Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

"You've got to have passion in all you do out here, Ron. Whether you are digging a hole or filling a hole—digging, filling, digging—you've got to put muscle and passion behind it. You got to develop a rhythm. Understand?"

Yes, I did. And so did the urges.

Standing at the stockyard fence, big booted foot up on the first rail, side by side, both shirtless, Farmer Bill's arm loosely around my shoulder, him pointing to the stud horse breeding a mare and the bull earning his keep with that big, veiny hand of his.

"Whatever is in nature is natural, Ron. You know? Whatever is in nature is good and right. And everything comes into its season and, when it knows it's natural and right, then it's OK, it's good. You understand? Eventually, you've just got to let loose and let nature be nature. The great cycle of life. And you only live life once. You might as well get as much out of that life as you can, when you can. Preparing and plowing and seeding and enjoying the harvest."

And at the end of the day, the rule of not entering the house dirty. The outdoor shower by the barn. Stripping down together, rinsing and soaping up and rinsing off again under the showerhead, together. And drying off with towels as we raced for the house, buck naked, together. Laughing. Him slapping me on the butt cheek; me blushing and trying to stay ahead of him, not wanting him to see the effect the shower ritual was having on me.

There wasn't an ounce of fat on Farmer Bill—if you didn't count his thick cock and heavy balls, of course. The hard work farming required was evident in his trimness and his sinewy musculature. Beauty in motion when he moved, however. And a master craftsman and every inch in charge.

When he first fucked me, I was ripe for the picking. We were out in the small vineyard he had on the first rise up toward the Appalachian ridge at the back of the farm property, well away from the rest of the world. He'd parked the truck in a depression below and let the tailgate down. After we'd picked several bushels of grapes and the shadows of the encroaching evening were quickly lengthening, Farmer Bill said he'd brought some wine from the last harvest out with us—and some cheese and bread.

We sat, side by side, leaning our butts against the truck's tailgate, stripped to the waist, dribbles of grape juice dabbling our torsos. Drinking wine and chewing on whole-grained peasant bread and sharp, locally produced cheese. Silently watching the sun set off to the west down the ridge and the lights of a few isolated vacation homes along the ledge twinkle on.

"I love it out here," I said. "So quiet. Silent. Lovely silence. Isolation."

"You're not alone, and it's not silent out here, Ron," Farmer Bill said in a low husky voice. "Listen again."

I did, and he was right. I could hear low sounds. A twittering and the sound of a frog in the nearby pond. And crickets.

"The sounds of nature, Ron. You hear them now, don't you? I don't think you were able to hear them at all before you came. But you hear them now, I can tell."

"Yes," I murmured.

"And you know what those sounds are now, don't you?"

I didn't answer. I knew where this was headed. I knew I was ready, but still the old reluctance, the twinge of guilt over the urges.

"Mating sounds. Nature coming into season. Doing what's natural," Farmer Bill murmured, his lips close to my ear, his arm around my shoulder.

"Yes," I said, my voice low and hoarse now too.

"I think you've come into season, Ron."

"Yes."

He pulled me over, leaning me back into his lap. His arms went around me, and his lips buried themselves in the hollow of my neck. He unbuckled my belt and unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down my thighs. I pushed them the rest of the way myself, taking my briefs with them, and stepped out of them. His strong arms were squeezing me, and his broad-palmed, sinewy hands were roaming all over my chest and belly and down to my rising cock.

The first fucking was right there, like that, me being held into his lap, my butt cheeks nestled in his bush, as he leaned his buttocks against the tailgate of the truck. One of his hands on my chest, working my nipples and the other one on my belly, guiding the rise and fall of my hips on his buried, plowing cock until I'd taken the thickness of him inside me and had moved from pain to passion and gotten the rhythm of the fuck. Then that hand slowly descending to my tool, a maddening thumb latching onto the head of my knob and applying rhythmic pressure while the other fingers wrapped themselves and stroked me. Pent up as I was with years of unfulfilled urges and frustration, I spilled my seed on the ground twice before he shuddered and finished his studding of me for the first time.

Farmer Bill. Doing his job. Naturally. Studding me. Breeding me. And doing it masterfully; making me want it.

Then he turned me onto my back on the tailgate and hunched over me and licked the drabbles of grape juice off my torso and sucked me to a third spilling as he came into season for a second plowing and harvest. He wishboned my legs and nuzzled his pelvis between my hips and took me long and hard and deep, as I lay there, moaning and sighing, arching my back and writhing when he was riding me hard and lying back and languidly cooing as he took long, slow glides inside me, searching and exploring every crevice. Lying there, wondering why I had taken so long to give into the urges, and watching the stars flicker on over the Pennsylvania Dutch farm country.

And then again, later, as wisps of clouds scuttled across the early night sky, out between the rows of vine stands, studded like a horse, on my knees, buttocks lifted to him, my cheek on the soft moss, my fists grabbing at the soil, bunching up with each thrusting inside me of what he was breeding me with, a tool that would be the pride of any horse or bull—masterfully melting any mare or cow into burbling acquiescence. Smelling and tasting the rich soil of the farmland, doing what came naturally.

I stayed with Farmer Bill until I was fully comfortable fucking with a natural, joyful lust. But the day came when my Mustang was nuzzled out in the farmyard beside the farm truck, gassed up for the journey back to Philadelphia; my duffel bag was sitting at the top of the porch steps; and I was stretched out on my side on the bed in that bedroom for the last time, gripping the brass rungs of the headboard overhead for dear life, as Farmer Bill fucked me hard from behind in a farewell taking that put sealed to any reluctances or pangs of guilt I ever may have had. Exuberantly thrusting my hips back at his pistoning pelvis, while the knob of his master tool found my prostrate and rubbed me to new heights of ecstasy and lustful frenzy. The welling up and the release, followed briefly by murmurings and kissings and light tonguings across moist, hard flesh, and then the quiet, languid fuck of peace and mutual appreciation. Renewed passion and rhythmic fucking—and then farewell.

One of the first things I did when I got back to Philadelphia was to try to make an appointment to see Dr. Shelton.

"I've talked with Farmer Bill, Ron," he responded to me down the telephone line. "In fact, I had a very long, interesting, conversation with Farmer Bill. You have no further need for my professional services. I can't meet you as your therapist . . . but I could meet you as your friend, if you want to see me and talk about it."

He scheduled me for after the last appointment of the day and waved his receptionist out the door as I entered his office.

"About Farmer Bill," I began, when he'd settled in a chair across from the sofa where I sat.

"You came to me depressed about your urges, Ron," he interrupted. "And you wanted relief. In our discussions of what was bothering you, I didn't really get the feeling that you, deep down, rejected the urges. You were just trying to suppress your natural instincts. And that was what was causing your depression. It was the guilt and resulting depression you needed to be liberated from, not the urges. That, at least was my assessment, and that is the last thing I have to say in any remotely professional therapist capacity. Was I wrong, Ron?"

I chomped on that for a few minutes. I had to be honest. That's one of the things Farmer Bill had taught me. To be honest with myself.

"No, you weren't wrong, Dr. Shelton."

"No, not Dr. Shelton. Hank. At this point, it needs to be your friend, Hank. And your depression? Did Farmer Bill help with that?"

"Gone," I admitted. "Farmer Bill gave me a whole new perspective."

"And in your perspective am I, your friend, not your therapist . . . attractive, Ron?"

ZING!

Well, I had to be honest. "No, Hank, you aren't in the least unattractive."

"If you'd like to just slip off those trousers, Ron, I think this would be a natural time to do a completely nonprofessional prostate exam."