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Jackie is content to spend her life alone. But when an attractive young woman stumbles out of a storm, she can't turn her away. Danielle is confused by Jackie's wary attitude. But when the hot young lesbian discovers Jackie's secret, she can't hide her desire. The lovely futa-woman has the body of a supermodel, and she's a virgin too! ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~ Danielle watched the struggle play out across Jackie’s face. She held her breath, not daring to upset the delicate balance between them. It was obvious the gorgeous woman was wavering the knife’s edge. Damn them for hurting her. The ferocity of her anger surprised her. But it was obvious that if Jackie had not been physically abused, she was recovering from a lifetime of emotional trauma. Danielle could imagine it. The signs were all about. Growing up in a small town, in a conservative household. Maybe her father died young. Or maybe it was yet another case of a man abandoning his unwed lover after she came up pregnant. And then, the double blows to the mother. First, the unwanted pregnancy. And then, even worse to her eyes, the horrifying realization that her child was malformed, disfigured, a freak with both male and female genitalia. In all honesty, Danielle thought, it was almost surprising that Jackie was as well-adjusted as she was. If she had to live her life scorned and despised, she probably would have gone completely around the bend. God, I want her so bad. Hidden behind the ridiculous sweatpants, her womanhood gave a frustrated spasm. Her juices were flowing, making her lips hot and slick. Finally, Jackie opened her eyes. In her gaze, Danielle could see the haunting memory of years of hurt. “You’re not playing a trick on me?” Her voice quavered, half-hoping, half-fearing the truth. “You really think I’m…I’m attractive?” Danielle stood. This, she knew, would take a careful touch. She laid her palms on Jackie’s cheeks, meeting her eyes squarely, willing her to see her honesty. “You,” she whispered hoarsely, “are the most amazing creature I have ever seen in my life. And I would be honored if you allowed me the gift of taking your virginity.”
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By Alana Church
Artwork by Moira Nelligar
Copyright 2018 Alana Church
~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~
Jackie Sinclair was woken by the sound of the rooster, the same way she had been every morning since she was six years old.
Stumbling out of her bedroom, she walked through the bottom floor of the old farmhouse, yawning fit to crack her skull. Aside from the dratted bird’s raucous crowing, it was a blessedly quiet morning. Warm weather had come to Illinois, and though she had left the windows open the night before, the muslin curtains barely stirred. A look out the back door showed her a sky that was high and blue, though a haze creeping in from the west hinted at a change, and the rain that the weather man had been promising for the last several days.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and opened the door. She loved this time of morning, especially this time of year. The heads of the winter wheat were ripening in the fields to the north of the house, and the corn was already waist-high. Patches of fog drifted in the hollows to the south, where the ponds were, but that would surely burn off soon.
Sitting down in one of the old cane-back chairs her grandfather had bought decades before she was born, she let out a contented sigh. The front yard was neat and tidy. The grass was newly mowed, the maple trees her mother had planted fully leafed out, and some of the tulips that flanked the front walk bravely held a few petals, though most had already fallen in tiny drifts at the base of the flowers. Lifting the cup to her lips, she took a sip. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Let the world outside go hang. Here she would have order.
Here, no one knew, or cared, that she was a freak.
She scowled at the unwelcome thought, and took another sip of coffee, black as night and sweet as sin. Soon it would be time to eat her solitary breakfast and get to work. But for now, she savored these moments of peace. Sometimes she went days at a time without hearing another human voice. And that was exactly how she wanted it. Farming the fertile land around Red Bud would never make her rich. Then again, wealth had never been her goal. All she wanted was to be let alone.
A bawling noise came from her left, and her head snapped around.
“All right, all right,” she said, raising her voice, glaring at the cows who looked over the wooden fence. She thought she could read reproach in their dull brown eyes. “I’m coming. You’ll get your feed in a minute.
“Too bad none of you know you’re going to end up as hamburger and steaks. Maybe then you wouldn’t be in such a tearing hurry to get fed.”
She drained her mug of coffee and set it on the rail of the porch, turning around to go back inside.
Another day had begun.
By three o’clock she had fed the six cows and four pigs, and had done a quick tour of the fields. Being a farmer was no one’s idea of an easy job, but with the spring planting done, her main concern was in monitoring the crops, making sure that no invasion of insects or outbreak of disease was decimating the wheat or corn or soybeans. She didn’t have a huge spread. Only four hundred acres. It wouldn’t take much for her to get in real financial trouble. Only two or three bad years. And some of the big operators would like nothing more than to snatch up her farm.
They can go to hell, she thought, sipping on a glass of tea as she monitored a line of thunderstorms on the National Weather Service website. Farmers watched the weather the same way some of her high-school classmates had watched the Kardashians. It was never perfect. There was always too much sun, or not enough. Too hot, or too cold. Too much rain, or not enough. But she thought a nice soaker of a thunderstorm would be good, as long as there was no hail to flatten the wheat. They hadn’t had a decent spot of rain in nearly two weeks, and the last thing she needed was to start worrying about whether there was going to be a drought. This farm has been in my family for five generations. The only way they’re going to get it is over my dead body.
Which would almost certainly prove to be the case. Who would have her? Who could look past her body and see her true self? Most likely, in thirty or forty or fifty years, she would die, and the farm would be put up for sale. Over a hundred years of her family’s history going down under the auctioneer’s gavel. The house would be torn down, and there would be only rows of soybeans and corn where the comfortable old farmhouse had stood for over a century.
She scrubbed at her eyes. What has got you so worked up? You’re not dead yet. Far from it. And you’re only twenty-eight. It’s a little early to start planning your funeral.
She needed something to do. Driving over her land and checking the crops for bugs and disease wasn’t any fun. And the cure for depressing thoughts was to put her attention somewhere else.
A good meal,
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