I think I just might be the best peach picker in Virginia. Well, in Rockingham County at least. And that isn’t just me boasting. That’s what Brother Jeb said all the time I was picking peaches for him. And Mr. Howell said that to me too. More than once he said that. I’ve heard both men say that, in the peach business, it’s getting the first fruit of the season to market before anyone else does that can mean the difference between a good season and a break-even or bad season.
I’ve been picking peaches—the last couple of years for the Mennonite, Brother Jebodiah, down near Singers Glen—for a good seven years now. Brother Jeb’s good people. Some Baptists here won’t work for the Mennonites, thinking they are too peculiar and dress all old fashioned and stuff and just might not even be Christian, but I found them to be honest, fair, and themselves hard workers. Brother Jeb doesn’t just send men out into his orchards in the heat of July to pick the first fruit to race to market with. He’s right out there with them, working his butt off too. Of course in those dark clothes and that hat he has to wear, he has to take more breaks than most.
He goes over and leans on the fence next to the road, under the oak trees he’s got his orchards bordered in. Standing there, he’ll jaw with anyone who wants to stop and talk. This summer it’s been mostly that Mr. Howell stopping in his big, new red Ford F-450 double cab. He’s got his own orchards over near Timberville. I’ve heard tell about him being competitive and all, and some say he’s a little underhanded. Not to his face, of course. He’s one big, muscled-up sonofabitch.
My uncle, Rick, worked in his orchards for awhile, and he told me more than once, “It’s good you want to work the orchards to save up for school, Johnny. But there’s some orchards you’ll want to give a pass on even if they offer good money. There’s the Mennonites. They’re strange folks and just don’t mix well with good Baptists. It’s never good to get in with the heathens. And then there’s that Clarence Howell over in Timberville. He pays top dollar, but I’d stay out of the way of working under him, if I was you. He has more demands than a soul wants to talk about.”
He’d give me a meaningful look, just itching to talk about it and daring me to ask why. But I never did. And I did want to earn up money for my electricians school as soon as I got out of high school, so after working for good Baptists for a couple of summers, and finding my paychecks shorted more times than I could count, I went against what Uncle Rick said and hired up with a Mennonite. And I haven’t had any complaints with Brother Jeb for two picking seasons.
The first week of the picking after finishing high school, I was out there, working just as fast as I could on Brother Jeb’s peach trees. Brother Jeb had bragged on me at the end of the last season, saying I was his best and fastest picker. That meant something in Rockingham, and I’d gotten some good offers from other growers here and about, but Brother Jeb had been fair with me, so I was fair with him and came back to him.
Speed meant something this year if we were going to be early to market. For some reason not that many Mexicans were coming up for the picking as usually did. I don’t know if they were having trouble getting here or if conditions were better in Mexico than they were here this season. But, whatever, there were fewer of us picking. It was hitting everyone, and for the first time, I felt the pressure to be working for someone else who could put more pickers into the field.
It was hot as hell out in the orchard on a Tuesday afternoon. I was down to my soggy and sagging gym shorts and working just as fast as I could, trying to help get enough bushels down off the trees from Brother Jeb to take a truck load down to the stores in Harrisonburg. Brother Jeb had already had to take two breaks, but I didn’t resent that. The heat was really just too much for those black clothes he couldn’t take off. The few others there, a couple of local boys, and a few Hispanics who either already managed to live here or who were so loyal to Brother Jeb that they managed to some back to him, were all as tongue hanging out as I was in the heat. Summer here in Shenandoah valley was always a scorcher, and we were hitting heat records day after day this season. The white boys had been slogging along like zombies for some time, and now even the Hispanics and blacks, who could take heat better than most, were slowing down. Heeding the reputation I’d gotten and Brother Jeb’s need to get a truckload of peaches to Harrisonburg before others did—and thus be able to pay me that time and a half he’d promised—I was working all the faster.
When I had to stop for a breath and a swig of water from my water bottle, the flashy red color of that big, new F-450 truck made me look over toward the fence under the shade of the oak tree. Brother Jeb was there, standing and leaning on the fence. And on the other side, one foot up on the fence’s lower rail and looking pretty intently out at the orchard—at me specifically, so it seemed—was that Mr. Howell from over Timberville way. They talked for a while and then Brother Jeb came back to the orchard to take another crack at the picking. Mr. Howell went back over to his truck, but he turned and watched us for a couple of more minutes before he got in his truck and drove off.
I was exhausted at the end of the day. All the rest, including Brother Jeb, had gone after we loaded up the truck. Brother Jeb was pleased because we’d managed to get a truck filled. He said he’d go ahead and drive those peaches down to Harrisonburg this evening to get a steal on anyone else racing for first fruit honors.
The Hispanics had all gone off in their ancient trucks, loading them to the gills with pickers, all laughing and having a jolly time.
I’d overworked myself, keeping to my goal of being the best and fastest. I hadn’t paced myself like they had. So, I just plopped down on my back under that oak tree Brother Jeb usually stood under and moaned and luxuriated in the shade. My bicycle was propped up against the tree beside me, waiting for me to get up the energy to ride the five miles east over toward Eddom, where I lived with my mother in a little country house. In the fall I’d be going down to Harrisonburg for technical school—if I had saved enough money—but I’d still be driving back to Eddom in Mom’s old Cavalier every night. I’d have to work a couple of years as an electrician before I could afford a place or even a car of my own. And even then, I’m not sure my mom would want me to leave her all alone in Eddom.
I was dozing off when I heard the rumble of a truck. I expected it to pass on down the road, but it didn’t. It stopped. I opened my eyes, and all I saw was a big blotch of cherry red on the other side of the fence.
“You look all spent out.”
It was the Mr. Howell, and he was standing by his truck and looking down at me over the fence. I groaned and sat up. I pulled up my T-shirt from under my back and folded it over my belly, suddenly feeling naked.
“It’s been a rough day,” I said. “But we managed to get a truckload picked.”
“So soon?” Mr. Howell asked. “Taking it to market tomorrow, is he, is Jebodiah?”
“He’s already driving to market with it,” I answered.
I instinctively knew I had to speak polite and straight with Mr. Howell. He was one of the biggest growers around here. And a bull of a man in his own right. He was tall and thick necked and across the chest too. Maybe in his forties. He was one of those men who looked like he didn’t dirty his hands but somehow had managed to work his body to high muscle tone. He was bald as a billiard cue, but he had a thick beard and mustache and a big patch of black hair pushing out the top of his buttoned shirt, which wasn’t fastened down the top three buttons. It was like his chest was just aching to burst out of that shirt. He probably was fighting the heat as much as anyone, but he looked cool as a cumber now.
“Harrisonburg,” I answered. Not much that any of the other peach growers could do about that now, I knew, so there was no reason I could think of not just saying it. I was pretty proud of what we had accomplished for Brother Jeb today—not the least because Brother Jeb was right in there working with us as best he could and because he then knew which of his workers was giving him their best. It made me feel as much ownership of getting that first fruit to market as Brother Jeb did.
“Thanks for the tip. I’ll send mine to New Market tomorrow then. A good tip is worth a ride home, if you’re interested. You probably don’t want to have to bike all the way to Eddom after a work day like you’ve had. I’ve had my eye on you. Everyone says you’re the best and fastest picker in the county.”
“Thanks. I like to give good work when I can. You know where I live?” I asked.
“Yep. Been checking up on you. Like what I see. So, do you want a ride home?”
“In that new truck?” I asked. “I’m not clean enough to be riding in that truck.”
“If it doesn’t bother me, I don’t know why it should bother you. Here hoist that bicycle over the fence, and I’ll put it in the back. If it makes you feel better, I’ve got towels I can lay down in the passenger seat.”
It was not long after he started the truck up that he came out with the proposition. “I hear you’re saving up to go to electricians school down in Harrisonburg now that you graduated from high school.”
“Yep, that’s right,” I answered.
“Pretty pricey school that is. Almost as much as going to a community college. Your grades not good enough for college?”
“I made good grades. The wages of an electrician are good and it’s honest work that there’s always a need for,” I answered. “It’s the fastest way of making money. College would be even more expensive and I don’t have the time to put off making money.”
“But a big part of going to college is to then have a college team to root for. You have a favorite college team?”
“Tech, of course. Doesn’t everyone in the valley follow Virginia Tech?”
“I went to UVa. myself, but I’ll have to admit I follow the Tech teams too. They’re a lot better. I even get tapes of their summer football team practices. I don’t bother doing that for UVa.”
“Yeah, Tech’s good,” I answered. I didn’t know what else to say. I was intimated sitting in the cab of that fancy truck of his. I’d slipped my T on, which wasn’t too wet from sweat. But, even with the towels on the seat and back, I still did what I could not to touch any more surface of the truck seat than I had to.
Mr. Howell just looked over at me from time to time with an amused look on his face.
“You know you could be making a whole lot more money that you are at Jebodiah’s. Maybe even enough for college and a car too. You wouldn’t have to go around the county on that old bike. You’ve got a real good reputation now. In fact, I’d be willing to pay you twice what he is no matter what that is. It’s a picker’s market this summer. You could make enough to go to a junior college, not just to electrician’s school. Or maybe both at once if you want to have a good skill to fall back on. That’s a pretty smart idea, I’ve got to admit. And you hit me as a pretty smart young guy.”
“Brother Jeb’s good to me,” I said. “I’m happy with him.”
“Well, think about it. I’d be really happy to have you.”
“I like working for Brother Jeb just fine,” I said. I was trying to keep my voice polite, but it wasn’t something I needed to think about or answer to more than once.
We were pulling up in front of my mother’s house. She was out on the porch watering the hanging basket flowers with that old plastic watering can of hers. She did a double take at seeing the big red truck and dropped the can as well as her jaw.
“That your mama?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “She’s not used to seeing anything this new drive up and stop in front of her house. I’d best get out fast so she knows it’s me.”
“Looks like she broke that watering can when she dropped it.”
I looked through the windshield and saw her holding the can up, with water cascading out of a rip in the plastic side. She had a forlorn look on her face. Mom didn’t have the wherewithal to be buying a lot of new stuff like watering cans.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, as I climbed out of the cab. “Mom, it’s just me. Mr. Howell gave me a ride home.” I was already trying to work my way back into my mom’s and my world. Mr. Howell’s world was a lot more expensive than I could dream about.
“Give it a thought,” he said as I stepped down on the ground. “I can give you a lot that Jebodiah can’t.”
“Sure, Mr. Howell. Thanks again for the ride.”
“I’ll be seeing you around, Johnny.”
The next day when I biked home from the orchard, remembering with every huff and puff how easy the air-conditioned truck ride was in comparison with biking at the end of a picking day, Mom was out on the porch again, watering her hanging baskets. She was using a new, shiny-red watering can and she had a smile on her face that went from ear to ear.
“Went to the market and bought yourself a new can?” I asked.
“Nope. That nice Mr. Howell who brought you home yesterday stopped and gave it to me. He said he was sorry that he had scared me and made me drop the other one. He wanted me to pass on his regards to you. And he told me he’d offered you a job with double the pay. He seems a right nice man, Johnny.”
“I’m sure he is, Mom,” I answered, “But Brother Jeb is a right nice man too.”
* * * *
“Hope your mom liked the watering can.”
My eyes popped open. Brother Jeb had called it a day early, because the swelter of summer in the valley was continuing and it was just too damn hot to be working outside. We were ahead on the peach picking, though. He was real pleased with that. Said it was mostly my doing. And it might have been; I couldn’t remember much past noon today. It was so sweltering that I had just put myself on autopilot and tried to forget the temperature as I worked. Both Brother and Jeb and all those milling Hispanics and the other young white guys had piled in their rides and ridden off more than a half hour ago. I was laying under the tree working up the energy to bike back home.
I looked up and Mr. Howell was leaning there on the fence. He must have been really hot too, because he was shirtless. I almost swallowed my breath on how well-developed his torso was, especially for a man his age. He was really ripped. And he was hairy too—and deep tanned. Not hairy like a bear, really. I could see the skin through the dark, curly hair. But it pretty much covered his pecs and forearms and it trailed down his sternum and across his flat belly and then disappeared below his low-rise gym shorts. They were pretty baggy.
“Yeah, she liked it a lot. My mom doesn’t get much new stuff, so that was a real treat. But you didn’t have to do that.”
“I caused her to drop and split the other one, so it was only fair I got her a new one.”
“But you must have made a special trip to take it to her.”
“Least I could do for that tip you gave me—that Jebodiah had taken his first fruit to Harrisonburg. I got to New Market first with mine the next day. Sold out in not much more than an hour. Getting the first fruit like that to the right market is real lucky. It sets off the rest of the season real good. Of course, if I had more help picking my peaches, I could really rake up the profit.”
“It wasn’t that great a tip. But I’m glad it worked out for you. It worked out for Brother Jeb too, so it’s a win, win situation all around.”
“Not that much of a win for you, Johnny. All you got was a watering can for your mother and a ride home. And you had to be back picking peaches the next morning.”
“It was good enough. I got the time and a half Brother Jeb promised for making a first-fruit goal. He’s real honest that way. I’ve had Baptist bosses that promised something but then didn’t give it.” I stopped, thinking I maybe went too far. Chances were good Mr. Howell was Baptist. I tried to smooth that over a bit. “But that ride home was real nice, thanks.”
“You want another ride today? I’d be happy to give you a ride.”
I thought about that—maybe for three seconds. “Yeah, sure, thanks.” I looked up and saw that he was grinning down at me.
“I can’t help thinking I should do more to show my gratitude,” Mr. Howell said not long after we started off in his rumbling Ford F-450. “Of course, if you came and worked for me, I could make it up in wages.”
“Thanks. I like working for Brother Jeb, though. Thanks all the same.”
“Well, maybe some other way. Say, I’ll bet you’re hot as a fire cracker.”
“Yeah, close to that I think.”
“Bet a dip in a pool and a couple of really cold brewskies would help with that.”
“Yeah, that’s certainly something to dream about,” I agreed.
“Hell, no need to dream. I’ve got a pool at my house, and a refrigerator full of beer.”
“You’ve got a swimming pool?”
“Yeah, sure. Not just a pond either. Concrete sides and bottom and everything.”
“Neat. But . . .”
“And I know something else. We talked about films of the Tech squad’s summer football practices the other day. I’ve got those on the machine. We could hit the pool and then watch the films while knocking a couple back. Waddya say to that? God it’s a hot day. This air-conditioning is great, but once out of that. Probably OK if you have air-conditioning at your mom’s place.”
We barely had walls at my mom’s place.
“Well, I don’t know . . .”
“And I could have Lynn put some steaks on for us. Make it an evening. I’d take you back after dinner.”
“My mom will be expecting me home.”
“I don’t think she will. I was over at your house before coming here. She said she was going to a show with her neighbor . . . Mrs. . . .”
“Steele. Mrs. Steele. She said that? That they were going to a show? That’s strange.”
“So it looks like you need to fend for yourself for supper. As I said, I can get Lynn to broil us up a couple T-bones. I’m betting you could put that away after the hard day’s work you’ve done. I made a killing off that first fruit to the New Market market. I’d really like to express my gratitude to you for the tip.”
Well, if his wife was happy enough cooking up a meal for us . . .
Standing looking at the pool on the terrace behind his house made me want to jump right in. The pool was big. The house was big. Everything about his spread was big—and expensive looking.
“Too bad I don’t have a suit with me,” I said.
“No worry about that. It’s just the two of us. Lynn’s in the kitchen. Won’t see a thing.” With that, he stripped off his gym shorts, stood long enough for me to tout up his horse-hung cock and low-slung balls in the extra big category—a particular shock being as it was centered in that small V of whitish skin that wasn’t deep tanned—dove neatly into the pool, and did a vigorous Australian crawl to the far side. Reaching that, he did a neat turn and stood up in the pool. “Your turn. Come on, strip and dive.”
Embarrassed, I dropped my shorts and did an awkward dive into the pool as quick as I could.
We swam about. I couldn’t swim very well. He was a regular sea otter, disappearing under the water in one place and surfacing someplace unexpected. A couple of times he came right up in front of me, his body bumping mine.
I was getting self-conscious, and worse, feeling myself getting aroused and going hard. So I swam over to the ladder and pulled myself up quickly. Turning away from him, I quickly toweled off and pulled my shorts back on. Only then did I turn back to him, seeing him dog paddling in the pool and looking at me with an amused look on his face.
“More hungry than in the mood to swim?” he asked.
“Yeah, pretty hungry,” I answered. “As you said, I put in a long day. Quite a few hours since lunch now.”
“OK, you go on into the house. I’ll be in in a minute or two.”
I happily did as he asked. I was having feelings I’d had before and mostly tried to repress. There was a guy a couple of times on the basketball team. Older than me. But that was just fooling around. We didn’t do anything serious. But it had set me to thinking—and I’d been trying not to think too much along those lines. Going into the house would be good. Mrs. Howell would be in there. We’d watch the films, eat the steaks, and Mr. Howell would take me home. And that would be that.
I felt warm and trembly, though. Mr. Howell was so . . . built. I’d watched some films. But I didn’t want to think about that. And especially by how his privates and tight, bulbous buns were accentuated by not being dark tanned like the rest of him.
I was in the house, waiting for Mr. Howell to come in, when a young guy came out of the kitchen and set some plates on a dining table.
“How do you like your steak?”
“How do you like your steak? I won’t put them on yet, because Clarence says you’ll watch football films first. But I’ll fix the steaks to order.”
“Uh, medium rare, I guess.” I hoped the confusion in my mind didn’t sound that much like confusion. The guy wasn’t much older than I was, and he was acting like he belonged here.
“And baked potato or fries? I’m Lynn, by the way. I cook for Clarence.”
Lynn. Not a woman’s name in this case. “Uh, baked potato, I guess.”
We were sitting side by side on the sofa, Mr. Howell and me, with the DVD player running, showing Tech football practice. The lights were dim, and it was starting to get dark outside, although Mr. Howell had turned lights on in and around the pool, which we could see beyond a big, two-story window wall.
I was trying to keep my attention on the film, but I have to say that a college football practice is a bit boring. There’s no scoring to keep track of and no school to cheer against. There was a brief flurry of excitement when I saw someone on the film I thought I knew, though.
“Hey, that looks like someone I went to school with. Wes what’s his name.”
“Wes Shelton? Yeah, that’s who gave me the films. He’s working for me this summer. Supervising the picking. I can’t be there full time watching to see that everyone is working.”
Yeah, I thought. You seem to be spending more time watching us work Brother Jeb’s orchard than at your own. But I was feeling nervous. I knew Wes. I knew him real well. That’s who I’d done a little fooling around with. Nothing heavy, I thought. Just measuring and seeing who was biggest and what might make us bigger—and then, admittedly, who could shoot the farthest, and whether you could get more by doing yourself or having another guy do you. There’s nothing real heavy in jacking each other off, though. I do that just by myself maybe a couple of times a day. It’s not that much more to do it with another guy your age who’s just curious like you are. We both talked about girls and doing it to them while we did it.
What was trying to get my attention more was the purple, bulbous cap on Mr. Howell’s dick. He was wearing those baggy gym shorts and they were riding up his leg so that the tip of his prick was peeking out of a leg hole.
I was tenting up in my own shorts. I sure hoped that Mr. Howell didn’t see that. It wasn’t something I wanted to do—it was just happening without me being able to stop it.
He must have noticed my stiffening, because, without me being aware of it, he had snaked an arm around me on the top of the sofa, and the first thing I knew I was feeling fingers on my bicep on the opposite side of him, and he was soft stroking me there with his fingers.
“Umm, Mr. Howell.”
“Don’t be nervous, Johnny. I know you’re interested. I can see you’re hard.” He had the remote in his other hand and, with a stroke of a button, he had changed the DVD over to a sex film—a homo sex film. A hairy middle-aged guy—but in real good shape, just like Mr. Howell—sucking off a young blond guy.
“I don’t think . . . I didn’t come here for. I don’t . . .”
“Wes told me that you did, Johnny. He told me that you were a real good fuck, that you begged it from him. And that he fucked you a lot.”
“He told you that?” I could barely get it out. I was hyperventilating. In any event, Mr. Howell didn’t seem to give a shit what I said about me and Wes. That Wes. He was always boasting. We didn’t ever . . . “Ohhhh, god.”
“Like that, do you? Hard for me, aren’t you?”
I couldn’t breathe, let alone object. All I could do was shudder and moan. He’d moved his free hand below my waistband and had a thumb on the bulb of my cock. He was moving the thumb around in the precum that had involuntarily oozed out there. I gave a little jerk as he tried to push into my piss hole with the tip of his finger.
“I’m going to be very good to you, Johnny. And you’re going to be good to me too.”
I wanted to object. To say this was all a mistake. And push him off me and stand up and go get my bicycle and start peddling home. I should never have . . . “mooooaan.”
The hand on my shoulder had moved to the back of my head and turned my face to his. He took possession of my mouth with his, pressing his tongue deep inside my mouth cavity. I had to breathe through my nose, giving a rasping gagging sound. He pushed my shorts down to around my knees, and while his hand was off my cock, he grabbed one of my hands and pushed it under his waistband and onto his cock. Then his hand was gripping my cock again and pumping it slowly.
My hand had a mind of its own. I didn’t take it away from his cock. I didn’t fist him, but I let my hand run along the sides of his cock. I moaned again at the feel of how big and long it had gotten. And how hot it was. I could feel the pulsating, bulging vein running up the underside of it. That made me think of Wes. He was big like that too.
The kiss was over and he was kneeling in front of me as I sat on the sofa. My shorts were coming off and being cast aside.
“No, Mr. Howell. This is all a mistake. I’ve never . . . Oh, fuck. Oh shit.”
His mouth had come down over my cock and he was deep throating me. I lay back, powerless. “Noooo.”
I began to pant. Nothing like this ever before. It had to stop. I didn’t want it to stop. Not ever. “Yesssss.”
“You like this. You want this.”
It wasn’t a question, but I groaned my assent.
“You want me to fuck you. You’ve just been teasing me.”
All I could manage was a moan.
He pushed me over on my side on the sofa, my head on the arm. Then he pulled me around on my back and was straddling me, his mouth working my cock. I grabbed his bald head in my hands, thinking I was meaning to try to push him away. That wasn’t what I wanted at all. I was holding him there, instead, enjoying the rhythmic up and down movement on my cock between his lips and the bobbing of his head in the rhythm.
“God, Mr. Howell,” I murmured, my voice feeling far away and weak even to me. “Wes lied. I’ve never . . . he lied.”
He pulled his mouth off my cock and looked up at my face. “You’ve never been fucked before?”
“Ne . . . never,” I moaned.
“Oh, fuck, this is delicious,” he said in guttural voice. “First fruit. My favorite. You want it. I know you want it. Your body doesn’t lie.”
“Tell me you want me to stop. We can just suck. You have to suck me too. But tell me you don’t want it all—that you don’t want me to fuck you.”
“I . . . I . . .” it ended in a moan as his mouth came down over my cock again.
No fair, no fuckin’ fair, I cried out. But that was all inside my head. I wasn’t actually crying anything out. I was groaning and moaning too loud. And my hips were beginning to move with the rhythm of his mouth pumping.
I collapsed. I tensed up and then relaxed again. I tensed yet again as I felt a finger at my hole, entering me, slowly. Finding a spot that made me grip his ears and arch my back and moan a deeper moan than I’d given him before. I felt fireworks. Didn’t hear them or see them. Felt them in a way I can’t describe, as nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I shuddered and tensed. Then tensed even more. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, God, I’m coming!”
And I did.
After cleaning my cock with his tongue, he was lifting my legs, my ankles above my shoulders. His tongue going down across my perineum. To my asshole.
I gasped. I groaned, I moaned. I was being tongue fucked. I was putty in his hands now—not that I’d put up anything like a fight before. He could do anything he wanted to me now. But that cock he had. The size of what I’d felt. I began to tremble. And to cry. Softly, trying not to let him hear. Trying not to be there at all. But the pleasure. The arousal. I was already getting hard again. My hand went to my cock, and I was slow pumping it.
He was hovering over me. His teeth were nipping at my nipples and I was giving little nipping sounds and my body was jerking. I had no control. It wasn’t even my body. I didn’t want it to be my body. But, yes, of course I did. I wanted this pleasure, this ultimate arousal.
“Yessss, oh shit, yes,” I hissed. I pushed my chest up, my nipples search his mouth. He laughed and raised his mouth to mine again and possessed me as before. I ran my hands down his chest, luxuriating in the matting of hair and in the hard curves of his muscles. Taking his cock in my hand, brushing my own cock against it, and then holding them together in my fist. His so much thicker and longer than mine. Both hot, hard, pulsating. His moving slowly in and out, rubbing across my fingers.
Shuddering again at the thought of what he said he was going to do to me. With that big dick.
He was pulling away from me. Rising up my body. His cock level with my mouth. “Suck it.”
“Oh, God. I’ve never.”
“Not that either?” He laughed. “Just open wide, keep your teeth off it, and don’t gag anymore than you have to. I’ll do the rest.”
Holding the sides of my head with his meaty fists. Pushing inside me with that bulb of his. I couldn’t take much, at first, and he didn’t press hard . . . at first. Before he was finished, though, I felt that my tonsils had been battered and that he was a jackhammer machine.
“Can’t yet,” I heard him say, and then he was pulling out of me. “Not bad for the first time. Just about had me coming.”
I wasn’t sure my jaw would ever snap back in place. My nose was running, tears were streaming down my face, my tongue felt like it was twice its normal size, and the musky taste of him lingered on after he’d pulled out. My chest was heaving from the effort. But I was exhilarated at the experience. I’d done it. I always wondered what it would be like. The next time I’d take more control. I’d try to give more pleasure—like he did for me.
The next time? Oh, god, what was I thinking?
I lay there panting, not able to move. Thinking that this was when I should get up and flee. He was off the sofa, looking down at me. Smiling. He was fiddling with a small square packet. A condom! And he had a small can of something in his hand.
He really was going to do it. He was going to fuck me in the ass. In the ass! I’d never. I couldn’t. No fucking way would I . . .
I moaned and tried to move. I was turning on my side on the sofa when I felt a hand gliding under my waist. A hairy forearm. He wasn’t fighting me. He was helping me. To turn over on my stomach. But when I was about to put my leg out onto the floor and rise from the sofa, he was holding me firm, pulling me up on my knees on the sofa, my head on the armrest.
Crouched over me, he was moving fingers back to my asshole. Cold, wet fingers. Probing me. His torso over mine, holding me close. His teeth on an earlobe, breathing heavily.
“Steady, steady as she goes. It will only hurt at the beginning. Slowly, slowly I’m going to take you to heaven.”
“I haven’t. I can’t. I . . .”
“You’re honey. Meant to be taken. To be fucked. It’s a man you want. A man with a big cock. More man than Wes was. I’m that man. I’m gonna fuck you. Here, now. You’re gonna love it. Gonna beg for it.”
He hadn’t been convinced. He still thought that Wes had fucked me, that he was competing with Wes, and that I was comparing him to a younger guy. He was right, though. I wanted it. But I was scared, oh so scared. I started to squirm, feeling not thickish fingers inside me, but something thicker, slick, bigger than the hole but pressing in. At my asshole.
“Steady, steady.” His voice was thick, growly. “God, you’re tight. But we’re going to do this. You’re going to get fucked.”
“Nooo,” I moan. “Oh, god. Oh, shit. Ohh. Ohhhhhh.”
It was gigantic. A gourd, a watermelon. There was no . . . way. “Oh Fuckkkk.”
Inside me. Expanding pushing. In, in, in. Stop and hold. Both of us panting.
“Tight, tight. This is going to be great.”
He’d found the spot again. He was rubbing it with his dick head. I felt the jizm rise. Hot . . . waves . . . of pleasure. “Ahhhhhhhhh, yess.”
“Like that, do you?”
“Oh fuck yessss.”
I was building up the capability of saying something else, telling him the “however” part, when there was a searing pain, and I was fighting him hard, squirming within his grasp. Ineffectually. He was a big, strong man. And his dick was sinking deep inside me. Heavy breathing in harmony again. I began to sob, aloud. Defeated, taken, fucked.
And then he began to pump me. I came again and just went limp. He held me firmly, though, pulling me up to where my torso was erect. I was still on my knees. He had a grip under my chin with one hand, and his other, hairy forearm wrapped around my belly. His mouth was next to my ear, and his voice became thicker, more excited as he counted the strokes up his cock up inside me.
“Better now? I feel you relaxing. It’s good for you now, isn’t it?”
I could do more than moan. But he was right. The pain was subsiding, the pleasure welling up.
I no longer cared. It didn’t hurt that much anymore. And there was not going back from here. This was all his show now. As he breathed harder and his voice began to crack with lust and emotion, something else entered my mind. Power. Was it Mr. Howell who was controlling me, or me controlling his lust? I could tell he wanted me in a way he no longer controlled. I was the treasure. He lusted after me so much that he’d set this up and he couldn’t get enough of me.
Maybe I could get him to come—to do so when I wanted him to. He’d milked me twice. Maybe I could control something here. I began to work my butt. Back and forth. Slowly. Contracting away from him and then slowly back on his cock, drawing him into me. Discovering that I could tighten and released my channel muscles on his cock and could tell that this made him moan—and made him harder inside me. He was breathing harder and moaning. Fucking faster, deeper. I moved my butt in circles, around his cock. Tightened my muscles and relaxed; tightened and relaxed. And with a deep grunt and release of his breath, he came, filling out the bulb of his condom.
Fifteen minutes later we were in better rhythm, more equal, as I lay on my back on the sofa and his knees spread my thighs, pushed under my butt, raising it for an angle that gave his cock deep penetration. He had greased up his staff and my hole more than the first time. There was more glide, less friction. And my channel was opening more to him now. I was more relaxed. My pleasure was heightened this time with the sensation that I had that gigantic cock inside me, that I could handle it. That he wanted to be inside me so much. Nothing to fight anymore. I had been fucked by a man—a real man, a horse-hung daddy of a man—and I loved it. I loved the connection, the wanting of me, the managing and controlling of such a powerful men—with such a big, vigorous cock.
My hands were running up and down his torso, my fingers nipping at his nipples as he gave low huffing sounds and grinned down at me. One of his hands was working my cock. I was moving my hips with the deep thrusts of his cock—and my channel muscles. Playing his cock as much as he was working me.
“Let’s . . . try . . . to come together. It’s a special feeling that . . . no matter, we’ll try again later.”
Later? I thought, having just come for the third time that evening. He thinks we’ll do this again. That I’ll let him do this to me again. What do I think of that. For the life of me I didn’t know what I thought of that. All I knew at the moment was that I wanted to make him come. I wanted it to me something I did to his body that made him come.
Ten minutes later, after he’d come and we’d just laid there, cooling down, me feeling for the first time the sensation of a man’s monster cock softening up inside me, he leaned over and whispered, “We can cool down in the pool. I want to fuck you in the pool.”
“Get it like that from Wes, did you? He fuck you as hard or as deep, or as long? He make you beg for more of it, harder, longer, deeper that I did?”
He was standing in four feet of water, with my butt plastered to his pelvis, feeling him soften inside me. His hands were gripping my waist and I was arched out toward the lip of the pool, my fists gripping the edge. The agitation of the water that his fucking motion had created was only slowly ebbing away. My ankles were locked together behind him, beneath his buttocks.
For the first time, we had come together.
“You are the greatest, Mr. Howell . . . Clarence. The absolute greatest.”
“Call your mother and tell her you’re sleeping out tonight.”
* * * *
It had been a week. He’d come to the fence at Brother Jeb’s orchard and watched and waited. But I’d put my bicycle on the other side of the orchard. And when he wasn’t looking I’d been slipping off and taking different routes home.
He’d been to the house. But I’d managed to never be there. He’d bring little gifts for my mother, trying to get her to help me decide to come work for him—at least that’s what he said he wanted. And my mother, knowing he was offering twice what Brother Jeb was and, being a good Baptist and never having been too pleased I was working for a Mennonite anyway, was doing what she could to get me to go with him.
She just didn’t know what going with him entailed. She’d probably run off to the church and drown herself in the baptismal pool if she got even a whiff of what he was sniffing around for—what he’d already gotten.
After a week, though, I walked right up to him as he was standing, looking forlorn at the fence and said, “I sure could use a ride home.”
He looked like a little boy in a candy store. He was all tongue tied and smiling.
“Just a ride home,” I said, enjoying the teasing.
His face fell, but he just got looked a little pouty and went around to the driver’s side.
When we’d shoved off, I said, in a low voice. “You know somewhere private we can pull this truck off?”
He almost swerved off the road as his head snapped around so he could get a good look at my face. I smiled at him, but I didn’t use a “I’m just jerking you around” sort of smile.
He had no trouble finding an overgrown drive into an abandoned homestead and pulling in behind a collapsed structure of some sort.
I had him sit in the center of the backseat of the Ford F-450 double cab, naked, while I sat in his lap, facing him, and, leveraging off the heels of my feet on the carpeting floor, fucked myself good and deep on his hungry staff.
“Yes, I’ll come work for you,” I said. “You want me this much, I’ll pick your peaches.”
I’d thought long and hard. The morning after I’d slept in his bed with him—and with that Lynn guy too, with Mr. Howell going back and forth between us, having enough hard cock and stamina to service us both to exhaustion—he’d begged me to come work for him, saying he couldn’t be without me, and that if I worked under him, there would be more opportunities for us to be together. He’d given me such a puppy dog look then—and when he’d come to the fence during the following week—that I finally gave in to him. I’d never had anyone want me that bad—or who gave me that much pleasure. I was in a whole new world.
* * * *
There were several young guys picking peaches in Mr. Howell’s orchard. Young and good looking, white, black, and Hispanic. He had just as many working his orchards as Brother Jeb had—maybe more.
But they were a lethargic lot in most cases. Being as how I was Mr. Howell’s boy now, I knew it was up to me to set a pace and an example. So I worked as hard as I’d done at Brother Jeb’s. Wes Shelton was there, acting as field supervisor, just as Mr. Howell had said he would be. He smirked a little in my direction when I showed up for work on my bike. I hadn’t decided, though, if I was going to call him out for lying about me to Mr. Howell. I couldn’t very well work up a deep mad when Mr. Howell had fucked me so well—and when most of my sleeping moments and some of my awake ones now were of Mr. Howell’s cock working my channel deep. I didn’t have much of a chance to speak alone with Wes for the first three hours of the day anyway.
I was working hard and fast, being a good example to the guys working the trees around me when I saw the big, red F-450 rumble up and through the orchard. When I looked up again, I didn’t see it, though.
Twenty or so minutes later, Wes was walking near my tree and I called him over.
“I see that Mr. H. got you working here after all,” Wes said. He was looking real good. All bulked up and tanned. My guess was that it was the football practices that was doing that for him, because he sure as hell wasn’t lifting much other than a finger on this orchard picking.
“Yes. He pays double what I got before. I’m saving to go to school in Harrisonburg.”
“I heard as much. There’s a good technical school in Blacksburg, you know. Better than the one in Harrisonburg, I hear.”
“I have to live at home. I don’t have the money yet to live away as far as Blacksburg.”
“Mr. H. is paying you double now. Maybe you could get him to pay you even more. You’re the best of the lot around here, you know.”
It didn’t take much, I thought, for anyone to see that I was three times the worker that any of these other lazy pretty boys were.
“Speaking of Mr. Howell,” I said. “Have you seen him? I thought I saw his truck come into the field a little while ago.”
“Sure,” Wes said, with a little smirk on his face. “Why don’t you go look behind that storage shed over there.”
I climbed down out of the tree. Wes was standing close to where I came down. Reaching out and putting a hand on my arm, he said, “You know you and I were getting to finding some real pleasure with each other. You go on and do it within anyone—go all the way?”
“No,” I said.
“Not before Mr. H., you mean? You look well fucked by someone. My money’s on Mr. H.” He gave me a knowing laugh.
I gave him a dirty look, pulled away from him, and walked as steadily as I could over to the shed.
Rounding the corner, I saw the big, red F-450. That’s not all I saw, though. The passenger door was open and one of the young Hispanic guys was laying, naked, half in and half out of the truck with the small of his back on the passenger seat. His legs were raised, and the his toes were dug into the top sides of the door frame on either side. Mr. Howell, also naked, was standing on the running board between the Hispanic’s legs, crouched over the passenger side, and was fucking the Hispanic’s hole fast and furiously.
The muscles of the Hispanic’s legs were undulating in rhythm to the fuck. The sounds he was making told me he was having a good time. And knowing what Mr. Howell packed between his legs and what he could do with it, my butt twitched in envy. I could see into the cab to where the Hispanic’s arms were thrown over his head and his head was lolled to one side on the towel on the passenger side of the truck—the same towel I’d sat on that day of my first ride in the red truck. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and I could see even from here the dreamy look on his face. I knew from the thrusting of Mr. Howell’s hips that he was fucking deep. The whiteness of his tightening and expanding alabaster butt cheeks in contrast to the deep tan of the rest of his body made me moan.
Red faced, I turned and walked quickly back around the side of the shed.
Wes was standing there in front of the shed. Not wanting to approach him, I turned my body back toward the truck. That was a mistake. The second view of what Mr. Howell was doing to that young Hispanic field worker, with the shock of the first sighting gone, was just too enticing now. I stood there and watched. Wes came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. One of his hands went to my cock, having no trouble finding the hardness of it and holding it through the material of my gym shorts. His breathing was ragged, sounding like a low roar as close as his mouth was to my ear. I leaned back into him in defeat and just moaned as his hand went below my waistband.
“You knew what he was doing,” I said, accusingly, but in a low voice that I hardly could get out.
“I sure did. And you should have known too. That’s how he got you to come work here. That’s his recruiting style. He’s got the biggest dick in the county and all the guys who might be interested know that. They flock here—for the double wages, and for the fucks. What, did you think he wanted you so bad that you’d be his one and only?”
“You lied to him . . . about me.”
“Best way I knew of to get you here and to be ready for me. He’s good, but he’s an old man, Johnny. I’m young and in great shape. I’ll be better to you than he can be.”
I couldn’t say anything. All I could do is look at my feet. I felt such a fool. I had been stupid enough to think that it was I who was in control. That Mr. Howell. He just wanted his orchard picked fast and clean. And Wes. He was no better. He just wanted to control me too.
“Pretty shitty thing to do, I know,” Wes said. “I know how you can get your own back, though.”
We fucked right there inside the shed. I could hear the Hispanic’s cries, so I supposed that Mr. Howell could hear mine as well. But I didn’t give a shit.
The irony was that Wes was a better fucker than Mr. Howell was. He also was more susceptible to my charms and my growing sense of control. By the end of the summer he was begging me to go to Blacksburg rather than Harrisonburg and was willing to let me live with him—for free. And I had plenty of money to start junior college as well as study for my electrician’s credentials.
Mr. Howell came sniffing around often, but denying him and letting him see Wes fuck me in the bushes made up for him plucking the first fruit off me. He reacted badly enough that I guess I did have some form of control over him. It wasn’t as unequal as he thought. I was still best peach picker in the whole county. And, knowing that, he couldn’t fire me.