul. I had resigned myself to him, feeling that I could never leave the walls he had built to keep me close to him. He had told me my entire life that I was worthless and unlovable and after hearing it time and time again, I believed it.
My father had several brothers that lived nearby, but most of them steered clear of him since my mother's death. I had met some of them briefly when I was a child, but they eventually drifted away from my unhinged father and thus from me. All except one.
Uncle Jasper, the second youngest of my father's family, had a successful farm in a neighboring town and would come to visit us every couple of months. I would wash and comb my fathers hair on days that we knew Jasper was coming to see us, but there was no hiding that my father was a drunk. His clothes, his flesh, all reeking of drink that could never be washed away.
My uncle was a hulking man though quiet and sweet-natured, always tipping his cap to me and looking down at the floor when I entered the room. He rarely looked directly at me, which I had once found curious but soon it was just part of who he was.
Jasper had never taken a wife which, at almost thirty years old, was unheard of. He was viewed as a recluse, preferring to stay on his farm than go into town. My sisters and I had only visited his farm once, when I was about twelve years old. In contrast to my home, his was neat and orderly and smelled of freshly cut pine. Books were stacked to the ceiling in every room and I spent much of our short visit thumbing through their worn pages.
Jasper and my father had fallen into a heated argument out by the barn that day, and my sisters and I had huddled under the window straining our ears to hear what they were saying. My usually quiet uncle towered over my father, making him look weak and powerless, as he hurled angry words at him that we could not hear.
In a final power move, my drunk father pushed hard into Jasper's chest, knocking him backwards into the wall of the barn, before he turned and stormed towards the house.
"Come on, girls. We are getting the hell out of here. And we are never coming back!" he shouted out the back door before storming through the house and out front to our wagon.
We scurried after him and I watched Jasper's red, angry face in the doorway as I clung to the back of the bouncing wagon. It was the only time I remembered his eyes looking directly into mine and he didn't drop his searing gaze until he was just a framed shadow behind us.
Since then, we hadn't seen him much. An occasional holiday or when he would come to deliver news about the family, but his visits were always brief.
Shortly after my 18th birthday, my father had become convinced that I was leaving him. I had no such intention, but the idea somehow had wormed its way into his rotten brain and taken hold. I tried to reason with him, tried to tell him that the idea was preposterous, for where would I go? I had no prospects, no friends. He would not listen to reason.
On a crisp fall morning, as I was cleaning out the stables, he stumbled in with unwarranted rage in his bloodshot eyes. He thought today was the day I was leaving, that I had come to the stables to ready the horse.
His familiar fist met my face, my gut, and as blood filled my eyes, I found myself crawling through the dirt to escape his brutality. Of all the times he had caused me harm, this day was different. He was brimming with a rage I had not felt before.
I was delirious, sobbing, pleading for him to stop as I crawled to the corner of an open stall. He continued to come for me and I heard the whoosh of his belt being ripped from his waist. I held up my hands to shield me from the strap that I foresaw being whipped across my bruised flesh, but instead, a new horror took hold.
His hands grasped my ankles and pulled me down until I laid on my back before him. Then, in a blur, he was on top of me, pulling my skirt up so fiercely that the sound of tearing fabric drowned out the sound of my desperate pleas.
As quickly as he had forced himself upon me, it was over. I saw the shape of him fly through the crisp air and crumple to the ground on the far side of the stall. Then in a teary blink of my eye, there was another figure standing over me. My blurred vision did not recognize this man but his presence strangely brought me peace. Before I could speak, I was picked up like a ragdoll and cradled in his burly arms.
His scent hit my nose and I knew him. Uncle Jasper.
