The Harvest Party

Ronnie walked in one morning and announced it was time for a road trip. He didn't say where to or how long we would be gone. You just learned after a while not to ask questions. It was to be Ronnie, his "boys" (actually bodyguards/lackeys), their girlfriends and I. We just all threw our swimsuits and some changes of clothes in old suitcases and jumped into a few cars.

It was well after midnight when Ronnie dropped off the highway and the other cars followed. An hour or so later, we made a turn onto a dirt road, and then turned on a ill kept path that led through six separate sets of livestock gates about 10 minutes apart. I was raised in farm country, but this was so far off the beaten path that it kind of frightened me.

Finally around 1:30 we parked near an old ranch house miles from anywhere. It was big and lit up inside and out - with lots of cars and trucks parked everywhere. Ronnie led us to the door and then in, not even stopping to knock. No one was surprised we were there and no introductions were given. We just became part of the chain of people being passed joints, a loaded mirror and beers and whiskey as we lounged on the beanbags all over the big living room.

I counted 19 people. Seven of us were women. Things were pretty casual. No one was paranoid about the pot or cocaine sitting on the table. Ronnie and the boys were as relaxed as I ever saw them. We partied, chatted and listened to music until about 5AM, and then he took my hand and led me to bed just as the sun rose. We went to sleep eventually.

Breakfast was served just before noon, and the smell of coffee, eggs and bacon greeted us. We ate and chatted with others, sharing a few post breakfast lines and a joint to smooth out the high. I was feeling fine, but in the end I still had no idea where the fuck we were or why we were there. Ronnie wouldn't give a hint.

About 1PM, there was a mass boarding of the old big military trucks that had been parked out front and we were on our way.

We drove into a high walled canyon. There were 4 trucks and a jeep leading the way. Along the way somehow, we had gathered 5 more men – all heavily armed. It was a bit freaky, but Ronnie wasn't panicked so I wasn't either.

Another 1/2 hour down and we find ourselves in a deep canyon. A slow moving creek winds through it all. We pile out, form a line and head into the bush. Within minutes we're looking at a huge pot field. No organized rows like in the movies - this was just dense foliage of plants 5 to 8 feet high.

We all passed around sun screen and bug repellent as a few men walked the line between the plants and surrounding vegetation. They explained they were disarming some booby traps - shot gun shells with little trip lines - and that we should be very careful to enter and exit the area through the area we were in.

After a brief "how to" lesson on how to take the buds without killing the plants production, they passed out a stack of burlap bags and some shears and we all got to work.

At first it was fun, but after about ½ hour it could have been corn we were picking. Some of the buds were as big as my boob (i.e. larger than your hand) and it didn't take long to kind of get a contact high just from handling the cannabis. We established a rhythm to our work.

It wasn't all work. Every now and again we would stop and pass around the canteen and a joint or a "bullet" vial full of coke which was kept in a cooler so the flake wouldn't melt in the heat. Since it was hotter than hell we all started losing excess clothing.

At first it was shirts only, but fairly early on one of the girls took off her bra too. From there it was "on." In a crowd of drug dealer girlfriends, no one wanted to get shown up. Pretty soon a few others were down to their panties and sneakers and soon after that the first panties dropped.

I was not an exhibitionist by nature and was happy to keep my clothes on and sweat, but all the girls and a few of the men had dropped their clothing quickly. Ronnie enjoyed showing me off, and looked at me with that impatient look of expectation that sealed my fate. I took it off - all of it - and put my flip flop shoes back on.

The men said nothing rude - no catcalls or whistling- and the ones with the guns didn't even seem to notice - as seven young nude girls went back to work along with guys who were wearing their tightie-whites or less. We had been at it for maybe 20 minutes when it became obvious that our newly exposed skin was frying and the sunscreen was passed around again. Applying it to your body in all the places that a tank top and a pair of cutoffs had been covering was an experience and I caught a few guys and gals looking.

It would probably make a great story to say we all slipped off into the weed plants and screwed, but no one wanted to accidentally set off a trap while fucking out in the weeds. Instead, we worked, occasionally smoked some more weed passed around bottles of water and beer and then went back to it. We did our jobs until the word came down that all the trucks were full and we were done for the day.

We all dove back into the one empty truck and drove back to the house naked, arriving back dirty and pouring sweat. When we got back to the house, one of the girls who obviously lived there led us all around back to small swimming hole where we washed and cooled ourselves.

We didn't think twice about the trucks stacked high with pot - but when the sun finally started going down and the temperature dropped we all went out to get our clothes and found the trucks had been unloaded. All of our stuff was there neatly stacked, each persons sorted separately. All my items - underwear, shorts and tank top - were stacked together. Whoever had folded it was observant and efficient though we never figured out who it was. Just a little bit creepy.

We ate some dinner and a party attempted to break out, but the day had worn everyone out and most of us were in bed by 10. Ronnie knew that I'd gone an extra step that day going naked in front of strangers and was incredibly attentive that night - going down on me for a good long time while telling me how hot I was and then following up with a fuck to prove it.

The house was big, old and had thick walls but it was hot and windows were open so we could hear other couples coupling just as we were sure they could hear us. We didn't care. We were having fun.

Morning came too early. The physical labor of the prior day before made for some aches and pains that we weren't used to. Not many morning people in the drug trade in general, so we were none of us at our best, and without the aid of pot and booze we were forced to actually deal with each other.

A common characteristic of guys in the drug business - the smart ones anyway - is that they do not talk about themselves. They were friendly and easy to talk to, but after a chat you wouldn't know anything about them that they don't want you to know - which would probably be a lie anyway. They don't share - it's just good business to be very private.

Women who lived with dealers, and I considered myself a part of this group, could be borderline crazy. The hangers on and coke whores hanging around can make you insanely jealous. Drug addiction at some level is pretty much a given. Also, for a lot of girls there had daddy issues and a prior history of sexual abuse. Mix up all that and you wind up with a bunch of catty bitches.

When you get a room full of dealers and their girlfriends, the combo of cool aloofness and passive aggressive behavior can make for a weird vibe. We had sent the day before stoned and naked and the night listening to each other fuck. Hangovers, vague embarrassment and a case of "what the fuck did I do last night" were the order of the day. It was like we all were doing the walk of shame around each other.

We downed aspirins. We did a morning "pick me up" line or two. A few of us popped a beer or smoked a joint to mellow out. Few of us ate anything. Then it was time to load up the trucks and go back to the pot fields.

Our army had grown by three overnight and those three happened to climb into the back of the same truck as my boyfriend and I. From the moment I met them, it was plain they were markedly different in attitude and dress than the rest of the crowd.

The only male of the three introduced himself to me as Jerry and it was obvious Ronnie knew him already. It turned out he actually owned the ranch house we were staying in and this was his operation. He'd been away to do some errands, but he was back for the work.

Jerry was about 50 with graying hair and beard and skin that had seen too much sun for his age. He smiled and was pleasant, but had a hard edge to him that scared me a little.

His girl was "Gilley." She had the look of a mid-30s hippy complete with the 70's peasant blouse, round framed glasses, and kinky black hair that was almost slightly cartoonish it was so wild. Somehow it worked for her.

The third in the group was a girl introduced as Candy. Her clothes - a pair of simple jeans and a concert tee shirt – made her look like a college student, but her style and manner hinted that she was older and highly educated. She was a small girl – probably not 5'2" and maybe 100 pounds soaking wet. A very sexy blonde in her own way with small breasts and a boyish ass.

Unlike the other people we were staying with, the girls were friendly and we quickly made friends. Being around them, I found my hangover dissipate and my attitude improved. The trip out to the fields seemed to go much faster than the prior day.

I hadn't thought about the impact of Jerry actually owning the place so I was surprised at first when we got to the fields. From the time the trucks stopped, he began barking orders regarding offloading supplies and disarming booby-traps. Jerry was the man in charge, make no mistake.

Gilley and Candy took roles as well, playing hostesses by passing around a few joints and "bullets" full of some white powder that might have been a mix of coke and crank as it gave quiet a jolt but also produced kind of a nice euphoria. Stoned and happy we all took to the fields again.

Unlike the day before with the continual stops for smoke-outs and the skin show from the girls, this was a true workday. Our new companions worked the fields like they did it all the time, and that work ethic rubbed off on everyone. By a few hours in, most everyone was near naked again - it really was fucking hot – but there was none of the voyeuristic feel of the day before, except possibly when Cindy dropped her pants and shirt. Every man in the place seemed to notice that.

We worked our asses off until the service vehicles were stacked high with bags of freshly harvested grass, then climbed into the truck bed of the other truck and took off for home. It was actually a much faster day with the extra three people, and doing the work without so much fucking around made for faster harvest.

On the long trip back, I learned a bit more about the couple who owned the ranch. They were remarkably open people for our profession. He had been a modestly successful rock musician with a group that had a single big hit. They had rode that hit for close to four years doing concerts on the road, but the follow up album never developed and things kind of petered out. He'd been smart enough to know that fame was fleeting and had saved enough to buy the ranch. It was a cattle ranch on paper.

She was a Penn State student that met Jerry one night and decided to play groupie traveling with the band. Jewish by birth but a gypsy in spirit, she had traveled with the band for years and finally settled down when he did. That had been more than a decade before.

Little was said of Cindy, other than she came from California. She was something of an enigma. I liked her, but I remember I sensed a pain in her smile. I thought she was perhaps just shy - but would find out later she was anything but.

Once we got back to the ranch, we piled out and the trucks disappeared into the barn for unloading. We did the swimming hole thing – it was easier than lining up to take a shower and this time Gilly had actually brought out soap and shampoo for us. (It was probably not good for the environment, but we were less aware of those things back then.)

We all redressed and headed off to an area with some picnic tables. Unlike the night before, where everyone was tired, this night there was a festive quality to the proceeding.

A keg of beer on ice appeared along with bags of BBQ charcoal, potato chips and a tray of steaks. The music fired up as did a steady round of marijuana cigarettes and a small powdered mirror. Few were partaking of the powder because they didn't want to spoil dinner as we were all hungry after a rare day of manual labor.

With the exception of Jerry and a few of the "hands" (their words for the drivers and gunmen that obviously guarded the fields year around) everyone sat around and chatted, and I was surprised to see Gilley give Ronnie special attention. They seemed to be old friends. Ronnie was remarkably open and acted like a sociable human for a change. It was interesting to watch.

We ate. We drank. I managed to spill most of a beer on myself and got up to change. Gilley followed me in and we chatted about this and that while I removed my wet clothes and scrambled around looking for something dry to wear.

Gilley asked me if I was up for a party and I said sure. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me through the house half naked to her bedroom. This was mildly embarrassing, but there were only a few people indoors. (The men stared and the women glared as might be expected. If Gilley noticed at all, she didn't show it.)

We entered her bedroom and she opened up her oversized closet and dragged me in to look around. There were more clothes than I had owned in my entire life there and an upholstered bench to sit on while putting on shoes. I was pretty amazed.

Gilley said she wanted to dress up. "Let's be the belles of the ball." She pulled her dress over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her underwear - top and bottom - followed.

She rifled through the rack and found a beautiful black cocktail dress with silver seams and an ornate bow on the back. She slipped it on over her head and the change was simply stunning. In one motion, it was like she transformed from a Woodstock refugee into a New York sophisticate.

She selected another equally dazzling number and threw it over to me. It was gorgeous black dress - thin jet black silk with a low scooped front and a billowing skirt bottom with this white chiffon frill layered under that stuck out just enough to be seen. I admired it for a minute or two before I even dared to consider putting it on.

Finally, Gilley broke the spell by grabbing the dress and simply pulling it on over my head, laughing at my shock as I gawked at myself in the mirror. My bra straps were completely out of place – a simple fix as I dropped the top of the dress and removed the undergarment. Feeding the girls into the tight dress felt nice as the interior of the dress was lined with nice linen.

She was not as big as me up top. Although her dress fit, it was almost obscenely tight. I had to admit I looked pretty fucking good.

She rooted around and came up with some heels that fit well enough for me to walk in. I never thought to ask her why she had shoes of many sizes in her closet.

Finally, we topped it all off with comically long strings of pearls - obviously fake - and she said we looked like we might be at home in any upscale Manhattan martini bar. (I'd never been to Manhattan - or even had a martini.)

We were about to walk out the door when Gilley pulled on my arm to slow me down. In a quick move she reached under the dress and pulled the band down on my panties, jerking them all the way to the floor in one move.

"Honey," she laughed, "If you're going to start rocking the little black dress, you're going to have to learn a thing or two about the best way to accessorize!"

The giggle after the statement touched me in places most people can't touch. I stepped out of the pants in a mild shock and just kept following her, though I probably would have gone for her panties too except I knew she wasn't wearing any.

We exited the house to hoots and cat whistles. Gilly being the hostess, I was enlisted to assist and Gilley and I scampered around refilling beer mugs and emptying ashtrays while helping ourselves to lines of coke. I watched guys' eyes and we were suddenly getting all the attention. I have to admit I enjoyed it.

I caught Ronnie looking from across the way too, and he looked like he really appreciated the view. I hadn't seen THAT look from him in a while. Like every woman in the world, I appreciated it more than anything else. It felt good to really feel desired by him again.

So it got a little darker, everyone got a little friendlier, the music got a little louder. Everyone was one big happy dysfunctional family again. As would be expected with the girlfriends, our grabbing attention made them jealous, so a pair of them that had came together started "dirty dancing" and another was rubbing against her guy pretty obscenely, but all eyes still seemed to be on Gilley and I.

At some point, Jerry came back from wherever he had been (probably getting more coke since we had done the last of it) and Gilley, who had been refilling someone's beer, leaned across to give him a kiss. As she leaned over I noticed that in bending at the waist the dress rose up as she moved, exposing the underside of her lady parts.

I had been wearing a dress just a bit shorter than hers and had bent over at the waist perhaps a dozen times in the last hour. I had probably been putting on the same show for the men who sat around the tables and suddenly understood why we had been so popular.

I knew that most of this group has seen me naked anyway, but looking at Gilley I realized that a flash of a cunt from under an expensive, classy dress is 100 times hotter than simply being naked – new knowledge that I stored for a later time when it would come in handy.

It was getting late for a group of people who had done more physical labor earlier in the day than they usually end up doing in a week. The white powder was flowing though, so instead of getting up and going to bed, people were just mellow and maybe laughing just a little too hard at others jokes.

I scanned the crowd and realized that I hadn't seen Cindy in hours, and given that I had been helping out Gilley figured she just took advantage of the time off and was living her own life. (Lacking any real details on her, I had decided in my own mind that Cindy must work for Gilley and Jerry.)

In order to be near the coke that was being passed around, we re-arranged the tables into one big long one, and Gilley and Jerry held court from one end. We were all stoned and getting more so, so when Gilley suggested a game of "spin the bottle," it seemed delightfully juvenile. We spun an empty whisky fifth a few times before realizing it didn't work since we weren't in a circle. The bottle rarely pointed directly at anyone.

That game abandoned, Gilly suggested "Big Secrets" instead. Each player at the table shared an intimate or embarrassing secret and if the other players thought it was untrue or just plain lame and unexciting, you had to take a shot. It was easy enough, so we all went around the table and took a turn.

One of the girls volunteered that she had dropped out of high school in the 11th grade, which was a year later than I had.

Another spoke seeing her first hard one when she caught her brother masturbating.

Ronnie told the story of how he was on acid and accidentally wet his pants because he forgot how his zipper worked. (Unfortunately, I knew this one was true.)