She had wanted him to take her, and she wanted him to do it again, and again, and again.
She never wanted to stop, even if it was wrong.
In the bathtub, she had thought about doing her thing, pretending Michael was there with her. She had touched herself in the water, but it wasn't enough. Emma had looked at the faucet dripping warm water. She had thought of Michael's mouth.
She leaned forward and turned up the water, running her fingers over her nipples, and had leaned her head back against the back of the tub. She had propped her legs on the sides, and thrust her groin toward the faucet.
"Ahhhh," she had sighed, as warm, pulsating water rushed against her pussy.
Emma had seen Michael's face, and imagined him licking her. She had thrust her hips back and forth into the water so that her head sank into the rising tide at the back of the tub. With her ears submerged, Emma had parted her lips with her right hand so it felt like Michael was ravaging her clit with his tongue.
"Michael," she blurted out. "Michael."
She had let out a scream the moment she couldn't take any more, thrusting her pussy into the faucet for one final thrust as her body shimmered.
Bang, bang, bang, came a knock at the door.
"Emma?" her mother shouted. "Emma? What's going on? Are you okay?"
Emma had quickly sat up in the tub.
"Yes, mother," she had said. "I'm fine."
Emma had managed to get some sleep that night, but even her sweaty dreams involved vivid images of Michael boring down upon her as she pulled him in so close that he was nearly there, where she had wanted him.
She had known she should feel bad. She just didn't, at all. She had just wanted Michael to take her. She had just wanted Michael to fuck her, and again, and again...
On the Monday morning after that first restless night, Emma had looked for Michael around the barn where he lingered, looking back at her. But he was not there.
Not at seven a.m.
Not at eight a.m.
Not at 10 a.m.
Emma had paced the parsonage grounds, pretending to do chores that she was not doing at all so she should keep a close watch for him.
Emma looked for Michael on the tractor, but it sat idle by the barn.
He wasn’t there, or anywhere on the Denton farm that day.
Still, Emma looked for him, and longed for him.
She longed for touching his skin, smelling his smell, and for feeling his strength grind against her with only the lace of the angels as separation between them. But no matter how hard and often she looked, Michael still was not there that Monday.
And she had looked for Michael on Tuesday, but he was gone. She had done the same on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday -- walking the grounds to give the appearance of work while looking for Michael and simmering in the burn he had left her with.
She had thought crying might relieve some of the tension she felt from his absence. Yet when she stopped in the shade of the towering oak for a break and tried to let tears out, placing her head in her hands and uttering what sounded like a sob, no tears flowed.
Emma’s dry eyes wanted Michael, and nothing else, or nobody else, would do.
The experience – lusting for him in the barn -- must have broken her in some way, she had thought. Yes, that was it. She was broken – cracked so that fire poured out from her inside the way a crack in the earth lets fiery lava long embedded ooze out, burning up everything in its path.
She was a volcano, with lava to spew.
Emma had contemplated before what it might be like to be intimate with a male so many times before doing her thing. She knew the tingling that had accompanied those thoughts. She knew the release. She just didn’t understand that the real thing, being in the presence of a man, would be so much more powerful 00 unmanageable even.
Waiting until the proper time, when she could sit with a man according to her father’s plan, had been tolerable. She had survived through private time. But then she had smelled Michael. Then she had touched Michael. Then Michael had touched her.
Emma did not know where Michael was, or why he went away. He had only worked at the Denton farm for a week and she thought he planned to be there for the entire summer. She did not care where he went, or why. She just wanted him back. She just wanted him to take her, and take her again, until she had no more want remaining.
Emma had kept herself busy that week best she could, in his absence, going through the motions of her chores while spending most of her time outside in case he showed back up for work. She had thought about praying for relief from her consumptive affliction but decided against it, thinking God might not like her selfish pleading for lust satisfaction, especially when she was not married.
Especially.
And what would she say on her knees?
“Dear God, please bring Michael back so he can ravage my loin?”