Picking the First Fruit

bysr71plt©

* * * *

There were several young guys picking peaches in Mr. Howell's orchard. Young and good looking, white, black, and Hispanic. He had just as many working his orchards as Brother Jeb had—maybe more.

But they were a lethargic lot in most cases. Being as how I was Mr. Howell's boy now, I knew it was up to me to set a pace and an example. So I worked as hard as I'd done at Brother Jeb's. Wes Shelton was there, acting as field supervisor, just as Mr. Howell had said he would be. He smirked a little in my direction when I showed up for work on my bike. I hadn't decided, though, if I was going to call him out for lying about me to Mr. Howell. I couldn't very well work up a deep mad when Mr. Howell had fucked me so well—and when most of my sleeping moments and some of my awake ones now were of Mr. Howell's cock working my channel deep. I didn't have much of a chance to speak alone with Wes for the first three hours of the day anyway.

I was working hard and fast, being a good example to the guys working the trees around me when I saw the big, red F-450 rumble up and through the orchard. When I looked up again, I didn't see it, though.

Twenty or so minutes later, Wes was walking near my tree and I called him over.

"I see that Mr. H. got you working here after all," Wes said. He was looking real good. All bulked up and tanned. My guess was that it was the football practices that was doing that for him, because he sure as hell wasn't lifting much other than a finger on this orchard picking.

"Yes. He pays double what I got before. I'm saving to go to school in Harrisonburg."

"I heard as much. There's a good technical school in Blacksburg, you know. Better than the one in Harrisonburg, I hear."

"I have to live at home. I don't have the money yet to live away as far as Blacksburg."

"Mr. H. is paying you double now. Maybe you could get him to pay you even more. You're the best of the lot around here, you know."

It didn't take much, I thought, for anyone to see that I was three times the worker that any of these other lazy pretty boys were.

"Speaking of Mr. Howell," I said. "Have you seen him? I thought I saw his truck come into the field a little while ago."

"Sure," Wes said, with a little smirk on his face. "Why don't you go look behind that storage shed over there."

I climbed down out of the tree. Wes was standing close to where I came down. Reaching out and putting a hand on my arm, he said, "You know you and I were getting to finding some real pleasure with each other. You go on and do it within anyone—go all the way?"

"No," I said.

"Not before Mr. H., you mean? You look well fucked by someone. My money's on Mr. H." He gave me a knowing laugh.

I gave him a dirty look, pulled away from him, and walked as steadily as I could over to the shed.

Rounding the corner, I saw the big, red F-450. That's not all I saw, though. The passenger door was open and one of the young Hispanic guys was laying, naked, half in and half out of the truck with the small of his back on the passenger seat. His legs were raised, and the his toes were dug into the top sides of the door frame on either side. Mr. Howell, also naked, was standing on the running board between the Hispanic's legs, crouched over the passenger side, and was fucking the Hispanic's hole fast and furiously.

The muscles of the Hispanic's legs were undulating in rhythm to the fuck. The sounds he was making told me he was having a good time. And knowing what Mr. Howell packed between his legs and what he could do with it, my butt twitched in envy. I could see into the cab to where the Hispanic's arms were thrown over his head and his head was lolled to one side on the towel on the passenger side of the truck—the same towel I'd sat on that day of my first ride in the red truck. His tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and I could see even from here the dreamy look on his face. I knew from the thrusting of Mr. Howell's hips that he was fucking deep. The whiteness of his tightening and expanding alabaster butt cheeks in contrast to the deep tan of the rest of his body made me moan.

Red faced, I turned and walked quickly back around the side of the shed.

Wes was standing there in front of the shed. Not wanting to approach him, I turned my body back toward the truck. That was a mistake. The second view of what Mr. Howell was doing to that young Hispanic field worker, with the shock of the first sighting gone, was just too enticing now. I stood there and watched. Wes came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. One of his hands went to my cock, having no trouble finding the hardness of it and holding it through the material of my gym shorts. His breathing was ragged, sounding like a low roar as close as his mouth was to my ear. I leaned back into him in defeat and just moaned as his hand went below my waistband.

"You knew what he was doing," I said, accusingly, but in a low voice that I hardly could get out.

"I sure did. And you should have known too. That's how he got you to come work here. That's his recruiting style. He's got the biggest dick in the county and all the guys who might be interested know that. They flock here—for the double wages, and for the fucks. What, did you think he wanted you so bad that you'd be his one and only?"

"You lied to him . . . about me."

"Best way I knew of to get you here and to be ready for me. He's good, but he's an old man, Johnny. I'm young and in great shape. I'll be better to you than he can be."

I couldn't say anything. All I could do is look at my feet. I felt such a fool. I had been stupid enough to think that it was I who was in control. That Mr. Howell. He just wanted his orchard picked fast and clean. And Wes. He was no better. He just wanted to control me too.

"Pretty shitty thing to do, I know," Wes said. "I know how you can get your own back, though."

We fucked right there inside the shed. I could hear the Hispanic's cries, so I supposed that Mr. Howell could hear mine as well. But I didn't give a shit.

The irony was that Wes was a better fucker than Mr. Howell was. He also was more susceptible to my charms and my growing sense of control. By the end of the summer he was begging me to go to Blacksburg rather than Harrisonburg and was willing to let me live with him—for free. And I had plenty of money to start junior college as well as study for my electrician's credentials.

Mr. Howell came sniffing around often, but denying him and letting him see Wes fuck me in the bushes made up for him plucking the first fruit off me. He reacted badly enough that I guess I did have some form of control over him. It wasn't as unequal as he thought. I was still best peach picker in the whole county. And, knowing that, he couldn't fire me.

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