Date: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 07:28:01 -0800 From: Seth Kirkcauldy Subject: Weeping Willow 2 Weeping Willow - Part 2 of 4 copyright 2014 Seth Kirkcauldy seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the author's permission. The author grants the Nifty Archive a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free, perpetual, and non-cancellable license to display this work. This story is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are a product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously. This story contains erotic situations between intergenerational males of differing racial backgrounds. If it is illegal for you to read this, or you just think it's yucky, please leave now. Please donate to the Nifty Archive. On his second visit, James entered the barn through the door rather than the hole in the wall. The route lent his actions a degree of legitimacy; he preferred it to skulking about in the shadows. All his breath deserted him as he was confronted with the image of Mud out of the bath. The man had pulled on a dirty pair of trousers, although that name was fancier than the course cotton from which they were made. He was shirtless and shoeless, a state that might have mesmerized James if Mud's words hadn't distracted him. "Yer too late ta dry me off," Mud told him with a slight smirk. James' smile froze, and then shattered completely, brittle and fragile shards scattering. His happiness seemed a bright needle that was now lost in the haystack of Mud's bed. He avoided the man's warm brown eyes and dropped his small travel bag upon the floor of the musty barn. "Hey now," Mud said gently, his hand suddenly cupping James' chin and his thumb stroking his cheek. "Don' get mad. I tease an' poke dose I like." He shook his head at the strangeness of it. "I dunno why, James. I's polite ta dose I hate an' tease dose dat I like." "Well that's stupid," James said, frowning, sending Mud into snorts of laughter. "I knows it!" Tears were gleaming in Mud's golden eyes as he laughed. "I cain't help it; it's how I is. I 'spect ma mamma was like dat. Hear dat I like ya; can ya hear dat?" James' voice was so raw that it hurt him to speak. "I hear that." "Good," Mud said, with a brilliant smile. "Dat's real good. Why's ya out here?" "To sleep with you," James said, before his brain was free of Mud's smile. "I mean... I mean... I told Aunt Mary I needed... that I should... sleep out here so that no one would question the blanket or the tub; you know, so it wouldn't look..." "Good. Dat's real good," Mud said lazily, scratching his stomach. James had no idea what he said after that. There was a slight scritch of blunt nail on dark skin, leaving a faint white path across the black landscape; the whispered sound seemed to drown out everything else. Mud sighed heavily, giving James the impression he'd missed something that had been said. The sound pulled his eyes up to meet the older man's. "Go douse dat lamp an' I's gonna put out dis one after ya is in da bed. It get real dark out here in da barn. I don' want ya assidentally sleepin' wid da mule." James smiled at the comment; and Mud's bright smile in return warmed him. He went and extinguished the furthest lamp and then climbed onto the blanket which was spread atop the hay. His body immediately found the depression that had been created by Mud's larger frame, and he snuggled into the nest there. "Ya cain't sleep in da middle; where's I spose ta sleep?" Mud stood in front of the lamp so that he was merely a featureless dark mass with his grey shadow stretching out over James. It gave the impression that the shadow cast Mud. James shivered. "Ya cole? I's always hot; specially in dis heat." He turned down the lamp to plunge the barn into darkness thick as tar; there was a rustle of trousers being removed which had James' mouth and eyes opening wide. He was glad Mud couldn't see his expression, but he sure wished he could see Mud. "I only gots da one pair a trousers, hope ya don' mine dat I don' sleep in 'em." There was suddenly a muscular arm wrapped around James and pulling him back against a hard, muscled chest. "Ya don' feel cole, but ya shore is shiverin'." "Yeah," James said, licking his dry lips, closing his eyes against the darkness, and sinking back against the heat of the man who held him. "James?" "Hmmm?" "Ya mine if I asks about yer mamma?" James stiffened, but forced himself to wonder why he felt defensive. He figured if he was ever going to talk about it with anyone, this was the right time, place, and person. He felt safe; and he liked that no one could see his face when he talked about things that made him feel vulnerable. "You want to know how she died, I suppose? It was consumption. I'd known it was coming, of course, but knowing it and being ready are further apart than New York and Mississippi." "Both is farther'n a boy should travel alone." "I miss her so much." "I knows it. I... I watched ya cry under da willow. I dint mean ta, but dat's usually where I spend ma days. It gets real hot in da barn when da sun is up, so roun' daybreak I usually head ta da willow which is nice an' cool but still hidden, see? When ya came out dere right where I was hidin', I climbed up in da tree an' hid in da branches." "But... I looked for anyone up in the tree after I found..." "I went back ta da barn when ya's havin' yer supper. I usually go back after dark when it's safer; but I figgered ya might be back out dere after ya'd et." "Yeah, I came back." "I knows it." Mud paused until the silence seemed heavy. "I watched out fer ya." "My mother was... beautiful. She had blonde hair." "White as cotton like yourn?" "Yellower. Like sunlight, or... I don't know..." "Golden silk. Like corn." James sighed in appreciation. "Yeah. Like that. And blue eyes." "Mmmmm. Like Mary's. An' like yourn." "Yes." James licked his lips again. "But mostly she loved me, you know? She knew my good parts and my wickedness, and she loved me all the same. She was funny, too. She could sound just like our old German neighbor and used to act like her to make me laugh." "Mmmm. Sounds mighty nice. Tell me da bad stuff." "What?" "She was a person, James. We all gots good an' bad. Jus' like us, she had wickedness, huh?" "Well," James hesitated. He never expected anyone to ask him about the bad things. "Well... I guess she couldn't sing a lick; had a voice like a squeaky wagon, but wouldn't ever stop singing no matter how much our neighbors yelled." "Heh heh. Dat ain't a bad thin', boy. Ya loved dat about her. Try agin, now." "It doesn't seem right talking about bad things..." "She was yer Momma. Ya hafta put all of her ta rest, not jus' da parts ya loved." "She didn't tell me things!" James suddenly said fiercely. Tears bit at his eyes and he found himself blinking rapidly in the inky darkness. "She wouldn't tell me things about my father even when I asked directly. She tried to protect me from everything. She was sick for a long time before she told me about that, too, when I could have helped her. She didn't tell me she was getting worse; I had no idea she was so close to... to..." The acrid tears dropped onto Mud's strong arm which held him tight against the warm skin of his chest. "She died all by herself because she wouldn't tell me. Why wouldn't she just tell me? I'm not a little kid anymore!" Mud was quiet a long time, just holding him. Finally, he said, "No one likes ta look weak. Isn't dat why ya cry unda willow trees an' in dark barns? Ya's just like yer Momma, an' dat ain't a bad thin' at all." James huffed at that and took a long shuddering breath. No, it wasn't a bad thing at all to be like his mother. "I think you're the smartest man I've ever met," James whispered. Mud chuckled. "How'd ya live up dere in New York an' not meet any men? Dat don' seem possible." James huffed again and sniffled. "I mean it. I'm not poking fun like you do. I think you're the smartest man I've ever met." Mud sighed. "I ain't exactly jokin' neider, James; I cain't even read." His voice was flat; all the richness had bled out so that it was stark. It made James shiver in his arms. James thought about that a moment. He wondered what it would be like to not be allowed to read. It was one of his favorite sanctuaries; and he had been feeling so vulnerable here, having left all of his books back in New York. He felt his heart forge a connection to Mud in that moment, a shared desire for ink to be thirstily absorbed by the pores of the page until they were inextricably bound into something more than they had been. Each word was magic, each story a spell, and each book a grimoire. "What would you read if you could?" "Da Bible, of course," Mud said immediately. "I'd like ta read dat fer myself stead of trustin' others ta tell me what it all means." After a long pause, he added shyly, "An I wanna read dat Twelve Years a Slave book I hear'd about. Dey say dat Negro Northrup tole his story an' dey wrote it just as he say it. Imagine dat, would ya? A book writ by a slave." James sighed. "You want to take my place tomorrow and go to school and learn to read?" Mud cackled at that. "Oh Lor'! I think dey might catch on! Ain't ever seen a boy whiter dan ya, or a man blacker dan me!" James laughed too, but then shifted, irritated. "I don't want to go; seems stupid that Aunt Mary signed me up. Boys will have to start helping in the fields soon so they'll probably close up the school in only a week or so. What's the point of starting up now?" Mud's fingertips brushed gently across James' clavicle, calming him right down. James closed his eyes and concentrated on the whispering susurrus of those large fingers brushing against his collarbone, as soothing as the breeze in the willow tree. "Ya go ta school ev'ry day yer allowed. Hear me?" "Yes, Sir," James mumbled sleepily. "Don' call me "Sir". Dat ain't right." "Mmm Hmm." Mud chortled and pulled James against him tightly. "G'night," the man said, but the boy was already asleep. When James awoke the next morning, it was to find his aunt feeding Buchanan. The spot in the hay bed beside him was vacant. "Up, now! School today," she told him cheerily. He grumbled in response. "I've new clothes for you laid out on the bed inside, and a bit of breakfast on the table." "Thank you," he said groggily. "When I come home today, how about you show me how to take care of Buchanan? Since I sleep out here, it'd be easier for me." "Yes, alright. But school first. Up, now!" "Yes ma'am." The clothes that James donned were itchier than the hay in which he'd slept, trapping his sweat against his skin in the rising heat of the day. He did not complain, however, as he sat down and quickly ate his breakfast of a fried ham steak, boiled hominy, and an egg; and then silently endured the wagon ride into town so that his aunt could show him the path he would walk in the future. In New York, James had attended a private academy for boys where he had been a day student for a couple years, but had been boarding there during his latest term. He now understood why his mother had him stay at the school while she was dying alone. He understood and forgave her. He knew Mud was right; he was a lot like her and would probably have done the same. The school in Mississippi was nothing like the academy. Classes here were held in the Presbyterian Church and seemed to be run by the women who attended services there. They were quite proud of their school, which had only opened a couple years earlier. The woman who led him to class informed him several times that they were New School Presbyterians, trying vainly to share a joke that James did not comprehend. The teacher introduced James by telling the class he was from New York, thereby ensuring he would be called "Yankee" and beaten multiple times in the coming years. He did himself no favors, however, by displaying his intelligence as nurtured by his education. The class was reciting their lessons one by one in a line, something James had not seen before. The teacher told him he did not need to participate, but when he realized he knew the answers to every question she asked, he joined the line and scored perfectly. He noted the glares of several of the boys and so hung around after class to talk to his teacher about the schedule; she confirmed his belief that this was likely the final week of school, and by the time they finished chatting about differences between New York and Mississippi, the path back to the Willett Farm was devoid of lingering bullies. Although he disliked the entire week at school and would have preferred to stay at the farm talking with Mud, it did allow him to meet some boys his own age, and there were two that didn't hate him outright for being a Yankee. He didn't have much in common with the two boys, other than the fact that they seemed to also have been shunned by their classmates. James was uncertain regarding the nature of their transgressions. It was on their final day of lessons that James found himself walking home with John and Davy, and the two acted as tour guides showing him around the town and its environs. They had laughed at stories about the other boys in the school, and his new friends teased him about his northern accent. Their own words were spoken slowly with vowels that sounded as if the boys held candy in their mouths; but they did not lazily drop consonants from their speech the way Mud did. "You sure don't get that accent from your uncle," John told him. "That man has Mississippi River water running in his veins." He paused and then added quietly, "Like all water adders." "What are those?" James asked. "My family calls them cottonmouths," explained Davy. "They're poisonous river snakes that..." "I know what they are by that name." James turned a scowl on John. "Are you calling my uncle a snake?" John stiffened, but met James' look with a glare of his own. "Yes, I am." "Stop it, John. He don't know." Davy put a hand on James' arm. "Have you met your uncle, James?" James' eyes were still narrowed at John, but he answered Davy. "No. I've never seen him. He married my mother's sister before I was born; but he's my family whether or not by blood." Davy nodded. "John's being rude, making you feel like you need to defend your family; we'd all do the same as you, and he knows it." He leveled a glare at his friend, but continued talking to James. "But your uncle is a violent sort. Whenever he comes home he gets in fights with the townsfolk, and your Aunt Mary suddenly has a lot of accidents." "Accidents?" "Broken arms, bruises. It's his right to discipline his wife as he sees fit, but she seems to get awfully hurt when he's home; and no one else ever has a bad word to say about your aunt." James stilled, the adrenaline rush of the expected fight receding as he took in the implications of what the boys were telling him. "Is that so?" "It's true," John said. "I was actually offering you a complement when I said you weren't like your uncle. He's not a good man: drinks, fights, and swears. He doesn't come to church with your Aunt, either." Both boys shook their heads to indicate this final transgression held a greater weight than the others in their minds. Even with their opinions of his uncle, James had actually been enjoying himself for much of the afternoon; it had been a long time since he had felt the friendship of boys his own age. But that kinship was gravely tested on the final two stops on the tour. What he learned there troubled him profoundly, much more than even his friends' accusations against his uncle. The first was at a large white house on the edge of town, closest to his aunt's farm. It had a sign out front, but before he could read it, John was already telling him. "It's Doc Galen's' place," he said in a conspiratorial whisper. He and Davy closed in on James so they could share their gossip, but before they could launch into it, the door opened and an old gentleman stepped out, dressed for walking into town. James was captivated by his twinkling blue eyes and long white mustache. The man smiled at the boys before walking over to them. "Afternoon to you, John, Davy. Who's your friend?" John was the one who responded, although his formal southern stiffness seemed in stark contrast to the friendliness that James felt from the doctor. "This is James. He's staying at the Willett farm. James, please meet Doctor Galen." The doctor's whole face lit up and he grasped James' hand warmly in a larger one that had a patina of spots, veins and callouses coloring the skin. There was something about the man that drew the boy in. He seemed kind, and happy, qualities which - excepting for Mud - seemed rare to him in the people he'd met since he'd arrived. "How do you do?" James asked politely while his hand was pumped by the old man. "I'm doing well, thank you. I'm quite fond of your aunt, you know; she's a marvelous woman. Well, gentlemen, I'm off for a bit of shopping; I need a few supplies today, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to chat, James. Everyone comes to me sooner or later." He laughed at his own words as he set off toward the center of town. "He's the undertaker, too," Davy giggled. "That seems like a conflict of interest," James mused aloud, frowning. It sent the other boys into hoots of laughter. "He does seem quite nice, though." That pronouncement sobered his companions and John drew close again. "Don't trust him. He's a nigger-lover, James; everyone knows it but they just haven't done anything about it yet. He'll heal the coloreds just as soon as he would the whites." Little Davy's face grew hard and his eyes narrowed. James was startled by the transformation. The boy's lips hardly moved as he whispered to him. "Daddy says he even uses the same equipment on whites and niggers," he spat on the road after that pronouncement, purging his mouth of the words. "We'd go to another doctor if there was one. Daddy says the town will need another real soon; the folk around here have just about had enough of this one." All three of the boys remained silent and lost in their thoughts as they walked to their final destination, which proved to be a huge live oak in a field off the side of the road. It had drawn James' attention each day when he walked to and from the school. It was hard to ignore; it was massive, but not with the height of most trees. It had grown outward, sending its corkscrewing branches in all directions as if vainly searching for something unattainable. It formed a natural canopy that could have easily housed a church service. Its curling, muscular arms made James think of Atlas, holding up the weight of the skies. "The hanging tree," John announced formally. "Escaped slaves, abolitionists, nigger-lovers; they all hang here eventually." Davy's words and expression were juicy with avarice. "The old doc will decorate it one day; you'll see." James decided abruptly that he had experienced enough friendship for the day, and said goodbye to the boys. He watched them walk back toward town; and then he remained there alone in the field, looking at the tree for a long while and wondering how something so large could make him feel so empty. When he finally returned to the farm, he wrestled his way past the cattails to the spot beneath the willow looking for Mud; he felt a need to lay eyes on the man and see he was safe. But Mud was not there; instead, James found a small sculpture of willow branches twisted into the shape of a miniature church - strikingly like that of his schoolhouse - laid carefully upon the bed of mulch and leaves. That evening was to be bath night, and so after dinner James put the pots of water on to heat and then went out to the barn. Mud looked up when the boy entered, and before he could say a word, James had launched himself at the man. He grabbed him in a wild hug until they lost their balance and tumbled into their hay bed. There, James buried his head into the black man's armpit and cried for a long time; Mud held him gently and stroked his head until he had cried himself out. "Now what's dat about?" Mud asked him quietly. "Nothing." "Ahhh. Da big nothin'. I cried over dat many times. Nothin' happen ta me so many times, I had ta run away ta get shed of it. Nothin' happen ta ma Mamma. Nothin' happen ta ma wife. Nothin' happen ta ma daughters. I's sorry nothin' happen ta ya; I truly am." "You have a wife and daughters?" "Had, James; had." He turned James' face up so they looked eye-to-eye. "Nothin' happen ta them, an' I cried a good long time. I don' want nothin' ta happen ta ya, too." "I'll be fine," James managed to whisper around the injustice that clogged his throat. "I'm white, after all." Mud's hand stilled on the back of his head and his brown eyes searched James thoroughly. Then he sighed heavily and shook his head. "It don' matter yer color; people is gonna hate ya fer da type of boy ya is. Ya like men stead of girls. Ya cain't let peoples know dat; dey hang ya as shore as if ya was black." James gulped in surprise and turned bright red. He was sure that Mud could feel the heat. He started voicing his denial, but Mud's gentle smile stopped his stammering, and he dropped his eyes away from Mud's stare and finally nodded. "Not all men, Mud. You; I like you." "Colored men, den. I think ya like dark skin." James' blush felt hotter than ever. His face burned with shame and desire. "Maybe. You're the only colored man I know and I like you a lot." Mud snorted. "Ya's crazy. But I like ya, too." "Oh! The bath; I forgot the water!" James struggled to his feet and ran back to the house to start the circuit of filling buckets and hauling them out to the barn for their tub. In addition to the work of stocking the woodpile and working the vegetable garden, he now had the chores of taking care of Buchanan every day; as well as heating the water and filling the tub so that he and Mud could both take baths a couple times each week. He'd even gotten his aunt to let him clean up the dishes after their supper one afternoon, but she seemed embarrassed by it and took over again the following day. When the tub was full, the steam curled from the water as if seeking freedom from the fetters of the container. James put a hand in and jerked it back out. "Why don't I take my bath first?" James said. "I don't want you to get burned." Mud's hard expression held him still; it was a penetrating look on his face that James had not seen before and could not comprehend. "I's real sorry, James," Mud finally sighed deeply, sounding sad; although he was a bit ambiguous about what he was sorry about. He tried to clear it up: "People's gonna hurt ya." "People hurt everyone," James replied, with the wisdom of a boy who had met people. "Dey also mend da hurt done by others," Mud countered with the wisdom of a man who had survived more hurt than a boy could possibly understand. "How 'bout we both wait until da water don' hurt nobody?" James scowled. "Well.... well, now I feel stupid." "Fer bein' brave? Fer bein' kind? Neider one is stupid, boy. Only cowardice an' meanness is stupid. Ya's as smart as dey come." James began to shake and he felt tears stinging his eyes again. He hated that he was so weepy around Mud. "I... I'm so sorry, Mud. I'm sorry I want you so much. I know it's wicked, but every time you say something so nice I just wanna... I wanna..." He stopped and frowned, and it made Mud grin. "Well, I honestly don't know what it makes me want to do; but something important, Mud." "Yeah," sighed Mud, "I might know what dat somethin' is. Why don' I take ma bath first? I has a feeling ya might need dat. I figger if God dint want ya ta touch me, he wouldn't a made me so purdy." He grinned his broad grin that showed a flash of blinding white against the black and then they waited a while for the water to cool a bit. "Ya wanna do ma back?" "I... uh... oh, yeah." "Mmhmm. Thought ya might." Mud peeled off his trousers and lowered his naked bulk into the water. "Good Lor'! I guess ya's havin' boiled nigger fer dinner." The words and the sight had James gawping comically. Mud's wince turned to open laughter when he saw the expression on the boy's face. James looked up at his eyes and blushed, but did not look away. He finally gained the courage to laugh at himself. "You are beautiful," he said softly, grinning. Mud chuckled and reached out to grab the back of James' head to rub it gently. "So is ya. More beauty dan I'd ever thought ta see again. Why dontcha use dis cloth here an' start on ma back?" James' erection was pushing at the front of his trousers as he soaped up the cloth and softly cleaned the massive shoulders. The skin was an immense black canvas that had been previously painted with harsh brush strokes. James ran the thin cloth over the puckered scars on the broad back. He could feel the ridges under his fingers like a map of roadways, leading to places he could hardly imagine. The pretense of the cloth was gone after just a moment and James' fingertips were stroking the skin gently, raising shivers from the large man. "What did this to you?" James asked shakily, reading the horror story written upon Mud's skin. "A monster wid a willow branch." James absorbed this information silently. There was only the glow of the lamp and the faint slosh of water as Mud swayed slightly to the stroking on his back. "Mud? Why did you make those sculptures for me?" Mud sighed in pleasure under his touch, and James thought it was the most amazing sound he'd ever heard. "Rememba dis always, James: Ya gotta choice twixt beauty an' ugliness. Ya always got dat choice." Using only his fingertips, James cleansed the expanse of Mud's back, and then cupping his hands with water, trickled it upon the skin to rinse. Long after the flesh was clean, his fingers trailed along the slippery muscles, reluctant to relinquish that feeling of connectedness. "Ya's gonna give me callouses if ya rub dere much longer," Mud chortled gently, draping James' smaller hand with his own. The huge paw was completely covered in rough callouses, so James assumed the man knew a bit about that subject. The boy cleared his throat awkwardly and tried walking around to the front while still leaving his hand under Mud's. His arms weren't long enough, however, and he ended up bent over gawkily, making Mud chuckle again with warmth. His rough hand rubbed James' smooth one soothingly. "Ya might be da sweetest boy dat ever lived; I swear ta da good Lor'," he said, shaking his head. But James didn't hear a word of it; a naked Mud was in front of him. "Oh," he said weakly, holding the cloth he'd reclaimed so that he'd have some veneer of respectability; but with Mud's thick thighs stretched open wide, giving James all the access he needed to the place he most wanted to be, the cloth dropped back into the water with an embarrassing plop. Mud's cock was fully extended, a testament to what James' caresses on his back had meant to the man. James unconsciously leaned forward to touch Mud's magnificent organ. His hand brushed it gently and Mud jerked, sloshing water and causing James to wake from his stupor. "Glory, boy! Ya shouldn't go doing dat!" His voice shook and his eyes were closed tightly. Mud was suddenly breathing heavily. While the man had known the direction this would take, even he needed enough room for respectable denial. His honor required him to tell the boy what he thought was right; even if they were going to take a different path. "Did I hurt you, Mud? I didn't mean..." Mud was wheezing with what James finally determined was laughter. "Hurt me? Do it hurt when ya touch ya'self dere?" James felt rather stupid now, and extremely embarrassed. "Uh, no, it doesn't." He realized belatedly what he just admitted and quickly added: "I know I shouldn't touch myself there, but I do every once in a while." Mud opened his eyes enough to look at him flatly. "Every once in a while each day," James amended, blushing again; but it was worth it to see Mud's grin. "Preachers say don' do it; but da good Lor' gave it ta ya. It don' hurt nothin' at all ta touch..." He yelped and jerked a second time as James reached right out and grabbed hold of that dark organ again. Mud's voice was no longer deep or slow. "Good Glory! What ya doin, boy? I tole ya..." his breathing was ragged and strained. "Ahhhh." "You told me that it doesn't hurt anything." Mud's whole face was screwed up like he was in pain, but he managed to squint at James; the boy's eyes were on what his hands were doing, however, and Mud's face was not the part of him the boy was pondering in that moment. "I knows I should stop ya," Mud whispered, "but dat feels so mighty good. It's been a long, long time since I's been touched." "I'd like to touch you all the time," James replied hoarsely, watching the collar of uncircumcised skin on Mud's cock swallow and eject the large head, forming a slippery sleeve that caused the big man to shudder in pleasure. The crown was the size and purple-black color of a ripe plum, and it made James wonder if it tasted like one. His squeezing hands milked out a drop of juice from the tip and it was all he could do to keep from licking it up to quench his curiosity. "I... I... Oh, Lor', I think maybe ya better stop..." "Then tell me you want me to stop," James said determinedly. The boy had a look of concentration on his face that said plainly he was not relinquishing his hold without a fight. His gaze never rose to meet Mud's eyes; there was only one part of Mud's body that held his attention in that moment. Mud loved that, despite himself. "Ungh! Ya's a smart boy; ya knows I cain't say it an' tell da trufe. Ahhhh, Lor'... But if dey catch me, dey hang me fer sure." James rolled his eyes at that. "Can they kill you more than once? If they catch you, it doesn't really matter what you're doing; they're going to hang you." Mud scrunched up his eyes in an expression quite resembling pain. "Good Lor' preserve me from da logic of da young. Ma prick thinks ya's da smartest boy alive." They finally stopped talking and both concentrated on the one thing in which they were mutually interested. Unaccountably, James' breath seemed in shorter supply than Mud's; the experience of holding Mud's pleasure in his hands was something for which he was not prepared. The man writhed in his grasp, grunting and groaning. James had never felt so powerful in his life. His lips and eyes were open with wonder. Mud thrashed and jerked, pumping his hips upward into the boy's heavenly grasp. He fought his desires, perceiving himself as taking advantage. He was at war with himself, not wanting to give in to this forbidden act; but the pleasure and simple human connection created a bridge across the chasm of their principals and ages. The fight was a short one; he'd been lonely a long time. With a guttural growl and a breathless gasp, the white flag of Mud's surrender unfurled across his chest and heaving stomach. James had never seen anything so amazing in his entire life. Without a single thought in his head, he leaned forward to the small pool of Mud's spend caught in the trap of his fingers against the strangled head of that large cock, pursed his lips, and slurped up the semen noisily. "I want more," he gasped; and Mud laughed joyfully, pulling the boy into the crowded tub with him. On the day after the close of school, Aunt Mary wrestled the barn door open to find James and Mud huddled over some scratches in the dirt. She watched them momentarily while James taught Mud how to trace out the letters in the dark Mississippi soil. When they reached a pause, the boy looked up and studied her face to determine how much trouble he might be in. She firmed her lips against a smile, making James wonder what sorts of things taught a person to repress signs of happiness. She turned then to look at Mud, and the man flinched. "The boy won't leave me be," he explained with his hands opened helplessly. It did not sound like a complaint so much as an apology. She nodded. "I knew someone just like him when I was a child." She returned her sharp gaze to James. "Is this all your idea, James?" The question seemed to encompass much more than the teaching of letters. "Yes, ma'am." He bit his lip but straightened his spine. "I won't leave him be." She nodded again thoughtfully. "Your pupil needs to work on his f's; they're backward." She turned and left as quietly as she had come. "Now, why's ya wanna teach me ta read?" Mud asked when she was gone, hoping he might get an answer this time. He was not disappointed. "To show you how much I like you. It was either this or learn to sew you more trousers; but I figured if I did that you might start wearing them to bed." Mud's thick lips parted but no sound came out of his mouth. "What is this letter, Mud?" "A," the man replied faintly, his eyes wide. * I appreciate hearing from people who are reading my stories. Shoot me an email and let me know what you think. Your feedback is the only way I know you're reading and whether or not it makes sense to continue. I have other stories, too. Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's section. seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net