Date: Mon, 29 Sep 2014 10:44:57 -0700 From: Papa Sport Subject: Grandpa Ira's Farm, Chapter 1 What follows is autobiographical. And while what happened to me is real, that does not mean it could or should happen today. Times have changed; sexual mores have changed; and what is accepted by society has changed. And while I think that I have "turned out" okay, the "research" would suggest that I am an exception, not the rule. So keep that in mind before you try to emulate my Grandfather. If one were to act today as he did those many years ago, it is likely one would end up in a jail cell. Many thanks to Kevin Knox for his encouragement. If you would like to contact me, I may be reached at papa.sport@yahoo.com GRANDPA IRA'S FARM by Papa Sport CHAPTER 1 The summer of 1958 I was nine years old. I had just finished third grade and was out of school for the summer. My two older brothers, who had both been born before World War II, were now teenagers, seven and nine years older than me. They were both headed off to Boy Scout Camp that summer in Michigan. I thought I would be alone for most of the summer, so I was really surprised when my parents asked me if I would like to spend a week with my grandparents on their central Illinois farm. I really liked the farm, with all the animals and the tractor and big machines. But more importantly, I really liked my grandparents. I was the youngest of all their grandchildren, and the only one born post-war. So whenever I met them, they would dote on me quite a bit. So I readily agreed, although in retrospect, I doubt that I had a lot of choice in the matter. It was a cloudless hot day in the second week of July then, when my parents loaded me and my things into our 1956 Plymouth Belvedere for the three hour trip down Route 66 from our home in Chicago to the little farm town of Chenoa, Illinois. The farm was actually about four miles outside of town. There was nothing out there but corn fields, soy bean fields, alfalfa fields, and occasional pastures. Some would call it remote and soulless. I thought it was beautiful and alive. I was a city kid after all, but something really appealed to me about this bucolic rural setting. It was mid-afternoon when we drove up the gravel driveway to the whitewashed two story farmhouse. I remember thinking "This was where my mother and her sisters grew up." My Mom had no brothers – four sisters, yes, but no brothers. The five girls had produced seventeen grandchildren altogether. As we clambered out of the car, my grandparents came out to meet us. Ira and Elsie had been married forty nine years at that point. I was always surprised when my mother greeted them with "Mom" and "Dad" to accompany the welcoming hugs. Grandpa Ira was tall, maybe six two, thin, but muscular and wiry – the product of a lifetime of farm work. But even at age seventy one, he looked youthful and strong. Grandma Elsie was the same age as Grandpa Ira. She was only about five foot three, somewhat stout, with very large bosoms that she would smother me between when she hugged me. My mother said she wanted to return to Chicago right away, so there were only a few minutes of chat in the driveway. Mom suggested that I go in the house and change into overalls from my shorts I had worn in the hot car. "Nonsense," Grandpa Ira said. It is hot as blazes, and we have work to do." He looked right at me and asked, "You want to help me get some things done around here, Sport?" He always called me "Sport". "Sure, Grandpa," I replied. So I kissed my Mom and said I'd see her next week. And she was off. Grandma picked up my small suitcase and took it into the house, while Grandpa and I headed across the pasture toward the corn crib. As we walked, careful to avoid the "cow pies" as Grandpa called them, he told me that he wanted me to help him with a bad weed outbreak that had recently hit central Illinois. The weed was called butterprint, and it strangled crops. We would need to walk the rows in the fields, and if we found the weed, we would yank it out. He said he would show me what the weed looked like once we got to the field. By this time, we'd reached the corn crib and Grandpa slid the door open wide. There sat his big red Farmall tractor. He climbed up into the driver's seat and extended a hand. "Come on up here", he directed. I carefully climbed up and sat in his lap. Grandpa manipulated the controls and the huge red machine roared to life. He spoke into my ear that the field we were going to was remote, and this was the fastest way to get there. He eased the tractor into gear, and off we went. I was delighted to get a ride on the tractor right after arriving. I was even more excited when Grandpa said "You want to steer?" "Sure!!" I exuded. Grandpa kept one strong arm around my waist while I grabbed the big black wheel. "Don't do anything sudden," he directed. "Just keep her pointed straight and follow the path." I was so excited. I was nine years old...and I was "driving" a tractor. Truth be told, Grandpa Ira was in total control, but he made me feel like the luckiest kid on earth. After twenty minutes or so of somewhat erratic rumbling, we arrived at the edge of the field. Grandpa took over again and eased the loud machine to a stop. We climbed down and Grandpa started looking along a fence row for something. Soon he found his target – some butterprint. He pulled out the weed and showed me what to look for. He told me that we needed to be sure to get all the roots. The field we were weeding was planted with corn. By early July, the corn was up around my Grandfather's waist. But that was almost over my head! We walked up and down that field, searching each row for the weeds. I was elated when I found some and Grandpa helped me pull them out. The late afternoon sun was very hot, and there was no wind at all to relieve us. Soon we were both sweating profusely. I wanted to take my shirt off, but Grandpa said that corn stalks would likely cut me. So we walked on and on, pulling weeds and sweating. Finally we came to the end of the field. I was tired, hot, sweaty, and dirty. So was Grandpa. So much so that he suggested we both take our shirts off. "Time to head back", he said. "Let's mount up." Again I sat in his lap and steered as he worked the controls. But unlike last time, he had me put my legs outside of his, spreading them wide apart. The vibrations of the roaring tractor and the wind from our movement felt good. I was concentrating on keeping the tractor pointed straight ahead when I felt Grandpa's sinewy fingers slip beneath the waistband of my shorts. Just then the tractor hit a rut and with the bounce, Grandpa's hands were right on my little penis and testicles. He did not move them, and I did not complain. Just the opposite. I actually thought his hands felt very good the way he was touching me. The rumbling vibrations of the tractor were being transmitted directly from his fingertips to the edges of young ball sac. Then he moved his finger slightly as if to find the outline of my tiny almond shaped testicles and caress them gently. My cock involuntarily hardened. I sucked in a huge gulp of air. "Keep your hands on the wheel and keep us pointed straight" he said in my ear, as he slowed the tractor down. His hands were now all over my genitals, rubbing, and stroking, caressing, feeling. It felt really good...so much so that I soon shook in what I now know was a dry orgasm. Grandpa helped me cum for the first time, right there on his red Farmall, in the blazing hot afternoon Illinois sun. And I loved it. I let go of the wheel and leaned back against his naked chest. He pulled his left hand from my shorts and grabbed the wheel. When he did, I felt his swollen cock through his coveralls, pushing against my nine year old butt. Grandpa shifted the tractor into neutral, and revved the engine. As the vibrations increased he pulled me tight to him and ground his hips into mine until I heard him gasp three times deeply. He slumped just a little in his seat, and then started the tractor again. Only once we were back in the corn crib, and I had dismounted, did I notice the wet stain in the groin area of Grandpa's overalls. Before I could say anything, Grandpa told me to run and tell Grandma that we were back, and that we needed clean towels for a shower, and to meet him by the pump house. It seems that Grandma did not like Grandpa carrying all that field dirt into the house, so he had rigged up an outdoor shower shielded from the dirt road by the pump house. He had painted a 55 gallon drum black and mounted it up on a stand so that when it sat in the sun all day, he had an ample supply of hot water for a shower at the end of the day without running a hot water line out from the house. I returned with a stack of clean towels. Grandpa was already under the shower, naked. "Let's get those dirty things off and get you clean," he said matter-of-factly. So I stripped off the filthy shorts and got under the warm water naked with him. It felt great. Next thing I knew, Grandpa was lathering me all up. He scrubbed me everywhere, paying special attention to my hairless cock and balls. Unlike on the tractor, where his touch was limited by my shorts, he now had access to every part of me. He stroked my small penis hard and worked it back and forth between his bony fingers. He gently cupped and caressed my balls, while his fingers massaged the bulge of my prostate. He leaned down and kissed the top of my head as he continued manipulate my soapy hairless groin. I reached out and threw my arms around his muscular thigh. This put his genitals right in front of my face. I could not take my eyes off his seventy one year old penis. Unlike me, he was uncircumcised. And although flaccid, his penis looked like a tree trunk to me. His balls drooped heavily in their hairy sac. His pubic hair was all gray and white, like the little remaining hair on his head. Grandpa continued to stroke and play with me until I shuddered again with the most exquisite explosion of pleasure I had ever felt. I panted and gripped him tighter as the warm water continued to cascade down. After I returned to "normal" Grandpa stood erect. He carefully rinsed me, even lifting me up and holding my spread legs directly in the spray, making sure the entire region between my legs was soap free. Grandpa then set me down, turned off the shower, carefully dried me and then wrapped a towel around my waist. "Head on in and change for supper", he said. "I'll be right behind you." I scampered into the farmhouse to be greeted by the wonderful aroma of my Grandmother's cooking. I ran up the stairs to my room where Grandma had put my suitcase. I donned clean clothes. By the time I got back downstairs, Grandpa was already in and dressed. We dined on chicken and dumplings, one of my favorites. After dinner, Grandpa asked me if I'd like to watch the baseball game with him. His beloved St. Louis Cardinals were on his black and white TV. Sure I said, and cuddled up against him on the couch. Grandma didn't care too much for baseball, so she went into the other room to sew and listen to the Gospel hour radio. Whenever he'd watch TV, regardless of the temperature, Grandpa Ira would always pull up a thin afghan that Grandma had made. This night was no different. He covered us both. No sooner were we covered than his hands began feeling me. I liked the feel of his hands on my body. He did not move toward my groin, but primarily played with chest, nipples, and belly button. It soon became apparent that I was falling asleep. Grandpa uncovered us, and we headed upstairs, stopping to kiss my Grandma. She asked if I wanted her to tuck me in, but Grandpa said he'd take care of it. She nodded and kissed me goodnight. Grandpa and I went to my room, where he watched as I changed into my pajamas. Now there was no air conditioning back then in the farmhouse, and the room had to be eighty degrees, even with the windows open. As I crawled into bed, Grandpa pulled my pajama top off and said "It's too hot for that." I nodded in agreement. He then read me a story. I was still sweating, so he pulled off my bottoms too and said "It's so hot you might as well sleep the way you were born." I smiled up at him as I again felt his leathery hands caress my body. It seemed that there was no part of me he did not touch. Grandpa loved to play with my balls, and the more he touched them, the more I liked it. Just like earlier in the day, I sprouted my small erection. And just like earlier, Grandpa continued to manipulate me – tugging, stroking, caressing – as my breath came in shorter and shorter pants. Grandpa watched my body carefully, his eyes glowing. He licked his lips as my muscles tightened and the tidal wave of pleasure washed over me again. I shuddered and jerked in my third orgasm of the day. Grandpa was so gentle and loving as he brought me off that it seemed that absolutely the right thing to do. I fell sound asleep until morning. The rest of the week went much the same way. Grandpa and I would do farm chores; he would find a way to use those chores to give him access to my body, whether it was in the barn feeding the cows, the chicken coop collecting eggs, the hay loft tossing bales, or out in the fields checking on the crops. He managed to find ways to touch and stroke and caress my body. His hands would find their way into my shorts and play with my hairless genitals until I came. We showered together every day before supper. And I would orgasm again under the warm stream. By the end of the week, Grandpa allowed me to wash him like he washed me. And although he never got hard when I did that, I could tell by the look on his face that he truly enjoyed it. By the third night, Grandma did not even ask if I wanted her to tuck me in. She just assumed Grandpa would do it. And every night Grandpa would caress and feel my entire body, always ending a sweet intense orgasm. It was only on the last night there that Grandpa told me to roll over on my belly. He said "you must be sore after a hard week of farm work, let me give you a massage." So he did. Starting with my shoulders, his hands worked their way down my back. He bypassed my butt and went to my feet and legs instead. He kneaded my calves and then thighs. He told me to spread my legs, and then he started massaging my butt. My whole body felt alive and wonderful. I only felt the slightest of touch as my Grandpa's fingertips lightly passed over my puckered anus...but it was electric! My body felt like it wanted to pull his entire hand into my bowels. But nothing further happened as Grandpa flipped onto my back and performed his now familiar magic and bringing me to yet another intense dry orgasm. The next day the end of the week came...far too early for my thinking. But the agreement between my parents and grandparents was for one week. "Maybe next summer, he can come for two weeks," my Grandpa suggested when my Mom came to pick me up. "Maybe," she said, "if you think you can handle him for that long." "Oh, I think we can enjoy each other for that long. What do you think, Sport?" "I think we can, Grandpa," I grinned.