First Time Fun on the Farm Pt. 01

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This is a seven chapter saga divided into three stories, due to the overall length.

Chapter 1: Brother Butch’s Boner

Growing up on a farm a kid learns all about procreation naturally. Learning about sensuality is a whole other lesson. A farm girl pretty much gets a good look at how things work, after observing several cows and horses pairing off. However, it wasn’t until I reached the tender age of eighteen that I observed first hand what arousal was. In my case it was a strong visual combined with a heavy dose of emerging hormones that made it so exciting.

Having three older brothers, it was only a matter of time before I was exposed to the inevitable. I had other siblings – a grand total of seven, but this particular recollection involved Butch. He was four years my senior and in every way a typical farm boy. When he wasn’t going to school or working the fields, he was generally nowhere to be found. It seemed as though Mom was always tracking him down in some unexpected hideaway. After so many years of searching, Mom had a fair idea of his favorite haunts.

“Barb, be a sweetie and find your brother. We’ve got to be at church in a half hour,” she asked.

“Sure, but where should I start?”

“Try the quonset or the barn; he’s probably in one or t’other,” she suggested, as I headed out.

As kids, it was a delightful pastime to sneak up on each other, so I opted to consider it a stealth mission and silently peaked inside the quonset building, but no Butch. Avoiding a few fresh cow pies along the dusty path, I peered into the hay barn. There was still no one to be seen. Letting go a sigh of frustration, I scanned the entire barnyard. That’s when I heard the faint sound of grunts and slaps breaking through the light summer breeze. It seemed to be coming from the barn, maybe from the back. I tip toed around the side and the sound grew loader. Turning the corner, I could plainly hear it was Butch’s voice coming from inside a corner of the barn. There was just enough of a crease in the old planks to peak through. He had carved out a spot in the bales of hay to make a secret hideaway, big enough for him and his magazine.

“That’s it Bitch, suck that hard cock. Yeah, take it all, you slut!” He groaned and barked, as he roughly jacked his fully erect pecker back and forth.

“Holy crap, he’s jacking off!” I thought, instantly aware of why it was so defined. I should have been embarrassed by the language, for intruding or felt guilty and turned away at that point. I should have. I didn’t.

The initial surprise of witnessing a private moment melted into an appreciation of his technique, then into a fascination. This was the farthest thing from personal abuse; he was in seventh heaven. I couldn’t pass up this singular opportunity to observe the entire process.

“Let’s see, ‘being late for church’ and enduring my mother’s wrath or ‘watching my brother climax?'” Weighing the options, I fixated on his rock-hard cock. Being it was Sunday, it really felt like I was committing a delicious sin.

“Oh Baby, you want it so bad,” Butch mumbled, as a thin clear film of goop coated the head of his young pole.

Unexpected desires in me started to flow, as I watched and listened to his forceful strokes turn from dry to lubricated. My infatuation was not for him, but clearly focused on his now throbbing dick.

“Show me those big tits, yeah!” He begged, as his strokes slowed to a strong, deliberate pace.

“Who was he looking at in that magazine?” I thought, as my hand found its way inside my cotton blouse to massage my young breast. I was so aroused. I dare not move my legs, for fear I might spring a leak. “Whoever this bimbo is must have huge tits,” I guessed and fondled my boob.

My brother grunted, tightened his cock grip and slowly shot two long streams of white jism. I caught my breath, as he jacked out more thick cream from his red hot poker. Silently I fixed my blouse and sneaked back around to the front of the barn.

“BUTCH! Where are you? It’s time for church!” I yelled, trying to disguise any anxiety in my voice. “Mom’s gonna tan your ass!” I added.

“I… I’m coming Barbie!” I heard from beyond the bales.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” I whispered to myself, as he emerged from behind the hay bales. I took off back down toward the house, with him following at his normal, safe distance. Of course Mom was livid by then. I shrugged my shoulders, slipped past her and jumped in the car, as Butch got his expected ass-chewing.

The following week I spent planning another secret mission. I had to find my brother’s magazine. “What or who could ever bring a guy such pleasure?” I’d glanced at a girlie magazine once, so I had an idea of what to expect. It wasn’t until Wednesday of that week that I knew Butch would be working the fields. I dug around in the hay bales until I found his hideout. Prying up several bales, I found his stash of Playboys. I assumed the 1963 edition on top was probably his favorite. Thumbing through the pages, I found a centerfold that was worn suadiye escort and frayed.

“Donna Michelle, Playmate of the Year” – there she was. She was blonde and beautiful and naked from head to toe. So, this was the object of his desire – his dream girl. Of course she was cute, sultry and sexy all rolled into one tidy package. According to her profile, she had to be about my age. I couldn’t help but do a comparison, from the top on down.

Her clear radiant face was in direct contrast to my pot-marked ruddy complexion. There was no discounting that. Shoulders, arms and chest were next. I unbuttoned my top and bra to compare boobs. Donna had a nice set, perhaps 34″, similar to me. However, cupping my hefty round melons, I plainly had her beat. “Butch thinks this slut has big jugs?” I laughed, as I completed a full inventory. My hips were maybe a smidgen wider than hers, but that only served to give my torso a more pronounced curve. Our thighs and legs were virtually identical.

“So, except for my face, I’d beat this chick hands down. Damn, I could be in this stupid magazine,” I calculated and mimicked several of her pseudo-sexy poses. “Guys would jack off and shoot their stuff fanaticizing about screwing me! Hmmm, now that would be simply delicious,” I dreamed and proudly shoved my chest out. “Right…and my family would disown me. My girl friends would hate me and guys would label me a slut,” I rolled my eyes and returned the book to its hidden spot.

My own secret visions of seducing and having sex with a man were formed that week. The fire was lit and I was eager to feed it with every pleasant kind of kindling. I never looked at newcomer, Tom Jones’ hip action the same way again. Celebrating my first solo trip to the gynecologist, I talked the doctor into writing my first script for the pill. On my next big shopping spree in the big city I made a point in buying a real mini skirt, not some just-above-the-knee substitute. My days as a virgin were numbered. The only question then was, “Who would be the lucky guy to pop my cherry?”

Chapter 2: Dating & Premature Evacuations

I was an early blooming teen in every respect. By age fourteen my figure had blossomed along with a bad case of acne – kind of a mixed blessing. My bubbly blonde personality and striking figure kept me and my pot marked face from having to check into “Wallflowerville.” I had my fair share of boys ask me out, but not many would give me full eye contact and the goodnight kiss was often a haphazard chore.

Dating venues for girls my age meant going to either the local drive-in or to the Lower Creek Grove. The Sycamore Drive-In was a relatively safe spot for necking and petting. The Lower Creek Grove (the “Grove”, as everyone called it) bordered on our farm’s lower forty (acres) and simply was “not a place where good girls went after dark,” Dad warned us. Its proximity to our home place made it an alluring, yet taboo rendezvous. As a young teen, I would take an occasional daylight horse ride and stop in the hidden grove of trees to give Shadow a drink from the creek. It was on one of those rides I noticed a wadded up pair of used panties. Contemplating the sordid story behind them and fearing contamination, I quickly got the hell out of there, never to return.

Going to the movies was more than just “something to do” in a small town. It was a kind of pre-school for young adults. We picked up on and mimicked every nuance of the cultural and sexual revolution, as it was happening. I assumed all the cool girls smoked, dressed in skimpy bikinis, occasionally had a drink and got laid by the likes of Sean Connery, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen or Omar Shariff.

In 1965, teenage boys didn’t take a girl to see The Sound of Music. The makeout macho movie that year was Thunderball and I must have sat through most of it four or five times. I say most of it. There were several scenes I missed due to my dates’ feeble attempts at copping a feel. Just because a sexy scene with a girl turns the guy on doesn’t automatically mean it has the same effect on the girl (in this case, me). By summer’s end I had whittled down my number of potential suitors to two, by simply telling most of them, “No thanks, I’ve already seen Thunderball.” This left me with two steady dates.

Tommy and Jimmy were normal farm boys; high on hormones, low in experience. They were more boy-friends than candidates I would ever consider for making a woman out of me. Within the last year, my dates with the “boys” escalated from necking and French kissing to fondling private parts. Inevitably, our makeout sessions would end with dry humping or feature me rubbing the bulges in their pants. The sad part was neither of them could last long enough for me to get them out of their clothes, before they made a mess. I suppose I should have considered that a compliment to my physical attributes or my talents of seduction, or both. However, after the third or fourth messy episode, the whole exercise became less than stimulating for me. I mean fun is fun, but I wanted a real yakacık escort man to take me the first time.

Chapter 3: Uncle Stud & The Double Date

Paul was my Dad’s youngest brother, but it was always hard to think of him as my uncle. Eight years separated us and he spent most of his younger years hanging with my older brothers. It’s not like I ever considered him as one of my stupid brothers, but I had a real hard time with the “uncle” thing. At 26, he was a total hunk and extremely charming. Every girl in my senior high class would have gladly given it up for Paul, even to the point of hounding me to set them up with him.

My deep affection for Paul went beyond his tall, dark and striking good looks. Throughout my eighteen (almost nineteen) years, he was the only guy that saw the real me. While other guys shied away from dating “crater face,” Paul didn’t see my facial flaws as an issue. Since it never came up in our conversations, I was totally at ease confiding with him about all sorts of things. Any degree of persuasive flirting or sexual teasing I have now I owe to trying it out on him first.

My frustrating dates with the boys only served to point me in Uncle Paul’s direction. Of course, any impropriety on our parts would have been grounds for family banishment, so I was left to secretly fanaticize how great it would be for him to take me. It was in the dead of most every night, under the covers, I learned to finger myself to multiple orgasms. That was my bittersweet burden for months, until later that spring.

It was at our regular Saturday family bar-b-que that I saw Paul arrive with a date, Mary Ellen Schmitt, a pretty girl in my class. I’d seen Paul with older girlfriends before, but this was the first time he was dating someone my age. And, of all people, Mary Ellen! Mary Ellen was one of those skinny model types, whose perfect facial features had matured before the rest of her. There was no denying that from the neck up she was every schoolboy’s dream. From the neck down she was thin as a rail and flat as a griddle.

Mary Ellen was from (what people commonly referred to as) the wrong side of the tracks. Besides her ideal complexion, her family and others on the south side of town were less than well-to-do. Not quite white trash, they lived in older homes and worked menial jobs. Though I never thought any less of them for their lot, they did exhibit a baser perception of life; one I was certainly unfamiliar with.

“Hi Mary, hi Paul, glad you guys could come by,” I said with an inviting tone to hide my envy.

“Hi Barbie, you’re looking swell,” said Paul with a smile.

“Yeah Barb, is that a new outfit?” Mary Ellen casually added, as she snuggled close to Paul.

“Thanks, no I’ve had it for a couple of weeks,” I replied, wishing I had worn my more revealing white halter top, instead of the boring coulottes I had on.

The meaningless conversation between the three of us regressed, as she continued to pamper Paul like he was some prize puppy. Paul finally excused himself to have a beer with my brothers. Mary’s pseudo-sweet condescending remarks eased as Paul walked away.

“God Barb, your Uncle is such a stud,” she started and nodded at how neatly packaged his ass looked in those tight jeans. “And, what a lover! He just can’t seem to get enough of me,” she winked.

“I believe that. What’s there to get?” I smirked to myself. “Yeah, he’s quite a catch. I’m happy for you two,” I lied.

“That’s so sweet. Say, are you still dating Timmy and Jamie? God, they must spoil you rotten,” Mary said.

“Tommy and Jimmy actually. Yeah, just can’t make up my mind, I guess,” I quipped.

“Hey, isn’t your birthday coming up soon; planning anything special?” Mary asked.

“Yeah – next Friday and I’ll be an old woman like you,” I laughed, knowing her nineteenth was only two months ago. “No, don’t have any big plans yet,” I added.

“Well gosh, maybe you should pick one of those guys of yours and double date with Paul and I. That would be fun,” she beamed.

Instantly my mind was filled with a warped vision of Paul dumping her along the road somewhere and taking my virginity in his powder blue ’62 Impala. “Yeah, that might be fun,” I nodded.

When Paul made his way back to us, Mary could hardly wait to ask him. Seeing the grin on my face, Paul could hardly refuse. “Sure, sounds good to me. We could take in a movie or something,” Paul offered.

“Well you know Thunderball is still playing at the Sycamore, what do you say Barb?” Mary Ellen asked.

“I don’t know Mary. Barbie might not be,” Paul interrupted her.

“Thunderball? That would be great. I’ve heard it’s really good!” I broke in and giggled with delight.

“Thunderball it is then. We’ll pick you up around eight next Friday,” my uncle smiled.

The following week seemed extra long, with my anticipation of Friday. Everyday after chores I snuck off to find a vacant field to get in some nude sunbathing (Coppertone, not that icky Q-T crap) to smooth out my farmers’ şerifali escort tan. My older sister, Jean took pride in prepping me for my first double date.

“My God Sis, you look like Raquel Welch in that top!” Jean exclaimed, swabbing another coat of Max Factor on my dented face.

“So… is that such a sin?” I asked, batting my blue eyes, thick with Maybelline mascara at my reflection in the mirror.

“Mom will kill you, with your boobs sticking out like that,” she reckoned.

“You’re probably right. I’ll wear my zipper jacket, at least until I get to the car,” I giggled.

“Well you just better watch yourself,” she warned, like an old mother hen.

Applying a fresh coat of pink glossy lipstick to match my mini skirt, I combed out my long blonde hair and wiggled my panty hosed hips into the short, short skirt. I sprayed another shot of Shalimar down my cleavage and threw on the jacket, when I heard Paul’s car honking. Stepping into a pair of black flats, I grabbed up my purse and flew downstairs.

“I still think those skirts are way too short,” said Mom giving the twice-over.

“Oh Mom, it’s the style. I might be a little late. It’s a double feature, OK?” I blurted out and kissed her cheek.

“Well, you’re nineteen now. I suppose you can take care of yourself,” she sighed.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of myself for sure,” I thought, eyeing up Uncle Paul holding the front door open for me.

“Wow, don’t you look like a million bucks,” he said, eyeing my skirt.

“Thanks Paul,” I replied and got it.

As he made his way around to the driver’s side, I unzipped and slipped out of the jacket. Jumping in his side, he keyed the engine and started to put the car in gear, when he glanced back at me.

“DAMN Barbie, make that two million bucks!” He exclaimed at seeing my tight white halter top showing plenty of cleavage.

I spread my arm to rest on the back of the split seats and inched myself closer to him, while he stared at me. “Is there something wrong?” I asked raising my right knee just enough to show the crest of my pantyhose.

“N-No,” he said, as I let my fingers slide inside of back of his shirt collar.

“Then how about a birthday kiss for your favorite niece?” I demanded and pulled his neck.

“Sure, you bet. I almost forg..” he started, when I leaned and opened my mouth to his. Supporting himself on the seat with his right hand, his left smoothed my face, while I held a grip on the back of his head. My tongue edged its way through his lips, as his mouth finally opened on mine. That was the sign I’d waited months for. He wanted me. On some level, he wanted me!

The masculine smell of English Leather filled my senses, as his tongue filled my mouth. Sucking more of his tongue inside, I began moaning. Taking his hand from my cheek, I slowly lowered it to rest on my breast. When he gently started feeling me up, I broke for air and threw my head back. He lightly kissed his way down my bare neck.

“Happy Birthday Barbie,” he whispered between licking and kissing my shoulders.

Taking a few licks on my cleavage, he moved his hand from my tit back to my head. “Is that the kind of birthday kiss you want from your uncle?” He asked, pulling my head to meet his eyes.

I nodded, licked my lips and smiled.

“I know one thing,” he sighed, pushing me away from him.

“What’s that?” I asked, rubbing my right hand up his thigh.

“Ole Jimmy is in for a treat tonite!” He stated, while I stroked the outline of his erection. “I certainly do envy him,” he added and put the car in gear.

Heading down our gravel road, I unzipped his pants and leaned in close to tongue his ear. “And I really envy Mary Ellen,” I echoed and reached to pull his hard shaft out.

“Hey, that probably isn’t such a good idea, Baby,” he winced, as I tugged hard on his manhood.

“Am I doing it wrong?” I asked, jacking it harder and faster.

“NO, I mean… No, you’re doing it just right! It’s just that I’ll make a mess,” he said, catching his breath.

“What if I promise to clean it up?” I asked, moving my knees under me, while I stroked him harder. “I’ll make sure there’s no mess at all, how would that be?” I said and leaned down to take his nine inch long cock in my mouth.

“OH GOD Barbie! No Baby. We can’t be doing this!” He exhorted me to stop, as I felt the car turn on to the smooth road.

I was in no mood to stop sucking him. This was the first cock I’d tasted and I was savoring every inch of it. Bobbing and twisting my head to take more and more of it, I finally got my first taste of his sweet precum. I raised up to circle the head of his ready cock with my tongue, when he jerked my head back.

“Stop it now Barb!” He barked. “We’re pulling into town,” he said and fixed his pants. “Let’s just imagine this never happened, okay?” He said with frustration filling his voice.

“Okay, if you think you can,” I challenged and proudly smiled to myself.

At Mary Ellen’s house I crawled over the front seat to sit in the back, as Paul went to get her. Dressed in a blue shift dress, with her bouffant brunette tresses, she looked like a matchstick. We made pleasant conversation, as she eyed my revealing outfit. Paul nervously drove on the Jimmy’s house, not far from where Mary lived.

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