Farmhouse Weekend
The Carter men pulled up just after nine.
The sun was already cutting through the trees on Wyatt’s twelve-acre spread. His white farmhouse sat quiet, wide porch stretching across the front, rocking chairs still. One by one, trucks and SUVs rolled up the gravel drive. First Logan, then Jackson, then DeShawn.
And then… Travis.
Wyatt stood on the porch, chewing a toothpick, eyes shaded under a worn camo cap. He watched them all arrive, arms folded tight across his chest, biceps stretching the sleeves of a white thermal tee.
Jackson stepped out of his truck slow, boots hitting the ground like they meant something. He didn’t look at Wyatt right away.
“Tell me that’s not who I think it is,” Jackson said, nodding toward the unfamiliar truck behind him.
Wyatt sighed. “It’s Travis.”
“Who the fuck said that was okay?”
Wyatt stayed calm. “He’s kin. Carter blood. Always been around. Figured it was time.”
Logan walked up behind them, carrying a case of beer. “We don’t bring outsiders. That’s the rule.”
“He ain’t an outsider,” Wyatt said. “He just ain’t never been invited.”
DeShawn didn’t say much. Just eyed Travis’s truck as it parked crooked near the barn.
The door opened.
Travis stepped out—6’3”, dark skin kissed by the sun, wide back, thick thighs straining against faded Wranglers. His gray tee hugged a solid chest and thick arms, veins visible from a hard week’s work. Beard trimmed. Boots muddy. He had that Southern weight to him—the kind that said he could fight, fuck, or fix anything with one hand.
But his eyes didn’t match his build.
He looked unsure. Quiet. Like he knew he’d stepped into something heavy.
He gave a nod, unsure who to make eye contact with first.
Logan looked away.
Jackson shook his head. “One time, Wyatt. You break code like that again…”
“You’ll what?” Wyatt shot back.
Silence.
“Exactly,” Wyatt muttered, and turned toward the house. “Let’s get this shit started.”
The air got hotter by the hour.
By mid-morning, the men were scattered across Wyatt’s land—moving brush, hauling planks, resetting fencing. Nobody spoke much. The rhythm of labor filled the gaps: axes chopping, wood cracking, boots scraping the dry ground.
Shirts came off. Skin glistened. Sunlight slid down muscle and grit.
Jackson worked the fence line in silence, sweat trailing down his abs as he bent low to hammer in a post. DeShawn cleaned the back stall—shirtless, headphones in, body steady and smooth like he didn’t need music to stay in tempo. Logan had a pair of gloves on, loading busted wood into the back of a trailer, forearms flexing with every toss.
Travis tried to keep up.
He moved like a man used to working alone—no rhythm, all grunt. His shirt stayed on for the first hour, but it clung to him heavy and soaked. Wyatt watched him from the edge of the barn, arms folded, jaw tight.
The tension hung thicker than the heat.
Nobody said what they were all thinking—but it floated there anyway.
Why the fuck was Travis here?
They’d all seen him at barbecues, football games, baptisms. Always laughing. Always quiet. Always looking a little too long.
Maybe Wyatt was right. Maybe he already knew.
But knowing and being ready—those were two different things.
⸻
Around noon, Logan yelled from behind the barn.
“Something’s leakin’.”
They followed his voice toward the back field where a PVC irrigation line had burst, spraying water in slow, heavy bursts out of the cracked ground. Mud was pooling fast, soaking the dirt and grass around it. The water shimmered in the sunlight.
Wyatt ran a hand over his beard. “Damn. That’s been pressurized all week.”
Jackson crouched down, testing the spray. “We can clamp it for now, dig it up next time.”
DeShawn kicked his boots off first. “Not tryna spend the rest of the day with soggy ass socks.”
He peeled his shirt off and walked straight through the water—mud splashing, pants clinging.
Logan followed, yanking his boots off and stepping into the pool like it was a riverbank back home.
“You boys gonna strip or stand around lookin’?” Logan grinned.
Wyatt chuckled. “Hell, we all grown.”
One by one, they got down to skin.
Boots off. Pants peeled. Boxers dropped.
Sunlight hit sweat and muscle and dick.
Travis stood frozen. His mouth parted, unsure what to do with his eyes.
“Go on then,” Wyatt called over. “Ain’t like we ain’t all got the same parts.”
Travis hesitated.
Then, without a word, he pulled his shirt over his head—thick chest on full display—then slid his jeans down, one slow inch at a time.
They all noticed.
Every last one of them.
The spray from the busted line glittered in the sun, catching beads of sweat and specks of dirt as it misted across their skin. Mud pooled around their feet, thick and warm, clinging to ankles and calves like hands pulling them down slow.
They stood in a loose circle—naked now, quiet, and still.
For a long beat, nobody moved. No jokes. No smirks.
Just breath and weight and the way the sun lit every scar, every vein, every unspoken thought.
Jackson broke the silence first.
His hand dropped low. Wrapped thick fingers around his dick. One slow stroke.
That was all it took.
Logan followed. Then DeShawn. Wyatt next.
Water hit bare skin. Muscles flexed under tension. Cocks swelled in strong hands.
But Travis stood motionless.
His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile. Thick and still, jaw locked, meat hanging long between his thighs—but unmoving.
Wyatt glanced his way. “You good?”
Travis didn’t answer.
He just looked across the circle—eyes landing on Logan, then Jackson, then back again. Then he spit on his hand, wrapped it around himself, and started stroking.
The other men didn’t speak. They just watched.
Accepted it. Welcomed it.
That was all Travis needed.
He started slow—then deeper. Wrist rolling. Thighs twitching.
Mud slid around their feet as they stroked together under the leaking sky, cocks glistening, bodies flexing, heat crawling out of the daylight and into their bones.
⸻
Logan couldn’t stop watching Jackson.
The way his strokes stayed steady. The quiet control. The slight clench in his jaw as his thighs flexed, abs contracting with each pump.
Jackson met his eyes. Didn’t break contact.
They stroked in rhythm now—Jackson slow and commanding, Logan trying to match him.
The air got heavier.
DeShawn’s head tilted back, muscles gleaming. Wyatt grunted low and steady.
And Travis, once frozen, was now damn near panting—eyes half-closed, hips rocking as his strokes grew hungrier.
⸻
Logan was the first to whisper it.
“Fuck…”
He stepped toward Jackson, mud sucking at his heels.
“You tryna say something?” Jackson asked, voice low.
Logan stopped in front of him. Still stroking. Eyes locked.
“I ain’t sayin’ it. I’m feelin’ it.”
The squish of wet earth under bare feet. The slap of skin in rhythm. The steady sound of breath, heavy and sharp.
DeShawn was the first to move—he stepped behind Wyatt, reached around, and took over his stroke with a grip slow and tight.
Wyatt hissed low, but didn’t stop it.
He let it happen. Let DeShawn’s forearm lock across his chest, muddy hand stroking him raw while his own arms dropped to his sides. His head tilted back onto DeShawn’s shoulder.
They didn’t kiss. They never did.
But that grip said everything.
Jackson shifted next. He didn’t say a word—just stepped behind Travis.
Travis tensed. Muscles twitching.
Jackson leaned in close, voice deep against his ear.
“You still good?”
Travis nodded, slow.
Jackson’s hands slid around him—muddy, strong—and wrapped around his cock.
Travis exhaled through his nose, loud and shaky, and let Jackson stroke him.
Let it happen.
⸻
Logan watched it all with his jaw clenched, dick hard, strokes tighter now.
The air was thick with something that wasn’t just sex. It was trust. Brotherhood. The kind of unspoken need that only showed up once a year—and burned the whole damn day down.
Jackson looked up and caught Logan staring.
He pulled his hand off Travis, stepped forward, and faced him.
“Come here.”
Logan didn’t hesitate.
He met Jackson in the middle of the soaked ground. They both stroked, inches apart, water still spraying behind them like a broken promise.
Jackson leaned close—lips by Logan’s ear.
“You want it?” he said, low and gravelled.
Logan nodded.
“Say it.”
“I want it.”
Jackson grinned.
“Not here,” he said. “This ain’t where I’m takin’ you.”
⸻
Behind them, DeShawn and Wyatt had dropped to the ground. Travis was moaning, back arched, hips rocking into nothing.
But Jackson’s hand grabbed Logan’s wrist, pulled him through the water, out past the barn…
And into the open stall.
The barn door creaked as Jackson yanked it open, sunlight cutting through slats of aged wood. Dust floated in the air like ash—quiet, suspended, waiting.
He pushed Logan inside, hand still wrapped around his wrist. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
The scent of hay and sweat wrapped around them.
Jackson spun him around, backed him into the stall wall.
Logan’s bare ass hit the cool wood, his chest rising fast.
“You sure?” Jackson asked, voice thick.
Logan didn’t answer.
He just turned around, arched his back, and spread his stance wide. Offered himself up like he’d been holding it back for years.
Jackson stepped in behind him, grabbed both hips, and pressed his cock right against Logan’s hole.
No warning. No prep. Just raw heat and slick sweat.
He pushed in slow.
Logan grunted—low and guttural—hands gripping the stall rails.
“Damn,” Jackson muttered, breath stuttering. “Tight.”
He sank deeper.
And Logan took it.
Every inch.
Every slow, thick, veiny inch.
The stall filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, the crack of muscle against muscle, the raw rhythm of a man letting go inside another.
Jackson gripped Logan’s waist like he owned it, fucking him deep and slow, deeper and harder—his mouth gritted shut, eyes burning.
Outside, Travis had fallen to his knees in the grass. Wyatt had bent over the trailer hitch, DeShawn riding his ass with long, controlled thrusts. No words. Just sounds—moans, grunts, and the slap of men losing themselves.
But inside the barn… something shifted.
Jackson slammed deep one final time and held it—buried to the base, hips shaking.
Logan moaned and tensed—then stilled.
Then Jackson pulled out slow…
Knelt down behind Logan…
And buried his face between his cheeks.
He ate himself out of him. Tongue deep, slow, nasty.
And Logan let him.
Head down. Ass up. Legs trembling.
Jackson didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.
Until Logan turned his head—eyes wild, lips parted—and Jackson leaned forward…
And kissed him.
Soft. But full.
Their first.
⸻
Behind them, the moans had slowed. The air had changed.
They’d all seen it.
That kiss wasn’t just release.
It was a problem.
And now, they all knew it.
By the time the sun started dipping behind the trees, the Carter men were scattered across the land again.
Wyatt stood shirtless on the porch, sipping from a flask, eyes on the field. DeShawn leaned against the barn, smoking a cigar, body still slick with sweat. Travis sat in the grass, knees bent, shirt back on but unbuttoned, head tilted toward the sky like he was trying to figure out who he was now.
Logan was inside the barn, half-dressed, pacing.
Jackson was nowhere to be seen.
Nobody had spoken since the last moan faded into the wind.
⸻
Travis finally broke the silence.
“I didn’t think I’d be here,” he said, voice low, like he was confessing to God.
Wyatt looked over. “But you stayed.”
Travis nodded. “I stayed.”
They all knew what that meant.
He wasn’t just curious.
He wasn’t just watching.
He was in it now.
DeShawn flicked ash off the end of his cigar and said, “Ain’t no goin’ back after this.”
“I know,” Travis said. “I ain’t sure I want to.”
⸻
Inside, Logan sat on the edge of the haystack, phone buzzing in his hand.
His wife’s name lit up the screen.
He stared at it like it was a grenade.
Jackson walked in, quiet as a shadow, grabbing his jeans off the floor.
“You gonna answer that?” he asked.
Logan shook his head. “Not yet.”
Jackson nodded, didn’t push.
Just stood there, bare chest rising with calm breath, eyes softer now than they’d been all day.
“You good?” he asked.
Logan looked up at him.
“I don’t even know what I am right now.”
Jackson stepped forward, cupped the back of Logan’s neck, and said:
“You ain’t gotta name it. Just don’t lie to yourself about it.”
Logan didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
But he leaned into the touch.
⸻
Outside, the men were quiet again.
But they all felt it.
Something was different.
Not just in Travis. Not just in Logan.
In all of them.
And as night crept across the field, and the first stars blinked to life above the trees, they all knew this wouldn’t be their last time.
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