Not in Daylight [Adult] by C.W. Bigelow

“You can’t leave,” Mrs. Gannett pleaded from behind him as he tested the screen door.

He nodded with satisfaction at the silent closure. No squeak. The simple job brought him pleasure. Mindless, soothing – no sweat and it was the tenth chore he’d accomplished for her husband that week. “Work is done here. Your old man is gonna pay me.” The rumble of his voice reverberated deeply, sending shivers across her skin.

Peering cautiously around before she whispered, her tone frantic, perspiration evident across her brow, in a combination of apprehension and fear of their arrangement ending. “There must be more to do. Please!”

Cobb Beaumont rose out of his squat, his head brushing the top of the door jam, each shoulder touching opposite frame sides, his gauzy white shirt stretched revealingly, and gazed up the grassy slope. He nodded with a deep chuckle. “There is, but I think he may be growing suspicious…” He turned to face her. The sun shone through the light cotton fabric of her sundress and he couldn’t help but stare at the outline of her sculpted legs.

“Screw him!” It was a harsh whisper. Her mouth was dry and perspiration now graced her upper lip. Her pale blue eyes were wide with alarm and the cramps in her loins caused her knees to buckle.

“Kinda think that’s what he’d like you to do to him.” It was a matter-of-fact. Cobb knew it. She knew it. He turned back to the door.

He felt her approach and upon feeling her small hand grab his side he turned quickly, displaying amazing agility for such a big man and glared at her angrily. It was against his rules. Not here. Not in daylight. The risk was too great. The risk was always too great.

Stepping back, not shaken at all by his scowl, she held out a wad of folded bills signaling a taunting grin but also creases of panic. He grabbed it quickly; no hesitation as he shoved it into his pocket and gazed past her to the kitchen to make sure her husband wasn’t there yet.

Gruff and intimidating as he was, she was less frightened of his quick temper than of the fear of never being with him again. The threat of the coming nights without him gripped her with a force that threw her off balance and she stumbled backwards into her husband’s unsuspecting, unprepared arms as he stepped onto the porch through the kitchen door.

“Damn doll, you are clumsy!” Gannett laughed as he stood her up and left her wallowing on her own.

She forced a tight nervous smile and avoided staring at Cobb. It’s not what she needed at this point.

“Let me hear the door, Cobb.” It was a demand as he studied the hinges, avoiding making eye contact with his hired hand, because the drastic difference in height and girth left him vulnerable and it wasn’t a state he liked, nor needed in front of his wife. Though he was the one with the money, it was rarely comfortable dealing with this giant of a man.

Cobb gazed at the grassy hill while testing the door. No squeak. He smiled. He worked for the satisfaction of accomplishing a job correctly, not because of the wages – though without the wages…

“Good man!” he chuckled, as he held out a roll of bills to Cobb. “Last job completed! $350 was our deal, correct?”

Gannett was not only satisfied, but felt a sense of relief that this ominous force was soon out of their lives.

The money disappeared in his vast grip, and Cobb gave a curt nod. “I’ll be heading out in the morning.” His blue eyes blazed directly into Gannett’s, squinting with distaste for this boss, which was normal when it came to bosses, but this little man had displayed an unusually uppity attitude.

Gannon gulped, diverted his glare, nodded and turned without a word, disappearing back in the house, racing by her without a glance.

She stood with hands desperately extended at her sides, an expression of anguished panic gripping her face – eyes squinted, mouth wrenched, and head shaking back and forth in quick uncontrollable jerks, already experiencing withdrawal symptoms. Her long blonde curls shuddered like springs on her back.

Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was gone, she took a step toward him. “He has no damn clue. Numb as a trout!” Her cheeks were flush.

Cobb shrugged and nodded in a quick motion toward the door as he opened his eyes as wide as he could, then blinked once, signaling one more night. There was always one more night, if not here, somewhere else.

An excited, grateful smile spread across her lips – her blue eyes relaxing – and she retreated back into the house without another word. The angst melted with the knowledge of getting one more fix. She knew it was all she could expect and was thankful for a last night. Worry over physical withdrawal could come later.

*

Cobb crouched on his naked haunches in a sparse stand of birch trees half way up the slope gazing down at the mansion at the bottom of the hill. Ghostlike shapes of the birches encircled him. The long field grass swayed in the breeze, bathed in the silver glow of a full moon. A chill swept over his skin, raising goose bumps. Rustling leaves above him filled the area with a laugh-like soundtrack. This was the last visit to the small gathering of trees and a smile curled as he recalled the previous nights as he gazed warily about in the pale light. He normally limited visits like these to a few each stay but this would be the sixth night this week, which made him leery of the risk involved.

It never took more than a few meetings to realize it wasn’t what he hoped, that whoever it was wouldn’t meet his standards. He doubted he would ever again find that, but knew it was a sensibility, a need and yearning he would never stop attempting to duplicate. The fact the meeting was taking place beneath the bright glow of the full moon, shadows reached across the landscape, illuminating as vividly as the brilliance of a high noon sun, made it that much more risky.

The screened-in back porch glowed in the moonlight – a lustrous reflection off the miniature, metal pockmarks under a glowing gray sky, void of stars. It was tantamount to daylight, except for the lack of depth, which made it one-dimensional and difficult to focus on objects.

Suddenly visible in the doorway, she paused, warily glancing behind her into the darkness of the house. Then explosive, like a sprinter springing from the starting blocks, she shoved it open and shot into the backyard. The motion was soundless thanks to the oil he’d applied to the hinges earlier in the day. Smirking because his last chore ensured Gannett’s continued state of ignorance, obviously unaware of what had been occurring under his nose all week long. The pneumatic pump he’d installed earlier that week prevented the slamming of the door.

A luminous sheer fabric trailed behind her like a wedding-gown train, revealing the dark silhouette of her taut, powerful figure, legs churning, arms pumping ahead of her flowing blonde hair, colorless in the night. Heart pounding her rib cage, she couldn’t suppress a wide smile – so primed, she heard and felt the wetness between her legs. A sense of dismay lingered with the fear he might not be waiting.

Her winded gasps were emphatic, scratching the silence, as she grew closer. A dank, pungent scent of arousal was evident as she subtly slipped into the trees past two sprigs of birch saplings and leaped into his massive arms. After five nights of practice they moved like a tightly choreographed ballet in full anticipation of each other and she opened and thrust onto him, legs wrapping around his sturdy waist and gurgling with shock and ecstasy as he entered, filling her like she had never been filled before and never would be again.

Arching back, already beyond control of her senses, unable to maintain any coordination, trembling spastically, she wept as he lifted her off effortlessly, up into the air before pulling her back down, sliding her onto him in a rapid jerk and repeated this motion, rapid-fire five times before she momentarily lost consciousness, collapsing in his arms.

Feeling little emotion, but enough titillation to maintain interest, he performed the steps with expertise, taking pride in her ecstasy. It was all about the money and had been for a long time.

She rallied quickly, shuddering in his lap. Arms wrapped solidly around her – his warmth shielded her against the cool night. Listless, euphorically spent, barely able to lift her head off his shoulder, before her need bubbled again like the desire for a drug and she began instinctively nibbling hungrily at his neck, licking his saltiness, trying to memorize its taste, vividly recalling each of the previous nights, almost thrown into a state of dismay with the thought of never experiencing this overwhelming delirium again.

Her nibbles brought him from his own stuporous trance and he stood leaving her like a doll on the cold ground until she whimpered, struggling to her knees, stretching her arms pleadingly up to him. With an arrogant grin, he reached down and gently lifted her in mid-air, glaring into the moon’ reflection in her eyes, his sculptured granite-like arms outstretched, while she reached hungrily for his neck with her tiny hands. It was her signal, the silent communication they had developed, and he elevated her above his face, slowly easing her to the tip of his rigid tongue, and then teasingly lifted her away into the air above his head. She groaned and quaked, struggling to keep muffled. Then he lowered her, the spread of her legs tearing her inner thighs, directly onto his vigorous tongue, piercing deeply, licking one side, then the other, before dragging it over her swelled membrane and gently but forcibly yanking it between his front teeth, shooting jolts of frenzy throughout her gyrating body. She cried and moaned as he lifted her up and away. “Ready?” he whispered, lowering her to chest height, holding her at the end of his extended arms.

Taking a deep breath, she sobbed while nodding. Gulping in a combination of fear and exaltation, her eyes glazed and squinting in anticipation, her whole body quivered uncontrollably, as he carried her to the thickest birch, propping her against its white bark. His girth split her open as he slammed into her while she wrapped her legs around his waist. She cried out frantically, shivering and convulsing, no longer caring if anyone heard.

He held her steady as she recovered, wheezing deep gasps and twitching uncontrollably, before carrying her to the edge of the tree line. Placing her back on the grass and holding her while she regained her balance and strength, before giving her a gentle shove. He watched her stumble punch-drunk down the hill until she disappeared through the screen door, then stood and stretched, his thick arms brushing the supple birch limbs.

Surveying the rest of the estate, peering through the shadows, making sure of no witnesses, he skipped out of the birches on the high side of the hill and loped through the meadow with the grace of a deer, backtracking from the house as the cool night air brought a shiver.

At the estate’s hired-hands shack, his home for the past week, he jumped up two steps onto the porch and reached into his duffle bag for his clothes. Stepping into his faded jeans and throwing a sweatshirt over his wide chest, he gazed curiously over the silver fields. No movement. No sound. Heaving his duffle bag over his shoulder, checking in its pocket to make sure the cash for his week’s work was still there, he disappeared into the darkness.

He’d noticed the ad for his next destination in the discarded newspaper laying atop other refuse in the garbage can out the back door and called Mr. Fine. He was expected by the end of the next day and knew he’d have to get at least one good ride across Interstate 10 to arrive on time.

Cobb needed to get 100 miles east and stepped onto I-10 feeling flush with cash in his pocket and the promise of another two weeks work ahead at Fine’s Farm outside of New Orleans. Seven hundred dollars would keep him for a while and chuckled when he thought what Gannett would think about his wife paying him the same amount he had. The full moon subtly painted its glare on the highway as he walked east.

These nights he wondered if he’d ever get back to Michigan. He’d spent close to four years of wandering the south from handy man job to job. A week here, a month there. After the economy crashed it became even tougher to find these types of jobs with folks hunkering down, holding onto any money they may still have, hoping to ride out the financial storm – but as he squinted into the oncoming glare of a semi – he chuckled. Cash in his pocket and promise of more. Life was moment to moment. He’d become accustomed to lowering his expectations ever since he left, and tried to erase the memories, but try as he might, they lingered and returned full force when least expected.

Miles upon miles of hitchhiking cross-country, swallowing what he figured amounted to pounds and pounds of road dust – the blanketed cotton mouth that made it near impossible to swallow, the dirt stained smile he had to display to his rides when they pulled over – because if he didn’t smile, there was no hope for a trip and he made a choice early on that a dirty smile was better than no smile at all. It was good business.

As the semi roared past, leaving a trail of exhaust and tunnel of wind that enveloped him in a smattering of stickiness that upset him because he’d showered before his rendezvous, and though he felt her stickiness in his crotch, her last gift, her last good-bye, he never had to break a sweat because of the chill in the air. He bristled at the thought of showing up on the farm sticky and smelling like oil. Impressions were important and he couldn’t risk not securing this job.

Surveying the fields bordering the highway, the nearest overpass was at least a mile up the road and he took off with long, purposeful strides in his heavy ankle-high work boots – each step his left ankle weathering the bite of leather trim. He shook his head in dismay – after three years, the ripping and digging of the boot should have ceased. He refused to waste money on a new pair as long as the soles were sturdy, so he did his best to ignore the chafing.

The purr of an approaching car – well aware of the difference after all these miles between the roar of a tractor trailer, the grunt of a pickup truck and the benign hum of an automobile – he hesitated as it advanced from behind. It swerved onto the shoulder just ahead and he wavered, because he never aggressively solicited rides at night, but out of habit, and figuring a head start to New Orleans would help, kick-stepped into a gallop to catch up before the driver lost patience and took off without him. An older dark color model idled on the shoulder, but he couldn’t be sure of the make or if it was blue or black in the moonlight. Pulling to a halt he leaned down at the passenger side window, which was open already. He knew never to lean in – for multiple reasons – defense for both the driver and Cobb. He never wanted to appear aggressive – in fact had to remain subserviently passive in order to grab a ride successfully. With his size, he was lucky to get anyone to stop and he tried to remain calm and unassuming.

Upon lowering his head to the exact height he’d figured out to be correct after hitchhiking so many miles – a blinding flash, followed in milliseconds by the raucous echo of a thundering boom. He dropped like a rock, automatically curling up into a womblike position, before the wheels spun out in a high decibel whine. Gravel and dust spit at him with buckshot penetration. The heat of the rubber and the blast of sand wiped his face like sandpaper as he rolled toward the safety of the field and watched from his stomach as the car tore off, fishtailing down the highway. The whine of the bullet hung in the air like a devious laugh and a trickle of warm blood tickled his eyebrow from the graze atop his head.

C.W. Bigelow lives in the Charlotte, NC area. His short stories and poems have most recently appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Potluck, Dirty Chai, The Flexible Persona, Literally Stories and Compass Magazine, FishFood Magazine, Poydras Review, Five2One and Yellow Chair Review.

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