The Legacy, Chapter 1: Three Oaks - Sex Stories

The Legacy, Chapter 1: Three Oaks

Author's note: Anyone that has read other stories I've written will recognize this as a departure for me; first, it's short, at a mere three chapters! Second, a couple of fellow members were kind enough to lend me their guidance and expertise. Also, it is a different kind of tale, written as a brief break from my longer tale. I hope you will read it, enjoy it, and let me know what you think. As always, thanks for reading...and, without further ado, The Legacy! ******************************************* “Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.” The voice should have startled her, but it didn’t. It never did; she knew how silently the big man could move, was familiar with the way he seemed to suddenly appear, and his voice was so soft and gentle, low and deep, a calm, protective voice she had known since childhood. Despite the fact that she’d had no idea he was there, his words didn’t startle her. She looked up at him, seeing only a silhouette, looking into the setting sun and seeing only the shape of him, the broad shoulders, his hair a short, inch-long brush of stiff, tight curls a glowing halo around his head. “Good evening, Henry: what brings you by tonight?” He laughed softly. “Your Mr. Robert, he’s a worrier; he wants me to look at that old oak, that last big one with the hollow in the trunk. He’s afraid it will fall and hit your home, especially in the winds we’ll be having.” “Henry, don’t worry about it tonight, please. He can have a service come and remove it when he gets ...

... home.” “There’s a big storm coming tonight, Miss Elizabeth. I’ll look at it, but not much I can do at this point, I’m afraid. I promised him I’d take a look.” She hadn’t heard anything about a storm, but she knew better than to question Henry’s wisdom; if he said there was a storm moving in, there unquestionably was, despite the current clear blue skies. It had been an unusually calm and muggy day, and it was always hot in this part of Georgia in late June, a combination which she knew could quickly bubble up a violent storm. He moved out of the sun’s path, off to her side, and squatted down next to her. She could smell the hay in his clothes, from feeding his horses, and the wood smoke from the brush and downed limbs he’d burned off earlier, as well as a hint of masculine sweat and testosterone. She studied his profile, his strong chin and broad nose, the wrinkles along his jaw and the creases – laugh-lines, she knew – at the corners of his eyes. His skin was remarkably beautiful for a man his age, sixty-seven, the rich dark-chocolate color of it smooth and even. Like his rich voice, it was a face she had known since childhood, the warm, brown laughing eyes of the man that had gathered her and the other children around him – black and white alike – and told them stories of growing up in rural Georgia, and of monsters and bogeymen and the various creatures of the forests, and taught many of them how to fish and to ride horses. A veteran of the war in Vietnam, a Navy man, he’d been ...