Midnight Farmhand

by Roland Graeme

  After he had grown used to the feel of Jacob’s cock within him, Camilo began to rotate his buttocks in a sensuous circle, causing Jacob’s probing ramrod to stir within him, slipping into places Jacob hadn’t reached yet. It also created a kind of gentle massaging motion along the embedded shaft of Jacob’s cock. Feeling Camilo’s butthole churn beneath him was even more stimulating for Jacob than stroking his dick into him. In an effort to control the sensations coursing through his body, Jacob relaxed above Camilo, letting him keep up the grinding motion with his hips, as Jacob nibbled at his neck and shoulder with his lips. For all practical purposes, Camilo was now fucking himself on Jacob’s cock, and Jacob didn’t have to do anything except enjoy the ride.

  Little by little, Camilo began to increase the pace of his motions. When Jacob resumed his own thrusts and withdrawals at the increased tempo, Camilo raised himself up on his elbows and he began to meet his fucker’s every plunge into him with a muscular backward motion of his hips. Jacob’s cock bent at the middle for a split-second, but then it straightened and it shot deep into Camilo’s ass with jarring force. They both began to sweat as the speed of their lovemaking accelerated.

  Camilo groaned gutturally, heaving himself back against the phallic impalement, twisting from side to side to send Jacob’s burning erection into him from a new angle. Each time Jacob drew back from him, the pucker of his asshole drew itself closed around Jacob’s retreating shaft, narrowing the channel—into which Jacob would immediately thrust once more. And each time Jacob plowed into him, Camilo groaned, his whole body shuddering. Jacob’s belly had grown slippery with sweat against Camilo’s back as Jacob continued to ride him, sliding slickly in, to hesitate a fraction of a second while his cockhead throbbed within Camilo’s rectum and Jacob’s hipbones depressed the convex mounds of his buttocks.

  Grasping Camilo’s shoulders, Jacob pressed himself into him as deeply as he could, as Jacob’s breath caught in his throat.

  “Oh! Oh, God!” Jacob gasped. “I think I’m going to come!”

  “Do it! Come in my ass!” Camilo growled.

  Like a cascade of burning gasoline, Jacob’s orgasm trickled hotly down the entire length of his body, widening into a sheet of liquid flame as it licked at his flesh, until he was convulsed from head to foot by the first fiery tremor. The sensation seemed to condense in his groin until it felt like a bolt of pure, sizzling electricity hitting the spot between his asshole and his balls. The scalding wash of fluid shot out of his cock— not like ordinary semen, but like white, molten lightning. Contained by the rubber Jacob was wearing on his dick, the frothy discharge bathed his cock in its slippery wetness.

  Jacob fell against Camilo, the spasms racking him no longer subject to his control. Like puppets with too-taut, vibrating strings, the two men’s rigid bodies jerked and quivered together, as Jacob’s orgasm flooded the reservoir tip of the condom on his dick and soaked his penis in a soothing wetness inside the constricting latex. His cum seemed to pour out of him in an unending stream. The moans of ecstasy bursting from his lips rose in pitch until he ran out of breath, and then his cries of passion faded out in a gasp.

  Suddenly depleted, Jacob collapsed on top of the man he’d just fucked, every muscle in his body twitching spasmodically. Choking and gasping like a long distance runner who had just finished a race, Jacob gathered enough energy to lift himself from Camilo’s body and extricate his penis from the clasp of Camilo’s ass. He rolled heavily onto his back beside Camilo on the rumpled bed. Peeling the semen-filled condom from his dick, he unceremoniously tossed it onto the floor beside the bed.

  “You fucked me, kid,” Camilo moaned. “Oh, you fucked me good! Good and hard.”

  “I guess so.”

  When Jacob had caught his breath, he rolled onto his side toward Camilo, and covered his unshaven face with kisses. Perhaps it was merely the fact that it’d been Jacob’s first time to fuck his buddy, but it had been one of the best orgasms he’d enjoyed in a long time.

  “That was one hell of a hot fuck,” Jacob whispered, his lips brushing Camilo’s beard-stubbled cheek.

  Camilo turned toward Jacob, the sheets rustling under him. Jacob let himself be pulled against the other man, pressing his head against Camilo’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. You seemed really sexed up tonight. I guess the boss got you good and warmed up, the last time you paid him a visit,” Camilo said, sounding a bit sullen.

  “Don’t tell me you’re on that jealous kick again. And that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Sorry. But that bastard Merle has been screwing you, hasn’t he?”

  “Not in well over a week. Twelve days, I think, to be exact. Not that I’ve been counting the days,” Jacob was quick to add. “Or pining away at night, missing him. Maybe he’s getting tired of me.”

  “More likely he’s found himself a new trick, for the time being. He seems to be spending a lot of his evenings in town, lately.”

  “You don’t miss much that goes on around here, do you?”

  “I try not to.”

  “Listen, Camilo. I don’t want to lose this job. So if letting Greenley throw a fuck into me every now and then is the price I have to pay to stay on the payroll—well, then so be it. And you and I have never talked about being … oh, you know. Exclusive.”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “I like you, man, but I can’t see myself having sex with just one man. Not at this point in my life. Maybe later on, I’ll start thinking about settling down.”

  “So what you’re saying is … there’s no need for me to start planning a big Mexican-style wedding, with a mariachi band and all the rest of it?”

  Camilo, Jacob was relieved to see, was recovering his usual good humor.

  “I guess not,” Jacob agreed.

  “That’s a relief, actually. I’ve been married, remember? And it sucked.”

  Jacob now felt bold enough to ask his friend a personal question: “What about it sucked, exactly?”

  “Not the sex. My wife was a whore before we were married—”

  “Ah, you don’t mean that literally, do you?”

  “Sure, I mean it literally. She turned tricks. She liked sex. Suck, fuck—hell, she even liked it when I gave it to her up the ass,” Camilo bragged. “Maybe all that back door stuff is what turned me gay. Who knows? Anyway, it was all the goddamn nagging I couldn’t put up with. Women! Give me a man, any time. At least a guy doesn’t start trying to boss you around after you’re done fucking—usually.”

  “No,” Jacob agreed, lightly. “The bossing around usually comes before the fucking, or during it—if that’s the kind of sex the two guys are into.”

  Camilo gave him a searching, slightly smug look. “And you like it that way, don’t you, pretty boy? You like it when another man gets a little rough with you. It turns you on.”

  “I don’t deny it. But so do you.”

  “I don’t deny it, either.”

  “Okay, so neither of us is in denial. We’re both horny, kinky sons of bitches, and we admit it.” Jacob paused. “Don’t go back to your own room tonight. Stay here and sleep with me.”

  “All right. But set the alarm so I’ll have time to sneak back to my own place and change my clothes, before breakfast.”

  “Done.” Jacob fiddled with the alarm clock on the nightstand. Then he turned out the light, plunging the room into darkness.

  Despite his recognition of the need for discretion, Jacob wasn’t sure he liked all this sneaking around. There were times when the anonymity and openness of gay life in a big city looked desirable—in theory, at least; and from a distance.

  “You like having me in your bed with you, huh?” Camilo asked, as they settled down together under the bedclothes.

  “Sure. You’d probably come in handy on a chilly night,” Jacob teased his bedmate. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you on a warm night, like tonight. I do like you, Camilo. And not just for sex. If I don’t always come right out and let you kno
w it—well, that’s just the way I am. I’ve never been very good at putting my feelings into words.”

  “Yeah, you’re a man of action, like me.”

  To Jacob’s relief, Camilo chuckled. They’d succeeded in lightening the mood.

  Jacob felt that a demonstrative gesture was in order. He slipped his arm around Camilo’s waist and pulled the other man’s warm naked body firmly against his own nudity. Camilo surrendered to the embrace, snuggling up tightly against his young lover.

  “Um, you feel nice, close against me like this,” Jacob whispered. “I’m glad you decided to pay me a visit, tonight. And I’m glad we can sleep together. I do like having you here in bed next to me.”

  “Yeah. I like it, too.”

  Jacob nuzzled into Camilo’s shoulder, running his tongue over his earlobe, nipping it a little with his teeth. In each other’s arms, they lay together quietly for a long while. In the close darkness, Jacob pressed himself against the other man’s naked body, until the heat of their separate flesh seemed to melt together into a single entity, and they fell asleep.

  Chapter Two: Job Security

  Anyone would have thought that, after all the sex Camilo and Jacob had indulged in, they’d have trouble hauling their asses out of bed in the morning. But one thing the two men had in common was that they were both early risers. Farm workers had to be. They were up and ready for work with time to spare, and they joined the other farmhands for breakfast in the main house’s dining room.

  “Hang on a minute, Jacob,” Merle said, as the men finished eating and, one by one, left the table. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jacob lingered after the others had left. Merle drew him aside.

  “You can help with the planting today,” the manager said. “After that, here’s a list of repairs that need to be done. Nothing major, just a lot of little things. You can get started on them.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jacob couldn’t understand why Merle hadn’t simply given these instructions to him in front of the others, instead of waiting until the two of them were alone. In a moment, though, the reason became all too clear.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve spent any time together,” Merle said, smoothly.

  “Has it?”

  “You have this bad habit of answering a question with a question, boy.” Now there was the slightest edge of irritation audible in Merle’s voice. “It can be annoying.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Forget it. But as I was saying—I haven’t seen you for a while. Outside of work, I mean. Why do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been invited. I suppose you’ve been busy.”

  “Fair enough. Well, we’ll have to do something about that now. Why don’t you come to my room tonight?” It was more of an order than a suggestion. “Let’s say around eight.”

  Jacob hesitated. But he knew that disagreement wasn’t a viable option. “All right,” he muttered, at last.

  “And … you’d better be ready. Good and ready.” Merle didn’t say ready for what, exactly; and Jacob didn’t have to ask. He had a fairly good idea of what the big Texan might have in mind!

  Jacob joined the other men as they went to work in the newly tilled fields. It was a fine, clear morning, with a refreshing coolness in the air, which the sun hadn’t yet risen high enough to dissipate.

  Jacob could feel his originally buoyant mood beginning to darken, though, as a result of his encounter with Merle.

  His boss expected him to have sex with him again. There’d been a time, not so long ago, when this wouldn’t have been a big deal—when Jacob, in fact, might have welcomed the prospect. But now that Jacob was settling comfortably into his relationship with Camilo, he resented having to be at Merle’s beck and call. And Jacob was still new enough to gay sex to think that it was excessive to have more than partner at once. Promiscuity was something he associated with city folk.

  As he labored in the fields beside the other men, he remembered how his liaison with Merle had begun.

  When Jacob had been hired, the farm was without a manager. The man who’d served in that capacity for many years had been forced to resign for health reasons. He’d moved to another state, to live with relatives there.

  Jacob sensed that the man had been well liked, and was sorely missed. Jacob had been living and working on the farm for nearly two months before the owners found a new manager. His name was Merle Greenley. A man in his late thirties, he had plenty of experience, although admittedly most of it had been in the southern part of the United States.

  Greenley was a Texan, and he looked and sounded like one. He was a big man, over six feet tall, and powerfully built. He had the kind of hard, bulging muscles that could only be the product of some serious iron pumping. He carried himself with the assurance of a man who was fully conscious of his physical strength.

  Fair-skinned, he had a ruddy tan, the result of constant exposure to the sun. A shock of longish, untidy dirty blond hair contrasted to the neatly trimmed mustache on his upper lip, and a wispy hint of a goatee between his lower lip and his chin. He spoke with a distinctive regional accent, somewhere between a drawl and a twang, with made him sound exotic when he was in the company of a group of native Pennsylvanians.

  Jacob found him intimidating. He and Greenley in fact got off to a bad start.

  The manager had his own living quarters in the main house, a suite of rooms on the ground floor. One of the rooms served as his office. After Greenley reported to his new job and took possession of the rooms vacated by his predecessor, one of the first things he did was summon the employees to the office for a meeting.

  Jacob subsequently discovered that there were two sides to the new manager’s personality. Greenley could be polite, soft-spoken, and formal when he felt that the occasion, or the people he was speaking to, warranted it. When he was more at his ease—when, in short, he didn’t see any need to put on an act—he had a tendency to revert to his redneck roots. He spoke brusquely, and he made free use of profanity, including the kind of terminology that would be considered to be Politically Incorrect, at best, and downright offensive, at worst, in polite society.

  At this first meeting, addressing the small group of men who would be working under his supervision, he started out politely enough. He had the employees’ personnel files in front of him on his desk, and he made a point of making small talk with each of them in turn, glancing at the man’s file from time to time.

  When he came to Camilo, the mask of studied civility started to slip a bit.

  “Your name’s Bautista, huh?” Greenley asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You a Mexican?”

  “Originally, sir.”

  “Are you in this country legally?”

  Camilo seemed unruffled by the blunt question. “Of course. I became a citizen when I was a young man. There should be copies of my naturalization papers in that folder. I always make a point of giving them to my employers. It prevents misunderstandings—such as people jumping to conclusions.”

  The hint of sarcasm in Camilo’s last comment seemed lost on Greenley.

  “Yeah, I see them. What’re you doing this far north?”

  Camilo smiled, thinly. “We don’t all choose to live in Texas, or the southwest, Mr. Greenley. Some of us have even gotten used to cold winters.”

  “Right,” Greenley said, gruffly. “Now, who’s next? Jacob Stoltzfus?”

  Jacob stepped forward. “That’s me, sir.”

  Greenley gave him a searching look, up and down, which made Jacob begin to feel uncomfortable.

  It was a moment before the new manager spoke. Then: “Are you the new hire? The Amish boy?”

  “I’m a Mennonite, actually, Mr. Greenley.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Not quite.” Suddenly feeling tongue-tied, Jacob didn’t volunteer any further information on the subject; and Greenley didn’t ask to be enlightened.


  “So—what’re you doing here, instead of working on one of your own people’s farms?” Greenley asked. “Did you run away from home? Or did they kick you out for misbehaving? What do they call it when you do something to piss them off—‘shunning,’ ain’t it?”

  “Nothing like that, sir. I left home to look for work. Some of us do, you see. My family’s always had dealings with the English. We’ve even intermarried with them.”

  “The English?” Greenley asked, looking baffled. “What English?”

  Camilo smoothly stepped into the conversation: “That’s the word the Amish and the Mennonites use to describe anybody who isn’t an Amish man, or a Mennonite. To them, even somebody like me is an ‘Englishman.’ And for good reason, in my case,” Camilo joked. “Anybody can tell just by looking at me that I obviously come from a long line of British aristocracy.”

  “Oh, I see,” Greenley replied—although he looked and sounded rather skeptical. Camilo’s humor, like his sarcasm, seemed lost on him. “Anyhow, Stoltzfus—you don’t have any weird notions about not working on Saturdays, do you? Because that’s your people’s Sabbath, instead of Sunday?”

  “Ah—I believe you’re thinking of the Seventh Day Adventists, sir. That’s completely different.”

  “Is it? I wouldn’t know. I’m a Baptist, myself.” Something about the way Greenley inflected the statement suggested that, in his opinion, Baptists were inherently superior to any and all other sects.

  “And here we’re all used to working seven days a week, Mr. Greenley, except for our scheduled days off,” Jacob said, boldly. “None of us believes in slacking off.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. Let’s hope it turns out to be true. By the way, Stoltzfus, what name do you prefer to go by? Jacob, or Jake?”