It had been weeks since the ranch hands at Red Creek had known an easy day. From dawn to dusk they’d been bent over rows of watermelons, pulling weeds, hauling water to troughs and ponds, chasing strays that broke fence. The July sun baked every back until sweat and dust glued shirts to their skin—though by mid-morning, most had ditched shirts altogether.
Joe’s olive skin had bronzed, a smattering of dark chest hairs curling across his sternum. Gene’s pale hide, somehow, had picked up just enough color to pass for golden instead of burnt. Colt McAllister, the redhead, freckled so heavy he looked dusted with cinnamon. And Zeke and Deke Johnson, the twins, were darker and shinier than ever, grinning like the heat only made them stronger. Even Tommy Ray Fletcher, slight and boyish-looking though older than Gene and Joe, had managed a tan that disguised his youthfulness.
It had been brutally hard work, but the boys kept at it. For the Harlans, they’d work themselves raw. Mrs. Harlan fed them hearty breakfasts, packed lunches, and big suppers every night. Her kindness was fuel as much as her food.
On the final Saturday in July, with harvest just around the corner, Mr. Harlan finally called a reprieve. “You boys have the day,” he told them. “But hear me now—you best not be late for supper.” Mrs. Harlan, sweet as always, promised a feast.
The boys didn’t need to be told twice. They whooped all the way down to Red Creek, shorts stripped and tossed the second they hit the bank. Naked as jaybirds, they splashed into the cool water. They swam, wrestled, swung from the rope, or stretched in the grass, laughing like boys half their age.
By midday they were sprawled on the bank, Mrs. Harlan’s packed lunches devoured. Joe leaned back on his elbows, dark chest hairs still damp against his skin, and grinned. “Now, y’all think you’ve seen skeeters down here,” he said, “but you don’t know the half of it…”
He launched into his story. Mr. Harlan’s great-grandpappy, walking fence one day, had swatted a skeeter the size of his fist and muttered, ‘Damn, they keep gettin’ bigger.’ Then came a low whoop-whoop-whoop of air, a breeze across his neck, and he turned to see a mosquito big as a barn, stinger long as a fencepost, knocking down trees just trying to land.
“Well, hell,” the old man had supposedly said, “didn’t expect ’em to get that big.” He’d lifted his rifle and blasted the bug clean out of the sky. Joe mimicked the flapping, the crash, the booming rifle shots. The boys roared, doubled over.
“They burned it in a bonfire that lit the county,” Joe declared. “Next year’s skeeters were still big—big enough to tote off a puppy—but never barn-big again. Old man Harlan said, ‘Lord, I never want to see another bug I’d need to saddle.’”
Zeke wheezed, Deke rolled in the grass, Colt laughed till he was redder than his hair. Even Hank Dobbs, the foreman, lowered his paperback to smirk.
Gene shook his head, chuckling. “You’re full of shit, Joe.”
Joe just shrugged, twinkle in his eye. “Maybe. But you can’t prove I ain’t.”
That set them off again, laughter ringing down the creek.
The group broke into their own amusements. Zeke and Deke tried fishing downstream. Hank read his book beneath a tree. Colt stretched out for a nap.
And Joe tugged Gene by the wrist into the woods.
Pinned against a tree, Gene moaned as Joe swallowed him whole, nose buried in blond curls, throat working until Gene’s knees buckled. He held Joe there till he gagged, and when Joe pulled off gasping, he managed, “You should tattoo a blue ribbon on that thing. Biggest cock in the county—and I’m the only one who gets the prize.”
Then he went back down, throat-fucking him with practiced skill until Gene came hard, clutching his hair. Cum dribbled from Joe’s lip; Gene licked it up in a kiss. Then Gene flipped him, worshiping Joe’s thickness, licking like an ice cream cone, tonguing his balls, nibbling until Joe begged. Finally he finished him, tongue teasing the head until Joe exploded, crying out.
When they returned, the proof clung to them. Catcalls and whistles rose. Cum streaked down Joe’s thigh, a drop clinging to his tip. “Gene, you missed some!” someone hollered.
Gene stopped, crouched, licked the trail from Joe’s leg, then leaned in and lapped the drop from his cockhead before standing tall.
Hank covered Tommy Ray’s eyes. “Not in front of the children, boys.”
That earned him a dunking from Tommy Ray himself, who tackled him into the water while the others howled.
Late in the afternoon, the boys trudged back, still damp. Mr. Harlan stood on the porch, arms crossed, face dark. “Ten minutes to wash up and be at table, or what’s comin’ will be worse.”
They bolted for the showers, soap stinging fresh sunburn, then scrambled into jeans, shirts, boots. They slid into their seats with a minute to spare.
Mrs. Harlan had outdone herself: roast beef, fried chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, pies and cobblers cooling on the sideboard. The boys ate like wolves but slowed when dessert came, drawing it out, savoring every bite, delaying the inevitable.
Mr. Harlan’s face grew tighter the longer they lingered. Finally he stood, voice like thunder. “Y’all know what’s comin’. Pants down. Toes on the rail.”
Mrs. Harlan touched his arm. “Don’t be too hard, John. They had a fun day.”
He shook his head. “They broke the one rule I gave.”
Outside, he appeared with a paddle drilled with holes. The boys paled—Gene and Joe knew that sound.
“Line up.”
Twelve bare asses bent over the rail. The first crack landed, echoing through the yard. Six to each boy, steady and merciless. They hissed, grunted, cursed under breath. Joe and Gene stiffened with half-hard cocks, Colt and Tommy Ray sprung full erections, drawing an eye-roll from Harlan.
When the last lick fell, Harlan surveyed the red, welted line of backsides. “I planned on twelve each. But Mrs. Harlan asked me to go easy. You best thank her by never bein’ late for supper again.”
They shuffled back to the bunkhouse, sore and stinging. That night, Joe and Gene’s bed creaked with rhythm, joined by another down the hall where Colt and Tommy Ray moaned through their own release.
Red Creek Ranch lay quiet under the July stars, boys sore and sated, laughter still lingering from Joe’s wild tale.
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