Tasting Candy: Over 60 Erotic Pregnancy Stories

I put on an air of authority while we were in the house. He might have gotten to me outside, but here, he was in my domain. I had some dignity, after all.

I was at the table, leaning back in my chair with my dinner with my feet kicked up on the table. He sat on the counter, on display up there like a statue. Even though he was across the room, I felt like he was looming over me.

“Surprised you manage this place, all by yourself and all,” he finally spoke after a long silence between the sounds of our eating. “Tough gig, all for a gal like you.”

“Little more to it than just running booze,” I shot back, and he actually met my gaze. I’d expected him to be taken aback by the pushback, but there was something else in his eyes I couldn’t place.

“Little more to moonshining than you’d think, sweetie,” he chuckled, “but I know you aren’t the type to know much about that.”

“Not the type?”

“Running this whole farm all by your lonesome, but nobody’s ever given you the kind of attention I did before? Yeah, you ain’t the type.”

I half-choked on the sip of alcohol I was taking and flushed. “What? What makes ya think that was my—”

He gave me a look that saw through the bluff even I didn’t buy. Settling down, I huffed and attacked my fried chicken again a little more aggressively.

“I’m just foolin’.” I could practically hear him roll his eyes. “Hard-working gal like you is probably overdue for some well-deserved ‘R&R’ anyway, in a small town like this.”

I didn’t respond for a while as I finished off my dinner, but I took a long swig of the last of the moonshine he’d given me. Brazen as he was, I had to admit he had some fine product; it tasted like blueberry pie.

“You’ll need to take off at the crack of dawn,” I said curtly, “I’ve got a delivery coming early, and they’ll start asking questions if they catch the likes of you around here. I’ll patch up whatever’s the matter with your truck, and then you get gone, hear?”

My drawl had a habit of coming out a little strong when I was on edge, and I could see by his crack of a smile that he’d picked up on it.

“Yes m’ayam, I’ll be gone like a tumbleweed in a gold rush,” he imitated the accent with a heavy drawl, and I was already storming out of the room halfway through, face flushed. Why did I ever offer this asshole a hand?

It rained that night. I stood at the windowsill of my room, barefoot in the same white nightgown I’d worn since I was a teenager.

I ran my hand along the hand-carved frame while listening to the soft patter of the rain outside. The whole house had been made by hard-working, honest folk who led honest lives. My parents had brought me up to be one of them, too.

I still was, wasn’t I?

Why was I feeling like I’d taken a sledgehammer to everything my parents tried to build in me by bringing this bootlegging city-slicker into the house? He was only going to be here for one night, I reminded myself.

But what happened by the truck…what was I supposed to make of that? Every time I thought about it, I felt a kind of burning I wasn’t used to. It was like I was ashamed of what I’d done, but I kept wondering whether it could happen again.

I’d let Jason take the guest room. He was as crude as I could have imagined at dinner, but I couldn’t help but think about whether he was down there sleeping or still up, thinking I’d be coming back down there for what I knew I wanted more of.

Another wave of guilt hit me—why did I feel this way about some low-down criminal?

I touched a marking on the windowsill where an old crush and I had carved our initials. I’d been grounded for a week for bringing a boy up into my room, and another week for putting a permanent mark on a fine piece of carpentry.

There wasn’t anyone around to ground me, but this time, I’d fucked up way more than that.

Quiet as I was when I was a kid, I pushed my way out the window and crept down the rooftop by a way I’d learned well. I didn’t want Jason to hear me leaving the house, just like I didn’t want my parents hearing me when I snuck out as a kid.

I padded out to the barn through the wet grass, footsteps shrouded by the light rainfall. My gown was short enough to keep from getting drenched in the wet grass.

The barn door creaked as I pushed it open, and I moved past the moonshine-filled truck to the ladder that led to the hayloft. I clambered up, careful not to nick myself on a splinter in the d

ark.

I hadn’t been up here in years. Not since my parents had passed. It hadn’t really occurred to me that with the whole house to myself, I didn’t have to hide what I’d stashed away up here.

In the corner of the loft, there was a little box next to a lamp that I kept. I opened it up, and inside were scores of papers full of my awkward handwriting. I flicked the lamp on and shuffled through a few of them.

They were poems. Most of them I’d written when I was ‘becoming a woman,’ as Ma said, and I didn’t have much of anyone to talk to about that kind of thing. New feelings, including the kind of shame I was feeling now, I realized.