Hay Ride

All characters are over 18. This is a suck and fuck story more than anything else. If you want plot or character development take a look at one of my other stories, though there are plenty of readers chuckling at that advice. If there's something you like or hate, let me know, politely of course.

Enjoy.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle for his help with the editing.

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"You like that?"

Robin's voice startled me. My face flamed. I was too flummoxed to even try to make a reply or offer an excuse. I had been staring at the tight crotch of his blue jeans. I'd been busted. What can of bullshit could I have spun to get my ass out of that sling?

I'd known Robin all my life, or all of it I could remember. He hadn't been in any of my classes. He'd graduated before I started high school. I had recently joined the ranks of the graduated. Unlike Robin, I would be getting out in a couple of months. In our small town, you either stuck around, worked your dad's farm and odd jobs, waited for him to get out of the way and leave the farm to you, or you got out. I was getting out. Robin was choosing to stay.

It made sense for him. He had a couple sisters. At that time, only widows farmed, no single women. The farm would be his. In the meantime, until he was needed on his own place, he hired himself out. He'd help my dad put up hay since the only job I could be trusted with was letting the tractor idle along in a straight line while he and Robin bucked bales.

My old man wasn't working that day, not in the hay field anyway. He worked full time. You couldn't make a living off a quarter section, and half of that wooded. He kept a few cows. If he thought the price would be good he might put in corn or soy beans but mostly he planted hay. What we didn't use was easy enough to sell. Early in the week I had cut and raked the alfalfa. We had been lucky. We'd had no rain and it dried quickly. I spent yesterday baling. I could have hauled the bales myself but it was slow work. Park the tractor, buck whatever bales seemed to be a reasonable walk from the tractor. Move the tractor. Park the tractor. Repeat.

Two people wasn't ideal. Four was perfect. One person drove and the other two walked along each side of the wagon and buck the bales and the fourth on the wagon, stacking. Four was ideal but we were doing it with two. There was still an interminable amount of stopping and starting but with two of us we could each take a row. We'd been at it hard all morning.

We'd been sitting on the bed of the wagon, in the shade of the growing stack of bales, eating lunch when Robin busted me for staring at his crotch.

God, he was hot. I had been fascinated with him since before I was old enough to know I was even fascinated with him. It was the first haying of the season but he was already deeply tanned. His nipples were almost black. A sparse diamond-shaped patch of black hair perched in the middle of his chest. His body was dusted with chaff. My eyes had followed a line of dark hair from his belly button down to where it disappeared beneath the waist of his faded dusty jeans. And I was trapped.

The bulge of his cock, lying along the inside of his right leg was clearly visible. His balls lay tucked along the inside of his left leg. I tried to imagine how he would look naked. How would his cock look? His balls? Did they ride up high and tight or hang low?

By eighteen I had given up on wondering why I thought about guys and cocks and what it would feel like to feel coarse whiskers against your lips when you kissed. If the word "gay" was used to describe men like me back then I had never heard it. As far as I knew I was "queer". I hadn't even heard the word "faggot" until I was in high school and only slowly had I realized it meant the same thing as "queer" or "pansy".

No one else knew I was queer. Of that I was certain. If they did, they would have kicked my ass and I would have been put out of the house. I didn't admit I was queer, even to myself. Living out in the sticks is isolating. I had no idea other boys watching reruns of "Flipper" didn't love those shots of Porter Ricks' son Sandy wearing cut-off jeans, or better still walking around shirtless in his swimming trunks.

I was an only child. My best friend at the time showed me how to jerk off. I had been, out of earshot of adults, calling my buddies jerk offs for years. Gary showed me what that meant.

I'm not saying those thoughts ran through my head that early afternoon on the hay wagon. I'm sure they didn't. I'm sure all I was doing was tormenting myself with imagined visions of Robin, of Robin's cock, of Robin naked. I wasn't even totally aware of the fact he was getting a hardon. I noticed, of course. I was fascinated by the way it bulled its way down the inside of his jeans. I loved the sight. I was so busy loving the sight that I missed the fact that his eyes were on me. When he spoke, I think I might have jumped, so isolated had I become in my thoughts.

"You like that?"

I have perfect recall of the terror I felt at having been caught staring at his cock. To be discovered as queer was a fate worse than death. My brain fell all over itself trying to come up with a response that might save me from my stupid blunder.

I remember starting to stammer a response but not what the response was, probably something along the line of "Huh? What you mean?"

Before I managed to produce a single garbled syllable, Robin pushed himself up and leaned against the stack of bales. He reached for the zipper of his jeans.

"Maybe you'd like to see it?"

Whatever lame excuse I started to utter died in my throat. I couldn't take my eyes off the slow descent of brass. My memory likes to imagine the sun glinting off the bright metal but that would be a lie. His zipper was as dusty as everything else and Robin stood in the shade. At the time, there was no need for extra drama. I was petrified by the scope of the drama.

Robin's erection stretched the fly open. I caught a glimpse of white. Jim Palmer was advertising Jockey's by then but in the sticks, Fruit of the Loom briefs still reigned. He thumbed open his jeans and the fly sprang open. His erection bulged further but was still trapped in the leg of his jeans. Robin stood away from the hay and pushed his jeans down to his thighs.

I could see a glimpse of flesh through gap in the brief's fly. My own cock ached. He kept his eyes on my face as he pulled the waistband of his briefs away from his belly. The pale, un-sunned flesh of his lower belly cast a negative shadow. He paused. I couldn't look away. I don't know how long I stared. When I looked up, I saw a slow smile spread across his face. His underwear joined his jeans around his thighs.

His cock was a masterpiece. A piece of fucking art. Literally, in the true sense of the word.

I was mesmerized. He wrapped his fist around it and squeezed. The head grew larger, darker red then purple. When he released his grip, a wave of lurid red washed away the purple. A liquid diamond clung to the head. He passed his hand over the head and the drop was transformed into an enticing sheen.

"Go on," he said, nodding at his cock. "You can touch it."

My face had to have been a mosaic of fear, uncertainty and desire. He nodded again. "It's okay," he said in the same voice one might use to convince a child to try broccoli for the first time.

I laid my half eaten sandwich on the wax paper it had been wrapped in and stood, desire trumping all else. He turned slightly to face me. My first touch was tentative. The skin was silky, hot against my fingertips. The contrast of the dark mat of his pubic hair and the deep red of his cock against skin that had likely never tasted the sun was startling.

At first, all I could do was hold it. I was so lost in disbelief that this was actually happening, I was only vaguely aware of what I was doing. In my memory, I shook myself out of the daze. Whether I actually did so or not I cannot say. What I can say is I woke up, fully, for the first time.

I wanted this. I wanted to feel his cock. I wanted to feel his hand on my cock. I wanted to kiss him. I was a pansy, a fucking queer and at least for the moment I didn't give a shit.

I knew what I like to do to my cock with my hand. Why wouldn't Robin like it?

I began to stroke him, twisting my hand slightly, increasing the pressure as my hand glided up and over the head, milking out a drop or two more of the precious liquid that would allow my hand to pass over his cock as smooth as a summer breeze but with the intensity of the noon-day sun.

"Fuck yeah, man. That's right. Stroke my cock," Robin growled, eyes half closed.

I cupped his balls with my other hand and he grunted his approval. I don't think my eyes had left his cock since he spoke those fateful words. I loved the way it looked in my hand. I loved the way it felt in my hand. I loved the way his ball sack writhed in my hand, tightened and relaxing.

My eyes were torn from his cock by the image of his ass cheeks contracting as his hips began to move. Deep hollows blossomed in his cheeks. At the same time, his cock swelled in my hand as if some inner alchemy allowed contractions of his ass to inflate his prick. His left hand moved to his chest and brushed the dust and stray pieces of hay out of the sparse hair.

"Bite my tit," he whispered.

That was not something that would have occurred to me but if that's what he wanted I had no objection. I leaned forward and let my lips touch his chest. He shivered. I pressed the tip of my tongue against the hard pebble of his nipple and he groaned. I flicked it, not sure what else to do to a nipple. I had touched a girl's boob before but only through her bra. This was new to me in very way.

He pressed his body against me, groaning again and I had another epiphany, two actually. The first, I wanted to feel his skin on my skin. I was not worried about getting caught. This field was the furthest from the house. My dad was at work and my mom never came out to the fields. She'd packed a lunch, a snack and a five gallon water jug that was half ice half water. Her part in the haying was done.

I stepped away from Robin and he looked surprised and, I thought, a little disappointed. That was the second epiphany. He wasn't fucking with me, trying to trap me. He wanted this as much as I did. I had always imagined I was the only homo pervert queer in the county. There was at least one other and he wanted me as much as wanted him. This was no longer a one-way street.

I pulled my tee shirt off and dropped it atop the water cooler. I leaned my butt against the stack of bales and tugged first one boot then other off. I left my socks on. The wagon bed was rough. I was horny but not totally stupid. When I pulled my jeans off, I took my underwear off with them. When I straightened, I was happy to see Robin's eyes on my dick. I like my cock. I was ecstatic he seemed to like it too.

He hesitated a moment before taking off his boots and then his jeans and underwear. This time he stepped next to me. Our hands found each other's cocks. I bent and found his nipple. This time I did as he had asked. I bite his nipple.

His hand tightened on my cock. "Fuck," he hissed in my ear. I bit down again. This time all he could manage was a hiss. When I let go of his nipple, I found his mouth. His stubble felt as hot against my lips as I had imagined. This I knew how to do. It was way better than kissing a girl but at least I had some experience with that.

As we kissed, I pressed my dick against his leg, doing my best to stroke his cock in the confined space between our bodies. He pulled away from my mouth and moved away from my body enough to lower his mouth to my nipple. I discovered why he had hissed. His teeth tugged at my nipple. The first hiss was a hiss of surprise and pain. The second of intense pleasure. I arched my back, pulling away which only intensified the pleasure and the pain.

His mouth followed but his teeth released my nipple and his lips, soft and soothing, replaced them. Bite. Tug. Kiss. All the while his hand was tugging at my cock. I pulled away. I had to. I didn't want to cum yet. I caught my breath as our eyes devoured each other. I took a breath, searched my feelings, wondering if I really wanted to do what I was considering. I did.

I sat on top of the water cooler and looked at Robin. This time he didn't hesitate. He crossed the small gap between us, his cock inches from my face. I wrapped my hand around it and examined it up close as I stroked him. I didn't want to miss a thing. I took in the subtle gradations of hue where his cockhead flared, the thin rim of dark shadow the corona cast on the shaft, the veins that snaked along the shaft. I wasn't sure how to begin. Should I just put it in my mouth? Should I kiss it first? Lick it?

I chose the latter. I pressed his cock against his belly, touched my tongue to the underside of the shaft right where it disappeared into his ball sack, and licked upward, very slowly, as if capturing a stray drip of melting ice cream running down the side of cone. Except, this was way better than any ice cream cone, ever.

When I reached the head, I let my tongue play in the V-shaped groove where his crown merged with his slit. His cock twitched, I relaxed the hand holding his cock and it fell into my mouth like that was where it belonged. I was a little lost at that point. I knew what a "blow job" was but blowing on his cock didn't seem like it would be very exciting. Sucking, as in "cock sucker", sounded more reasonable, I thought I discovered you really couldn't suck much either.

Robin, whether through previous experience or instinct, moved things along by putting one hand on the side of my head and moving his cock in and out of my mouth. I decided as long as I didn't accidentally bite him it would be hard to do anything really wrong. I began to move with him. I gagged a few times and had to pull away to wipe my streaming eyes, but I climbed right back into the saddle, so to speak. Instead of just holding his cock, I began to stroke it, covering with my hand the part of his shaft I couldn't get into my mouth.

My other hand alternated between stroking his hip, his butt and cupping his balls. I was playing with his balls when he lowered his hips slightly. I wasn't sure what he was doing or why, so I kept my focus on seeing how much of his cock I could get into my mouth. He sank lower and his cock slipped from between my lips.

"Play with my ass," he whispered. I suppose I looked confused because he added, "With your finger, play with my ass, my asshole."

I had put the handle of a toilet plunger in my ass once so who was I to raise any eyebrow?

I went back to sucking his dick but this time when he lowered his body, I moved my hand from his ball and back into his ass crack. I rubbed my fingertips over the rougher puckered skin of his asshole and his ass clenched on my hand. I could feel his cock swell in my mouth. I continued to run my fingers over his asshole as I taught myself how to suck a cock.

When I needed to give my jaw a rest, I would lick up and down his shaft or swirl my tongue around the crown of his cock. I held the mid-shaft and popped the head in and out of my pursed lips as fast as I could. I lowered my head and took one of his nuts into my mouth. My nose was pressed into the cleft between his sack and thigh. We'd worked hard that morning. We had both been drenched with sweat when we stopped for lunch. I had smelled his strong musk earlier, playing with his nipple. Now, nose deep in his crotch, it was stronger, more earthy. I licked behind his balls and then moved my hand off his ass and brought it to my mouth. I could smell him. It excited me. I wet my fingers in my mouth and then took one of his balls back into my mouth. I craned my neck as much as could but it was still impossible to watch my finger push into his asshole. I hadn't wet my finger enough. It was too difficult to slide my finger in and out of his ass, so I simply moved it around and pressed on the hard walnut of his prostate. When I did, my mouth filled with fluid. At first I thought he had cum but no, my finger had simply expressed a small part of the load that would be my due shortly.

He pulled himself off my finger and away from my mouth. He was breathing hard. He turned and used his arms to lean against the stack of bales. He looked back over his shoulder, beckoning me. I scooted toward him, dragging the water cooler with me to use as a perch. I paused for a moment and stroked my own cock a few times. He watched but didn't say a word. I milked the fluid from my cock and, with his eyes glued to my hand, I slowly licked my fingers. As I did so, an idea occurred to me.

I milked my cock again. I didn't get as much dew this time but there was some. I reached between his legs with both hands. I held the index finger of my right hand against the head of his cock while my left hand wrapped around him and squeezed. He was still peering over his shoulder at me when I spread his ass and smeared our combined honey over his asshole. I wet my index finger, the whole finger not just the tip this time. When I pressed, Robin arched his back and my finger entered him, all the way, my curled fingers pressed against his perineum.

"Oh yeah, that's the way to do it, man. That feels fucking outstanding," he panted. His cock was long enough I could pull it back and suck on it as I did my best to finger fuck his ass without hurting him. When it felt as if my finger was too dry, dragging too much on his skin, I withdrew it. I didn't look at it too closely. It seemed clean. I remembered being surprised that the handle of the plunger had not been dirty when I pulled it out of my ass.

I didn't look at my finger but I stared at his asshole. I thought it was nearly as gorgeous as his cock or his lips or his nipples. He had a trail of dark hair that ran from his balls back to his asshole and along the sides of his crack. His ass cheeks were fuzzy but his crack was hairy. It smelled like his crotch, not like shit, which, I admit was a relief.

The asshole itself was brown and puckered and shiny from the precum and spit I had smeared over it. As I gazed, it began to twitch. Without really thinking about it, I pressed my face against his cheeks and darted my tongue forward. His back arched, as it had when I touched him with my finger, only more vigorously. He nearly squeezed my face away from his hole.

"Fucking shit man, what are you doing?" I pulled away but before I could say anything, ask if it was okay, or say I was sorry, he panted, "Don't stop man. That feels un-fucking-believable."

That was all the encouragement I needed. I wedged my face into his ass crack. Even, now there is a part of me that is shocked by that. I recall being worried he would taste bad. He didn't. Oh, if I got too vigorous there would be a hint of bitterness but mostly he tasted of sweat and smelled of man. Now, with more years of experience than I care to admit to, I appreciate how fortunate I was. If Robin had been a slob, I might have never known the joys of giving a good rim job to some hot fucker's ass. Forget rimming, what if his crotch had stunk or he had a cheesy dick? I might be celibate to this day.

But he wasn't a slob. He was hot and horny and so was I. I attacked his ass with my tongue, pressing and twirling it all over the surface of his pucker. My hand was between his legs, pulling at his cock, at his balls.

When he began to thrust back against my tongue, I knew what he wanted. I nipped at his right ass cheek and then held him apart with my hands. I let a mouth full of spit drop at the crack of his ass and watched it flow over his asshole as I stood up. I spit in my hand, rubbed it over the head, spreading the spit and pre-cum mixture over the head and shaft. I steadied myself with one hand on his hip. The other gripped the base of my dick. I pressed the head against his asshole and waited.