The Harvest
Category: Erotic Horror | Words: 1005
Her scent hit me first, thick and sweet like overripe peaches mingled with something earthy and primal. It pulled me towards the back porch, where the summer heat hung heavy and still. I found her crouched beside the vegetable garden, her back to me, her bare arms smeared with dark soil.
She wore a thin, white cotton dress that clung to the curves of her ass and the swell of her pregnant belly. The fabric was stretched tight over taut muscles as she wrestled a particularly stubborn tomato plant back into line. Her dark hair, the color of a raven's wing, was loose and tangled around her shoulders, catching the late afternoon sun like a halo of fire.
“Need a hand?” I asked, leaning against the weathered doorframe.
She startled, her hips jerking back as if I'd sprung from a foxhole. She whirled around, sending a spray of dirt scattering across her bare legs, and her eyes met mine. Their color was the deep, rich brown of the earth after a spring rain, a darkness that seemed to devour the light around them.
Her smile, though, was all sunshine. “John, hey. Didn't hear you come in.”
"You're all elbows and knees in that dirt," I said, stepping closer. I could smell the damp scent of her skin, a musky sweetness that made my pulse quicken.
She laughed, a soft, throaty sound, and wiped her hands on the front of her dress, smearing soil across her chest. "Just getting ready for the harvest feast. Got a little too eager."
"Always the one pushing things," I murmured, my gaze traveling over the swell of her belly. It was hard as a watermelon, just beginning to round out. I hadn't seen her this pregnant before.
"Gotta get the vegetables ready before those boys of yours start eating us out of house and home," she said, gesturing back towards the house with a shrug.
Her boys. My sons. They’d been living with us, off and on, since their mother’d passed last winter. My sons and my wife. My wife, who'd been gone almost a year now.
"Come here, then." I reached out, my fingers brushing the fine hairs that sprouted along the curve of her hip. Her skin was hot beneath my touch, slick with perspiration and something else I couldn't quite place.
She leaned into my hand, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "What's that smell?" she murmured, her breath warm against my skin. "You're covered in it."
I chuckled, pulling her closer until she nestled against my chest. I inhaled deeply, the scent of her, of the earth, of sex, filling my senses. It was the smell of her lifeblood, of the land she tilled, and of something raw and potent that bloomed between us like a forbidden flower.
“It’s blood,” I said, my voice rough. “The harvest begins tonight.”
Her fingers tightened in my shirt, her eyes searching mine. “And what are we to harvest, John?”
I lifted her chin, my thumb stroking the soft curve of her lower lip. "Whatever we choose," I whispered.
Then I kissed her.
It wasn't the tentative, hesitant kiss we shared sometimes in the heat of the day, the one born of shared labor and loneliness. This was something else entirely, something deeper and hungrier. My hand trailed down her back, finding the swell of her swollen belly, pressing into the flesh there. She gasped, a sound both surprised and pleased, and shifted against me, pressing herself further into my hardness.
Her tongue met mine, hot and eager, pulling me further into the kiss. Her hands kneaded the tight muscles in my shoulders, her fingernails digging into my skin with a delicious ache. My hand slid down, burying itself in the thick cotton of her dress, and I felt the smooth heat of her thigh pressed against my thigh.
She smelled of earth and rain and something wild, something like the promise of blood.
Then her lips pulled away, and her voice was husky with need. “Damn you, John,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on my lips.
“Damn me,” I growled, and I pushed her back against the porch railing, the rough wood digging into her bare skin. My hands fisted in the front of her dress, pulling it away from her body, from the roundness of her breasts that strained against the thin fabric.
She didn’t protest when I pushed her dress up over her hips, leaving her naked from the waist down. Her belly, swollen and full of life, was taut and smooth, the dark shadow of her pubic hair a stark contrast to the pale skin that stretched taut over her hipbones.
“Don’t,” she breathed, her hand reaching up to cup my face. “Don’t you dare stop.”
Her eyes were wide and dark, and I swore I saw a spark of fear mingle with the lust that blazed in them. I traced a fingertip along the curve of her lower lip, my thumb stroking the swell of her swollen belly. My own cock was hard, pressing against the fabric of my jeans.
"I won't," I murmured, my voice rough with want.
Her fingers tightened in my hair, pulling me down. Her head dipped, and her mouth met mine again, hungry and desperate. Her tongue darted out to meet mine, slick and warm. She tasted like earth and sweat and desire, like the promise of something wild and primal.
Her hips were pressed against mine, and I could feel the heat radiating from her body. The scent of her intensified, intoxicating me with its earthy, musky sweetness.
I lowered my head, seeking the pulse point at the curve of her neck, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. She shivered against me, a soft cry escaping her lips.
I kissed her again, my hands sliding down to grip her hips. “Let me show you what we can harvest,” I whispered against her lips.
Her response was a soft moan, a surrender to the hunger that blazed between us.
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