Hayseed

By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
Artwork (c) 2000 by Rebel Rotica
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

I was lost in the middle of nowhere in southern Missouri or northern Arkansas. My own fault, taking the directions of some old codger I'd met at the last gas station. Him and his short- cuts! Maybe it was a shorter way through the high hills I was driving through, and maybe not! All I knew is that my car was beginning to overheat as I forced it to climb hill after hill after high, high hill as I made turn after turn according to the old man's directions. When it gave up the ghost, entirely, not just overheating, I took off walking the same way I had been driving. I knew I hadn't passed any houses for miles and miles, and the road I was on had to go to somebody's house, or it wouldn't be there, would it?

Two miles later, I wasn't so sure. The road kept branching off and I tried to follow the main one each time, but it got smaller and less travelled, until finally I was faced with not two but three roads, all of them tiny, rutted things, overgrown like no one had been on them for weeks at a time. But I was committed to my trip, I chose the one on the left, pretty much at random, and because it was headed downhill and my feet hurt, and took off walking again. I was so relieved to see finally the outline of a house at the top of the next hill, and even though it was a long ways off, I at least had a destination. I got to the house and knocked, footsore and weary, but happy to be somewhere besides on that road. Waited, knocked again.

Then a voice came from my right. "Who are you?"

I turned and looked. A man stood there, wearing only a pair of overalls and worn workboots, holding a pitchfork. He wasn't aiming it at me, but I didn't think he'd been using it for anything else, either. His hair was brown but bleached pale by the sun, his face was deeply suntanned, round and honest-looking. His gaze into my eyes was steady, the look of a man who was standing on his own land, and knew his own worth. His arms and shoulders were equally bronzed by the sun and I looked at his shoulders, a round mass of man-flesh on each side of his head, his arms big and burly, his forearms a tangle of hair that moved to smooth rows of wheat- colored streams just above his wrists, his hands calloused and rough, but solid. This was a man who could do anything he could think of doing, and didn't ever think of doing anything other than working the land and bringing life out of it, for himself and his animals that I could hear in the background, the low of a cow, bleats of some goats, the clucking of chickens that roamed free.

"I said, who are you?" he said and his second hand went to the pitchfork, again not aiming it, but now ready to do so if he needed to.

"Uh, I'm lost." I said. "My car broke down a few miles back up the road and I've been walking for hours. Could I have a drink of water and a ride into town?"

He looked at me without a smile but without a threat, and said, "Water I can give you, pump's over there." he gestured. "But I ain't got a car."

I pumped the antiquated device and after a while, water did come out, but only a slow stream. I had to pump and pump to get the bucket even half-full. I stopped then and dipped the dipper into the water and drank, not caring by then if the dipper was clean or not. It looked clean and that was enough for me! I drank deeply, then dipped and drank again.

"What about your neighbors?" I asked. "I'm willing to pay for a ride back into town."

"Neighbors don't neither." the man said. "We need something, peddler man comes by on Saturdays and we buy off from him or we ask him to bring it the next time. He takes our eggs and milk and vegetables and gives us money and we give money back to him for what we buy. It works for us well enough. Or sometimes a sheriff or a forest ranger drops by, but I couldn't tell when they'd come by. They show up when they show up."

Today was only Tuesday and I was dismayed. "How far is it to the nearest town?" I asked.

The man shrugged. "Don't rightly know. Haven't been off this farm in years. No need to. Towns are dangerous places." he said. "I stay here and mind my own business. And don't cotton much to strangers."

I didn't know what to make of this hayseed! But I knew I needed a place to stay for at least the night. "Can I pay you for a place to sleep tonight and for supper and breakfast?" I asked him.

He regarded me. "I reckon so." he conceded. "You plan on walking out tomorrow?"

"Will if I have to." I said. Then I thought about the territory I had driven through. No way I'd make it to even the next house back down the road before night fell again on me. "But what about if I stay until Saturday? Will the peddler give me a ride?"

"I expect he will, he'll do anything for the right price." he conceded again grudgingly. "Can't say for myself, I ain't never asked him. I stay here and mind my own business."

"And don't cotton much to strangers." I said for him. "I know. I didn't plan to come visit you, but I'm stuck here. How much would you want for three days' room and board?"

"Wouldn't know what to charge." he said.

"I'll give you fifty dollars." I said. "Cash, right now."

That made his eyes light up. Then he sobered. "That's too much. Just the one room inside and food will be what I've grown and put away. Twenty-five would be more fair."

I'd never seen this, a man dickering himself down. "But I wouldn't be any help to you around the farm for three entire days. Let me make it forty."

"Okay, stranger." he said and stepped up to shake my hand.

I laughed. "Oddest trading I ever did." I said. "If my partners back on Wall Street knew I had bid my price up instead of down, I'd never hear the end of it."

"Wall Street?" he said. "Is that where you live?"

"It's where I work."

"Oh, you live on a different street, then." he seemed impressed by that.

"Wall Street is the name for the financial district of this entire country." I explained. "But I work out of Chicago. I was heading for a business seminar in Tulsa, which I decided to turn into a driving holiday, got sidetracked by the scenery, then got some bad directions on how to get back to the main highway. So here I am."

"Yep, here you are." he said. "Go on in and make yourself to home. I got to milk the cows before I can fetch you supper."

"Don't you want your money?" I asked, fishing for my wallet.

"You can pay me tonight at supper." He said. "Ain't like you're going anywhere, are you?"

He had a point! I went inside. He had a wood-burning stove for cooking! A counter-top with shelves above it and a small tub sitting on it, that seemed to be all his kitchen and it covered one wall. A cabinet (I opened it to look) held not clothing, but huge slabs of dried meat. This wasn't a cabinet, he had a smoke-room attached to his house! His only other furnishings were a straight-backed chair and a crude-looking bed with a hand-made quilt on it. Mattress looked hand-made, too. The windows had shutters but no glass in them. The entire room measured maybe ten by twelve feet. I sat down on the chair and looked around, deciding he'd been right to ask only twenty-five dollars for this sort of accommodations! I'd been gypped!

He came in a little later and said very kindly. "I got some sugar-cured beef I can fry you up for your supper and I'll make some biscuits and gravy. Will that suit you?"

"Whatever you have." I said, determined to survive as well as I could the next three days and next time I came through this part of the country, I wouldn't even get off the interstate!

He built a fire in the wood stove and began mixing with flour and milk straight out of the bucket he had brought in. Hot milk straight from the cow! I started to protest, looked at his ample and very healthy body, and decided it couldn't kill me. Cooking would sterilize the milk, wouldn't it? Did milk even need to be sterilized?

I forgot my complaints when I tasted the "vittles" he had prepared. The biscuits were heavenly to the taste, seeming to melt in my mouth. The beef had been preserved with salt and sugar, but when cooked, it only served to spice the beef itself, which became flavorful and a touch sweet. His gravy was heavy, but it suited the rest of the meal. I copied him by sopping the gravy up with the biscuits and only using the fork to spear out the pieces of beef and place them atop the drenched biscuits. By the end of that meal, I felt a lot more friendly toward my benefactor.

I expected to sit and chat a time, but he was silent, responding to my overtures with only a few words, seeming to have no curiosity about the outside world. Then he yawned and stretched after the meal, and said, "Well, it's bedtime."

I looked at my watch, it was only nine o'clock at night. "Now?" I asked.

"I rise early so I go to sleep early. If it's a problem, you can sit up."

I yawned as he did again. "I could sleep now. Been a rough day." I stood up and then realized that we'd have to share the bed! And it wasn't a very big bed. "Is the bed big enough for both of us, or do I bunk with the cows?"

He shrugged. "Bed ain't too big, but it'll do if you ain't fussy. But the barn's full of cows right now. Don't have an empty stall you could use. I'm going to add on to the barn after the spring harvesting is done, but haven't done it yet. Not even split the timbers or dried them yet."

"So I'll sleep with you." I said and gulped, removed my shirt. Watched as he pulled off his boots and socks, then shucked his overalls and I saw he wore nothing underneath them. And goggled at the large piece of meat he had swinging there, thick and loose, a cock which had never known the binding of cotton and elastic, but had hung free all its life.

He turned and crawled into the bed just like that, lay down on the edge nearest me. "Crawl over me when you're ready." he said. "Unless you want to rise with the chickens, too."

"Okay." I said and began to get undressed the rest of the way. I folded my shirt neatly and made a square of it and put it on the chair. Then my shoes and socks, tucked underneath the chair. Then my pants, which I folded along the creases and put them down over the chairback. I turned and he was looking right at me, not lustfully, not disapprovingly, just looking at me like he was entitled and nothing wrong with it. His mammoth arms were a triangle, hands tucked beneath his head, showing a thick patch of hairs at his armpit, his posture turning his pectorals into twin triangles of huge muscle, these triangles surrounding his round face, solid and honest and un-deceptive. I hesitated, wearing only my boxers, then with a sudden decision, I pulled them down and was nude. I folded them into a neat square and placed them atop my shirt and stood up straight, looked over at him.

He didn't say a word, just looked at my body, my muscles gained by working out, which gave my body definition but far from the powerhouse this man was, my skin pale and white so that it nearly shone in the encroaching darkness. At my groin, my cock dark brown and buried in the black hair that was so much darker than my own brown thatch. I felt him looking at me and felt, too, a vague sense of approval. I wasn't some pasty-faced city-slicker, I could do some work if I had to! That was the sense I got from him. Like I was a horse he was considering buying and appraising my work ability.

He threw back the covers at one corner, so I could climb in and over him and still get beneath the covers. This exposed all of his chest and most of his abdomen and a bit of his hip showed at the very end. All of it massive, muscled curves of male flesh! The big body of a bodybuilder and this man had never lifted a barbell or a free-weight, only hay and corn and--I didn't know--wagon wheels? He had earned his body the way most men only dreamed of, by hard labor and honest effort, and this body formed this bulky physique because it needed to be that way!

I got a massive erection, looking at my bedmate/landlord, and I gulped as I raised my eyes to his. What would this simple country boy think of a man getting a hard-on looking at his body?

He simply pushed the covers the rest of the way back and revealed his own nine-inch, thick monster rising up like a cobra to stand proud and independent in the dim light of dusk! Again, that look on his face as he regarded me, no guilt in it, not the simpering lust you found in the baths, just the look of one man to another, lust combined with understanding and trust.

I walked over and as I got close enough, he reached out with his hand and grasped my hard prong, and I groaned as I felt the hard knobs of callouses on his hands as he palped my tumescent rod, stroked me like it was the most natural thing in the world. I reached down to take his own cock in my hand and he sighed, then, closed his eyes and leaned his head back and he stroked my cock harder.

I then leaned over and gulped down his thick prick, tasting the honest sweat of the day's labors on it and the thick musk of a male animal in heat, the man-male animal! He groaned and hunched at my mouth and I thought I must be giving him a new sensation. Here in the sticks, where would he ever find a blow-job?

But he swiveled around as I climbed into bed to get a better purchase on his cock and I felt his lips slather my prod, and he expertly took it down to the very base!

All this time, never a word had been said by either of us, and unlike so often in the city, I got no feeling of furtiveness or shame from him. He didn't see a thing wrong with us sucking on each other's cocks, he enjoyed it and he gave himself to me fully, both with his hard schlong thrusting in and out of my mouth as he bucked his hips roughly against my mouth, and his warm, moist, sucking lips that milked at me, trying to drain me dry with every lunge and pulling suction, as if he intended to drink his absolute fill of me.

With the innocent lust of two animals in the field, we sucked each other's cocks and when his load built inside of him, he moaned and groaned without stifling the sounds, the heat in his cock matched the volume of his grunts, and he reached a crescendo, his cock nearly burning my lips with its heat and with a long, choked groan, he blasted his wad into my mouth, the hot semen spraying my throat with a heavy coating of thick, salty, juicy jizz, and I swallowed it happily, enjoying the taste of his country bumpkin whose strong arms were gripping my buttocks to send my cock deeper into his own throat as he recovered and began to milk me harder than ever. I felt his lips like living things running up and down my prong, pulling at me, gripping me tight to release me for a gentle stroke downwards, to fasten again and pull up again.

I sucked on his cock, still hard in my mouth, draining the last vestiges of sperm out of it, and then a pool of boiling tingling built in my balls and I groaned a warning, so short, before I burst loose with my own comeload, pumping it into him, his mouth welcoming my intrusion and gift-package of lust which he drank down greedily.

He milked my cock until it was a flaccid, limp mass of tissue in his mouth rather than a steel rod and then released me. He then turned around to lie beside me and pulled the covers over both of us. Still without words, or the need for them, he covered us up, rested one arm over my chest, his body pressed against me without demand or possessiveness, just beside me and touching me, and settled in to sleep. I heard his light snores a moment later.

I lay there for some time like this, this huge man-beast sleeping beside me, and puzzled over his life. All alone here miles from anyone else, he worked his land and lived alone and kept his own counsel and seemed to prefer it that way. His life was that of the Earth itself, the needs of the land, the planting of seeds, the caring and harvesting of his plants, the animals with their own cycles of birth and usefulness. I lay there, comparing it to my own existence, with more creature comforts but less of the connectivity to the world, and I wondered then which of us had chosen the better life?