Suddenly, Duane held Jacob’s head tighter, and he shoved extra hard. The head of his cock rammed right down Jacob’s throat, and the farmhand felt the cop’s hot stuff shooting into him. The cum boiled into Jacob’s mouth like hot water gushing from an opened hydrant.
He swallowed furiously to contain the thick slime of Duane’s first copious eruption. Jacob wanted it all. Maddened by the potent outpouring, he gulped the foaming stream of sperm like a thirsty animal. He let his head fall forward around the slippery shaft of the cock, taking another blast of the scalding cream straight into his throat. Again and again, Duane flooded Jacob’s mouth and throat with the burning tide of his cum.
Jacob’s own cock went off like a geyser, and he tried to pull back; but Duane held my head immobile, with his cock jammed down his throat. He was still shooting, and Jacob could hardly breathe.
Even when the throbbing of Duane’s cock diminished, and the long thick organ began to soften in Jacob’s mouth, Jacob continued to suck him, half-crazed with the need to milk from that spongy member the last salty drop of his male essence.
Jacob remained lying there, with the warm hardness of Duane’s emptied penis still filling his mouth, blocking his throat. His own cock was still squirting wildly. Duane’s hands clasped the back of his head, and Jacob’s face was buried in Duane’s thick scratchy pubic hair.
“Oh shit! Fuck!” Duane exclaimed.
His prick started softening, inching back out of Jacob’s throat. The hands on the farmhand’s head relaxed, then fell away. Jacob leaned backward and looked up.
Duane hovered over him, his head tilted backward, his mouth open. His handsome features were still contorted by the tension of orgasm. His cock was still dripping, threads of white semen oozing out, dropping onto the bed. Jacob’s own dick was in his hand and his own semen was sticky on his fingers.
Jacob shuddered, feeling disoriented, his body still burning with desire. Duane reached out and grabbed his arm, steadying him. Duane drew Jacob toward him.
“Kiss me,” Duane murmured.
Jacob kissed him. Now there was no roughness in the tough young cop. He was all tenderness.
Afterward, when they lay in Jacob’s bed together, they had one of those drowsy post-orgasmic conversations that two men who’ve just tricked together often get into.
“When we first met, I had no idea you’d turn out to be such a fucking masochist,” Duane told Jacob.
“I’m not,” Jacob protested.
“You sure could’ve fooled me. You really seem to get off on a rough sex.”
“It’s just something I can get into, sometimes. It takes a really butch number like you to bring it out of me.”
“I guess you’re what they call a ‘power bottom,’” Duane teased him. “You pretend you want the other guy to dominate you, but you’re the one who’s really running the show. It must come with being the low man on the totem pole at the moment, here on the farm. You can’t help trying to compensate for that in the bedroom.”
“Please, let’s not talk about work. I’ve had more than enough of that for one day.”
“Okay. So tell me,” Duane said. “Does your boyfriend here on the farm mind you cheating on him? That is, assuming he knows.”
“Hey, back up a second, officer,” Jacob protested. “What makes you think I have a boyfriend?”
Duane shrugged. “I just took it for granted. Hell, an attractive guy like you, who obviously likes sex. You must have to beat off the other horny fuckers on this spread with a stick. Huh, ‘beat off’—get it?” He smirked at his own inadvertent pun.
“Trust me, I haven’t had to resort to the stick since I got here.”
“You really don’t have a lover, fast asleep in one of the other rooms here, in blissful ignorance of what you and I just did?”
“Jesus, Duane. ‘Lover’ sounds like such an old-fashioned word for it. Nowadays, it seems that everybody wants to find a domestic partner, or a husband. Anyway, whatever label you care to put on it, I don’t have anybody here on the farm who really gives a damn what I do here in my room at night. Well,” Jacob added, as an afterthought. “There is this one guy. We’re sort of fuck buddies.”
“I knew it. I knew there had to be somebody. So tell me about him. Is the sex good?”
“It’s great.”
“That’s always a promising start.”
“It can be a pretty satisfactory goal, too, in and of itself. This guy and I don’t really expect anything else from each other.”
“Not yet, maybe. Give it time.”
“Since you talk as though you’re some sort of an expert on relationships, how come you’re not hooked up with anybody special?”
“I’m on the rebound. I just broke up with a guy, after being with him on and off for a couple of years.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I had no way of knowing.”
“Don’t worry about it. We had what’s called an ‘amiable parting of the ways.’ We’re still close friends. There wasn’t any heavy drama when we broke up. We just sat down together and discussed it, and we agreed to call it quits. And it was an open relationship the whole time we were together. Neither of us expected monogamy. That made it a lot easier to end it.”
“Is he anybody I know?” Jacob asked.
“I doubt it. He owns a small farm a fair distance from here. Which made it a long-distance romance, in way. He does come into town a lot, on business, or to see him, so you’re likely to run into him sooner or later. I’ll introduce you, if I get the chance. And your fuck buddy, here? Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Um, I’m not sure I feel comfortable telling you, behind his back. Without his permission, I mean.”
“What do I look like—some sort of a gossipy queen? But okay, keep your secret. It’ll give me something to exercise my investigatory skills on.”
Their conversation lagged. Jacob was getting drowsy, and he expected Duane to fall asleep, too, right there in his arms. But after a moment, suppressing a yawn, Duane stirred beside Jacob, and then he sat up.
“I’d better get going,” he said.
“You don’t have to. You can spend the night here, if you want to. Come on, stay here. Sleep with me.”
“Um, it’s a tempting offer. But I’d better not. I hadn’t planned on this, you know. I’d have to go home in the morning and change clothes for work, anyway. I agreed to pull Sunday morning duty this weekend.”
“Change clothes? You wear a uniform to work, every day.”
The police officer laughed. “That’s right. And for your information, farm boy, you with your work wardrobe consisting entirely of jeans, boots, and T-shirts or plaid shirts—I make a point of wearing a clean uniform to work, every day. Unlike you guys who’re used to getting dirty on the job, I have a certain professional image to uphold.”
“Okay, point taken.”
“And, like I said before—having my car seen here, first thing in the morning, might lead to speculation.”
“I don’t care about that, if you don’t.”
“Well, it’s your reputation I’m thinking of, not mine. If it’s not an issue—but no, I really will head home now. This was great, though. You’re such a hot guy.”
“Thanks. So are you. Listen. I’ll let you go. But you’re going to have to promise me that I can see you again.”
“Sure. Whenever you’re free.”
Duane got up and began to get dressed. When he was ready, he leaned over the bed and kissed Jacob, long and lingeringly, on the mouth.
“I can let myself out,” he whispered. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
He left, closing the door behind him.
After a moment, Jacob managed to get off the bed, stumble over to the door, and snap the lock closed and put the security chain in place. It probably wasn’t necessary to take such precautions, there on the farm; but, perhaps as a result of his desire to keep his sex life private, he’d gotten into the habit. Then he retraced his steps. He collapsed o
n the bed. The sheets were not only rumpled; they were damp with sweat and semen stains. They reeked of sex. Jacob didn’t care. If anything, he rather liked lying in the residue of his debauchery, with Duane’s body fluids right there to remind him of what they’d just done together.
Jacob sighed. He felt fucked out, in every sense of the word. He turned out the light, and abandoned himself to sleep.
Chapter Five: The Englishman
Jacob woke up, alone in his bed, early on Sunday morning.
Duane, of course, had gone. Jacob might almost have been able to dismiss the entire encounter with the cop as a dream—a sex dream, admittedly—except for the fact that the rumpled bedclothes were stained with semen and lubricant. Furthermore, Jacob’s pickup was missing from the parking space in front of his room. No, his wild Saturday night had been real, enough. He had the slight headache, and the lingering taste of Duane’s jism in his mouth, as proof.
After breakfast, a somewhat bleary-eyed Jacob approached Camilo.
“Can you do me a favor, sometime today?” Jacob asked.
“Sure, kid. What?”
“Drive me into town so I can pick up my truck.”
Camilo arched one eyebrow, quizzically. “Okay. But what’s your truck doing in town—while you’re here?”
“I drove into town last night and I got kind of drunk,” Jacob admitted. “So this guy gave me a ride home.”
“Well, that was a smart thing for you to do, instead of trying to drive while you were smashed. What guy?”
For some reason, Jacob was reluctant to confide fully in Camilo. “Oh, just some dude I met in the bar.”
“This drinking buddy of yours—did you do more than just drink with him?”
“What’s it to you, whether I did, or I didn’t?”
Camilo shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. It’s none of my damn business what you do.”
He looked and sounded sullen. Nevertheless, he gave Jacob a lift into town, where Jacob retrieved his truck. The vehicle was sitting there in the bar’s parking lot. At this hour on a Sunday morning, of course, the bar was locked up tight, and there were no signs of life in the vicinity. Once again, the events of the previous night seemed strangely unreal to Jacob.
The following Monday was a hot day, and Jacob worked shirtless in the fields for most of the afternoon.
Hot, sweaty, and tired, he made his way slowly to his room in the late afternoon. He was looking forward to cleaning up, and relaxing for a little while, before supper.
He found an envelope, pushed under his door. Picking it up, he saw his first name printed on it in large letters. Inside the envelope was a greeting card. I’m so glad we’re friends was the banal message printed on the front of the card. Inside, in the same careful printing, was written, Come see me at eight o’clock tonight. Please. Underneath, was the signature, Merle.
Jacob didn’t know how to interpret this cryptic communication. He and Merle were hardly “friends.” And it was almost unprecedented for the manager to use the word “please” with him. What was up?
Mulling over the matter, Jacob finally decided to take the card at face value. It was Merle’s way of making a conciliatory gesture, however clumsy, toward him. Jacob might be wise not to reject it. He’d be better off playing along, and finding out exactly what Merle’s present state of mind was.
He stripped and showered. As he picked out clean clothes to change into, he decided to make a conciliatory gesture of his own. His new hair style and wardrobe had aroused Merle’s suspicions; but the man had also complimented him on his new look. Acting on a whim, Jacob rather perversely chose to wear the same pair of jeans and the yellow sweatshirt he’d had on when he’d gotten drunk in the bar and Duane had driven him home—and had sex with him. It was Duane, not Merle, whom Jacob was thinking about, with a smile on his face, as he got dressed.
Reporting to the dining room, he was disappointed to see the seat at the head of the table unoccupied.
“Where’s Mr. Greenley?” he asked.
“He told us not to expect him tonight,” one of the other farmhands said. “He said something about having dinner in town.”
Interesting, Jacob thought, not without humor. Looks like the boss is going to have himself a busy night. First dinner in town … and then his date with me, later on!
Maybe he’ll be delayed. Maybe he won’t show up at all—and then I’ll be off the hook. For one evening, at least. I should be so lucky!
Knowing that Merle expected promptness, Jacob timed himself so that he made his way back to the main house and knocked on the door of the manager’s office a few minutes before eight.
“Is that you, Jacob?” Merle called out from the other side of the door.
“Yeah, Merle, it’s me.” Damn it, Jacob thought. He got back from town, after all!
“Come right on in.”
Jacob entered the room, and closed the door behind him. Merle was there, as he’d of course anticipated. But, to Jacob’s surprise, his boss wasn’t alone. Another man was seated opposite him.
“Sorry, Mr. Greenley,” Jacob mumbled. “I didn’t know you had company.” He made a move back toward the door, as though to retreat.
“No, stay here, Jacob. It’s all right,” Merle told him. “I want you to meet a friend of mine. Jacob, this is Henry Troyer. Hank, this is Jacob—the young man I told you about.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jacob responded, automatically.
“Same here,” Troyer said.
“Hank doesn’t like being called Henry, any more than you care to be called Jake,” Merle said.
Troyer smiled. “That’s because my name’s really Heinrich. When people in the city hear that, they assume I must be European. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But around here I can’t bring it off. The moment I open my mouth, everybody here can tell I’m a local boy.”
During these exchanges, Jacob was taking a good look at Hank Troyer. He estimated that the man was a few years older than himself, perhaps in his late twenties.
Troyer was in fact a common Amish surname in this part of Pennsylvania. But Hank looked about as “English” as a man could get. He was a big man, even bigger than Merle, with a bodybuilder’s imposing physique. He had a fair skin, lightly suntanned, and sprinkled here and there with freckles. His eyes were blue, and his wheat-colored dark blond hair was styled even more carefully than Jacob’s was, with frosted tips.
But it was his clothes that were the real giveaway. He wore pale blue designer jeans, in a somewhat baggy cut, and, on his feet, training shoes in a particularly vivid hue of lime green. The jeans were secured around his waist by a brown leather belt with a silver buckle in the shape of a skull. Above his waist, Troyer wore a tight-fitting olive drab tank top which showed off his hard flat stomach and heavy chest. At first glance, the tank top looked as though it could be military surplus; but Jacob could see that it was made of too fine and expensive a fabric for that.
Even though he was seated comfortably in one of the chairs in Merle’s office, Troyer was still wearing a jacket—a very expensive-looking lightweight affair, fashioned from thin brown goatskin.
“Sit down, Jacob,” Merle urged. “And let’s all have a drink. Hank owns and runs the gym in town. I’ve started going there.”
“Oh? I didn’t know there was a gym in town.”
Once again, Hank smiled at Jacob. “It’s a small place, and nothing fancy—not like the kind of fitness centers you’ll find in the city. We’re more of a grunt-and-sweat iron pit, which is why I call it The Iron Pit. But we have all the basic equipment, and you can get in a good workout there. Here.” He handed Jacob a business card. “You ought to stop by sometime, and check it out. The memberships aren’t expensive.”
“I don’t know. I work hard enough, right here on the farm.”
“And it shows. You have a nice natural build. But put yourself in my hands, and I’ll get you bulked up and ripped.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’d like to get to
o bulky.”
Hank laughed. “Listen. A guy can never be too big. A hot bod never fails to attract other men.”
Jacob could feel himself blushing, and he hated himself for it. Hank was sure to notice it, and he’s think that Jacob was some dumb, inexperienced, unsophisticated kid. But the man was assuming that Jacob wanted to attract other men. Merle must have told Hank about his relationship with Jacob. And, knowing Merle, Jacob was willing to bet he’d done so in explicit, lurid detail. The realization made Jacob feel a little angry and resentful. What right did Merle have to shoot his mouth off about their private affairs?
In an attempt to hide his feelings, Jacob gulped the whiskey Merle had poured out for him. Merle and Hank were imbibing freely, too.
“I invited Hank here tonight so you could meet him, Jacob,” Merle said. “I want you two to get know each other. You two have a lot in common, after all.”
“Oh? Such as what?” Jacob asked.
“My folks are Old Order Amish,” Hank explained. “I broke away from all that. And so have you, from the looks of it.”
“Not completely,” Jacob protested. “And not irrevocably. I guess that couldn’t have been easy for you?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Hank agreed. “But people have to do what they need to, sometimes.”
Merle spoke up: “I think it would be great if you two became good friends—the way you and I are, Jacob.”
“Well, we work together,” Jacob replied, more than a little defiantly. “You’re my boss. I’m not sure how close we really are.”
Hank looked at Jacob, somewhat quizzically. “That’s not what Merle tells me. According to him, you two are pretty tight. Pretty intimate, in fact.”
“Like I told you,” Merle interjected. “Jacob is my boy. He does everything I tell him to do … and he never gives me any trouble. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”
“If you say so, Merle.”
“I know so,” Merle said, in that firm tone of voice that Jacob recognized as the manager’s way of declaring that there was no room for argument. “You’ve never been in a threesome, have you, Jacob?”
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