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Two horrible weeks, listening to her mother complaining, her father cursing the old Ford tractor, and her siblings whining about everything else, was enough for Elsie. She couldn’t wait to get back to the tobacco farm, to wrap her suntanned limbs around her muscular husband, and be at peace.

The rickety bus dropped her off at the intersection of two dusty county roads. She squinted up at the fishbone cirrus clouds, glad to be home. The bus roared as the driver attempted to get the transmission in gear, and it ambled off. Elsie watched until it faded into the shimmering heat coming off of the road, looking like a beetle caught in a stream.

She knew Harold would be taking his afternoon nap. With a mischievous grin, she hugged her bosom, almost dropping her satchel. She knew it was strange, but she loved to hug her husband after he worked the fields in the hot Tennessee summer. The musky scent always filled her with whirling memories, and they would spend half the day making love.

Thoughts of his hands on her body pushed Elsie’s long legs into a run. He may still be asleep, she thought, sprawled out on the bunk meant for visitors.

She ran past the sun-baked mailbox, up the quarter-mile path to the farmhouse. She slowed down as she circled the building, looking around to see if Harold or any of the farmhands were out working on the fields. She crept to the back door, avoiding the squeaky stair, and entered the four-room house.

The kitchen was empty, except for the crowd of dirty dishes on the table. Harold had told her he would be keeping up with her chores, but they both laughed at the thought. Elsie didn’t mind, she normally kept a clean and comfortable home. The dishes could wait; she had other ‘chores’ to do.

She peered around the corner, and a smile spread on her delicate face. Harold was in the bunk, under a pile of sheets, lying prone.

She slowly stripped, piling her sticky clothing behind the door, and slid over to the bunk. A couple of sheets parted, and Harold’s hairy, sweaty back appeared. The room was dimmed by heavy curtains, but Elsie didn’t need light to find what she was after.

Elsie slid on top of Harold. His familiar sweaty smell enveloped her. She rubbed her bare breasts on his back, and he groaned.

I want you,” whispered Elsie. Harold groaned again.

Unable to contain herself, she ran her tongue down his hairy back. She loved to play with his matted back-hair, and took to calling him My Little Monkey. The salt of his sweat was tangy, and his musk began to drive her desire. She began to rub herself over Harold’s back, little moans of pleasure escaped from her parted lips. He liked when she put her full weight on him, all one-hundred and five pounds of her five-foot three inch frame.

She froze when the back door had banged shut, and Elsie could hear heavy footsteps in the kitchen. Someone was walking on her nice wooden floors in hobnailed boots. She thought about reaching for a sheet.

Damn those hired hands. Can’t a girl enjoy her husband in private?

The footsteps came closer. The help knew better than to go anywhere except the kitchen. Harold would horse-whip anyone foolish enough to trespass in the house.

The door to the room flew wide. Elsie’s eyes bugged out, but she stayed stock-still. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice her bare bottom poking up as she lay on her husband.

“My God, Elsie!” boomed a familiar voice. “What the hell are you doing to Grandma?”

Elsie gagged and pulled the sheets back. Harold’s grandmother lay face-down, naked to the world.

“Harold, you idiot,” said Grandma. “Elsie was licking the sweat off’n my back and giving me the best backrub I ever had since your Grandpappy died.”

It took days to get the taste of Grandma’s sweaty, hairy back off her tongue.

“Yup, she’s a keeper,” said Grandma, whenever the family got together on holiday.

Harold knew better than to mention it ever again after Grandma passed away.

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