Picking the First Fruit


"OK, you go on into the house. I'll be in in a minute or two."

I happily did as he asked. I was having feelings I'd had before and mostly tried to repress. There was a guy a couple of times on the basketball team. Older than me. But that was just fooling around. We didn't do anything serious. But it had set me to thinking—and I'd been trying not to think too much along those lines. Going into the house would be good. Mrs. Howell would be in there. We'd watch the films, eat the steaks, and Mr. Howell would take me home. And that would be that.

I felt warm and trembly, though. Mr. Howell was so . . . built. I'd watched some films. But I didn't want to think about that. And especially by how his privates and tight, bulbous buns were accentuated by not being dark tanned like the rest of him.

I was in the house, waiting for Mr. Howell to come in, when a young guy came out of the kitchen and set some plates on a dining table.

"How do you like your steak?"

"Excuse me?"

"How do you like your steak? I won't put them on yet, because Clarence says you'll watch football films first. But I'll fix the steaks to order."

"Uh, medium rare, I guess." I hoped the confusion in my mind didn't sound that much like confusion. The guy wasn't much older than I was, and he was acting like he belonged here.

"And baked potato or fries? I'm Lynn, by the way. I cook for Clarence."

Lynn. Not a woman's name in this case. "Uh, baked potato, I guess."

We were sitting side by side on the sofa, Mr. Howell and me, with the DVD player running, showing Tech football practice. The lights were dim, and it was starting to get dark outside, although Mr. Howell had turned lights on in and around the pool, which we could see beyond a big, two-story window wall.

I was trying to keep my attention on the film, but I have to say that a college football practice is a bit boring. There's no scoring to keep track of and no school to cheer against. There was a brief flurry of excitement when I saw someone on the film I thought I knew, though.

"Hey, that looks like someone I went to school with. Wes what's his name."

"Wes Shelton? Yeah, that's who gave me the films. He's working for me this summer. Supervising the picking. I can't be there full time watching to see that everyone is working."

Yeah, I thought. You seem to be spending more time watching us work Brother Jeb's orchard than at your own. But I was feeling nervous. I knew Wes. I knew him real well. That's who I'd done a little fooling around with. Nothing heavy, I thought. Just measuring and seeing who was biggest and what might make us bigger—and then, admittedly, who could shoot the farthest, and whether you could get more by doing yourself or having another guy do you. There's nothing real heavy in jacking each other off, though. I do that just by myself maybe a couple of times a day. It's not that much more to do it with another guy your age who's just curious like you are. We both talked about girls and doing it to them while we did it.

What was trying to get my attention more was the purple, bulbous cap on Mr. Howell's dick. He was wearing those baggy gym shorts and they were riding up his leg so that the tip of his prick was peeking out of a leg hole.

I was tenting up in my own shorts. I sure hoped that Mr. Howell didn't see that. It wasn't something I wanted to do—it was just happening without me being able to stop it.

He must have noticed my stiffening, because, without me being aware of it, he had snaked an arm around me on the top of the sofa, and the first thing I knew I was feeling fingers on my bicep on the opposite side of him, and he was soft stroking me there with his fingers.

"Umm, Mr. Howell."

"Don't be nervous, Johnny. I know you're interested. I can see you're hard." He had the remote in his other hand and, with a stroke of a button, he had changed the DVD over to a sex film—a homo sex film. A hairy middle-aged guy—but in real good shape, just like Mr. Howell—sucking off a young blond guy.

"I don't think . . . I didn't come here for. I don't . . ."

"Wes told me that you did, Johnny. He told me that you were a real good fuck, that you begged it from him. And that he fucked you a lot."

"He told you that?" I could barely get it out. I was hyperventilating. In any event, Mr. Howell didn't seem to give a shit what I said about me and Wes. That Wes. He was always boasting. We didn't ever . . . "Ohhhh, god."

"Like that, do you? Hard for me, aren't you?"

I couldn't breathe, let alone object. All I could do was shudder and moan. He'd moved his free hand below my waistband and had a thumb on the bulb of my cock. He was moving the thumb around in the precum that had involuntarily oozed out there. I gave a little jerk as he tried to push into my piss hole with the tip of his finger.

"I'm going to be very good to you, Johnny. And you're going to be good to me too."

I wanted to object. To say this was all a mistake. And push him off me and stand up and go get my bicycle and start peddling home. I should never have . . . "mooooaan."

The hand on my shoulder had moved to the back of my head and turned my face to his. He took possession of my mouth with his, pressing his tongue deep inside my mouth cavity. I had to breathe through my nose, giving a rasping gagging sound. He pushed my shorts down to around my knees, and while his hand was off my cock, he grabbed one of my hands and pushed it under his waistband and onto his cock. Then his hand was gripping my cock again and pumping it slowly.

My hand had a mind of its own. I didn't take it away from his cock. I didn't fist him, but I let my hand run along the sides of his cock. I moaned again at the feel of how big and long it had gotten. And how hot it was. I could feel the pulsating, bulging vein running up the underside of it. That made me think of Wes. He was big like that too.

The kiss was over and he was kneeling in front of me as I sat on the sofa. My shorts were coming off and being cast aside.

"No, Mr. Howell. This is all a mistake. I've never . . . Oh, fuck. Oh shit."

His mouth had come down over my cock and he was deep throating me. I lay back, powerless. "Noooo."

I began to pant. Nothing like this ever before. It had to stop. I didn't want it to stop. Not ever. "Yesssss."

"You like this. You want this."

It wasn't a question, but I groaned my assent.

"You want me to fuck you. You've just been teasing me."

All I could manage was a moan.

He pushed me over on my side on the sofa, my head on the arm. Then he pulled me around on my back and was straddling me, his mouth working my cock. I grabbed his bald head in my hands, thinking I was meaning to try to push him away. That wasn't what I wanted at all. I was holding him there, instead, enjoying the rhythmic up and down movement on my cock between his lips and the bobbing of his head in the rhythm.

"God, Mr. Howell," I murmured, my voice feeling far away and weak even to me. "Wes lied. I've never . . . he lied."

He pulled his mouth off my cock and looked up at my face. "You've never been fucked before?"

"Ne . . . never," I moaned.

"Oh, fuck, this is delicious," he said in guttural voice. "First fruit. My favorite. You want it. I know you want it. Your body doesn't lie."

I moaned.

"Tell me you want me to stop. We can just suck. You have to suck me too. But tell me you don't want it all—that you don't want me to fuck you."

"I . . . I . . ." it ended in a moan as his mouth came down over my cock again.

No fair, no fuckin' fair, I cried out. But that was all inside my head. I wasn't actually crying anything out. I was groaning and moaning too loud. And my hips were beginning to move with the rhythm of his mouth pumping.

I collapsed. I tensed up and then relaxed again. I tensed yet again as I felt a finger at my hole, entering me, slowly. Finding a spot that made me grip his ears and arch my back and moan a deeper moan than I'd given him before. I felt fireworks. Didn't hear them or see them. Felt them in a way I can't describe, as nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I shuddered and tensed. Then tensed even more. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe.

"Oh, God, I'm coming!"

And I did.

After cleaning my cock with his tongue, he was lifting my legs, my ankles above my shoulders. His tongue going down across my perineum. To my asshole.

I gasped. I groaned, I moaned. I was being tongue fucked. I was putty in his hands now—not that I'd put up anything like a fight before. He could do anything he wanted to me now. But that cock he had. The size of what I'd felt. I began to tremble. And to cry. Softly, trying not to let him hear. Trying not to be there at all. But the pleasure. The arousal. I was already getting hard again. My hand went to my cock, and I was slow pumping it.

He was hovering over me. His teeth were nipping at my nipples and I was giving little nipping sounds and my body was jerking. I had no control. It wasn't even my body. I didn't want it to be my body. But, yes, of course I did. I wanted this pleasure, this ultimate arousal.

"Yessss, oh shit, yes," I hissed. I pushed my chest up, my nipples search his mouth. He laughed and raised his mouth to mine again and possessed me as before. I ran my hands down his chest, luxuriating in the matting of hair and in the hard curves of his muscles. Taking his cock in my hand, brushing my own cock against it, and then holding them together in my fist. His so much thicker and longer than mine. Both hot, hard, pulsating. His moving slowly in and out, rubbing across my fingers.

Shuddering again at the thought of what he said he was going to do to me. With that big dick.

He was pulling away from me. Rising up my body. His cock level with my mouth. "Suck it."

"Oh, God. I've never."

"Not that either?" He laughed. "Just open wide, keep your teeth off it, and don't gag anymore than you have to. I'll do the rest."

Holding the sides of my head with his meaty fists. Pushing inside me with that bulb of his. I couldn't take much, at first, and he didn't press hard . . . at first. Before he was finished, though, I felt that my tonsils had been battered and that he was a jackhammer machine.

"Can't yet," I heard him say, and then he was pulling out of me. "Not bad for the first time. Just about had me coming."

I wasn't sure my jaw would ever snap back in place. My nose was running, tears were streaming down my face, my tongue felt like it was twice its normal size, and the musky taste of him lingered on after he'd pulled out. My chest was heaving from the effort. But I was exhilarated at the experience. I'd done it. I always wondered what it would be like. The next time I'd take more control. I'd try to give more pleasure—like he did for me.

The next time? Oh, god, what was I thinking?

I lay there panting, not able to move. Thinking that this was when I should get up and flee. He was off the sofa, looking down at me. Smiling. He was fiddling with a small square packet. A condom! And he had a small can of something in his hand.

He really was going to do it. He was going to fuck me in the ass. In the ass! I'd never. I couldn't. No fucking way would I . . .

I moaned and tried to move. I was turning on my side on the sofa when I felt a hand gliding under my waist. A hairy forearm. He wasn't fighting me. He was helping me. To turn over on my stomach. But when I was about to put my leg out onto the floor and rise from the sofa, he was holding me firm, pulling me up on my knees on the sofa, my head on the armrest.

Crouched over me, he was moving fingers back to my asshole. Cold, wet fingers. Probing me. His torso over mine, holding me close. His teeth on an earlobe, breathing heavily.

"Steady, steady as she goes. It will only hurt at the beginning. Slowly, slowly I'm going to take you to heaven."

"I haven't. I can't. I . . ."

"You're honey. Meant to be taken. To be fucked. It's a man you want. A man with a big cock. More man than Wes was. I'm that man. I'm gonna fuck you. Here, now. You're gonna love it. Gonna beg for it."

He hadn't been convinced. He still thought that Wes had fucked me, that he was competing with Wes, and that I was comparing him to a younger guy. He was right, though. I wanted it. But I was scared, oh so scared. I started to squirm, feeling not thickish fingers inside me, but something thicker, slick, bigger than the hole but pressing in. At my asshole.

"Steady, steady." His voice was thick, growly. "God, you're tight. But we're going to do this. You're going to get fucked."

"Nooo," I moan. "Oh, god. Oh, shit. Ohh. Ohhhhhh."

It was gigantic. A gourd, a watermelon. There was no . . . way. "Oh Fuckkkk."

Inside me. Expanding pushing. In, in, in. Stop and hold. Both of us panting.

"Tight, tight. This is going to be great."

He'd found the spot again. He was rubbing it with his dick head. I felt the jizm rise. Hot . . . waves . . . of pleasure. "Ahhhhhhhhh, yess."

"Like that, do you?"

"Oh fuck yessss."

I was building up the capability of saying something else, telling him the "however" part, when there was a searing pain, and I was fighting him hard, squirming within his grasp. Ineffectually. He was a big, strong man. And his dick was sinking deep inside me. Heavy breathing in harmony again. I began to sob, aloud. Defeated, taken, fucked.

And then he began to pump me. I came again and just went limp. He held me firmly, though, pulling me up to where my torso was erect. I was still on my knees. He had a grip under my chin with one hand, and his other, hairy forearm wrapped around my belly. His mouth was next to my ear, and his voice became thicker, more excited as he counted the strokes up his cock up inside me.

"Better now? I feel you relaxing. It's good for you now, isn't it?"

I could do more than moan. But he was right. The pain was subsiding, the pleasure welling up.

I no longer cared. It didn't hurt that much anymore. And there was not going back from here. This was all his show now. As he breathed harder and his voice began to crack with lust and emotion, something else entered my mind. Power. Was it Mr. Howell who was controlling me, or me controlling his lust? I could tell he wanted me in a way he no longer controlled. I was the treasure. He lusted after me so much that he'd set this up and he couldn't get enough of me.

Maybe I could get him to come—to do so when I wanted him to. He'd milked me twice. Maybe I could control something here. I began to work my butt. Back and forth. Slowly. Contracting away from him and then slowly back on his cock, drawing him into me. Discovering that I could tighten and released my channel muscles on his cock and could tell that this made him moan—and made him harder inside me. He was breathing harder and moaning. Fucking faster, deeper. I moved my butt in circles, around his cock. Tightened my muscles and relaxed; tightened and relaxed. And with a deep grunt and release of his breath, he came, filling out the bulb of his condom.

Fifteen minutes later we were in better rhythm, more equal, as I lay on my back on the sofa and his knees spread my thighs, pushed under my butt, raising it for an angle that gave his cock deep penetration. He had greased up his staff and my hole more than the first time. There was more glide, less friction. And my channel was opening more to him now. I was more relaxed. My pleasure was heightened this time with the sensation that I had that gigantic cock inside me, that I could handle it. That he wanted to be inside me so much. Nothing to fight anymore. I had been fucked by a man—a real man, a horse-hung daddy of a man—and I loved it. I loved the connection, the wanting of me, the managing and controlling of such a powerful men—with such a big, vigorous cock.

My hands were running up and down his torso, my fingers nipping at his nipples as he gave low huffing sounds and grinned down at me. One of his hands was working my cock. I was moving my hips with the deep thrusts of his cock—and my channel muscles. Playing his cock as much as he was working me.

"Let's . . . try . . . to come together. It's a special feeling that . . . no matter, we'll try again later."

Later? I thought, having just come for the third time that evening. He thinks we'll do this again. That I'll let him do this to me again. What do I think of that. For the life of me I didn't know what I thought of that. All I knew at the moment was that I wanted to make him come. I wanted it to me something I did to his body that made him come.

Ten minutes later, after he'd come and we'd just laid there, cooling down, me feeling for the first time the sensation of a man's monster cock softening up inside me, he leaned over and whispered, "We can cool down in the pool. I want to fuck you in the pool."

"Get it like that from Wes, did you? He fuck you as hard or as deep, or as long? He make you beg for more of it, harder, longer, deeper that I did?"

He was standing in four feet of water, with my butt plastered to his pelvis, feeling him soften inside me. His hands were gripping my waist and I was arched out toward the lip of the pool, my fists gripping the edge. The agitation of the water that his fucking motion had created was only slowly ebbing away. My ankles were locked together behind him, beneath his buttocks.

For the first time, we had come together.

"You are the greatest, Mr. Howell . . . Clarence. The absolute greatest."

"Call your mother and tell her you're sleeping out tonight."

* * * *

It had been a week. He'd come to the fence at Brother Jeb's orchard and watched and waited. But I'd put my bicycle on the other side of the orchard. And when he wasn't looking I'd been slipping off and taking different routes home.

He'd been to the house. But I'd managed to never be there. He'd bring little gifts for my mother, trying to get her to help me decide to come work for him—at least that's what he said he wanted. And my mother, knowing he was offering twice what Brother Jeb was and, being a good Baptist and never having been too pleased I was working for a Mennonite anyway, was doing what she could to get me to go with him.

She just didn't know what going with him entailed. She'd probably run off to the church and drown herself in the baptismal pool if she got even a whiff of what he was sniffing around for—what he'd already gotten.

After a week, though, I walked right up to him as he was standing, looking forlorn at the fence and said, "I sure could use a ride home."

He looked like a little boy in a candy store. He was all tongue tied and smiling.

"Just a ride home," I said, enjoying the teasing.

His face fell, but he just got looked a little pouty and went around to the driver's side.

When we'd shoved off, I said, in a low voice. "You know somewhere private we can pull this truck off?"

He almost swerved off the road as his head snapped around so he could get a good look at my face. I smiled at him, but I didn't use a "I'm just jerking you around" sort of smile.

He had no trouble finding an overgrown drive into an abandoned homestead and pulling in behind a collapsed structure of some sort.

I had him sit in the center of the backseat of the Ford F-450 double cab, naked, while I sat in his lap, facing him, and, leveraging off the heels of my feet on the carpeting floor, fucked myself good and deep on his hungry staff.

"Yes, I'll come work for you," I said. "You want me this much, I'll pick your peaches."

I'd thought long and hard. The morning after I'd slept in his bed with him—and with that Lynn guy too, with Mr. Howell going back and forth between us, having enough hard cock and stamina to service us both to exhaustion—he'd begged me to come work for him, saying he couldn't be without me, and that if I worked under him, there would be more opportunities for us to be together. He'd given me such a puppy dog look then—and when he'd come to the fence during the following week—that I finally gave in to him. I'd never had anyone want me that bad—or who gave me that much pleasure. I was in a whole new world.

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