That summer was a big deal for me for a lot of reasons. I’d just graduated from high school and I’d just turned eighteen. Being eighteen and out of high school meant I was almost an adult, or so I reasoned at the time. I was a man who had a whole life ahead of him and had the freedom to choose what that life would be.
I soon learned that those choices were somewhat limited because I was only eighteen and had only a high school education. All my preferred jobs – most of which involved being the boss of people who did the actual work – required both age and more education. I thought I was finished with school only to learn I’d just finished the easy part of my education. College, or at least junior college, would have to be in my future or I’d end up working minimum wage jobs for the rest of my life.
After thinking about it for a while and then doing some investigating, college or junior college didn’t seem quite so bad. There were required classes, but I wouldn’t be in class all day every day like in high school. Most of the classes weren’t boring stuff like history or English either. They were classes that would teach me the skills I needed to get a real job.
College was expensive, junior college not so much, and I could get some of the preliminary classes out of the way at a junior college. I also read that junior college was an easier transition between the regimentation of high school and the freedom and personal responsibility of an actual college. Classes were smaller and the instructors more able to help if one was having trouble. I decided to enroll in the local junior college in a college prep program that would get me into an engineering school in a couple of years.
I had the inclination and I had the determination to do just that. What I didn’t have is the money for tuition, books, and other supplies needed. Mom could probably have taken out a loan to pay for all that, but I didn’t want her to. Mom had scrimped for a lot of years so my sister and I could have decent clothes and enough to eat. She had already taken out a loan to buy me an old car when I graduated. She didn’t need the burden of another.
My sister Judy was already married, so once I left home Mom would be able treat herself once in a while instead of always buying things for us kids. I’d have to earn the money by myself by working at least over the summer and maybe for another year.
The job prospects in our little town weren’t very lucrative. I could sack groceries or work for the local guy who pumped out septic tanks, but both were minimum wage jobs and weren’t usually a full forty hour work week. If I was going to make enough money to do more than put gas in my old car, I needed full time work at more than minimum wage.
That job came along quite by accident, and it was Mom who found it for me. Mom worked as a cashier at the local grocery store and one day while she was checking out Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson asked if I was looking for a job. Mom said I was. Mrs. Jackson said her hired man had decided to retire and she really needed someone to help her with her farm. Mom said she’d tell me.
I didn’t know much about Mrs. Jackson except what Mom told me. Mrs. Jackson was in her late forties and was a widow who farmed the two hundred plus acres her husband had left her when he died. Most women would have either sold the farm or have found another husband, but Mrs. Jackson didn’t do either. She just rolled up her sleeves, so to speak, and kept the farm running.
I’d never actually met the woman, so I didn’t know if the local gossip was true or not. A lot of the women in town thought Mrs. Jackson was probably one of those women who act more like a man than a woman. They didn’t use the word “lesbian” but once I learned what a lesbian was, it didn’t take much imagination to know that’s what they were thinking. I’d always wondered why if Mrs. Jackson was really a lesbian she didn’t have another woman living with her. The women in town had an explanation for that. About every two weeks, Mrs. Jackson took a trip to Crawfordsville “to see her sister” she said. The women in town figured her “sister” was really her lover.
Anyway, Mom told me about the job. It sounded a little more exciting than pumping out septic tanks and probably would be a whole lot cleaner, so I called Mrs. Jackson and told her I was interested. She said I should come out to her farm the next morning about eight.
At five ‘til eight, I drove up the lane to Mrs. Jackson’s house. She was walking across the gravel drive between the house and the barn when I got there. That was the first time I’d seen her outside of her being dressed up for shopping, and it was a sight that…
Well, when a guy is eighteen, it doesn’t take much to make his cock stand up and take notice. It was taking notice that morning and it was embarrassing. Mrs. Jackson was wearing jeans that fit pretty tight around her ass, and the tight fitting T-shirt she was wearing didn’t do anything to hide the fact that her breasts were a lot bigger than Mom’s. They also weren’t held up very tightly. They sort of swayed and jiggled when she walked.
Thankfully, she had a ways to walk before she got to the house. By the time she got there, I’d pushed my stiffening cock up towards my belt. Pulling out my shirttail hid the bulge, or at least I hoped it would. I got out of my car and walked over to introduce myself.
“Mrs. Jackson, I’m Ron Riley. You told my mom you had a job?”
Mrs. Jackson wasn’t beautiful by any means. She wasn’t ugly, just sort of plain, but her smile made up for that.
“I sure do, and I really need the help. Wallace decided to retire on me and I’m left with nobody. I can’t blame him. He’s almost seventy, and his kids convinced him to live with them. I’d like to have a man full time, but I can’t pay enough to give a man with a family a decent income, so I haven’t been able to find one. I thought at least some help during the summer might be enough. Are you interested? I guess you must be or you wouldn’t be here, right?”
I said I was interested and asked what I’d be doing and how much the job paid. Mrs. Jackson smiled again.
“Everything from feeding the cattle to baling hay to whatever needs doing. I’ll pay two dollars an hour, and you’ll be working a lot of hours some days.”
Considering the minimum wage back then was only a dollar and a quarter an hour, two dollars an hour seemed like I’d discovered a gold mine. I asked Mrs. Jackson when I could start. She beamed me that smile again.
“How about right now? I’ve already made the first cutting on my hay field and it’s raked, dry, and ready to bale. I’ll drive the tractor and you can stack the bales on the rack wagon. When we have a full load, you can help me put it in the barn.”
I didn’t really have on work clothes, but then, they weren’t really good jeans and a good shirt either, so I said I would. Mrs. Jackson pointed to the machine shed beside the barn.
“The baler and rack wagon are over there by the machine shed. There’s a spare pair of gloves and a hay hook on the wagon. I’ll go fill my big water jug with ice and water and meet you there in a few minutes.”
I watched Mrs. Jackson’s round bottom sway as she walked to her house and then walked over to the baler and rack wagon. I found the work gloves she’d told me about and put them on. They were a little big, but not too bad. The hay hook was there too. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but evidently it was important or Mrs. Jackson wouldn’t have told me about it. I was still wondering what it was for when she came back carrying a gallon, insulated jug.
“Ron, have you ever baled hay before?”
“Well, it’s hard work, but it’s not hard to figure out. I’ll drive the tractor that pulls the baler. The baler picks up the hay and squishes it into a bale, then ties the bale together with twine in two places and pushes it out this chute toward the rack wagon. What I need you to do is pull each bale from the chute and stack it on the rack wagon. Don’t try to carry the bales by the twine. That’ll just strain your back. Use the hook to pull the bale back to the stack and then pick it up by the twine and stack it with the rest. You see the back boards on the wagon? We’ll stack the bales until they’re that high before we go to unload. Just make the bales like stair steps so you can stack them that high. Oh, and you need to cross each layer. If you don’t, they might fall off the wagon when I turn a corner.”
The first few bales were easy because all I had to do was drag them back to the back of the rack wagon. After that, I had to lift each bale into place, and those bales were heavy. There was also a lot of dust and chaff from the dried grass that made up each bale. In an hour, I was covered in that dust and itching like crazy, but the rack wagon was almost full. Mrs. Jackson kept turning around to see how I was doing and when she did, her T-shirt tightened up around her breast. If I hadn’t been sweating up a storm and itching so bad, I’d have gotten another erection.
When I stacked the last bale on top of the stack in front of the wagon, Mrs. Jackson turned the tractor toward the house. She stopped it in front of a conveyor of sorts that reached from the ground to a door into the loft of the barn. After shutting off the tractor, she got down and motioned for me to do the same.
“I’m ready for a drink. How about you?”
After saying that, Mrs. Jackson uncapped the spout on the jug, tipped it up and put her lips on that spout. I watched her swallow a few times, then she handed me the jug.
“I didn’t know you’d be here today, so I didn’t buy any paper cups. I hope you don’t mind drinking from the spout.”
She grinned at me.
“I don’t have anything catching. Do you?”
It took me a second to say I didn’t. I knew I was sweating like crazy, but it had never occurred to me that women sweat too. Mom never sweated that I could remember, but Mrs. Jackson was. The front of her T-shirt was wet and had sort of molded itself to the tops of her breasts. I felt my cock tingle a little and willed it to stay down.
“No, not that I know of.”
“Well, I’ll get us some paper cups tonight. We’ll cool off for a few minutes and then we’ll put this load in the barn. It’s the same as loading the rack wagon. You’ll be in the barn and pull the bales off the corn dump after I put them on it down here. Just keep the stacks neat like you did on the rack wagon.”
We finished unloading the second rack wagon a little before noon. Mrs. Jackson climbed the ladder to the loft to see how I was doing, and said I was doing a good job. She also asked if I was hungry.
“We don’t have enough time for another load before twelve, so I figured I’d make lunch now. I just have some cold ham for sandwiches, some chips, and some iced tea if that’s all right with you.”
By the time I went home that night, I was convinced of two things. One, farm work was harder work than I’d ever believed I’d ever have to do, and also some of the most rewarding work I’d ever done. There was something very satisfying about seeing all those bales neatly stacked in the loft of the barn and knowing I’d done it. I was beat, but I was happy.
The other thing I was convinced of is that I liked Mrs. Jackson. Like I said, she wasn’t particularly pretty, but she was a smart lady who worked as hard as I did and she wasn’t all uppity like some older women I knew. When we’d finished putting the last bale in the barn that night, she’d looked at herself and laughed.
“I’m hot, sweaty, and dirty. I’m going to soak in a tub for about an hour to wash all that off, and then I’m going to eat something and then tuck myself into bed. You’re probably going to get cleaned up and do something with your girlfriend, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m just as hot, sweaty, and dirty as you are. I’m also tired. I’m going to take a shower when I get home, eat, and then try to stay awake long enough to watch a little TV before bed.”
Mrs. Jackson laughed.
“I didn’t mean to wear you out so much you can’t do anything with your girlfriend. I hope she’ll forgive me.”
“Well, I don’t really have a girlfriend.”
“No? Why not?”
“I don’t know. Just none of the girls in high school really appealed to me, I guess.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled.
“Well, you’ll find one who does one of these days. I didn’t think I’d ever find a husband either, but I did. Probably won’t find another one either.”
It bothered me for some reason that Mrs. Jackson would think something like that.
“I don’t see why you’d have to worry about that.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled.
“Ron, you’re probably too young to understand, but I’m not very feminine and I say what I think. I’m not what other people think, but I’m not your average girly girl either. My mother and father taught me to stick up for myself and what I believe. A lot of men can’t handle a woman who does that, just like they can’t handle me running this farm by myself. They think I’m a…well, they think I’m a woman who doesn’t act much like a woman.”
“I’m not too young. I know what they say. They say you have a girlfriend in Crawfordsville.”
Mrs. Jackson chuckled.
“Well, she is a very good friend, but she’s not a girlfriend. Betty is my sister. She has three adorable kids, kids John and I couldn’t have. I go to see her and my nieces and nephew every couple of weeks. They’re almost like my own kids, and they call me Annymanda. They started calling me that before they could say Aunt Amanda and never changed it. I think it’s cute.
“I’d bring them home with me if I could, but they have school stuff, Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, summer soccer and all that so they can’t come. I keep telling Betty they’d love the farm and they’d learn a lot, but she’s a city girl through and through just like I was once. She’s afraid they might get hurt or catch something.”
I though maybe it was time to change the subject. Our conversation was getting a lot more personal than I thought it should.
“You grew up in the city?”
“Yes, in Crawfordsville. Daddy was a mailman and Mama stayed home and kept house. I guess I got more of Daddy than of Mama because I never liked staying inside. I rode Daddy’s route with him every chance I got. I loved being outside even if it was in his car. When I married John, I fell in love with the country. I wouldn’t go back to the city if my life depended on it. That’s why I started running this farm after John died. I couldn’t leave.”
I said I could understand that, and Mrs. Jackson smiled.
“It sort of grows on you. It’s like your life is whatever you want it to be, however you want it to be. I worked in the grocery store in Crawfordsville for a while and I hated it. Here, nobody tells me what to do or when to do it. I just do whatever needs doing depending on the season and the weather. I don’t think I could do anything else now.
“You’re probably sitting there agreeing with me and thinking I have some loose screws at the same time.”
I shook my head.
“No, I like it here too. It’s quiet and peaceful. The work is really hard, but it feels good at the end of the day to see what I’ve been able to do.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled.
“If you tell me that at the end of the summer, I’ll think I’ve converted you. Now, you go home and get some rest. We still have half that field to bale tomorrow and it’s going to rain the day after.”
And so it went for the first few weeks I worked for Mrs. Jackson. I’d get there at about seven and help her feed her cattle and then we’d do the repairs that always seem to need doing or do field work. One of those field jobs was weeding her soybeans.
In those days, herbicides were new and mostly hit or miss. A few farmers tried them, but most kept to the old proven practice of weeding by hand. It made a farmer proud to look out over a field of soybeans and not see any button weeds or cockleburs or any of the other weeds usually found on farms. They took great care to keep the weeds down by cultivating the beans with a tractor mounted cultivator when they were small, but once the plants were about knee high they’d walk each field with a hoe.
The hoe was mostly to have something to lean on, or at least that’s how Mrs. Jackson treated one. I never saw her use it to cut off a weed. She’d always just pull the weed out by the roots. I did see her use her hoe to dig down under the roots of a particularly stubborn weed, but she always made sure to get the root and all. I did the same because that’s what she taught me to do.
Weeding beans always took two passes through the field. The first was when the plants were about knee high. The second was just before the beans bloomed and formed the crop. That first pass wasn’t bad at all. I just watched for weeds in two rows on each side and pulled any I saw. Mrs. Jackson did the same four rows over from me. We’d walk the length of the rows, then turn around and weed eight more rows on the way back.
When we got back to the start of the field, we’d take a short break, drink some water from her jug, and then start back down the field on the next set of eight rows. We finished in about a week and then baled some more hay.
The second weeding was not fun at all. The soybeans had grown enough they were waist high and had spread enough they brushed your pants as you walked through them, and the leaves were covered with dew. After the first pass through the field, my jeans and underwear were wet as well as the shirttail of my T-shirt. I couldn’t do much about my jeans and underwear, but I could take off the T-shirt, and I already had a tan so I wasn’t concerned about getting sunburned. I’d started to do that when I saw Mrs. Jackson looking at me. I quickly pulled the shirt back down. She just laughed.
“Why’d you stop taking off your shirt?”
“Well, I didn’t think it was such a good idea since you’re out here with me.”
“Surely you didn’t think you’d embarrass me. I was married, you know. I know what a man’s chest looks like. If you’re as wet as I am, taking off that shirt will feel good, so go ahead.”
Well, I did take off my shirt and it did feel better. Mrs. Jackson didn’t say anything else about it. I saw her looking at me a few times, but she didn’t say anything.
The next morning the same thing happened, so at the end of the first round of the field, I pulled off my shirt and left it on the truck to dry. When I turned around, Mrs. Jackson was taking off her shirt too. She pulled it over her head, then looked at me and smiled.
“Yesterday, I couldn’t do this. Today, I wore a bikini top so I could.”
It was a good thing those soybeans were as tall as they were, because my cock started getting stiff and didn’t stop until it was starting to hurt from being held down by my pant leg. Mrs. Jackson’s bikini top covered her breasts, but she had some really deep and really erotic cleavage showing. I couldn’t get my cock to lay down because I couldn’t stop looking at her. That bikini bra didn’t give her breasts much support, so with every step they’d jiggle or sway back and forth.
By letting her get ahead of me by a few feet, I managed to get my stiff cock rearranged so it was pointing up and not down. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when we got back to the truck after that round. Having my cock pointing up was more comfortable, but there was no hiding the fact I had an erection.
It got worse when we did get back to the truck. Mrs. Jackson reached into the truck, pulled out a bottle of sun tan oil and started smearing it all over her chest and stomach. I couldn’t watch that. My cock had started to lay down a little, but once I saw her running her hands over the tops of her breasts, it stiffened up as hard or harder than before. I hoped Mrs. Jackson wouldn’t notice before I could get between the bean rows again.
That didn’t happen. I was staring out over the field of beans to avoid looking at her when Mrs. Jackson asked if I’d put the sun tan oil on her back.
“I haven’t been out much this year and I don’t want to get sunburned. Could you help me out and put some on my back?”
At least she couldn’t look at my jeans while I stood behind her and smoothed the sun tan oil over her skin. I don’t remember if my cock got harder or not, but it sure didn’t get any softer. Feeling her soft skin as my hands stroked the oil over her shoulders and then lower back was like nothing I’d ever felt before.
Like all young men, and as I learned as I got older, all men, I’d had fantasies about touching a woman’s bare skin. Usually I had those fantasies in the morning while sitting on the john. All it took was closing my eyes and stroking my rigid cock a little and I’d cum.
Mrs. Jackson was no fantasy. She was a real, live, breathing, and to me, a very erotic woman and I was touching her in places most women kept covered all the time except when with their husbands. She also purred out “mmm…I’ll have to have you do this every day”, and that made my cock throb. I wanted to jack off right then and there, but of course that was out of the question. Instead, I finished putting the sun tan oil on her back, then picked up my hoe and started down a row. Mrs. Jackson didn’t say anything, but I’m sure I heard her giggle a little.
I spent the rest of the day and the next three walking those beans with an erection and hoping Mrs. Jackson couldn’t see it. Every day, she’d pull off her shirt and ask me to oil up her back. I’d do that for her and then head for the beans so she couldn’t see what she’d made happen. By the end of the week, I’d sort of gotten used to looking at her, so my cock would go down some once we started walking. It didn’t get really soft, but it wasn’t rock hard.
We finished the field about two on the afternoon of the Fourth of July. Mrs. Jackson put her hoe in the back of her truck and then poured a drink for us both from her jug of ice water.
“Well, that’s finally done. You did a great job, Ron. I always had to keep after Wallace or he’d just cut the weed off with his hoe. You pulled every one. There will be a few more that come up and they’ll seed next year’s crop of weeds, but it’ll be manageable. It looked to me like you enjoyed it too.”
“Yeah, I did. A couple summers, I sacked groceries at the store, but it wasn’t the same. Once the customer left, everything I did left with them. Here, I can remember how many weeds there were before we started, and now I can look out and see none. That feels pretty good to me.”
Mrs. Jackson grinned.
“You’re starting to talk like a farmer.”
“Well, I have to admit what you said about farming is pretty true. I’m still working for someone, but it’s different. You don’t really tell me what to do or when to do it like they did at the grocery store. I could get to like this, I think.”
Mrs. Jackson smiled.
“We should celebrate then. We got my beans done and you’ve decided you like farming. If you’re not going to the fireworks in town tonight, why don’t you come out here? I’ll fix us a nice dinner. I can see the higher fireworks from here too. Wallace and I always watched them from here. It’ll be cooler than in town and you won’t have to look for a good place to sit.”
Her suggestion seemed innocent enough to me at the time, and I hadn’t planned on watching the fireworks anyway. They’d sort of lost their attraction after seeing them every summer while I was growing up. I said I’d be out after I cleaned up a little.
When I got back to her place that evening, I saw Mrs. Jackson had cleaned up a lot. She led me out to her back yard and I felt that tingle in my cock again. It was way her shorts hugged her hips, the satiny smooth legs that they revealed, and the way the white cotton blouse was stretched tight over her breasts. It wasn’t quite as much of a problem as her bikini tops had been, but I was still feeling it.
Mrs. Jackson’s fried chicken, green beans, and potato salad were great. So was her iced tea, and I couldn’t turn down the cherry pie she offered me. She grinned as she slid a big slice of that pie onto my plate.
“John always liked my pies too. I’m not very good with cakes, but I like making pies.”
Mrs. Jackson took everything back inside once we finished eating and then came back outside with a blanket.
“If we go over here, right between these two oak trees, we’ll be able to see the fireworks in town. There’s enough of a breeze tonight we won’t have to fight off the mosquitoes. ”
She spread out her blanket, sat down, and then patted the blanket beside her.
“Come sit down here. They should be starting in a little bit.”
I sat down beside her, and as soon as I did, she chuckled.
“This is a lot better than walking beans, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it is. That dinner was great too.”
“I don’t ever get to cook for more than me anymore. It was fun, not as much fun as walking the beans with you though.”
“I thought walking beans felt more like work than fun.”
“Well…it was work, but I think you were feeling more than work all those days, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. I felt hot and sweaty.”
Mrs. Jackson touched my arm.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Unless I’ve forgotten a lot about men, you were having somewhat of a problem, weren’t you…a problem I was causing?”
I realized there was no easy way to lie my way out of that. I just hoped she’d accept my apology.
“Mrs. Jackson, I’m really sorry about that, but I couldn’t help it. I tried not to look, but I couldn’t.”
She stroked my arm again.
“Why do you think you should feel sorry? It’s a natural reaction. I had the same reaction when I saw your chest. Women just don’t show that reaction like men do. We like knowing we caused that reaction in men. It makes us feel sexy and desirable.”
I’d never had any girl or woman tell me anything like that before, so I really didn’t know what to say. I did think Mrs. Jackson was sexy and desirable, but there was no way I was going to tell her that. As it was, I didn’t have to say anything. Mrs. Jackson stroked my chest and kept on talking.
“Women sometimes like seeing a man’s chest, just like you liked seeing me in my bikini tops. I liked seeing your chest. Does that embarrass you?”
“Well, I guess not. I never thought about it before.”
“You thought about seeing me though, didn’t you? You don’t have to answer that. I could tell. You shouldn’t be sorry for doing that. I’m not sorry that you saw me in my bikini tops and that it made you do what it did. It made me feel good about myself. I don’t get to feel that way very often anymore.”
I decided it was probably time for me to leave before something happened that we’d both regret later.
“Mrs. Jackson, I think I should go home now.”
Her voice was soft and sultry.
“Because of what I just said?”
“Something like that.”
“What if I said I want you to stay because I need something I haven’t had in a long, long, time?”
“Mrs. Jackson, I think I know what you’re asking, and I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
She mover her hand from my chest to my stomach.
“Are you thinking I won’t be as good as a younger girl, or do you just not like me?”
“No, it’s nothing like either of those things. I like you a lot. It’s just that…well…there haven’t been any younger girls.”
“You’ve never…not even once?”
“That doesn’t matter to me.”
By then, she’d moved her hand to my crotch and was stroking my cock through my jeans.
“It shouldn’t matter to you either, Ron. All that should matter is I like you and you like me. I’ll show you how.”
I guess they did shoot off the fireworks in the park in town that night. I didn’t see any of them, but I think I remember some loud booms. They might have just been the pounding of my heart.
Mrs. Jackson didn’t wait for me to say I was willing or not. She just pushed me back on the blanket and smiled at me in the half light of dusk.
“If you don’t really want to, Ron, I’ll stop, but I really want this. I’ve wanted it for weeks but I didn’t know how to tell you.”
She kissed me then, but it wasn’t like the time I’d kissed Mandy. Mandy had just sort of held her lips against mine. Mrs. Jackson nibbled my lips, licked them, and then pressed her full lips against mine. The effect was something I’ll never forget.
I’d thought my cock got hard as it could when I saw Mrs. Jackson in a bikini top. I was wrong. While she was kissing me, my cock got so stiff it was painful because of the tightness of my jeans. I started to reach down to straighten it out, but my hand found Mrs. Jackson’s already there. She unbuttoned my jeans and then slid the zipper down. My cock pushed my underwear out the opening, and right after that, I felt Mrs. Jackson’s hand stroking it.
A few seconds later, I felt her hand slip under the waistband of my underwear. The feeling of her small, soft hand on my cock was incredible and I unconsciously lifted my hips. She murmured, “not yet, Ron. I want to take this slow so we both enjoy it. Take off your clothes now.”
I had kicked off my shoes when Mrs. Jackson unbuttoned her blouse and took it off. I had to stop pulling my jeans down when she unzipped her shorts and slid them down her legs. She had on black lace panties and a black lace bra, and the contrast with her skin was more erotic than I’d ever before imagined.
I had my underwear off when she unhooked her bra and let it slip from her shoulders. I’m sure my cock twitched when I saw her breasts. Even in the dim light I could tell her nipples were stiff. When she pulled my hand to the right one, I felt the yielding softness of her breast and the rough tip of her nipple.
“Just stroke gently, Ron. I’m getting excited and I’m pretty sensitive there when I get excited.”
My cock was pretty sensitive about then too, and when Mrs. Jackson started stroking it, I groaned and started rocking my hips. She giggled.
“This is your first time, isn’t it? That's OK. Just let me do everything so you don’t get carried away too soon.”
Her doing everything meant she rolled the panties down her legs and then stretched out beside me with her thigh over mine. Her hand on my cock was softly stroking the shaft just enough it was driving me crazy wanting to cum but not enough to make me do that. I felt her breast pressing on my face, and then one of her nipples brushing my lips.
“Kiss my nipple, Ron, then suck a little, very gently.”
I knew women had nipples, of course, but back then, I didn’t know how they got when a woman was aroused. Mrs. Jackson’s nipple was already stiff when I closed my lips around it, but it seemed to get larger and stiffer when I sucked it gently. That also made Mrs. Jackson moan.
“Oh Ron, I’d forgotten how that feels. Do the same to the other one.”
I was sucking her other nipple gently when her hand left my cock. She pulled that hand gently down over her stomach until my fingers touched crinkly hair. “Just slip your finger in a little at first and rub gently”, she murmured.
Her soft outer lips closed around my finger when I slipped it between them. Mrs. Jackson caught her breath and then shuddered. I’d never felt anything so soft in my life. I’d also never felt anything that was slippery and sticky at the same time, but that’s how Mrs. Jackson felt.
Her inner lips were small, but thick and they seemed to swell as I stroked my fingertip up and down. She kept getting wetter as I did, and once in a while she’d moan and her body would lurch into my hand. Her own hand was back on my cock and was making little soft touches to my swollen cock head. Trying not to rock my hips was useless.
Mrs. Jackson understood that, I guess, because she went back to stroking my shaft. A moment later, she kissed me again, and then murmured, “put your finger inside me now.”
I probably fumbled a lot in finding her entrance, but once I did, she groaned.
“Oh…that’s so great Ron. In and out, move your finger in and out.”
She was wet, slippery, and warm inside, and the more I moved my finger in and out, the wetter and slipperier she got. The hand on my cock started moving a little faster then, and she started rocking her hips. It wasn’t very long after that she raised up, straddled me, and reached between her thighs for my cock.
As most men will probably tell you, there really aren’t any words that describe the feeling of your cock sliding inside a woman. Even now, I can’t think of any. It was just softness, slippery/sticky wetness, and a tightness that opened but was still snug as my cock went deeper.
Mrs. Jackson kept lowering her body over my shaft a little at a time and then raising back up. After a few of these, she let her body ease down until she was sitting on my thighs. Then she leaned over my chest, put her weight on her hands, and started moving her body up and down over my cock.
I know now that it was a good thing she was so wet and slippery inside. If she hadn’t been, I’d have cum in less than a minute. As it was, she was tight enough I knew I was going to cum, but not so tight it was going to happen right away. I’m glad it happened that way. If I’d cum too soon, I’d have missed the best part.
That part happened after Mrs. Jackson started to pant and to start rocking her hips hard at the end of each stroke she made. She pushed her left nipple at my face and I started sucking it like before. She threw her head back and I felt her body begin to tense up. Little contractions started squeezing my cock as she rocked her body up and down faster, then faster still.
A little later, she gasped, “Oh God, I’m almost there.”
She might have been almost there, but I was. I couldn’t keep from ramming my cock up into each stroke she made, and after a few, I knew I couldn’t hold out any longer. I groaned as the first spurt shot up my cock and into Mrs. Jackson. I don’t know if she felt it or not, but she cried out, “now, Ron” and her hips began to rock so fast I couldn’t begin to keep up. I wasn’t trying anyway. My cock throbbed three more times before I’d shot my last.
Mrs. Jackson had stopped shaking by then, but I still felt little contractions around my cock, and she was leaning into her arms and breathing hard. She eased down on top of me, whispered, “stay inside me for a while. I like that”, and then mashed her big breasts into my chest as she kissed me again.
I didn’t go home that night. Mrs. Jackson wouldn’t let me leave. It wasn’t that she tried to lock me in her house or anything like that. She just wiped her eyes when I said I should be getting home.
“Please stay with me, just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone after this.”
I woke up the next morning with Mrs. Jackson watching me and smiling. She didn’t say anything after I opened my eyes all the way and yawned. She just snuggled up to my side and kissed me. I felt her hand stroke down my chest, then my belly, and then lightly touch the head of my cock. She moaned quietly when I stroked her left nipple.
A while later, when I could still feel her heart beating fast against my chest, she sighed.
“I should probably let you go home now. I don’t want to, but your mother will be worried if you don’t come home. I wish we had time for once more before you leave, but we probably don’t.”
I made the time, and afterwards, watched Mrs. Jackson laying there on the bed smiling at me while I dressed. Just before I left, she got up, pressed her body against mine, and kissed me, then whispered, “thank you, Ron, for helping me feel like a woman again” in my ear.
When I got home, Mom asked where I’d been. I wasn’t about to tell her I’d spent the night with Mrs. Jackson so I said I’d been out with a friend and before I realized it, it was morning. Mom just smiled.
“I wouldn’t suppose your friend lives on the farm where you’ve been working, would she? I guess what the girls say about Mrs. Jackson is wrong after all. I know you well enough to know anything I say won’t change you. Just be sure you’re careful about what you’re doing. I don’t want either of you to get hurt or to get a bad reputation.”
I spent the rest of that summer and the next three working for Mrs. Jackson, except after that night, she insisted I call her Amanda. We did celebrate a few more times, well, a lot more times now that I think about it. Each was better than the first in some ways, but none were the wonderful experience of that first time. Amanda had shown me the awe of two people becoming one if only for just a little while. I’ll always have a special place in my heart for her.
I did go on to Junior College, and eventually to UT where I majored in Agriculture. Amanda encouraged me to do that because she said I was a natural farmer and should make the best of that. Rhonda and I ended up buying her farm a year after we were married. Amanda had decided to move back to a mini-farm just outside of Crawfordsville to be closer to her sister and made me an offer I couldn’t turn down.
To paraphrase an old saying, you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Amanda still comes out to visit us and see how things are going about every two weeks or so. The first time she came out, I though Rhonda might have a problem with that, but she didn’t. When I asked her about it, Rhonda just smiled.
“Amanda told me she just wants to check on the farm and on us. I think she’s happy we got married and bought her farm. I think you must have made her happy when you worked for her too. She didn’t go into any details, but women understand when other women don’t say something directly. It’s all right with me as long as I’m the only woman you take to bed every night now. Besides, we have some interesting conversations about you when you’re not around.”
Well, it’s time I get out to that bean field with Rhonda. She’s a farm girl so she understands what needs to be done. I saw her putting on a bikini bra this morning instead of a regular bra. I’m not sure where she got the idea to do that but Amanda came to visit us yesterday so I can guess. After that first pass through the beans, she’ll probably peel off her T-shirt and I’ll probably miss a few weeds because I’m looking at her instead of the beans. Maybe when we break out the picnic lunch I can convince her to take off that top and her shorts and have a little fun in the shade of my pickup. Those soybeans are about a week from blooming, so we have plenty of time.