Fertile Valley Tradition

To the memory of James K. Proferes

The situation Mrs. Bailey faced perplexed her terribly. The South’s drought had destroyed everyone’s crops. Poverty was rampant. Her friend since high school, Elmer Redstone, had lost his small farm to foreclosure and had headed up North. Parked his two sons with her.

“LouAnne,” he said with forlorn expression, “I ain’t got no choice. Please, I know you can, y’know, take care of my boys. They’re real good, only I cain’t risk taking ’em with me. Got jes’ enough money for m’self for a while. Soon’s I can, I’ll be back for ’em or I’ll send tickets, y’know, for ’em to come up to wherever I am.”

She noticed that, in his desperation, he was about to fall apart.

Elmer had done his best, after wife Ellen’s death from pellagra, to raise their two kids. Took them to school as long as he could. When he couldn’t, he tried hard to teach them at home – but the farm was failing, his mortgage overdue, and they had no relatives to help.

Pity moved her. “Elmer, you listen here. Of course the boys can stay here for a while. We’ll make do, as long as they mind me and don’t get too rambunctious.”

“They’ll bee-have. They don’t, take a stick to ’em” He called out, “Boys, y’all git in here.”

Lanky, good looking, brown-haired, sixteen-year-old Blade Redstone walked in, “Hey, Miz Bailey.”

Used to her State’s drawl, she acknowledged him with a smile.

The last time she had seen him, Blade stood at least two inches shorter. What might the future hold for such an impoverished big, bony boy?

Behind him came twelve-going-on-thirteen-year-old Stephen Redstone, a sun-bleached curly blond with sky-blue eyes and a peach-fuzz face pretty as a girl’s. Bubble-gum-pink lips. Unsure, if obviously hopeful, he beamed shyly without saying a word.

With them came a single battered suitcase. “Their stuff,” Elmer admitted. “Ain’t much, but least you won’t have to git ’em no clothes. They’s all clean. Saw to it. Right, boys?”

They, too, appeared clean in their almost ragged dungarees. “Yes, Pa.”

* * *

LouAnne Bailey, a widow, lived within commuting distance of Atlanta. Her small, frame house was kept neat as a pin. She led a modest, practical life. Coming as she and Elmer did from the same long-gone farming community near tiny Shellman in South Georgia, she appreciated the few amenities her late husband’s pension afforded. Access to the big city, its department stores, movie theaters, zoo, art museum and civic library. The last two particularly brought her into contact with a cross-section of cultivated people of several stripes. Because she had no pretensions but was open, friendly and inquisitive, everybody’s circles welcomed her. Adding to the fullness of her years there: lectures and exhibits, membership in a book club, subscriptions to both daily newspapers, and tickets to occasional plays.

She had grown culturally.

In his awkward way, Elmer had fancied her. To no avail. His life, unlike hers, was soil-bound. Subsistence farmers for generations, the Redstones knew only countrified ways. None of them aspired beyond their circumstances. Luck brought him together with fetching, if somewhat dim, blue-eyed Ellen Yokum.

Poor folk! Doomed to a hardscrabble existence, dietary balance was iffy much of the time, especially when the weather dealt farmers its sometimes heavy blows. Ellen, the more susceptible of the two, faded away when their boys were eleven and seven. Elmer was stuck.

Fatherly duties succeeded those of motherly persuasion, especially for Blade as he reached puberty’s doorway. Elmer followed family tradition and ushered him through and into his teen years, anchoring him safely during hormonal tides. Too young but not unaware, Stephen watched, learned, and yearned. Now, he was of that age and readiness.

* * *

“This is my guest room,” LouAnne showed her guests. “Twin beds, a closet over there, that chest of drawers – you can put your things in there for now since you’ll be with me for a while. Books you may want look through, maybe read, are on that shelf, but we can get any title you want from the civic library. Oh, and the bathroom’s through that door. If you get water on the floor, use a towel to sop it up, okay?”

“Yes’m.”

* * *

Blade and Stephen did their best to fit in. Blade mowed ‘Miz’ Bailey’s grass, carried her groceries; Stephen laundered their clothes in her washing machine, and tried to help in the kitchen. Television in those days wasn't twenty-four hours a day. She let them enjoy old Westerns on Saturday afternoons.

Blade had funny feelings when Lash LaRue did tricks with his whip, and shifted position every now and then.

She fed them well, things they liked in particular such as crispy fried chicken. With farm boy manners, they took turns saying, “Pa never cooked it as good as this.”

At night in their room, confidences flowed. Frustrations were voiced in fraternal intimacy. Part of Redstone tradition was to “get things out in the air.”

“She’s so nice, but this jes’ ain’t near the same,” Blade complained, his right hand rubbing himself off.

From his bed, Stephen watched his brother’s efforts at pleasure. “Feels good to touch,” he remarked, plying his throbby hard few inches similarly

“Yeah, but it ain’t natural, not at my stage. Yours, it’s all right, ’cause you…you only know about what’s right. You ain’t had it yet. But you’re ready.”

“Think we should tell her?”

“She’s level-headed. Knows farm ways. Maybe she can help us.”

* * *

LouAnne let out a loud, “Dang-nation!” Settling, “Boys, I’ve been citified so long, I plum forgot how things ought to be for you fellows. Let me put on my thinking cap.”

What she did was to pick up her telephone. Call after call to gentlemen friends of a certain age and range of fleshy interests netted curious responses.

-“If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, you can get in trouble… What do you mean what-do-I-mean? Pandering, dear. Or pimping. Oh forget it. There are laws now. The younger one…you’re talking about jail time.”

-“Sweetie, listen. Don’t waste time looking for he-men in a gym or place like that. They’re all on steroids. Shrinks their drives for anything except muscles. Little balls and dicks, I’m telling you!”

-“I’ve never heard you like this. They’re in your house – waiting? No, my stage crew won’t produce any likely candidates. They’re all union anyway. I don’t get it? I’m in the theatrical world, remember? No burly character actors around this time, not for the present production. It’s Little Women.”

-“Thought about your local fire department? Those guys are strong and assertive. Wait, better not. Their department’s housed with its firetrucks next to the police station. Yeah, that law stuff – and the kid’s not thirteen? Forget it.”

-“Consider a sex therapist. I know two. Hmm…maybe not. They’re lesbians.”

Finally, a sensible recommendation. It came from a thoughtful friend at the Metropolitan Community Church.

No, it was not to take the boys to services and introduce them around. Not at all.

It was to visit the Farmers’ Market and to let the boys wander the sellers’stalls, see what they could of the farmers, chat up those that might look right – seasoned, you know, in farm ways – maybe get leads on some others. “Specially,” her smart friend advised, “older guys who look hard at your boys and smile.”

An eureka moment!

The trio reconnoitered the whole Market area on Friday. Went for the retailers who sold family portions. Cruised that area on Saturday, walking the loading lanes behind the exhibitors to check for family members, especially for farm boys who might be willing to talk. Sunday, her boys all spiffed up, hair combed neatly as possible, LouAnne led her charges toward the most promising farmers and advised them to zero in on the ones who remembered seeing them before and who showed the most interest.

Blade struck gold with grizzly Albert “Good Ol’ Al” Hawkins. Right off, the man drawled, “Y’all care to sit a spell? That’s what these lil’ hay bales is for, ’mongst other things”

A big bale served as his desk. “So whut y’all lookin’ for? Want some lemonade?”

An exchange of glances and smiles behind them, LouAnne and Stephen sat while Good Ol’ Al took Blade through a flap to help with the lemonade. Sure enough – about ten minutes later – they were served paper cups of fresh, cold lemonade by two guys who seemed closer acquainted than having just met.

They sipped.

Tomatoes, okra, and corn were Good Ol’ Al’s to provide. “Have those t’hand, in the back. Keeps ’em fresh.”

“I need some onions, too.”

“Tell ya whut. Head down to Big Tom’s – thataways – his wife’s there. Betty Mae’s her name. She’ll fix ya up with the sweetest onions you ever ate. Knows evabody ’n’ their produce. Likes t’ talk. Hell, she’ll even help you shop, if you want. These boys kin stay with me. We’ll sort through and pick the best o’ my stuff for you. Need ’bout an hour, I reckon.”

His heart was pumping fast.

Blade faced LouAnne with an expression which begged her to agree. She looked at Stephen, “You won’t mind if I come back for you boys in about an hour? Mr. Hawkins needs you to help him with Blade, it seems.”

“No ma’am, I’m anxious to get help. I mean, to help.” Stephen’s stumble endeared him to LouAnne, who understood more than less.

* * *

“Oh Lordy, boy, that’s a mighty fine butt y’ got there,” Good Ol’ Al said to Blade, a hand investigated further what awaited under dungaree denim. “Bend over that table and lemme have a better feel.”

“Mister Al, kin I bend over too? I ain’t been felt up yet, but I’m ready fer it.”

“Sure thing. Here, bend over your brother. He ain’t goin’ nowheres.”

Blade’s protest was cut short by a smart smack of Good Ol’ Al’s farm-strong hand to his backside.

“You need some more?”

“I kin take ’em. Pa taught me.”

“O-kay, only not now. I wanna see whut this little brother o’ yours has to work with.”

Stephen was positioned.

Touched.

Rubbed.

Squeezed.

Smacked – not very hard.

“I’m a good boy. I don’t need no spanks. I jes’ need a good man, y’know, to open me up.”

His unchanged voice saying what it said sent a green-light signal flashing into Good Ol’ Al. “Drop them dungarees, boy so’s I kin see what you got for a man to open.”

Stephen, proud to show his butt, shucked off shoes and outer outfit. Stood there, only his shirt covered remaining innocence.

Cute fleece, like a newborn lamb’s. Or – his mind flipped from meadow to barnyard – just a few feathers on him.

“Move outta your brother’s way so he kin strip for me. There’s man’s work to be done here ’n’ this one ain’t got a lotta time.”

In seconds, Blade was naked completely. And keen, as his stiff cock proved.

Al wasted no time in feeling for the hole. He exclaimed, “Shit! You’re all shut up, boy.”

“Poke me some there. It’ll open like it did for Pa. Don’t be ’fraid none.”

Al hauled out his cucumber-shaped manhood, slicked it with soft margarine from breakfast, nudged the thing into place, and pushed. “It wuz a-maz-ing,” he later reported in awed terms. “That boy stretched like a rubber band. Took me all the way without cryin’ or nothing. He’s bin brought up right, fer sure.”

His brother being filled and refilled almost the way their Pa did it – Mr. Hawkins huffing as he abided his time at first then speeded up to pound that butt – made virgin Stephen sweat. He clasped himself tightly. His narrow chest heaved for air at the sight!

Blade’s eyes were closed. Impacts rocked his head. The table steadied him. Teeth held his lower lip until he began to smile.

A man in him again felt so good – even if he was only a stand-in for his Pa.

Mr. Hawkins moved his hands from his hips to Blade’s to pull him back as he thrust the whole way in like a piston. All of a sudden, he pulled out and told Blade, “Git down on the floor so’s I kin plow y’ good.”

Obedient, Blade dropped to his knees, caught himself with his hands and slid flat on the linoleum. A first for him, he shivered as his hot privates contacted the chilly, gritty floor covering.

The sight of Mr. Hawkins’ soppy whopper pointing his way unnerved the blond gawker. “Set down ’fore y’fall down, kid. Take that chair. Watch and learn.” He glowered, “I’ll git to you.”

Heels next to heels on the floor, Mr. Hawkins lowered his hairy heaviness over Blade’s waiting, vacant butt. Knees next to knees, he fell forward to skewer the teen with a pile driver’s force.

“Hey!” Blade hollered. “Damn, that hurt!”

“Boy, no more cussin’ in here. It ain’t fit fer your lil’ brother’s ears.”

No reply. Blade wriggled for comfort around Good Ol’ Al’s projectile, relaxed into the ebbs of pain, and took another twenty or so minutes of thorough, back-on-the-farm fucking.

They came at the same time, Blade onto the linoleum, Al into Blade who cried, “Oh, oh, oh, oh, ohhh…”

Stephen leaned so intently to watch his brother being serviced that his jaw dropped. Drool streaked to his hands cupping his excitement. Too much! He spurted crazily. His immature seed was messy.

Al laughed at the boy’s predicament. Stood up glistening with sex juice, noticed the wall clock, and said, “Clothes! Better git ’em on quick-like. Miz Bailey’s gonna be back soon.”

They flurried, wetness concealed under garments. Blade helped Stephen dry his jaw and hands with paper towels while their ‘host’ filled paper bags with ears of corn, hands full of okra pods, and several of his plumpest tomatoes.

Stephen complained in a shrimp-small voice, “Whut about me, Mr. Hawkins? You said…”

“I know whut I said…Oh, there she is.” He brightened, “Hi, Miz Bailey. We got your things ready.”

She strode up, carrying bags of onions, green beans, sweet potatoes, and a loaf of Ellie-Rose Trivison’s carrot bread. “My boys bother you much?”

“No ma’am, they wuz a big help. I sure could use ’em some more though, if you don’t mind. How ’bout they stay with me fer tonight? Got plenty of room in my camper out in the lot.”

Transparent as cellophane, she thought. He’s already tumbled Blade, it’s obvious. Inwardly, she smiled.

“Blade, honey, you want to stay over? You, Stephen?”

They chorused, “Yes’m.”

“Okay, but take all these things to my car while I have a few words with Mr. Hawkins here.”

Uh-oh.

She leveled, “You hurt either one, you’ll answer for it. Is that clear?” Not waiting for his answer, she went on, “My boys – and they’re mine for practical purposes – really do need a man in their lives. A good one, you hear me? A good one, who treats them right. I’ll loan them to you for a few days, especially so Stephen – if you’re up to the job – so Stephen gets what he’s ready for, or thinks he is.”

She stared. Al rose to the challenge. He liked her and was hot for more of ‘her’ young flesh.

“LouAnne, Stephen’s ’bout to pop, he’s so ready. Thought he might cry when I was fixin’ Blade ’n’ couldn’t do nuthin’ fer him. Now I’m here tonight and tomorrow night, then I go back to my farm. That’s prob’ly enough time fer ’em to see how I run things. If y’all agree ’n’ are happy how we’re fittin’ together, they kin come to live with me on my farm. It ain’t affected by the drought, bein’ North o’ here. Plenty to do up there.

LouAnne turned in the direction of the returning boys. Surprise: Stephen spoke before she could.

“Miz Bailey, me ’n’ my brother here wuz talking ’bout all this. If…it’s okay with you, we…”

A booming bass voice interrupted. “Al! You got them Bailey folks over there with you?”

Sounded like thunder.

Al hollered back, “Yeah Tom. They’re here!” To the group, he lowered his voice, “That’s Big Tom Dunwoody. LouAnne, honey, did you fergit something with Betty-Mae?”

Her head shook, a frown on her brow. “No, but we talked. Got along right away. She’s no bumpkin.”

Big Tom arrived. Big as a Mack truck, it was easy to see why he was called by that name. He towered. “I hear you got a farm boy that needs employment. That’d be you?” he asked Blade.

“I guess so.”

“Whut experience you had?” he asked as his eyes raked Blade from head to toe.

“My Pa, you mighta knowed him – Elmer Redstone? – started me when I was that one’s age.” He pointed to Stephen, who looked awed. “He worked with me clear up till we lost our farm ‘n’ Pa went up North. Been stayin’ with Miz Bailey.”

A moment’s hesitation gave Al an idea. “Blade, you turn ’round so Big Tom here can see how fit you are for work. He might wanna have you down on the farm with him ’n’ Betty-Mae ’n’ their son, Tom-Tom.”

Smack in the center of Blade’s dungarees, there was the telltale wet spot of recent work being done there. Big Tom’s interest showed, “Al, you been updatin’ this boy?”

“Did. Gonna have m’hands full with the young’un though so, if you want…”

“Gentlemen,” LouAnne broke in, “I’m the one in charge of who Blade will join forces with. Elmer trusted me to take over for him while he’s up North looking to earn some money. Tell you what, Tom, your wife and I shared some confidences a little while ago, so I know that Tom-Tom’s going off happy to agriculture school so there’ll be room for Blade, if Blade wants to fill in for him with you and Betty-Mae. Why don’t the two of you go in there, through that flap and get acquainted?”

* * *

Behind the flap, no time was lost. Big Tom simply outlined what his pants hid. Twice. The lump enlarged.

A monster banana, Blade thought. Had to verify that it was real. From pointed head down wider shaft all the way to – real, too? – balls the size of a prize hen’s eggs, Blade’s fingers tingled. Tall as he had grown, he had to crick his neck to look up at Big Tom’s kind face (especially as close as they were standing).

“I know,” Big Tom said in his deepest manly voice, “that’s a lot to take in, but my Tom-Tom’s been with it since he was fifteen. Eighteen now, he’s going away to the State Agricultural College on scholarship. Real proud of him.”

Blade swallowed. The man stroked the submissively attractive sixteen-year-old’s unblemished neck while reaching inside the back of his dungarees to feel where Good Ol’ Al had been. “Nice,” he complimented.

“I ain’t smart, school-wise,” Blade’s voice shook, a large finger toying with his back way in.

“You don’t know that. School’s been out of your reach for some time, hasn’t it?”

“Yessir.”

“If you come into our home, we’ll set you on the right track. Betty-Mae and I are good at that. Can’t wait to introduce you to Tom-Tom. He’s great – and will help me check you out and get you oriented.”

The flap spread for LouAnne’s head to poke through. “Time’s called. You two look friendly. Come to terms yet?”

“Miz Bailey, please, if it’s okay, I’ll go along.” Blade’s failed attempt to hide his erection only made it more obvious.

Who minded? Stephen did, emphatically. “I’m the one needs attention.” His piped voice went on, “He should stay with Mr. Hawkins here, so’s he kin get to work on his farm. They fit good. I seen ’em.”

The protest worked. Plans were switched. Stephen needed educating more than Blade, needed developing, also. A lot. Betty-Mae felt a few parts of Stephen’s body with sympathy for his youth. Big Tom, a finger to his chin, pondered the possibilities. The boy’s innards surely needed shaping. He and Tom-Tom… Yes, his son could profit from transferring what he learned from his Dad’s dicking him to manhood – transfer that knowledge into starting Stephen on the right path before heading away, before Tom himself took over the kid.

Discussion. Reconsideration. New arrangements for the next two nights. Then, if all went well…

Within minutes, Stephen and Blade were reminded to call Miz Bailey’s telephone number if they wanted her to fetch either one “even in the middle of the night.” Al and Tom were reminded to “take good care of the boys and” – here her tongue slipped – “do them right. I mean, do right by them.”

* * *

Blade, rocked by Al’s cock-induced rhythmic intensity, saw red before his sight went blindingly white. Leading to that instant, Al went cramp-hard-rigid, his full limit forced into the teen, jetting jelly-thick gushes of cum further than before. From their being summoned to dynamo-strong, boiling production, his balls ached.

Lodged deeply atop the object of his care, who gasped for air, Al wheezed from exertion and was thrilled uniquely. Nor religious, he thought himself blessed to have such a piece of ass on tap for now and, possibly, for a long time.

The boy’s channel seemed aware of the treasure it held. It tested by feeble squeezes and minute pulls as Blade recovered vision and consciousness. “Oh,” he managed, able to form words, “Pa never gave it to me like that.”

The compliment hit Good Ol’ Al with the force of magic. His lower back strengthened, his cock bloated into new erection, his breath returned full-blown along with his desire. “Well, I kin give it to you again.”

He put into play every sinew his libido had, all the muscles of his upper torso, stomach, and pelvis. Moans from Blade joined his body’s responses.

With butt-thrusts to meet Al’s plunges, he revealed a farm boy’s strength, strength prepared over years of growth under his Pa. No thought occupied him except to do show his best, his fitness for farm life as was traditional – denied him by a merciless drought.

Passers-by noticed with smiles the camper’s rocking motions. They understood. They approved.

* * *

Stephen’s ride to the Dunwoody’s farm in Fertile Valley with Big Tom and Betty-Mae heightened his curiosity about Tom-Tom, their son. He was the subject of most of their stories – how he was as a child, how he took to schooling and sports, how he “grew too big for his britches” and had to be taken in-hand and guided back to proper behavior, how he blossomed and fruited in early adolescence, how Betty-Mae knew when the moment came to call on Big Tom to set aside time to take on a Dad’s responsibility to help their son mature physically and mentally through high school years.

Their warm accounts disturbed Stephen. Worried him just a bit. He was going to meet Tom-Tom and Tom-Tom and his dad were to take on the task his own Pa could not perform for him. True, he needed to be opened. Knew that, wanted it. But, after seeing Good Ol’ Al take on his brother so powerfully, he feared the worst. Felt weak, perhaps he was too weak to handle the challenge.

Too late. Standing on the porch of their farmhouse, grinning from ear to ear, was the only person who could be Tom-Tom. A dead ringer for his father, slightly smaller, obviously younger, built like a brick shithouse (as Pa would have said), he stepped down to welcome the new arrival.

“Hi there, I’m Tom-Tom and I’m going to take care of you. Today and tomorrow are going to be the best days of your life. Come along. Let me get you in the house so we can start.”

Stephen wordlessly let himself be led by the arm upstairs to a bedroom with a shelf of trophies, a wall hung with pennants, and a double bed. He was hugged, stripped, hugged again, and directed into a bathroom, Tom-Tom guiding with a hand on the boy’s butt.

“If you’ll get down on all fours, you know, like a puppy, I’ll cleanse this toxic waste area of yours. He administered the first enema of Stephen’s life. The syringe and warm water felt good. The seven minutes of waiting time did not.

Emptying himself in front of Tom-Tom embarrassed him. A follow-up “flush,” as Tom-Tom called it, mattered less. For his cooperation, he received another hug.

Tom-Tom’s highfaluting way of speaking had attraction for the boy. He wanted to obey a person who sounded like that.

There was to be a shower – with Tom-Tom, who stripped and stood, hands on hips, in full display of his overwhelming manhood. “Let’s get in. I’ll wash you.”

Surrender came naturally to Stephen whose tender flesh was flattered by soapy attentions to his ears, his neck, armpits, waist, and ticklish navel. He recoiled from that last provocation and was pierced behind by a blunt finger. Surprise! It wormed its way to his virgin prostate.

From behind, Tom-Tom held the squirming boy – palm to tummy, other hand’s finger in, reaming. “Shh-h-h. This is your beginning. Feel the wonder, Stephen.”

The shower streamed as he was reamed. Stephen’s antsiness waned, replaced by anticipation.

That came with a second, well-soaped finger joining the process. For emphasis, Tom-Tom’s restraining hand slid up to the boy’s neck just as he was fully skewered.

“Ooph! That hurts.”

“Only for a little while. Reach back and hold my cock. Squeeze it each time your feel me rotating inside you, but don’t talk. Squeeze all you need to. It will remind you how important it is to help you to be ready.”

“Like this?”

“You can squeeze harder. Let me do the talking, okay?”

Silent, Stephen started to feel Tom-Tom was right. A few reams later, realized it.

Quicker than he then wanted, he was being roughly dried and shuffled, a hand on his arm, back to the bedroom. “This isn’t usual, but you aren’t, Stephen.”

In his eyes, the college-bound young man was handsome in a way that aroused pubertal response. Stephen did not understand it. His penis throbbed more than where Tom-Tom’s fingers had been. Excitement began to cause quivers. The sight of so large a cock – the one his grasp scarcely encompassed – moved him. He got all twiddly.

Another sight affected him more. Tom-Tom was applying a clear gel to himself, eyes trained on Stephen. “I’m doing this for you. It isn’t usual. You must never tell that I did. Now come and bend over for me.”

Over what? How exactly?

While he dawdled, Tom-Tom sat on the bed. “Come, straddle me.” He reclined, his eight inches held straight up. “No time for shyness. I’m going to let you set the pace. Up now, and over me. Sit carefully.”

Uneasy but aware his time had come, Stephen hesitantly climbed on. Balanced himself as best he could to squat. Contacted the point of Tom-Tom’s cock with his previously stretched hole. Lost his balance. Gravity took over. Unceremoniously to blinding pain, he shafted himself and screamed.

Fast, Tom-Tom seized him in his anguish, turned them around, pushed Stephen to his back, and rode up over him face to face, his cock buried to the max. “Here we are, Stephen. Go with it. You had an accident, but I’m where you need me to be. Go with it.”

Downstairs, Big Al and Betty-Mae nodded to each other. Their son’s drilling must have hit paydirt. Under her breath Betty-Mae observed, “Like father like son.”

Upstairs, Tom-Tom kissed his boy’s face. Shushed him. Kissed him more, not yet on the mouth. “Go with it,” he repeated. “What you feel now wasn’t meant to be. It will pass. Look at me. Look, Stephen! I know. I’m telling the truth.”

Every effort was made not to stir inside the injured boy. Given their proximity and his desire to assuage what Stephen had done to himself, he murmured, “Now, open your mouth for mine. I’m going to show you something no other farm boy ever experienced.”

He had not either.

A mad idea. Fertile Valley farm boys simply were never kissed. Unthinkable. Nor did they screw facing each other. This was extraordinary, however, a once in a lifetime moment for both. Daring was dictated.

A man’s tongue stroking his mouth shocked remaining innocence from the thirteen-year-old adolescent. He was in a man’s arms as he never expected to be, his mouth and bottom filled completely. Secured firmly, not yet comfortably – but …open.

Open at last! If only his Pa could know.

That thought alleviated some of the pain yet burning inside. Through tears he looked into Tom-Tom’s penetrating eyes which stared into his own. He kissed back intuitively and detected motion. There was no stopping it. No wish to now. It was gentle, a cradle-soft swaying of grown man into waiting boy.

The movement became a swinging one, grew to see-sawing, developed into rolling slides, into plunges back and forth to the accompaniment of whimpers and sighs, whines and groans, and finally outcries of transport’s triumph. They spewed as males their ages can.

Tom-Tom did not fall away. He had the boy plugged. Seeping inside Stephen until there was nothing more to secrete, relishing the taste of Stephen’s mouth, Tom-Tom’s heart throbbed with newfound love. His head reeled with never felt reactions. He, who until this encounter with gullible, susceptible, conquerable Stephen, had never opened a farm boy, he…he was over his head in love.

It could not be. Should not be. What would his Dad and Mom say if they knew?

The idea formed how to set the situation straight. “Stephen,” he whispered as if not wanting to dispel the enchantment, “Stephen, I have to do right by you –and I haven’t yet. Let me out. You roll over like a good farm boy should. I know you’re open, only not the way you should have been. I’m going to fix that, okay?

Intoxicated to the point of not minding what was done, Stephen faced the bed. Could not wait to be horizontal. Whatever was wanted of him, outside or inside, he stretched to anticipate.

Tom-Tom spread his pole with more gel. Thick, proud, powerful, his weapon of love snapped upward against farm boy abs, then settled, aggressively bobbing in the air, upwards from his boy. Warm though his feelings were, he must rectify his transgression. Duty called for what he must do. With steady aim, he pointed the head at the center of Stephen’s puffy little doughnut hole and skidded through, spearing its dark passage with ease and objectivity.

The way the act should be. Tradition mattered. It centered his self-esteem. Reset his confidence. And felt so right.

His thrusts – quickly back, slowly forward – were absorbed readily by already-opened Stephen. Continuous, unvarying rhythm gathered minutes of hypnotic spell-casting. Adolescent tissues so well lubed were soothed before being cajoled into a sense of well-being. Coercion followed. Paid dividends.

Stephen unconsciously conversed with Tom-Tom’s cock in a kind of mute, unrhymed, metric verse. Twin globes tightened, relaxed; tightened on the draw-backs, relaxed for the plunges. Soon, both basked in the warmth their revel generated. The soon-to-be-college-freshman was hooked. This boy was a must.

That he might again be giving in to the impossible warned Tom-Tom to strengthen his resolve. Deliver what must be delivered.

He delved eccentrically. Played as if on a pinball machine, firing hard, sending his cock ricocheting right and left. Unable to stop, he fought like a man possessed to dominate what already was his and had been.

But.

He did not surrender to impending climax. The sheer will of a hero held back so quick a resolution. Poor Stephen, he saw, was a heap in need of nurture or other sustenance.

Ice cream! Three flavors were in the refrigerator downstairs. He would feed Stephen some.

Roused, Stephen was wiped down and given a towel to wrap around his waist. Tom-Tom put on his jockeys. Liked how they showed off his sex’s bulge.

Took his boy by the arm to the family kitchen – where, ice cream spoons in their mouths, sat Big Tom and Betty-Mae Dunwoody.

Glances bounced meaningfully around. “Strawberry’s unopened in the freezer. How ’bout some?”

“Mom, that would be great. Stephen, you like strawberry, don’t you?”

Boyish smiles welcomed every spoonful. Ice cream could perk up anyone. How well it went in the boy’s mouth and down his throat. Wonderful.

Across the table, Big Tom’s presence seemed to fill the room. It was something special. The man, in every way, possessed attractions of face and body that exceeded his son’s.

What would it be like to be under that man’s mass? How must thrust could he put into motivating a farm boy?

The tip of his tongue teased strawberry from Stephen’s upper lip after he precipitously asked, “Big Tom, to make Tom-Tom into the man he is, did y’ work in him a lot?”

Betty-Mae answered, “Honey, he had him squealing like a pig. Once Tom got him going, he rutted our boy at least twice a day right through puberty.” She giggled, “Look at him, blushing all over.”

Tom-Tom’s face had gone hot.

“Made him smart, too,” Big Tom bragged. “He did well in his classes at school, I rewarded him long and hard. If he slackened his studies, I cut him off. Incentives, you understand, Stephen. Boys need incentives”

Stephen’s blank face melted. He mustered a question. “Y’all ever spank him?”

“Of course,” Tom almost scowled. “Not of course on his butt. His balls. Tell him, son, how you learned your manners. Stand up and show him.”

Even though he did not want to reveal a family secret, Tom-Tom obeyed. He stood up, pushed down his jockeys, hauled out his whole package, and was about to encircle it when Big Tom sprang into action.

“Be still, son. The boy wants to know. You see, Stephen, he just needed a few taps from below like this when he was your age.” Dad demonstrated. “After these dropped, it helped their development – increased circulation, you know – if they were smacked. Not a lot. Just enough. Being frisky and stupid as mid-teens get, his balls had to be squeezed by one hand to make them bunch together so my other hand could spank them proper. Always made him hard, like it is now.”

The eight inches, which wide-eyed Stephen knew, grew. Tom-Tom’s eyebrows knit but he did not flinch.

“When he’s a proper farmer after going to college,” Betty-Mae said, “and he’s transitioning to his new role, there’ll be time when, working over his first farm boy, he’ll get tired. Even virile as he is, he’ll need to work himself up by shutting his eyes, thinking of his Dad, and by squeezing and spanking them himself.”

Tom-Tom brightened, “Come on, Stephen. I’m so fired up I might have to take you right here if we don’t hurry. Run now, upstairs.”

Stephen fled, towel remaining behind, his beautiful, bouncing bottom the last thing seen. Tom-Tom flashed after the boy, “I’m going to get your ass good!”

* * *

To have his rested, sore hole, being thoughtfully greased by two fingers was pleasant. Their probes, too, suited Stephen, now content on this stomach. It would not hurt much. Not like it did when he fell. He had experience now. Tom-Tom’s cock had cleared the way, straightened him inside, and surely would take him over the top again.

Sweet burn stemmed from Tom-Tom’s entry. It spread outward as glow from embers waiting to be fed fresh kindling. Stephen dug fingers into the bedsheet, pointed his big toes to each other, ground his ass back, clenched his cheeks once, relaxed them, and took the brunt of Tom-Tom’s rightful assertiveness head-on.

Ridden automatically for close to an hour with no words of endearment, no kisses of neck or ears, Stephen was rendered mentally insensible. His body, a superb utility for Tom-Tom to prove himself, existed solely for this kind of fucking.

A change of pace brought awakening heat’s friction. Stephen came from the fog of near unconsciousness to awareness that the destination of climax lay in the near future. A shift to his pelvis keyed Tom-Tom to bottom out more vigorously.

Both snorted for air. In the strain to absorb every phallic impact, Stephen’s voice broke. Pagan cries midrange alternated with childlike treble squeaks and near-baritone grunts. Tom-Tom reached rabbit-punch speed and unleashed blast after blast of hot cum.

His heart racing in the afterglow, Tom-Tom pumped less and less – until he lay motionless on Stephen. His cum continued to drain. Eventually, his cock softened and fell out, dripping onto Stephen’s balls.

In his exhaustion, the younger one slept through lunch. Tom-Tom napped beside him for a short while. Jockeys donned for modesty’s sake, he descended the stairs to eat.

“You didn’t need to dress fancy for our sake,” Betty-Mae looked up.

Big Tom looked suspicious. “Hiding something?”

“It’s been through a lot. Kinda red.” Aside, “The kid can really take it.”

He gobbled a ham sandwich and swilled down two glasses of sweet milk with his curious parents. Hesitated to supply more details. Complimented, as he burped with satisfaction, the refreshment. Stretched his arms and flexed his back.

“You need some different exercise. Let’s you and me do some actual farm work in the field – weeding – while Stephen rests.” Dad’s idea was the equivalent of an order, like always.

Betty-Mae would be on hand if and when Stephen woke. She would feed him, possibly oversee him having another shower. “You fellows have a good time.”

Big Tom lightly grabbed his whopper, stretched it, scratched his balls, obviously showing intent with regard to Tom-Tom and field work ahead. “It’ll be good for him. Remind where he came from before college claims him.”

With the charm of a farm wife, Betty-Mae told them to wash outside with the garden hose before setting foot back in her clean house. She eyed the ceiling, thinking about the boy and the likely disarray upstairs. “I’ll change the bed,” she volunteered.

* * *

Around four-o’clock, Stephen was heard flushing the toilet. Betty-Mae went to check on him.

Naked of course and slightly disoriented, the boy gave a weak smile and received a motherly hug.

“You smell like mare’s sweat, honey. Get in the shower. Cold, if you can stand it.”

Tried. Couldn’t. Tepid was the best his condition would accept.

Betty-Mae’s motherly toweling of him led to her up-close inspection of his anus and treatment of it with a rubbed-in, alum-based, oily balm.

“You’ve been great today, we hear. Tom-Tom bragged on you, on how good you made him feel – so good, he’s out weeding our crops with Big Tom. And, I suspect, talking about you.”

“Oh? I really like him, you know. He doesn’t want to talk about things like that, though.”

“I know. You have a teenager’s crush on Tom-Tom. That’s natural for a boy like you. Let’s go downstairs for a snack. But it’s not popular around these parts. We can talk while you get your strength back.”

* * *

Ebullience marked Big Tom’s return. Exhaustion, Tom-Tom’s.

“Dad reminded me of the balance between a father and his son,” Tom-Tom sheepishly confessed. Made sure his glutes held tightly the load deposited there.

* * *

A Dunwoody family conference after their bountiful supper decided that the old movie, “The Grapes of Wrath,” was appropriate – in view of the South’s severe drought. A classic film series on television showed the masterpiece without commercial interruption.

Its first hour hit so close to home for Stephen that he had to huddle in Tom-Tom’s arms to bear its depressing scenes. The redemptive promise of its ending proved so subtle that the poorly educated child missed being uplifted in any way.

The parents’ efforts to explain failed to draw Stephen from the shadows which covered his ability to reason.

“If you watch it again in another year, you will see it differently,” Big Tom said.

“That’s for sure,” Betty-Mae contributed, “because you will have lived with us and seen the results of the way we work and fertilize the soil, our systems for crop rotation and irrigation. That is if, after another night here, you want to.”

It had slipped Stephen’s mind that LouAnne Bailey would come by to check on him. Checks-and-balances. It was the way, he realized, that farm families succeeded.

Further sex troubled neither young person that night. Big Tom and Betty-Mae, however, fucked past midnight. True to tradition, she loved getting it in the butt.

* * *

Early morning’s light in Tom-Tom’s eyes woke him. An outstanding part of him already had awakened. Bulging veins crisscrossed its surface. They converged at a central vein underneath that was a thick as a finger. Bloated balls nearby cried for release.

His body a half-turn away from Stephen’s sleeping form, Tom-Tom groped the floor for his lube tube. Enough remained to lather himself before shifting position carefully and lining up to sneak, he hoped, into the boy’s now-returned-to-tiny hole.

In cooperation with his Mom’s greasy balm, the water-soluble gel enabled three of Tom-Tom’s eight inches to breach Stephen before it dawned on the boy that he was the object of attention.

His “Huh?” hardly reached Tom-Tom’s ears.

Two inches more established the fuck’s fact.

“Unngh.”

Three final inches confirmed it.

“Hmmm…”

Matchless this time because there was nothing hurtful, Stephen, bottom rounded perfectly for being taken his side, drew his knees partway up and welcomed the muscled arm of his lover under his neck and around. Its hand clamped his mouth against too-audible outcries. Tom-Tom’s other arm reached over to find Stephen’s hyper-ready nipples.

A first! Who knew the tingles Tom-Tom’s touches would trigger? With a will of its own, Stephen’s bottom wriggled, in want of more cock.

“Don’t do that – unless you need me to cum.”

“Jes’ fuck…me.”

“Be still. I will.”

He did until the tract’s tissues caressed like velvet. Every stroke was a visit to cock heaven. Only, gurgles of hungry stomachs interrupted. Bliss must be postponed. Breakfast aromas were wafting up the stairs.

Adroitly, they dressed. Did not want to provoke too much inquiry.

Coffee, crisp bacon, creamy-scrambled eggs, and extraordinary toast made from Ellie-Rose Trivison’s carrot bread and slathered with cow-fresh butter – what a repast! Banter was bright among all four at the table. Charming honesty, as well.

Stephen’s.

At a particularly apt moment, he crunched a slice of bacon and disarmed everyone with, “I didn’t git a morning ration up me yet. My ass is hungry, too.”

Betty-Mae lost a mouthful of coffee, bursting with laughter. She recalled her backside’s hunger being sated in the night.

Big Tom exclaimed with admonitory drama, “Son!”

The ’phone rang, as if cued by some script from on high.

Betty-Mae answered, listened, scowled. “You can’t mean it. Now? Well, I guess so. He’ll be there quick as I can drive him. Bye.”

“What?”

“There’s been an incident at Al’s. They want Tom-Tom and me over there like now.”

She snatched the pickup’s keys from the hutch, shoved her son toward the door, turned back, and said, “Tom, you see to Stephen’s hunger, y’hear?”

With no further ado, a sense of purpose charged Big Tom. He rose from the table, took Stephen by the arm exactly the way his son had, and directed him not upstairs but to his personal bed.

Solemnly, he opened the passive boy’s shirt and pants. “These are in our way.”

Not for long.

“Your future will be settled here by me.”

Those words, spoken in a quiet, determined way, transfixed Stephen Redstone.

“Blood harmony of son and father equips me to bring to fruition your growth. You are too young to understand what I mean. You are, I am bound to tell you, of sufficient age and progress to take your special place among us. Tell me that you want to be with us. One of us.”

His body shivered with expectation. It would be filled. How much did Dad have? Does size matter? Progressive thoughts in a young head. Stephen’s ass told him not to hesitate.

“I do.”

“Prepare me.”

Small hands began with Big Tom’s shirt buttons. After a diaphragm-deep breath that swelled his chest massively, the shirt fairly fell away. Symmetrical brawn on such a scale awed the boy. Mounded pectorals bristled with hair. A cock so mammoth that, as it sprang forth in Stephen’s face, an intake gasp opened the pretty mouth to the same diameter and caused indecently long eyelashes to flutter nervously.

Not like Tom-Tom’s silo shape. This thing expanded in the middle beer-can wide. At the prospect of its destination, boy eyes bugged.

Hands with strength to crumble his ribcage hoisted Stephen from the floor. “Cling to me and hold tight.”

Girlish arms wrapped corded neck; feminine legs wrapped sculptured hips; pubic thicket cushioned adolescent sex. Stephen felt dizzy.

The marvel of this new, naked contact: a boy’s perineum resting on a girder of manly heated flesh.

Dizzier.

Big Tom felt the tip of his extent and drew from its anticipatory viscous discharge finger after finger of nature’s lube. Stephen’s bottom quivered to dabs and rubs. More pre-cum wetted and sensitized the area seductively. Stephen sighed aloud, “Oh, oh, please. Please take me.”

Pillows fluffed for placement in his bed’s dead center, Big Tom directed the needy one into prone position, crotch nestled in eider comfort.

“I’m fatter than my son and longer so this might hurt a bit.” His deep voice rumbled with lust, “I mean, it probably will hurt a lot. But it was always worth it to my boy, and it will be for you when you get used to it.”

A mouthful of saliva dropped down where ridged cockhead was about to meet nearly-thirteen-year-old hole. The push-through scored its point. Big Tom forced into rectal sleeve, occupied all the space his son had cleared, met inner sphincter blocking the boy’s turning point, and broke through to colonic territory.

In agony the whole way, Stephen wanted to scream. His jaw locked. Eyes brimmed and overflowed. His arms and legs moved like a bodysurfer’s with cramps, flailing wildly, jerking unpredictably. Speared again and again without relent, hammered with battering-ram effectiveness, the boy’s once-narrow passage expanded. Had no choice.

The pain’s life-span ran out. Intense sensations replaced it. They reminded of Tom-Tom’s carving out the rightful place to fit his eight inches. Creeping pleasure formed from the deep-rooting’s initial fearsomeness, and turned into the mindset that Stephen was meant to be used thus.

If love was not destined for him, sex was. Sex provided intimacy otherwise not his to enjoy. Intelligence resided in his ass, in the way it was understanding big cocks. He would be no farme. though.

Big Tom plummeted from ten inches above to crash his orgasm where none had ever been. Vibrations tormented. Cum cannoned in mighty splashes. His growls became protests in his chaotic mind before they found utterance as, “Oh yes. Oh yes. Yessss….”

Flooded, Stephen took stock of the stake slacking off as Tom-Tom’s had. These were moments to savor. He, little Stephen Redstone, soon to reach the age of thirteen, he – with the bounty of an adaptable ass – had won for himself undivided attentions from an awesome son and his even more awesome Dad. The Dad whose whopping cock and body had him pinioned.

He bumped. “Git off me, ’less you want me dead.”

Big Tom made for the bathroom on unsteady legs. Cold water to his face cleared him somewhat. Stages of consciousness returned with each splash. Necessary before action. A shower. A long, hot shower - exactly what he needed.

Bested by a boy!

In the bedroom, Stephen enjoyed self-congratulations until he felt something extraordinary going on where Big Tom had exploded. Whatever it was, it made him feel he could take on the world. Could he hold the feeling?

On a whim of curiosity, he tugged open the drawer of the nearest bedside cabinet. Lo, a crystal-clear glass object – a pointed flare, narrow neck, and fake plastic ruby at the end. Sniffed, it was found free of odor, so he put it in his mouth, fitted it to his ass (where it popped in perfectly), and crawled off plugged for the first time. Stood. Clamped on it.

Yes.

Whose was it?

Noises downstairs broke in on his musings. Indicated several people. He threw on his clothes and, deliciously plugged, went to see.

Everybody.

His brother Blade Redstone. Face a-shine with pride. “Hi, Stephen.”

Albert “Good Ol’ Al” Hawkins. All puffed up. “Whut you bin up to?”

LouAnne Bailey. Sensibly concerned about something. Her face showed it. “You’re looking well, Stephen.”

Tom-Tom and Betty Mae Dunwoody. No telling what was going on with them. They looked question marks at him.

Coolly, he told them, “Big Tom’s fixin’ to come in.”

Tom-Tom called out, “Dad, it’s important.”

Heavy clumps announced Big Tom’s arrival.

There was room for all seven in the Dunwoody living room. They sat down.

Betty-Mae spoke up, “We should make this into a party. Now, not tonight. Tom-Tom’s leaving for college early tomorrow, so early-to-bed-early-to-rise. I’ll make punch. We’ve got Oreos and ice cream. Al, you tell Big Tom and Stephen how you and Blade there got along since yesterday.”

Right off the bat, “It’s like this,” the farmer touted. “Blade’s got the talent fer farm life. Took to it right away, didn’t y’ boy?”

“Yessir. You showed me good. Real good.”

“So, Miz Bailey, fer as him ’n’ me’s concerned, we don’ need no more time to think ’bout things. We’s settled on ’em.”

LouAnne nodded, smiled, then asked Blade to step out of the room with her for a minute.

While they were gone, Good Ol’ Al said, “Nuthin’ wrong with that. Kid’s great. Needs a lil’ fattenin’ up, though.”

It was Tom-Tom’s turn. “I’ve got a lot to say but I think we should wait until they get back. Stephen, did you and Dad get to know one another after Mom and I left?”

In the other room, Blade waxed enthusiastic. “Miz Bailey, like Al said, he showed me the way, showed me his farm, too. It’s such a nice place. Way better’n Pa’s ever wuz. Oh, lordy, ’n’ how he’s bin doin’ evathing by hisself since his last farm boy went off somewhere, that’s why he needs me. He fed me fried fish with corn-on-the-cob last night ’n’ grits with eggs this morning.”

Her twinkly eyes encouraged the reedy sixteen-year-old to continue.

“Best of all, he bragged on my Pa fer gittin’ me all prepared, y’know, frum when I wuz not much older’n Stephen is now, prepared for farm life. ’Course he tested me jes to make sure. Lemme see, guess it’s bin four times since we met. Didn’t have to swat me once. He sho’ does have the things fer it, though. There’s trimmed switches long as my arm, ’n’ a kinda short belt-thing on a handle, ’n’ ropes ’n’ fasteners fer t’ keep me bein’ real good. Say it’s okay fer him to take me in, please.”

With a buss to his cheek, she said she would miss him. He had been a good boy at her house. “If I need my lawn mowed, can I count on you?” Assured he would come, she believed he would be a good farm boy for her old friend Al and said so.

Switches? Ropes? LouAnne rolled her eyes.

Blade told the group, “I’m all happy-like.”

Impressed, Tom-Tom blinked a few times and cleared his throat.

“I’m torn. Only one night left at home, then off to prove myself worthy of the scholarship at the State Agricultural College. It’s daunting the responsibility I’ll have. My assignment – thanks to my interview on campus – is directly under Dean Harvey Pike. As big as my Dad, so I owe my Dad a lot for preparing me. We didn’t know all his hard work in me would result in this great opportunity.”

“I knowed it,” Good Ol’ Al said. “Knowed it all along. You smartened him up real fine-like.”

Big Tom glanced a finger off his brow toward his friend.

Tom-Tom continued, “Now every one of you knows I was brought up to tell the truth. There’s something I have to say.

As a Fertile Valley farm boy, I know my place. Luck, however, brought me forward. Like lightning, it happened fast. I got to break in a boy years ahead of time, Blade’s brother right there. Stephen opened up to me like the prettiest flower. Dad, you and Mom know what he means to me.”

A beam spread across the boy’s face.

Betty-Mae, back with a serving tray of goodies which she placed on the coffee table, said, “Yes, son, we do.” She reached over to encourage with a pat.

Tom-Tom looked into Stephen’s longing eyes. “Dean Pike’s agreed that you can come with me to the College as my boy while I’m serving as his – or one of his. He needs a lot of ..umm..high-octane service.” His cleverness amused him.

“The Dean’ll get you into remedial education in exchange for your hard work at academic learning, and being there for me so that I can be there for him. I’ll be an outlet for him, you for me. It’s a great offer, Stephen.”

“Yes, Stephen, it is,” LouAnne said. “You’ll get out in the world a bit and have your horizons widened.”

“And we, or just you if my duties demand, can come back here on holidays. My Dad will love that, won’t you, Dad?”

“You bet.” Big Tom gave himself a pat where Stephen could see it.

Stephen said flatly, “I’ll be an outlet for you to plug into whenever you want, right? Where will we live?”

“Good question. We’ll be in the Future Farmers Fraternity House. Dean Pike is its patron. He lives there, also, so you can imagine the guidance we’ll both get.”

Betty-Mae spoke up, “Okay, that’s it. Refreshment time. LouAnne, be a dear and help me with the punch bowl.”

* * *

“Boys, Betty-Mae’s gone upstairs to sleep in your room, Tom-Tom, so the three of us can have this room for our goodbye evening together. She’s a thoughtful wife.”

“And Mom.”

“Gosh,” the youngest person in the bedroom said.

“Stephen, my son’s inspired me since he was a teen. Still does – fine, fine young man that he is. And flaming hot when he’s on the end of my dick. Aren’t you?

“No dick’s like your shapely dick, Dad, nor the way you use it. Sure trained me, taught me, inspired me, loved me. And, I think it helped me grow the one I have.”

“Thank you, son. Our DNA’s top-notch. As for you, Stephen, you’ve already been an inspiration here overnight. An ass as good as yours in a body as small and attractive as yours place you in a niche of your own. You’re the sweetest thing that I’ve ever fucked. Within you, lies the potential to inspire big-dicked men anywhere in the world.”

Flicking eyelashes preceded a blush and, in his recently discovered husky voice, “Thank you.”

“If you agree that my cock is appropriate to bid your asses both farewell, let’s…”

Clothes flew. Big Tom’s, too.

Tom-Tom flung himself across the side of his folks’ bed. “Take me, Dad.”

His father extended a cupped palm to Stephen’s face. “Fill it from your mouth. You provide the lube I need – and we three will be bonded closer.”

Stephen’s mouth watered, eyes on Tom-Tom’s buttocks – and thought them curved like cantaloupes. The precious spot pulsing between looked ready for action.

Saliva smears showed shiny as Big Tom covered his lewd, swollen shaft and polished its ruddy head. “Go to him. Use your fingers and your spit to make my entry smooth.”

Stephen stepped back from his lascivious task and Tom-Tom’s murmured appreciation to gawk. Big Tom headed straight in. All the way, stopping abruptly when he collided with the base of his son’s spine. “There!”

Every muscle in his back had tensed. Feet on the floor, he held his arch-forward pose until Tom-Tom whooshed, “Great drive in, Dad. Hit me with it again. Cram me! Hard! Love me hard!”

Quieter after seven or eight drawings-back clear away and, with whiplash speed, back inside, Tom-Tom received a fucking of memorable ferocity. Slammed with such vigor over the next minutes as to be driven fully prone across the bed, he made noises that sounded like appreciation. A dove cooing, a little boy in squirming commotion, a goal-oriented teenage athlete yelling as he exerted his all.

Someone’s all was being exerted in him, his Dad’s. The range of father-to-son communicative maneuvers reached a climaxless peak and was started over. Big Tom’s aimed his cock to caress the open hole’s rim, merely touched it as if he might feed it through the opening, softly brushed it with his hand then, with tenderly surprising calm, ran in a few inches of its length, pulled them out, pushed them back, slowly tilted directly against Tom-Tom’s inner bump, and drove hard one more time with the words, “I love my son. I’ll miss him.”

Kisses rained on Tom-Tom’s neck. They spasmed together, shaking both bed and Stephen.

He moved to get off the quaking mattress. Afraid the excitement might make him pee, he darted to the nearby tiled room. From there, he marveled at how Big Tom groveled over the last morsels of their sexual feast.

There would be nothing left for him. Not after that. A towel in his hands, it would be a good deed to offer it for clean-up. He approached the couple, locked still, unmoving. Big Tom looked up.

“You’ll need that.”

“You mean…”

The cock, dripping wet, came out of Tom-Tom with a funny sound – almost like a cork being popped.

“Help me get this boy ready,” he jiggled the ass he had just abandoned.

Tom-Tom rolled, saw wide-eyed Stephen, kinked one side of his mouth, and said, “Come spit in my hand so I can return your favor.”

Odd offer in the circumstances. A joke?

Tentative steps. Head inclined, his mouth did what it could into waiting palm.

The exquisite sight of Stephen’s bottom being turned lit up Big Tom. He did not see what was in front of his son’s eyes.

The ruby-tipped plug.

“What’s this?”

Not knowing what to say, what excuse to offer, recently de-virginized Stephen shrugged.

Pretended ignorance did no good. An iron grip seized the boy, trapped him between equally strong legs. He was bent over, head held firmly to the bed.

“Think you’re smart, taking something that’s not yours? And without knowing what it’s for?”

Tom-Tom did not know either.

Before he could guess, his Dad slapped the ruby. “It’s..for..spanking!”

Never-spanked Stephen clenched and yelped as the hand slapped harder.

“The tighter you make yourself, the rougher for you, you stupid little shit. You haven’t got the balls for a proper spanking so it’s your butt – where the evidence is.”

Spanked steadily and hard until he got the message to let it happen, Stephen never thought to cry. Each spank treated his sphincter to one maddening stimulation after another. It seemed a fever spread out in his ass. Outside, too, almost a blistering of its peerlessly pink-pearl skin.

New thrills! He came.

“God, boy, you’re something else,” Big Tom said. “You’re going to love what comes next.”

“Take that out and splat his spit right there,” Tom-Tom was told. He did it, and studied the glass object in wonder that such a thing existed. Certainly not natural for sex. But for people who wanted to be spanked on their butts? Perverts maybe.

“Get yourself on that pillow where Tom-Tom was.”

Frictional burn stung with each jutted fraction of Big Tom’s ramrod – until the copious spunk-loads Tom-Tom and he deposited there hours before soaked it. Subsequent plunges piston-strong brought nature’s lube through the hole. It trickled down perineum to balls. Man balls caromed off boy balls. Man cock pounded prostate.

Stephen may have had nothing to emit but Big Tom did. He assaulted him with a rut of a bull in heat. Spaded at him in renewed high spirits.

This boy can take anything, he thought, even..another..cum..from..me!

Orgasmic chaos blotted out their consciousness but not Tom-Tom’s. He sensed more than before his Dad’s masterful superiority – the level he must one day reach if he would deserve to possess Fertile Valley’s best farm and the rights of entitlement that came with being top farmer.

* * *

Atlanta’s Farmers’ Market famously brought together sellers and buyers. LouAnne Bailey loved to shop there, especially when the crops were in. Informative chats – even conversations – with friendly sellers netted news as fresh as produce from Fertile Valley.

On this occasion, Al Hawkins with Blade Redstone happily at his side greeted her with a kiss. It may not have been his boy’s, but her cheek was smooth and soft enough. “Goll-ee, I’m livin’ the high life,” he said. “Blade here’s been pickin’ up ideas fer me frum his brother. That is, ’til the kid went off to college with the Dunwoody’s boy. Improved our crop. Got some irrigation ’n’ right fertilizer. We’re makin’ money, too.

“That’s so nice to hear.” She always enjoyed good news. “Speaking of the Dunwoodys, how’re they getting along without Stephen?”

She knew, but wanted to hear it second-hand before the news she brought could be announced.

“Big Tom’s right poorly. Betty-Mae does her best to cheer him up. She ain’t gittin’ far, though. Best you drop in on ’em. They’s in their reg-lar spot. You might do ’em some good.”

“I bet I can.

Blade leaned against Good Ol’ Al, whose farmer’s calloused hand cupped his backside with ownership. The boy said, “Bye, Miz Bailey.”

Bedraggled in emotional appearance, Big Tom and Betty-Mae were fiddling with a crossword puzzle. “Well, hello there,” Betty-Mae put the magazine aside. “Been a while.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes. How’re you doing?”

“Fine. Fine. Listen, I’m here on an errand of mercy.”

They perked up.

Big Tom wanted to know whether they could help somebody.

“It’s my friend Ellie-Rose Trivison. You know, she makes that carrot bread we all like so much.”

“Of course. What’s the matter?”

“Her citified, prissy daughter and uptight, alcoholic son-in-law are going through a divorce. They need what people call ‘space’ from their son. Room-temperature I.Q. He’s a mannerly if introverted boy. Not physically very large yet. Likes to wear tight clothes. Well anyway,” she lapsed close to old speech patterns, “he turned sixteen last week. Got his first Gillette razor as a present.”

Their attention was hers.

LouAnne went on, “Ellie-Rose’s too old – seventy-two – to deal with a kid who’s a late-bloomer in the adolescent department. She asked me to take him in like I did with Blade and Stephen, but I think I’m past that. You have the experience to bring to bear on him. He’s artistically inclined, it seems. Makes lace.”

Betty-Mae stared beneath raised eyebrows.

“He’d be good company especially for you, Tom, with your masculine ways. Might you be interested?”

“If we could see him…”

“You can,” She called in her soprano’s voice, “Corydon, baby, come around here and meet these friends of mine. And bring your tatting. It will give them an idea how talented you are.”

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