When I was younger I remember having great fun and adventures at my aunt and uncle's smallholding, or I suppose these days, they'd call it a town farm. There were about 4 maybe 5 acres of land and they raised mainly chickens, for the egg sales. They had a couple of pigs whose offspring more often than not ended on the dinner table or in smoked sausage for neighbours, friends and family.
My Uncle Stan (Stanislaw) was a large bloke, very fit and very strong, my Aunt Biruta was a stereotypical farmer's wife, large, fitter than my uncle was and equally strong. She was also a woman with earthy needs and desires which in later years caused me some personal embarrassment. They also had two daughters, my cousins, who couldn't have been less alike if they had been born to different parents. Magda would obviously grow to be a tall, strong woman both in physical appearance and emotional and practical ideas. Hannah would be an artist. She would go to university and become a famous writer or musician or professor. Magda would stay home and inherit the farm and also inherit a strong and solid, dependable husband from the son of her grandfather's best friend. Hannah would be ascetic and driven by her art; unable to maintain a relationship with anyone for more than a few years, she would be famous and lonely.
All that was in the future, as it happens, an alternate future, because things never did work out as they were predicted. But this is all neither here nor there. This is about the time I spent at the farm, learning about birth, death and sex. Especially the sex.
This was to be my last summer at the farm. Next year I would be working, behind a desk for 7 hours a day peering at typewritten reports and ruining my eyesight. At the end of that summer I'd vowed to spend at least 2 weeks every year, helping my Aunt and Uncle on the farm and, as I saw it, Magda and whatever husband they bound her to when she took over. I supposed that it was the best way to keep in touch with my upbringing and keep me moderately healthy. Two weeks a year. Yeah, right.
The sex life of farm animals happens mainly in the spring, I suppose so that the offspring start their lives in the warmth of summer or early autumn. Both Magda and Hannah had been born in the month of June so it looks like the procreative sex lives of farmers is a matter of natural husbandry too. The recreational sex lives of farmers (at least the few that I know) is something else altogether.
Birth, death and sex are a natural and almost daily occurrence on farms. When I was beginning to show an interest in procreation, "Where do the baby chicks come from?" and being given the answer, I remember being quite stunned that the eggs that were a part of 2 or 3 meal of the day would be chickens if we didn't eat them. Smiles and laughter greeted this naivety and a detailed explanation of fertile and non-fertile eggs was delivered to calm my childish outrage. Looking back now I can see how kind my Aunt and Uncle were when they didn't point out the fact that the chicken I was also eating at the time was one I had probably seen picking and pecking in the yard just the day before. The next inevitable question, after discovering the method for divining which eggs were fertile (labour intensive and using a very bright light) was "How do you know when to look for fertile eggs?" After more laughter and rolled eyes between my cousins I was given the simple explanation "When the cock isn't caged."
The cock (as I later learned) was never caged.
Over that summer I learned a great deal about husbandry and the word sex. Rutting, covering, tupping, laying and other innocuous sounding words were used to describe the act of impregnation or fertilisation. Magda and Hannah simply used the words 'having sex'. I quickly found out, after using the phrase at the dinner table, that 'having sex' was what people did, not animals.
Magda, Hannah and I continued to use the forbidden phrase when no one else could hear, and of course I asked if they could show me when it happened. They said that when it was time they would take me to visit another farm to see some really good action. That wouldn't be for months, but it would be very educational. Their friend's farm was a dairy farm and come spring they were expanding and buying in some heifers, which would need to calve before they could produce. On questioning they explained each unfamiliar word with equally unfamiliar words, which I must never, ever repeat in front of my Aunt and Uncle.
Naturally, because I was so looking forward to it, I missed the whole thing. The first time I managed to get away that year was in late spring to be told that it had all happened the week before. The long face that I proceeded to wear caused Aunt Biruta to comment on the way out to the chicken house "Cheer up." She clucked in her farmer's wife voice, pulling me into her bosom (which immediately wiped away the disappointment) "It might never happen."
"It already has." I mumbled into the folds of her apron-covered chest. Magda and Hannah giggled at this watching my obvious pleasure (and I must add no little embarrassment) at being enfolded between those pillows.
Aunt Biruta placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me back to look into my face "What did you say?"
"It already has."
And seeing the humorous expression on her daughter's faces she pulled my head once again into that generous bust and crooned, "There there. There there," whilst shimmying her middle-aged shoulders to deeply ensconce my cheeks between each breast. Then, laughing and at the same time pushing my unwilling frame away she called out to her husband "I'm collecting eggs." And marched swiftly out of the door. Magda and Hannah looked at each other with questions asked and answered in their faces.
"Let's go outside." Suggested Hannah.
"Yes. We'll tell you all about what happened and you can just use your imagination." Agreed Magda.
Intent on either teasing or embarrassing me further, Hannah continued "Yes, we'll describe it in tiny detail; how the cows just stood there munching grass while the bull mounted them."
"And that time when he took ages to get his pizzle up." Magda chipped in.
"And Helena had to reach under..."
"and point it herself..."
"and then she had to use her other hand too..."
"because it was so big..."
"and then nearly getting trapped between them."
At which point they burst into laughter, whether at the imagined scene or my reddening face I couldn't tell, as they turned to leave.
We three followed Aunt Biruta from the house, walking single file along the path towards the gated hedge, which led to the farmyard where the chickens ran, and the two dogs played tag and the circular tail-chasing game that most dogs seem to be ridiculously fond of. Being the last in line I contented myself with watching Magda's swaying skirt and her sashaying arse. Not all women have the right arse to be able to sashay in my opinion. But Magda did.
When Magda wore jeans I was often hard put to not just stand and gaze at her arse. It was large, slightly out of proportion; I suppose it gave her what women called a pear shape. In jeans her hips came to points on either side making her arse appear even larger, especially since her thighs tapered considerably on their downward journey to knee and calf. And just a fraction below, a line drawn between those pointed hips; the seat curved dramatically inwards to the tops of the back of her thighs, making a very definite, and to me perfect, statement. "This is an arse." I'm told this is a shape that women hate. I love it. An arse that shape is just so grabbable.
Once through the gate we made our way towards the open field behind another hedge, taller and much thicker than the garden hedge. This was where once a lone horse, long gone, used to gallop and cavort. Aunt Biruta sailed her stately bulk towards the hen house to collect eggs (or so I believed).
The grassed field was now a very large play area, which sloped slightly from one far end to the other, an almost perfect gradient, ready for heavy snow and a home-made wooden sledge with trimmed metal runners to glide smoothly and eventually at neck breaking speed to crash fall into the thicket which confined the lower perimeter.
This field was the soccer pitch, tennis court, rounders square, bulldog field, badminton court, cricket pitch, "May I" length and athletics stadium of our (and many local kids) inexhaustible youth, as long as the horse was tethered or in the barn-now-chicken shed.
Approaching the massively overgrown barrier that separated the field from the yard, being a step or three behind the chattering sisters, I failed to catch on when they suddenly lengthened their gait into a running stride as they turned the corner behind the hedge. It was the first time in many years that the three of us ran the ritual race to the Blackberry patch at the top of the field. This was the trial that would establish the pecking order. When I did breast the gap the child I thought I'd outgrown was shocked awake and cried "Hey. Unfair." And I began to run, knowing I couldn't catch up on the cheaters, smiling hugely, arms pumping. Whoever reached the fruit first would pick the first game.
Magda and Hannah were laughing loudly and couldn't concentrate on their breathing, which they needed to do if they wanted to win this race, they were also holding hands in the past tradition indicating a joint choice of game when their turn came, but now I realised I could catch and overtake them easily, long before the end of the race. Then I noticed too, that the intervening years had given me motive to be second as usual. Heavier thighs, more rounded arses a very definite jiggle, which was absent those few years earlier. A stronger motive, memory, anticipation, conjecture and the intervening years suddenly gave me a quicker pace and a certain hardening of something other than resolve.
The end of the field rose sharply a metre or two in height and the same length forward. To top this rise almost always involved keeping your balance by touching your hands to the floor and taking two or three canter steps on all fours. To someone with the uphill vantage point this ungainly posture would be, as Feargal Sharkey sang, A Teenage Dream (so hard to beat).
My imagination was filled with swaying breasts seen from uphill, young spring-healed cleavage open to my heightened gaze, even the promise of barely glimpsed, rose-red nipples, whilst my sight was filled meantime, and drawing closer, with swiftly sashaying buttocks, and strong running thighs.
Naturally, chasing two simultaneous dreams I was brought, quite literally, to earth with a nose cracking bang, face first into soft (ish) muck and sweet grass.
Now, the apparently humorous thing about this is that if you're unconscious, with a hard member lying beneath you, and you somehow contrive to fall just so, then you're arse will stick in the air. If you then become semi-conscious and attempt to ease this situation then it looks for all the world, like your trying to fuck mother-earth. Or so I'm told.
There is one advantage to being in pain and semi-conscious, as long as your libido is powerful enough to ignore the sensory overload. Whilst appearing to be drunk you also get the bonus of solicitous sympathy, not afforded to the inebriated, and the un-tutted, wholesale, ignoring of wilful fingers, again, not afforded the inebriated.
So this is the picture that we three presented to Aunt Biruta and Uncle Stan.
Two, healthy farm girls almost dragging a barely aware, lank youth across the yard. Said youth could be seen to be attempting to walk in three simultaneous directions with crooked arms, about athletic shoulders and hands firmly placed on full, round, separate bosoms.
Apart from the exquisite pain gripping my entire face and the fact that I simply was not able to place one foot anywhere near, let alone in front of, the other and the dull throbbing emanating from below my waist I thought I was in heaven. As Magda and Hannah lifted me bodily to my feet, taking each wrist in a firm grasp and draping my arms over their shoulders my open palms fell naturally across each of their breasts. This brought me to a semblance of wakefulness, to grasp almost immediately the good fortune of breaking both my nose and my cock. There was definitely something wrong with that sentence, but try as I might I couldn't work out what.
Our uneven and outré progress plus the sister's grip on my wrists, forced the palms of my hands into sliding, silky contact with their respective womanly charms. To my utter surprise and with silent, hearty thanks I felt first Hannah's and then Magda's nipples grow beneath my unaware ministering. Contriving to mis-step took no effort at all and I instinctively gripped my fingers around each breast to halt my fall. With a great effort of will, ignoring the pain, and concentrating solely on the flesh beneath my fingers, in steady alternating rhythm I played joyfully with their tits.
Hannah's breast was full and firm, larger than my hand could span, whilst Magda's was still conical and without need of foundation or bra, not that either sister wore such, much to my delight.
As we crossed the yard towards the chicken house I began to hallucinate, first of all my twin pillars of support began speaking in tongues. "Ohtyets" and "Maht" and "Vstro". Then I began with the visual hallucinations and saw a giant hen come almost galloping out of the wooden structure, seeming to pulling at its skirt and clucking "Gde? Gde? Shto etta?". So now I started giggling at this huge chicken, clucking and fussing until I saw the bear emerge. Pulling up his trousers and calm as you like, it walked right up to me and stared me in the face. As I slowly began to recognise Aunt Biruta and Uncle Stan I also began to realise that I was holding tightly onto their daughter's breasts in plain view of their large, now laughing parents. The blood drained from my face as the strength left my fingers, leaving my hands to dangle and cowards that they were, me to face the music.
I was never sure if they actually saw anything unusual in our grouping but what happened next led me to suspect that at least Uncle Stan did.
"Ach, is nothing" growled Stan peering closely at my throbbing nose, then continued "bring him into the kitchen Biruta." At which my Aunt scooped me from the floor and clutched me to her bosom, I once again lost consciousness. Seconds later as I came to, looking past Aunt Biruta's left ear, I was greeted with the vision of Hannah and Magda with their arms about each other's shoulders. They were turned slightly towards each other and seemed to be each slightly swinging their upper bodies so that their breasts touched and rubbed, touched and rubbed with each movement.
Transfixed as I was, I failed to notice until we crossed the threshold of the kitchen that my hand had somehow covered my Aunt's now heaving breast and my treacherous fingers were gently flitting across a hardened nipple. I glanced swiftly at her profile to see a grin slowly fade from her face as I ceased this intrusive attention.
With great care I was placed on a wooden kitchen chair and instructed to hold my head back. I gazed at the yellowed peeling emulsion and smoke blackened beams, creating faces and animals in the whorls and textures as I listened to the sound of running water from the tap at the deep, square, porcelain sink.
Uncle Stan returned and I noticed he was carrying his toolbox, bristling with hammer handles, hacksaw blades and screwdrivers, a veritable D.I.Y hedgehog. My slowing pulse quickened apace when he told his wife; "Light is no good, bring him to window." At which Aunt Biruta unceremoniously tipped back the stout wooden chair onto two legs and scraped it towards the light. "Cold water. Cold," instructed my Uncle, "keep swelling down." Against the sound of the once more running tap I heard the ominous portent of tools being hefted and tested, the dead clunk of a discarded hammer, the bright 'clack, clack' of pincer jaws snapping together.
A very sudden wetness on my face shocked me and a very soft heaviness resting upon my shoulder thrilled me with realisation. Above the cold flannel I let my gaze flicker across the planes and angles of Aunt Biruta's smiling face. She was not a classically beautiful woman, she had whatever it is that gives a person that 'Slavic' look, pale complexion, heavy, parenthetical black eyebrows, and rosy 'farmer's wife' cheeks which served to accentuate the eastern Europe cheekbones, no, not beautiful but definitely the most handsome woman I knew.
Now, with that reverie, I was aware of the still stiff cock, somehow bent inside my jeans, broken and throbbing with a mixture of adrenaline, the uncomfortable position it was somehow bent into and longing. The pressure from my Aunt's breast into my shoulder and neck now became heavier as I felt her lean slightly forward to rest the angle of her chin on my forehead as she scrutinised the tented crotch of my jeans. Bending her head to rest her lips on the fringe of my hair and looking deeply into my eyes she whispered "Nose is not only thing broken, no?"
The sound of metal screeching on metal and my Uncle's voice "BASTA'" made me almost turn my head in his direction, but Aunt Biruta held me in a firm vice of hard and soft flesh so that I could only see from the corner of my eyes and watch him throw down a flat bladed screwdriver to rush suddenly to the sink behind the two of us.
Aunt Biruta's voice whispered again above the sloosh of the cold tap "We fix this easily." Then her free hand was darting into the waistband of my jeans to deftly take a warm grip of my erection and with swift and tender suddenness straightened my bent dick and pulled it firmly into a more comfortable place to rest pointing upwards on my belly. "There, there, " she crooned "is ok? You like this?" she asked my forehead, "is nice. No?" And for the seeming eternity of seconds until the water from the tap was stopped she gently kneaded my cock in her strong hand. I could only gasp and swallow blood.
"Let me see." Said Uncle Stan as he pushed his hip into his wife to nudge her to the side. "Take away cloth. Let dog see rabbit." He ordered.
As he placed his strong fingers to my nose, a bright blue electrical tape sticking-plaster adorning the thumb, I gasped and my eyes shot to Aunt Biruta for some sort of solace, she smiled and very slowly and deliberately licked her tongue across the palm of her hand.
"Is hurt?" asked Uncle Stan, seeing my eyes widen. I could only gurgle a faint negative. "Ok." He boomed "Now we see what to do." His long arm reached across my body to the table where he had laid out an assortment of tools. He passed each one across my gaze to examine it closely, to dismiss each one with a grunted comment of disgust. Tin snips: "Too sharp." Tongs: "Too big." Pliers: "No strength. Pincers: "This for nail in foot." Until eventually "Ah ha." He cried and began clacking together a pair of round mouth pliers across my face and dangerously close to my nose. All the while the fingers of his free hand had been gently making circuits the length and breadth of my nose with exquisite tenderness, then he looked into my eyes.
"Afraid? Not need be afraid. Will hurt yes. But not so much as when you break him. Is good that you afraid. Adrenaline rush. Self administered anaesthetic. Hold him Biruta."
My Aunt laid a palm across my forehead and pressed firmly then she placed another hand on my belly and did the same, only more so.
"Wait, wait. Need cover in case of blood." Urged Uncle Stan as he fled quickly from view to return with a plastic tablecloth which he draped across my chest and legs whereupon Aunt Biruta's lower hand became lower still when she slid her fingers once again into the waistband of my jeans.