Digging Holes for Seeds

Anderson. Jon Anderson. The man had worked on our families' farm for nearly four years, before I learned his last name. It wasn't surprising. Truth be told, I didn't spend nearly as much time in the fields as I maybe should have, but in my defense it had only been a year since I returned from University of Austin. Apparently he'd been here for three years before that, as well; though I hadn't seen him the few times I'd returned home during my degree.

You might still think--a year, though? A full year? Yeah, but you have to understand the way that farms work. People have different jobs, and I didn't really work on the farm anyways. Most of the time, we're separated by kilometers of distance. The only time we really ran into one another was in the barn, every once and a while, or when he tramped slowly back through the field at the end of the day--about once every two weeks--and we bumped into one another while I was studying on the porch and he was climbing into his beat-up, sky-blue GMC. It was old-style, and rattled when he turned the key in the ignition.

It suited him. Jon was about twenty years older than me. It was a guess. He could have been a rough-looking early forties, or an average-looking fifty year old. I imagine he'd probably have been good looking, once. His jaw looked like a block of hewn wood; the same squareness as the rest of his stern-looking features. At some point, the square of his nose had been broken; perhaps many times, and healed badly along the bridge. About half-way up, I could see the lightning-shaped line of scar tissue, a paler while against his sun-darkened skin. His arms and shoulders both looked powerful, their shiny roundness matching that of his clean-shaven head. A bit of blonde stubble poked up over his cheeks and chin, like wheat-shoots peaking their winter-sheared heads out of the dirt for the first time in a season. I'd always thought he wore the same sleeveless black shirt, until I realized that one of them had a hole in the back left, just above his hip. By that, I judged that he had seven of the same style folded in his drawers at home. Seven of the same khaki pants. Seven of the same pairs of white socks. Seven pairs of underwear.

It wasn't that Jon was unfriendly. In our limited interactions, I'd never heard him raise his voice to anybody--even when something, as they often did on a farm, went disastrously wrong. In fact, I had rarely heard him communicate in much past the way of a grunt. I could tell that the new-hires, who appeared at the beginning of every season, exhausted him. Life itself seemed to both exhaust and annoy him, in equal measure; a fact that he hid well, but not well enough. He didn't have tattoos, but I thought he should. They would suit him. Not well-done ones, but the traditional style done with a single needle; jailhouse ink. He looked like he belonged on a chain-gang, but I don't think he'd ever been to prison. Some small part of me, the part that I can't explain, hoped that wasn't true; found some small excitement in the idea of a man so completely unrestrainable, somehow captured.

Sometimes, I wondered where he lived. Probably a one-bedroom apartment in Elgin, the closest town. I couldn't picture it, though; Jon belonged in a field. Either surrounded by wooden fences or stone walls and barbed wire. It also hurt, to think about him in a small apartment--like thinking about a bear in a zoo cage. He was that kind of creature. Large and quite. He needed space to roam through.

I thought about all of these things, as I set the rope around my hands. Had Jon and I ever shared a proper conversation, beyond the exchanging of polite nods? I don't think we had. It's why he was perfect; it's why this was going to work. I could hear him, in the room adjacent to the long one that I was in. He was like clockwork. Four o'clock, he came in from the fields. Four-fifteen, he went into the barn, checked over the machinery and organized the things that others left out of place. Four-thirty, he organized the smaller back room; categorized the seeds, got things in place for tomorrow, left a list of orders on my parent's pushed-back wooden desk, and gathered his things. Four-forty, he walked through the barn, down the dusty path back toward the house, and climbed into his rattling truck. Every--single--day. It's how I knew there were exactly two minutes before he opened the wooden door from the side-room and emerged into the proper space of the barn.

In front of me, a bag of fertilizer--one of the fifty-pound ones, in crinkly blue and white plastic--stood on top of a small wooden stool. A rope had been wrapped around the center of it, running a loose line up to the support-beams overhead, looping over one, and falling down. Down to where the three loops of rope wound around both of my wrists. I knew I'd judged the distance correctly, because even with my hands held in front of my chest, I could feel a bit of tension in the rope.

My nakedness felt strange here. My clothes were a neatly-folded pile on top of the tractors front motor, just behind me. The only light in the barn came through the open front door--not the panel ones, for removing machinery, but the one that people came through from the fields. The light of early evening flooded through it; making the long space a bit dim, but easily enough light to see by. Dust motes floated on the still air. The only sound was that of my breathing, and Jon moving equipment in the other room. Cardboard boxes, judging by the sound. Probably the order of aphid-repellent that had been delivered earlier that morning, which would need to be sprayed over the plants tomorrow.

I can feel a couple of small rocks, scattered in the hard-packed dirt below my feet. About the size of my pinky nail. Not sharp enough to be uncomfortable, but just a strange enough sensation against my skin to remind me of my feets bareness. A gentle breeze came in, through the open door. I felt my nipples stiffen slightly, as it passed over me and deeper into the barn, cooling as it left the sunlight behind. My hair was a knotted blonde braid, hanging to just below the nape of my neck. A few loose hairs had escaped it, floating around my cheeks and the top curve of my forehead. In my chest, my heart hammered; part nerves, part excitement. Mostly nerves.

You might be tempted to ask, why am I here? Why am I doing this? The truth is--I don't have an answer for you. It's not a thing that people are supposed to do. It's not right; not a right thing to want, not a right thing to need, not a right thing to lay in bed thinking about, turning over, planning for weeks. Pretty girls aren't supposed to get themselves off, one hand between their legs and the other over their mouth, thinking about this kind of thing. Dimly-lit rooms. Stern-faced strangers. Or, nearly strangers. When our parents leave town, we're supposed to throw parties; not think about whatever this was, not do whatever this was. We're not supposed to be turned-on, sketching out rope measurements and weight-necessities while sitting on the porch, watching a man climb into his beat-up GMC the same way he did every single day.

We're supposed to be pretty. Think pretty. Act pretty. Fuck pretty. But you know what? Fuck that. So you want to know why I'm here--in a dusty barn, butt-ass naked, feeling the slight tension of a cattle-lead rope around my wrists? Because it's not pretty. Because the thought of it makes my heart hammer, in a way that the polite, good-looking boys who ended up in my University dorm room simply... didn't.

I glanced at the ropes around my wrists one last time. I'd tested it, of course--not here, but in my room. Very carefully. It had taken hours of research, and weeks of practice. The initial restraint was actually a relatively simple one; a double-column tie, looping around both wrists and crossing at the center. It was the adjustment that had been difficult, making the center loops slip sideways as it was pulled tight, catching on smaller knots near my arm; tightening enough that my hands couldn't slip free, but not enough that it cut off circulation to my hands. Easy enough to do on somebody else, but doing it on yourself was a different matter. By feel alone, I knew I'd gotten it nearly perfect. My eyes turned to the clock, hung by nail on one of the support beams near the door.

4:39.

Deep breath. Raising one leg, I set my toes against the edge of the wooden stool. Exhale. Straightening my leg, I felt the weight of the fertilizer bag shift; I kicked, hard. The stool fell. The bag of fertilizer made a soft thump as it fell, half-catching on the bottom leg of the stool, bending up in the center while the two sides made small puffs of dust fly away over the ground of the barn. Even knowing what was going to happen, the suddenness of it made my exhale go sharp. The rope tightened. My arms pulled upward, wrists crossing above my head--I'd done the measurements two-dozen times, but I still felt almost weak with relief when it worked. Long enough that I wasn't suspended, my feet on the ground, my heels able to touch it if I pushed them down intentionally, but arched at the instep while they were raised. Tight enough that my hands and arms were straightened overhead. There was a bit of give in the rope, as I pulled on it; not in the weight on the other end, but in the rope itself. Just enough to let me bend my elbows slightly, if I pulled all of my weight against it.

Even if my fingers could have reached the knots, which they couldn't, I knew I'd never have been able to undo them. I was here, until somebody found me.

My eyes watched the second hand on the clock. My heartbeat wasn't just pounding; it was the steady drum of a horses hooves on dry dirt. My stomach was tight, but whether it was because the skin was pulled taut by the position, or whether it was the knot of nerves buried there, I didn't know. I could feel a slight stretch in my breasts and shoulders and the ribs below them. It wasn't difficult to breathe, but each time I did I became aware of the sensation of breathing in a way that I hadn't previously. Thirty seconds. I could feel it, between my legs--I was wet. Not just the tingle of arousal, but fully wet; so much so that I was almost surprised to not feel a drop of moisture running down one of my thighs. Twenty seconds. I could feel a small tremble behind each breath. Inside of me, excitement coursed through my blood, beginning to outpace my nervousness. Ten seconds. I watched the second hand on the clock tick down, like a metronome; each movement counting off three of my heartbeats.

4:40.

Nothing changed. In the other room, I could still hear Jon working. Boxes being moved, set down, shifted. The rattle of a metal shelf as weight settled onto it. The scuffle of feet. Ten seconds past. Worry began to gnaw at the bottom of my stomach. He had to see me--right? I mean, this couldn't the one day that he stayed late. But my parents were out of town, and maybe he'd decided to--the wooden door creaked open. Without warning. The sound of booted feet entered the room; by the sound, I could tell he hadn't seen me yet. Every nerve in my body felt electric. My heartbeat faltered slightly; I almost missed the stumble in the sound of his boots, because the two matched one another so perfectly. Fourteen seconds past.

"Jesus almighty--"

The roughness of his voice was enough to make the hair on the back of my neck rise. The bass of it. I realized, at that moment, I'd never really noticed Jon's voice. I'd never seen him smoke, but it sounded like he did; deep, and a bit scratchy around the edges. Likely something he'd done for years, and quit not long ago. Both smoking and speaking, that is.

I tried to picture it. How he saw me. Nothing but my back; the knot of blonde hair, the bare curve of my back that pushed out to form the cheeks of my bum. The straightness of my legs. The rope that connected me to the ceiling. How the light from the open doorway must, from where he was standing, silhouette my nakedness.

"You alright, girl?"

I almost laughed. If I did, I knew the sound would come out almost hysterically. My nerves felt nearly raw from anticipation; my legs trembled, not from the position, but with exhilaration. I spread them slightly, forcing myself to the front of my feet, heels lifting further away from the ground. I wondered if he could see it--the wetness between my legs; or whether it was hidden in front of the curve of my bum. It was the word: girl. Pronounced in his gravel-chewing voice. He doesn't know my name--it's very nearly enough to make me laugh.

I don't say a word. Instead, I close my eyes as he steps forward. Small stones pop under the leather soles of his boots. Behind my eyelids, the light from the doorway is only a faint halo in the darkness. His breathing is deeper than mine. More steady. From behind me, he feels... worried. Disbelieving. A bit curious, but mostly worried. In a sturdy kind of way.

"Hold on now." His voice comes from just behind me. I can feel him, now; not just by intuition, but actually feel him. His hands going between mine, fingers working the rope around my wrists. The heat of his breath moving the small hairs around the back of my head, where they've escaped from my braid. As his hands close around the knot, I feel his body against mine. His chest, swelling against my back as he breathes. The rough material of his work pants brushing up against the back of my bare bum; I don't know whether it's intentional, by him, or because I arch back slightly to rub myself against him.

I can't help it. At the contact, a soft whimper escapes me. Between my arms, his hands fumble and come to a stop. For a moment, there's silence--broken only to my ears by the sound of my heart beating. Against my bum, through the tough material of his khakis, I can feel his cock stir to life. Pressing the cloth-covered zipper into me. I'm almost panting, now; and he can tell. I know because he's gone completely still, but I can feel him studying me. Considering. His thought turning over like the engine of an old truck.

"Hmm," the sound isn't quite coherent enough to be a word. Something between a grumble and a growl, from deep inside of the man's throat. It's enough to make me shiver. Arching my back, I press myself against the front of the man's pants and rub myself, slowly, up and down. I can feel the stiffness of his erection, through the fabric. He must be able to feel how wet I am, even if he can't see it. Under the hanging scent of dust and fertilizer, my own arousal smells almost strong enough to overpower them.

My breathing flutters as his hands fall away from the rope. They slide down the sides of my body, his thick fingers catching just above the indents of my hips. I feel it slide around; palm pressed against me, fingers spread, until his hand rests just below my stomach. It's large enough, or at least feels large enough, that it covers almost the entirety of my pelvis. He hasn't said a word, since he stepped behind me, but I feel him. The pressure of his hand pulling me back, against his pant-covered cock. The slow exhale of breath, like a horsehair brush over the back of my neck, painting me with warmth, moving the small hairs found there.

My body nearly sagged, pulling down against the overhead rope, as his hand went between my legs. It wasn't like any touch I'd felt before; not unsure, not searching, not even trying to pleasure me. He simply reached down and cupped his hand over my vagina; ring and middle finger pressing slightly harder than the others, parting the wet lips around them, but not going inside of me. Holding me. Feeling me. An act of possession so casual that it made my legs feel weak. On the right side of my body, I could feel his arm pressing into the soft skin between my rib and my hip; the round length of it, the small hairs that stood up over his forearm almost ticklish against my bare skin. I could feel my wetness, almost dripping over his fingers as he held them still. Not inside of me, but against me. My inner muscles matched my breathing; tight and fluttering.

"Tell me the time, girl." My eyes found the clock immediately, staying for a second as the black hand ticked forward over the round white and red face of it.

"Four forty-two," It felt strange, to speak. My voice barely sounded like my own; open and breathless.

"Tell me your name."

"Amy," I tried to concentrate, but the feeling of his fingers between my legs made it a losing battle. Part of me wondered why he hadn't moved them, but another part didn't care--didn't want him to. I could feel his breathing, against my back. His cock pressed into me from one side, his fingers from the other; somehow, the pressure seemed to be going in the opposite direction. Pulling me apart, like the threads of an old sweater. Behind me, I heard his low grunt. The tips of his fingers curled, and I let out another low whimper as they grazed my opening, between the slick folds of my labia.

And then the hand was gone. His breathing was gone. His body was gone. The suddenness of it was incredible. Part of my body wants to stand straight up, rigid with surprise, and the other part wants to collapse in on itself. Only the rope around my wrists, and the weight on the other end of it, kept me upright. Behind me, I heard the clink of a belt opening. The whisper of clothes being pulled down over bare skin. I could tell, by where I heard the sound, that he hadn't taken his pants off. He'd simply dropped them over top of his boots.

I exhaled, hard, when the head of his cock moved between my legs. I exhaled harder when he pushed inside of me. The wet lips of my vagina opening around his width, first almost pushing back and then pulling forward. When he began to move, each thrust was measured. Workmanlike. His hand came back, making a hard incurve between my legs.

Pleasure made my head spin. Somehow, he knew. His palm pressed into the flat space of my pelvis, fingers curled over the slight mound beneath. Not for my own enjoyment, but to steady me for each thrust. His other hand wrapped around my breast, hard nipple squished against his palm, fingers digging into the skin. For the same reason. That's what did it--how each touch could have been for my pleasure, but wasn't. It was almost callous, the way that he held me. The way a man would hold a board, to guide it through a saw-blade. To hold me in place, while he fucked me. Functional.

That was what finally did it. Not the deep pumping of his cock inside of me, not the grip of his hands, not the sliding of his fingers over the top of my pussy; the word--Functional. The feeling of being used. Just another piece of farm machinery, to be worked hard, with purpose, and then to be put neatly away until the next time. I felt my body tightening; not just from the rope, but deeper inside. A knot, inside of me, pulled so tightly that it frayed, slipped, gave way.

I don't know if I made a sound, as I came. My thoughts went blank, and I felt the muscles of my cunt gripping hard against his cock. If Jon noticed, he gave no indication of it. His deep breathing had taken on a distinctly coarse quality, each thrust punctuated by a grunt. If he was worried about somebody walking in on us, about being seen fucking me like this, he certainly didn't seem to be. With each motion, he drew himself nearly outside of me before thrusting back once more.

It didn't even feel like pleasure. It felt like work, and the pleasure was only incidental--both for him and myself. He used himself like a shovel. As if he were in the field once more. Digging holes for seeds.

It was the way a man fucked. And he made no attempt to hide it. Inside of me, I felt the knot re-tying itself; stretching taut once more. My entire body was trembling, now. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight, feeling his hand match the reaction against my chest. It was his own orgasm, that finally pulled me loose. The locked-down tightness in the muscles of his arms; the deeper grunt than the ones previously. Burying himself inside of me, he came. His cock throbbed, and I shook around it as my own orgasm overtook me; the quivering squeeze of my cunt pulling him deeper.