Released to Rapture (Irresistible Inmate)

Irresistible Inmate

Book One

Jean Baker

Copyright 2012, 2013

Books written by Jean Baker can be obtained either
through the author’s official website:

www.sensualnovels.com

or through select, online book retailers.

Storymill Publishing

All characters and situations in this novel
are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any persons living or
dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Jean Baker 2012

All rights reserved, which includes the right
to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever,
including the right to copy, distribute and adapt the work.

_______________________

Duncan thought he would be willing to sell
his left nut for a bath. He had hitch-hiked for three days, always
on the look-out for a pond, lake, or river to jump in, clothes and
all. This morning, he saw cypress trees beyond a field of corn and
asked the truck driver to let him off.

After vaulting the fencing at the side of the
interstate highway, he walked down a row of tasseled corn, running
his fingers across the golden fringes. He found himself smiling at
the feel of nature surrounding him. Scooping up a hand full of the
black dirt, he inhaled the rich scent of loam and tasted it. Hmmm,
too much phosphate.

Upon reaching the cluster of cypress trees,
he groaned in disappointment. Green slime covered the murky water.
He circled the marshy low-land, surrounded by verdant crops,
without finding a clean pool of water in which to bathe.

Giving up on having a bath, he pushed his
billed cap to the back of his head. He dropped to a log at the end
of a soybean field and looked around. At the end of the field, a
narrow road glittered in the sunlight. About a mile away, a house
and several barns clustered together. He rubbed the sweat from his
face and sighed. He needed to stop running and find work. That
meant confronting people. The thought made him cringe. Would he get
over feeling as if he lived with his past printed on his face?

Maybe, he should have gone to a city where
more opportunities were available. Yet, he craved the outdoors.
Before losing his freedom, he had lived most of his life on a farm.
He left the field and trudged along the two-lane asphalt country
road, hungry and tired. Topping a hill, a small country story
appeared, a precursor of the modern convenience store. He entered
and took a bottled coke from a chest cooler and popped off the top
on the opener mounted on the side. The old man behind the counter
looked him over with a critical eye when he passed over a dollar
bill. God, the man knew about him. A tremor skittered down his
spine.

“You looking mighty road-worn, son.” His
white, fluffy eyebrows wiggled, and he smiled while ringing up the
money. “Where ‘bouts you from?”

Duncan swallowed hard. “Yep, on the move for
quite a while.”

“Let me guess. You’re a military man, ain’t
you? Have a lost look about you I’ve seen in battle weary men that
have come home. Out now?”

His hand began to tremble, and he gripped the
coke bottle tighter. “Yes, sir. Just got out. Wore a uniform for a
long damn time.” He snatched up his change and started for the
door.

“Son.”

Duncan turned back and waited, feeling
trapped.

“You gonna’ be moving on down the road, or
would you be willin’ to hang around for a while? I know where a
strong man’s desperately needed. And you look mighty strong. That
is, if you’re foot-loose and fancy-free.”

“I plan to stay at the first farm where I
find work, food, and a bed. What’s on your mind?”

The old man’s face wrinkled into a smile, and
he held out his hand. “Carl Stanton, here. ‘Bout a quarter mile on
down the road is the farm that belonged to my brother, Clinton. His
daughter, Goldie, really could use some help. He retired and left
the place to her and her husband, Leven.”

Relieved, he nods to the oldster. “Much
obliged.” Attempting a smile, he opened the door and with a lift of
his hand, left.

Following Mr. Stanton’s friendly suggestion,
Duncan walked until a large road-side mail box with ‘Stanton’
printed on its side appeared. He followed the long, dirt path to
the farm house. The place needed a lot of care. Knee-high weeds
overtook the fencing, the door of the barn hung from one hinge, and
the horse looked as if it hadn’t been groomed in a year. A greasy,
stooped man cursed as he struggled with the innards of a rusty
tractor.

Duncan took a deep breath in disappointment.
This place looked like more than he wanted to deal with. He began
to turn away, but stopped as if pole-axed. An angel in dungarees
stepped from the back porch and headed toward the mechanic. His
cock tried to fuck his belly button. He felt like running to tackle
her onto the ground, his need so great. Gasping, he stepped behind
the nearest large oak and clutched himself. I can’t go to her in
this condition. Unzipping, he leaned back against the rough trunk
and took his erection in hand.

Only a few strokes, and his manhood jerked
and pulsated. Straining to control the gut-deep groan coming up his
throat, he pumped with one hand, clutched his balls with the other,
and watched his seed spurt to the earth. After regaining his breath
and rearranging his clothes, he circled the tree and made for her.
He tried to placate his embarrassment over his lack of control by
remembering he hadn’t seen a woman in years except a flash of one
beside the road while riding in semi-trucks.

He slowly approached her, keeping his eyes
focused on the ground. Already, his cock twitched and his face
burned.

“Yes, may I help you?”

Her voice rang through his body like a wind
chime, and he met her eyes, gasping. The eyes of a tiger. Jerking
off his billed cap, he covered his instant erection. His testicles
curled into tight balls, and his shoulders slumped forward.

Lips tight against his teeth, he said, “Mr.
Stanton, down at the store, said you might need some help, and I’m
volunteering. Ma’am.” God, don’t let me embarrass myself.

“Are you alright?” She flipped a long, ebony
braid over her shoulder.

He could only nod while his eyes followed her
hand as she bit into an apple. More than anything in the world, he
wanted to lick the apple juice from her bottom lip. Wouldn’t mind
having the apple. His body began trembling as he watched the apple
go back to her mouth.

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” Her expression
held caution, but those wonderful eyes filled with compassion. Not
waiting for an answer, she said, “Come. Sit on the porch and I’ll
bring you something to eat. Want a beer or iced tea?”

All he could do was nod again, follow her
across the yard, and up on the porch. Thank God, the old man’s
presence would keep him straight. His imagination went wild
thinking about throwing this woman to the ground and fucking her
brains out. In his mind’s eye, a black-robed man pointed a long
finger at him, and saying, “Ten to fifteen.” He ground his teeth
together. I’m not fit to be around a woman. As she went inside, he
dropped into an old-fashioned porch rocker.

He lifted his arm and sniffed. Damn, she’d
probably faint if she caught a whiff. Checking to make sure the
mechanic remained, he noticed a water hose coiled on the side of
the barn. He ran to it, turned on the spigot and let the hose spray
over his body. His head back, he let the water run through his hair
and down his face.

“What in Sam Hill you doin,’ boy?” The old
guy stared at him.

Gordon turned to answer and groaned. The
angel stood on the porch watching him, her jaw dropped.

“Cleaning myself.” He couldn’t bring his eyes
away from the woman and began to have another problem. It seemed
simply looking at her made his cock stand at attention. She went
back into the house. He turned away from the man’s eyes, slipped
his hand under the waist of his pants. Several quick strokes and he
ejaculated so hard his legs buckled. Damn, boy, settle down. Two’s
enough for today. His balls still felt as if they had a bucket load
ready to blow.

Putting the hose down the front of his
trousers, he turned, almost bumping into the lovely woman. Her eyes
widened and she laughed. Handing him a bar of soap, she spun around
and ran to the house. Face burning, he lathered head to toes over
clothes and shoes, rinsed and then turned off the water.

Walking toward the house, shivering, a voice
behind him said, “Now, there’s a crazy SOB.”

Goldie removed a meat loaf from the oven
wondering why the hell she continued to cook as if her husband
remained with her. I guess it’s one more way of holding on to the
past. Have to stop doing such foolishness. I’m so damn tired of the
sadness. After a year, she should be thinking about selling the
farm. It had simply become too much for her, and she couldn’t
afford help. But, God, she loved this place. Exhaustion and sadness
haunted her every move. The on-going sexual frustration didn’t
help.

Leven had been an adequate lover, but she
always had to accompany his efforts with self-pleasuring. In spite
of her raging sexual needs, sex outside the marriage wasn’t
acceptable, at least in this part of the world. Always
conscientious and loyal, even after his death, she kept to herself.
But the screaming need welling up from her sexual center kept her
awake many nights.

Come on, girl, don’t think about it. She
turned, grabbed an apple, and left the kitchen to see if Harvey had
managed to fix that dilapidated, damn tractor. Another thing she
couldn’t afford to replace. She crossed the yard and stood by the
handyman. “Think you can get it running?”

He straightened up and looked past her.
“Looks like you have company, Ms. Goldie.”

Turning, she held her breath. God, he’s a big
man. Rough looking too. Before giving into fright, she noticed how
his head hung down as he stood in front of her. It touched her such
a large man blushed like a child. She relaxed, knowing Harvey kept
a close eye on the situation.

“May I help you?

He lifted his head and his face turned fiery
red. He jerked off his hat and it tumbled to the ground. Good, he
might be a tough one, but he possessed good, country manners. Not
many men took off their hats to women now days. As he looked into
her eye, heat filled her sexual core. His eyes were large and dark
with lashes so long, any woman would be envious. Good God, watch
yourself—even pretty could be dangerous.

The first thing she thought after she knew he
needed work was, she could hardly afford to pay Harvey part-time.
The second, she wondered why Uncle Carl thought to send this big,
grubby man to her? Then she remembered, in all the years she’d
known him, Carl had proven his expertise in judging anyone very
quickly and correctly. She became aware of the man’s eyes following
her apple. Damn, he’s hungry. “Do you like meatloaf? If you do,
come to the house and I’ll fix you a plate.” His Adam’s apple
jerked convulsively, and she smiled. “Come on, now.” She started
toward the house without checking if he followed.

After he sat in an old rocker on the back
porch, she went inside to prepare a plate. At least, I’ll have some
help eating all this food. Her lips curled into a smile. It felt
good to feed a man again. She heard Harvey yell and she ran out.
Jesus, the man was bathing with his clothes on. Laughing, she found
a bar of soap and took it to him. He turned to her, his face filled
with such animal sexuality, she ran. Inside, she leaned, hands on
knees, she panted while lightening pulses raged through the sexual
core of her body. What the hell?

His shoes slapped and squished onto the
porch.

Taking a deep, sobbing breath, she picked up
the tray of food, braced herself, and went outside. In spite of
looking half drowned, the man was the standard of masculine beauty.
The wet shirt clearly defined his muscular body. It took all the
control she could muster to restrain her hands from running across
his powerful chest.

“Pull that little table in front of you,
please.” Reaching for the table, his wet shirt strained across his
back and arms. His rippling muscles caused her internal ones to
respond by convulsing. She felt moisture trickle down her thighs.
Her voice became low and breathy. “Why don’t you pull your wet
shirt off so you can enjoy the meal?” And I can enjoy the view.

He struggled to take it off. Wet, it stuck to
his body and wouldn’t pull over his heavy shoulders. She set the
tray down, went behind him, tugged the garment off, and felt him
tremble. Is he cold? Or does he hate to be touched? She threw the
sopping wet shirt over the banister, stepped carefully past him,
and placed the tray before him. “Go ahead and eat. I’m going to
fetch a beer for myself. By the way, I’m Goldie Stanton.”