Date: Wed, 23 Aug 2017 01:22:06 +0000 (UTC)
From: jim ford <cyphernone69@gmail.com>
Subject: Mr. Grant chapter one

This is fiction! This should in no way be construed as an indorsement of
sexual contact with an underage individual. Trust no one in real life!
"dying for sex" should only bean expression, not a result. Use condoms!

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This is mostly fiction.

I grew up in cotton country. For miles around, to every point on the
horizon, there was nothing but cotton and soybean fields. Standing in my
yard, I could count the number of visible houses on my fingers and have a
couple left over. Scanning the horizon, I knew who lived in which house and
how many kids they had and if their yarddogs were mean. Some houses you
couldn't pass, even on the other side of the road, without a heavy stick to
ward off their vicious mutts. Some dogs were so friendly I had to yell at
them real mean to keep them from following me home. Mama tolerated Bully
pretty well, especially since she saw him kill a copperhead in our
backyard. Daddy told her Bully was a Boxer Mix when he brought him home.
Mama snorted and said he was a Heinz 57. Daddy just laughed and said the
pup should fit right in with us cause that's what we were, some injun, some
english and some scotch. Mamma didn't trust stray dogs around her chickens.
She insisted we only had enough scraps to feed Bully. I think she was right
cause I saw her making a pan of gravy just for him more than once. Mamma
made the best gravy man or dog ever tasted.

Where we lived that summer had hot and cold running water. The last house
we lived in had an outhouse. There we had to carry water from a hand pump.
(Read "we" as me.) On Saturdays it was my job to fill the tin bathtub and
fill the biggest pots with water on the butane cook stove. By the time I
got my bath the water was murky and lukewarm. We moved here after Daddy got
a job as a machinist at a factory in town. Now I took a bath every Saturday
or more often if Mamma insisted. I didn't complain much, I was just
thankful I no longer spent most of my Saturdays pumping and toting water.

Now that I was almost twelve, I was free to roam the countryside as long as
I was home before dark. (I received a call from a friend when I was in my
thirties. He had seen a movie and said it reminded him of us as kids. The
movie was "Stand By Me". He was right, it was like us just the soundtrack
was a decade too old.) I had 'made a hand' that summer. That meant I earned
a man's wages in the cotton fields from the time school let out until mid
July.

I wasn't the tallest, but I was taller than most boys my age and skinny as
a rail. My "dirty blonde" hair was kept short, but never crew cut short. I
had hazel eyes that would shift from blue to green depending on my clothes
and my mood. My summer wardrobe consisted of cutoff jeans, a white tee
shirt and cheap dollar store tennis shoes if I was going outside the
yard. Inside the yard and inside the house I was always barefoot.

I had learned to jerk off shortly after turning eleven. I don't remember
how, I think it just came naturally. I first ate my cum out of deference to
making a mess in my bedsheets. I had no desire to explain strange stains to
Momma. Eventually I would keep a dirty pair of underwear under my mattress.
Come bath time, I would wash them in the bathtub and wring them out before
putting them in with my dirty clothes. Then the new dirty underwear would
be stashed under my mattress ready and waiting. If I was outside, or in the
woods, I was more than happy to spill my seed on the ground. By the time I
learned about the `sin of Onan', I was already hell bound for a much better
reason.

It was 'lay bye' time, which meant the farmers mostly just waited until the
cotton bolls matured, burst open and were then ready for harvest. Cotton
picking usually began in September. So this occurred some time in the late
summer. Actually, I can say for certain this happened a week or so after
the Fourth of July. I was just killing time until school started. I
sometimes walked the roads out of boredom. At this particular time, my best
friend Robert, who lived five miles away, was visiting his grandparents for
the week and wouldn't be home until late Sunday night.

I know it was a Friday because I was looking forward to watching "The
Twilight Zone" on TV. From my yard, I had seen vehicles at the gin office,
which meant I could buy a bottle of coke from the vending machine in their
lobby. I had two dollars in my wallet and almost as much in change, which
included a couple of dimes. I remember my Daddy refused to buy a Coke when
they went up to ten cents. It was at that time he became a 'Pepsi man'. You
could get more for less. We never kept "cokes" in the house. (That term
included all carbonated beverages including Orange, Grape, Pepsi, Double
Cola, RC Cola, Pepsi, and yes, even Coca Cola.) To me, it was 'any port in
a storm' as long as it was Pepsi or Coke. So, off I trotted to the gin
office, where the 'pause that refreshes', awaited.

It was too hot to hurry. Besides, Johnson's Grocery was just another mile
and a half down the road. If no one was at the gin office, I could continue
walking. If they were there I could buy a Coke and drink it as I continued
to Bluford Johnson's Grocery. For the two cent deposit I could get two
pieces of Dubble Bubble or a Tootsie Pop. I might save those for later and
buy a fudgesicle for five cents or an Eskimo pie for ten cents for my trip
home. Even as a kid, I never could see wasting good money on a popsicle, it
was just frozen kool aid and I could do that at home anytime. For free.

At the gin office, I saw Mr. Grant's brand new Chevy pickup. It was a
tutone turquoise and white. I thought about knocking, but it was after all,
a place of business. I opened the door, stepped up to the machine and
deposited my dime. The 'cha-thunk' sound that accompanied my extraction of
the bottle drew Mr. Grant from a back office. I immediately acknowledged
his presence. "Good morning Mr. Grant." I didn't dare be so presumptuous as
to initiate a full blown conversation by asking about him or his.

Mr. Grant owned the local Chevrolet dealership, the local cotton gin, plus
about a thousand acres of farmland. My folks rented the house we lived in
from him, as did other families. This was a time when farming was becoming
more mechanized and less labor intensive. So some of his houses were rented
to people who worked in town at either of the two factories, instead of on
his farm. Although some tenant's wives and teenagers still worked his
fields. This summer I was picked up by his field boss at my house and
driven to the fields just as any other field hand.

He was probably the third or fourth generation to own the gin and the
farmland.  He had added lots of acreage and had established the very busy
dealership. He was one of the largest and most successful farmers in the
county. It was rumored that his wife had moved back to Mississippi with
their son some years before and refused to even visit his hometown. Divorce
was still very unpopular and cast doubt on the moral character of both
parties. But, living apart was an acceptable alternative.

All I knew was that Mr. Grant was incredibly handsome. He was tall and
powerfully built. He had the most striking emerald green eyes, curly auburn
hair, a firm jaw, and a near constant five o'clock shadow. To me he looked
like Sean Connery in "Dr. No". He was fond of starched oxford shirts, khaki
trousers and boots. He had played a starring role in my earliest jack off
fantasies. I imagined getting him naked and touching what must surely be a
very hairy chest, based on the tuft that was visible at his collar. I
jerked off imagining him holding me close as I jerked off in his arms. I
didn't know enough to actually envision intimate sexual contact. I thought
about sucking him off, but I couldn't really visualize his manhood. Still,
it was enough to make me cum, every time.

I don't think he ever noticed me, but I soaked up his presence like a
sponge each time he came around. Had I been a sculptor I'm sure I could
have detailed every feature including those clothed in cotton and
khaki. One day when he stopped to check on our progress, I was chastised by
his field boss for standing, hoe in hand, and staring at the man who signed
our paychecks. After Mr. Grant left, the straw boss insisted, "I had to do
some talking to the boss about you being a hard worker. He had some
questions about you, seeing as how you just stood there gawking at him
while everybody else kept on a choppin like they was supposed to."

I must have drifted off a little. Because Mr. Grant was standing in front
of me with his hand extended. He was smiling a 'Reddy Kilowatt' smile and
once he knew he had my attention he said, "Morning, you're Barlow's boy,
Jim, right"? I returned his firm grip and looked him in the eye, just like
my Daddy taught me. At first contact I felt a tingling surge of electricity
that numbed my arm clean up to my elbow. As we held eye contact I could see
he felt the shock just as I did. Whatever it was, it was definitely not
static electricity. I confirmed my identity and told him everybody called
me `Jimmy'. Mr. Grant insisted that Jimmy was a boy's name and since I was
earning a man's wage I deserved to be called by a man's version of my given
name. I wondered, but never questioned how he even knew my given name.

He chuckled and shifted his gaze between our hands and my eyes a couple of
times. I finally realized I had maintained the handshake, without shaking,
for an embarrassingly long time. I mumbled an apology, which I prayed would
not be acknowledged. I could feel the intense heat on my face. If he
vocally acknowledged I had been 'holding' his hand, I am sure my cheeks
would have burst into open flames.

Thankfully he just invited me to have a seat with him behind the counter.
When I hesitated, he took my Coke bottle, opened it for me and pretty much
guided me to a waiting area behind the counter. He took the seat beside the
one he had directed me to take, and made casual conversation. I responded
in my usual `glib' manner, my responses relying heavily on "Yes sir" and
"No sir". Before long, I became remarkably relaxed and let go the notion
that I was alone in the company of my favorite jack off fantasy. Well,
maybe not totally relaxed, I was carefully scanning his handsome face for
recall during my next late night right handed workout. Actually, being this
close to him meant that I would cum a couple of times before dark.

At some point he asked about my plans for the rest of the day. I told him I
had let my momma know I would be home in time to watch "Twilight Zone". He
confessed it was one of his favorites and we discussed a couple of
episodes. That led us to Jules Verne of whom we were both big fans. I
finished my Coke and had shamefacedly or should I say red facedly allowed a
belch to escape. I apologized and told him I would get a whooping if momma
heard I had belched in public. His response was to say his mother had been
like that too. His personal opinion was "better out than in".

He took my empty bottle and placed it in the rack for empties attached to
the machine. I gave only a fleeting thought to the two cents, that his
polite action had just cost me. When he came back, he stood in front of
me. I was eyeball even with his crotch. I could make out the firm outline
of a very big cock that snaked down the left leg of his perfectly creased
khaki trousers. If he had moved closer, if his cock had shifted in the
least, I would have cum in my briefs. From somewhere far away and only
slightly louder than my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I heard him repeat
my name. With great force of will I looked up to meet his smiling gaze. My
brain flooded with hormones, I astutely inquired, "Huh"?

He repeated, "I asked if you would like to give me a hand hauling some wood
over to my lake house, this afternoon? I'll pay you for your time, of
course."

It took a moment for his words to register. It was a struggle to look him
in the eye instead of gazing at his cock, like I wanted. Regaining some
self control, I insisted that my Daddy would never think of accepting pay
for having helped a neighbor and since I lived just down the road from his
cotton gin, it was almost like we were neighbors. He then gave me a lesson
on the value of a man's time and the importance of recognizing the
difference between employment and assisting your neighbor. I was employed
that afternoon. That meant I might get to walk to town Saturday to see a
movie. This day was just getting better all the time.

The wood Mr. grant wanted to haul consisted of thirty, eight foot long, two
by fours. While he was loading two or three at a time he only wanted me do
it one at a time. I insisted and he relented. After the third trip I was
mentally kicking myself for my false bravado. On the fifth trip he decided
that, with the heat, we should both take only one at a time.

When we finished loading the wood, he bought us each a Coke. Instead of
taking a seat, he dodged quickly into a side office and came back out with
a cigarette and a book of matches. He explained that he had bummed that
smoke off of Bernie his accountant. Mr. Grant insisted it was a nasty habit
and it was bad for one's health. He never smoked inside a building or in a
vehicle. He only smoked when he got nervous. He guided me out the back door
of the office. That door opened onto a sidewalk that led to the parking lot
at the side of the building. The sidewalk was bordered by a wooden
handrail. Immediately bordering the outside of the handrail was a thick
hedgerow.

Mr. Grant sat his Coke on the handrail and lit his cigarette.

Looking over the hedges I could see my house in the distance. I didn't
speak. I waited for him to make conversation or to send me on my way.
Before he finished his cigarette, my bladder pressure got the best of
me. "Mr. Grant, I, er, uh, need to use the bathroom. I, uh, I need to
urinate." I felt it sounded more adult to say urinate than `pee pee'. I
wasn't sure if he would know what "piss" meant. Mr. Grant casually dropped
his unfinished cigarette into his almost finished bottle of Coke. "Jim, you
don't need to go inside to piss. I gotta piss too. We got the same
equipment. Pull it out and piss on the bushes. It won't hurt them."

With that he casually unzipped his khakis and extracted his not quite
ridged cock. This was the first full grown man's cock I had ever seen. He
rested his right hand on my right shoulder like we were best buddies. He
held his cock in his left hand and pulled back the foreskin to partially
reveal his cock head. I was mesmerized. It was like a reverse snake
charmer, in that, the snake was charming me. I couldn't look away. He
gently squeezed my shoulder and said, "Jim, aren't you gonna piss too"?

At that instant his thick stream began to wash the hedges through the
fence. I broke my trance long enough to extract my aching miniature version
of the cock I would grow into. I aimed it toward the hedges so as to miss
the fence and avoid backsplash.

I waited and nothing happened. I was so hard my cock hurt. I needed to pee
so bad my groin hurt. On top of all that we both knew I had been caught
staring at his cock again, only this time it was naked. If he told anybody,
my life would be over. Even at the tender age of almost twelve, I knew,
that here, it was always `open season' on queers. I can't say a lot has
changed since that time. Not enough anyway. I surrendered to the misery and
choked back a sob.

Mr. Grant stopped his flow, but didn't put his cock away. He turned to me
and reaching down with his left hand, took hold of my small cock, saying,
"Let me help." As soon as his fingers pushed mine away. As soon as his
touch registered in my brain I began to shoot off. Impulsively, I turned
into him and pulled him closer as I mindlessly humped into his hand. That
resulted in his bare cock being pressed against belly and chest. A few more
humps and the feel of his naked cock on my bare flesh was too much and I
began to cum again. No sooner had I cum all over his hand a second time
than my bladder relaxed and I began to wet him down with a truly forceful
stream. It was all too much for me. I collapsed into him and sobbed
inconsolably as I drained my bladder.

I felt a surge of flesh just under my right cheek. I knew what it was. I
knew there was nothing beyond this moment. My arms had been wrapped around
his waist. I twisted my body away and brought my right hand around to grab
his throbbing manhood. I knew what I was. I knew what I was going to be
from this moment on. I didn't look up. I didn't look away. I pulled his
foreskin away from his engorged cockhead. The skin peeling away from the
glans looked dry. From my own experience I knew that was not a pleasant
experience. I started to spit on his cockhead to moisten it and ease the
sensation. But, I was not good at aiming my spit. Instead I made a mouthful
of spit and took his cockhead inside my mouth to make everything slicker.
His cock swelled and Mr. Grant moaned, "Oh God!" I used my tongue to spread
my spit around, careful to keep my teeth covered. His right hand was still
on my shoulder and his left was behind my head. He humped forward and I
choked. He let me pull off until I caught my breath. I made more spit and
took his cock into my mouth again. He was making the same kind of noises I
made when I was about to cum and wanted to be quiet. I began sucking and
stroking his cock. I was stroking because I knew it would help make him
cum, but I was sucking because it felt right. I tried to take him
deeper. When he got to almost choking me, I swallowed. Mr. Grant groaned,
"Oh God! Oh Yeah! So Good!... Jim, I'm cumming."

I would like to say I took it like a natural born cocksucker. That would be
a bald faced lie. I stroked him faster and sucked harder, bobbing my head
up and down. That was like a natural. But, when he shot his first massive
squirt it hit something inside that triggered my gag reflex. He held my
head so I couldn't pull away. By the time he released me, my face was
covered in tears, cum, spit, snot and slime that burned my sinuses like
Coca Cola.

I couldn't bear to see the disgust in his eyes. I turned my back and used
my handkerchief to wipe my face. I wasn't sure what he would do. I knew, in
his eyes, I didn't deserve to live. If he had dealt a death blow, I
wouldn't have been surprised. I managed to get control of my tears and to
muffle my sobs. I still couldn't face him so I waited for his condemnation.

What he did, shocked me beyond belief. He wrapped his arms around me and
pulled me back into his embrace. "Jim, we need to get cleaned up. We can
shower inside. I can wash our clothes at the lake house. I've got some
clean clothes here, but you'll have to rinse your jeans out in the shower
and wear them damp until we get to the lake house."

I was confused. "Don't you hate me? After what I did, don't you think I'm
disgusting? I know what I did was evil. I know what I am. I hoped no one
would ever find out. I wanted to keep it a secret till I died. Now, my life
is over. I can't go home. I can't go anywhere. I might as well be dead." I
struggled to get free of his embrace. It felt too good and I didn't deserve
"good".

Mr. Grant just hugged me tighter. "Jim! Settle down! You are not
disgusting. You are not evil. And you certainly wouldn't be better off
dead. You are a hard working, intelligent, handsome, young man who hasn't
done anything that other good men have done before you. You certainly
didn't do anything that I haven't done when I was young. So calm down and
let's go take that shower."



Note: If you think I should continue, let me know. I will post more based
on reader response. If you had similar experiences I would love to hear
about them.

Cyphernone69@gmail.com