Kathrine

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Erotic Flash  |  House: Booksiesilk Classic Group

Featured Review on this writing by DampKitten


Kathrine

 

I grew up close to the Atlantic. Saunders Point was a bedroom community with upscale single-family dwellings, the best of which sat on bluffs overlooking the sea. The road into the Point was an impressive stretch, with a deep forest of oak and elm on one side and marshes giving way to the ocean. One leg went to a boatyard, tennis courts, and sprawl of summer homes as the road forked. The other ran an additional mile to the bluffs. Hemmed by woodland on both sides, Quarry Dock Road was a green tunnel in summer and a high palette of color in fall. Of a winter, its ice-covered branches glimmered over carpets of snow, rolling deep and away into quiet interiors. Seven houses sat on the bluffs. Each lot was hewn from the forest, isolated by a sentinel of trees from the neighboring lot. 

The best of these was the Jenkins' house. Nicolas Jenkins was a venture capitalist. His younger wife, Kathrine, was an NCAA pole vaulter before she taught history at the high school I attended. 

She was tall, austere, and beautiful. A thick black braid ran the length of her back, just long enough to touch the top of her dodgeball backside. Her hips rolled discreetly as she walked, long-legged with the flawless carriage and the swinging braid. Every boy wanted her to lean over to check their work so her braid would swing down and touch them, and, perhaps, they could catch a whiff of her rosewater bouquet. She wore tailored dress pants, expensive blouses, and Italian flats. 

Of all the classrooms in my high school, hers was primarily quiet. It went without saying that you didn't waste Kathrine's time in class. Even the worst of us lived by that creed. And none dare scrawl any reference to Kathrine on any lavatory stall anywhere in the school. Entering her classroom to find a substitute was disappointing in the extreme, but our respect extended to the alternate out of deference for Ms. Jenkins.

Towards the end of my senior year, I received an acceptance letter from Princeton. I toured Europe that summer, preparing myself for the focus it would take to become a Doctor of Medicine. Upon returning to the Point, I had little time for anything beyond preparation for my freshman semester. I packed my belongings and said my goodbyes—not without a bit of sadness.

School went swimmingly, as the saying goes, but I was exhausted from stress and needed a fall break sooner than later. In October, I returned home to much fanfare and put school thoughts out of my mind. I had recently reached my nineteenth year, and I had a sense of manhood, perhaps for the first time. My family and I sat around our dining room table, and I told my many stories as we shared an early dinner. I retired to my room and slept for eighteen hours. Two days later, I took breakfast before pulling on a backpack and going for a tramp in the forest. I kept a good pace, weaving my way through birch stands, going down one side of a dank ravine, stepping over a narrow stream, and then climbing the other side. Outcrops of granite sat on ridges where I rested, and then I started down into a lightly wooded valley. Halfway across the valley, I peeled off my backpack and sat on a fallen tree. A moment later, I heard a cacophony of bird chirps. They stopped suddenly. I heard a hollow thud, a snort, and then crashing in the underbrush. A deer came blasting out of the thickets, running hard, then tumbled head over hooves to the ground where it died. I ducked down just as Kathrine Jenkins stepped from the thicket, dressed in camouflage and carrying a compound bow. She walked quickly to her prey, tested it for life, then gut it. The lady wasted no movement, up to her elbows in the blood and smeared cheeks. Finally, she sheathed her knife and hauled the carcass across her shoulders. I dare not follow.

The following day, I returned to the valley. Scavengers had cleaned up the gore; nothing left but dried blood. I hiked in the direction I saw Kathrine carrying the deer carcass. The trail led to the bluffs. As I crept to the forest's edge, I slowed my pace and saw Ms. Jenkins. She lay on a lounge with all the woods as her cover. Her pants were on the ground, and her husband's face was buried in her pussy.

 

End

 

 


Submitted: May 13, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Laird. All rights reserved.

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Comments

DampKitten

Princeton, huh? Look at you! Ivy League Medicine...

Still, you get these urges for the woods. In an odd way, I thought of this older movie that appealed to me called "American Werewolf in London"...that of course when we got to the hunting scene. There's a good bit of hunting in Mississippi, even amongst the girls - though we rarely wear Italian flats.

You use quite a bit of lovely imagery in your prose. You actually remind me of Robert Frost...Birches and the like. A naturalist. The ending was almost unexpected save for the fact that this is an erotica site. For the sake of erotica, perhaps you consider elaborating on your voyeuristic experience?

Lovely piece..

Sun, May 22nd, 2022 3:20am

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