Freya's -- Mother Nature\'s Passion excerpt

Mother Nature’s Passion

Copyright © 2012 F.L. Bicknell

All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.

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Mrs. Zimerst accepted the money and tucked it between her tits. She pulled the elastic of her blouse lower than necessary, offering Simon a tantalizing view of her ripe breasts and the edge of a hot-pink bra. Stunned, he couldn’t help but stare. Once she had the bills stowed securely in her cleavage, she rearranged her blouse over the succulent mounds. Simon’s attention snapped up to meet hers, but instead of disgust or anger toward him, she smiled. He noticed a slight gap between her front teeth, not one that gave her the appearance of silliness or unintelligence, but rather an eroticism that had him thinking about her mouth on his body, his cock between her lips. He nearly groaned aloud at the mental image. Turning, he walked toward the door to hide his discomfort and perform a quick pecker adjustment.

Mrs. Zimerst followed him. “Come down to my unit, and I’ll write you a receipt.” She paused, waiting for him to open the door. “And please call me Daphne. I might be your landlady now,” she laughed lightly, “but I tell all my tenants that living together in the same building nullifies formalities.”

Simon nodded, hurrying out into the hall. “I’ll pay the other half of the security deposit with next month’s rent…Daphne.”

Together they made their way downstairs. In Daphne’s apartment, the lights flickered, and thunder boomed somewhere outside. “Looks like we’re in for a terrible storm,” she said as she sat down at a small writing desk. She picked up a pen and began writing a rent receipt.

“I like storms,” he replied to make conversation.

Simon wished she’d hurry up. The sexual tension building inside him had reached explosive proportions. To take his mind off the pressure in his pants, he focused on the striped wallpaper with a rose-patterned border. A window hung open in the back of the unit, and he caught glimpses of a white sheer twirling in the breeze like a ghostly erotic dancer. Looking around the room, he saw several Valentine’s Day cards perched on a decorative mantle. The glitter on the cards sparkled in the soft lighting. He wondered how many admirers Mrs. Zimerst had.

“Oh, really?” Daphne paused in writing and focused on him. “Most people don’t like thunder and lightning.” She set the pen down and tugged on the pink kerchief concealing her hair.

Nodding, Simon said, “I like to watch the lightning displays. Storms are violent, yet beautiful.”

With slow, careful movements, she pulled the covering from her head. A multitude of strawberry blonde curls tumbled to her shoulders. The desklamp heightened the fiery highlights in her wavy mane. Was she aware of his interest? Did she know the effect she had on him and was playing with him like a cat would torture a mouse?

“My husband and I used to sit out on the porch and watch the storms roll across the landscape. I like to think a thunderstorm is Mother Nature’s passion.”

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. His groin stiffened and pressed painfully against the zipper of his trousers. Hell, if his dick got any harder he could use it to pole vault over the boarding house.

He frowned from the discomfort. “I’m sorry?”

“Well,” Daphne said, tossing the kerchief on the desktop. “Isn’t nature supposed to be a woman, therefore Mother Nature?”

“That’s the myth. Why?”

“If nature is a woman, I believe a storm is her way of showing her passion. Perhaps one storm is her anger.” She tossed a sultry, inviting look over one shoulder as she tore the rent receipt free from its booklet. “And maybe the next one is Mother Nature making love with Zeus or Jack Frost or maybe even Old Man Winter. The thunder is her cry of passion when she orgasms.” She stood up, holding out the receipt. “It’s just a wild theory,” she added, grinning.

“That’s some,” he cleared his throat, “theory.” Simon accepted the slip of paper.

She blushed gently. “Well, you know what they say about women. We’re too emotional.”

“Actually, I think it’s a cool way of looking at nature.” He didn’t care much for women who thought only of shopping, the latest hairstyles, or the most recent fashions. Simon liked women who viewed the world through a different set of eyes, women who didn’t follow society’s mold for how they should act, think or look. To hell with the fact his landlady was several years his senior, Daphne Zimerst was a fascinating and highly sensual woman.

And built like a brick house.

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