by James Lear
She was surprised, as white folk always are, at my accent, which does not accord with my appearance. The gun stopped waving, and she realized that she was not about to be raped and murdered.
“There’s no work here! Go away!”
“I could milk the cow for you, ma’am, or weed that pumpkin patch, or chop you some wood.”
“No… Thank you. My…husband takes care of all that.”
I could see that she was weighing in her mind the usefulness of a fresh pair of hands around the place, against the dangers of letting an unknown black man onto her property.
“Perhaps I could talk to him?”
The gun started waving again, and she passed a hand across her brow, pulling back loose strands of brown hair. I reckoned she was 30 years old, but she looked tired and careworn, as everyone does these days. I knew there was no husband in the house, no man at all, possibly just her, and she knew that I knew. It was better for us both if we maintained that convenient fiction.
“He’s…he’s just ridden down to the…er…lower field to see the men… And he’ll be back any minute for his breakfast.”
“Perhaps in the meantime I could start by milking the cow? She looks mighty uncomfortable.”
“Don’t you come into the house, you hear me? And stay where I can see you!”
She banged the window shut. I walked over to the cow, found a clean-looking pail in the shed, and started milking her right where she stood. She bellowed loudly as the first few squirts came out, but soon she was calm and the milk flowed, thick and copious, into the pail. If nothing else, my efforts would be rewarded with a cup full of that.
The woman stood on her porch, watching me with her arms folded. It would have been so easy to knock her on the head, steal her gun, ransack the house for money, and run. Plenty of men would have done it. I think she expected me to do it, and knew herself to be at a great disadvantage. War has made women like her vulnerable. I suspected that her husband was away fighting, that she was left, like so many, on her own, to scratch a living from the soil, unsupported by family or friends. I could not bring myself to add to her woes.
“When you’ve done that, you can chop some firewood for me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And then perhaps I can bring you some breakfast.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
An hour later, almost faint with hunger, I sat on the edge of the porch with a mug of coffee, a hunk of cornbread, and a pork chop, still sizzling from the pan. There were apples and milk waiting for me indoors. I ate ravenously, tearing the meat with my fingers; she had not given me a knife. She watched me nervously, still scared, but delighted, as all women are, to see her food appreciated.
“Well, thank you, ma’am, that was a good breakfast. Now I must be on my way.”
“Where you headed?”
“South.” I gestured vaguely in that direction.
“Not planning to stick around? I could…we could use a hired hand. You could sleep in the barn, it’s warm and dry, and we’d feed you and…well, I can’t pay you but…we’d look after you. What do you say?”
I was astonished, and sorry to let her down. “I’m afraid I can’t stay around here,” I said. “And it wouldn’t be good for you either. There’s too many who take exception to the color of my skin.”
“The Lord says it don’t matter.”
“People have a way of ignoring what the Lord says, ma’am. That’s why we’re fighting a war against our brothers.”
Her hands hung down by her side, and her face crumpled. And then, in a gesture she had made a dozen times before, she pushed back her hair, straightened herself up, and swallowed her grief. “Well,” she said, “we live in wicked times, that’s for sure. And when my husband gets back from the—” She looked crestfallen, as if she’d given away too much.
“From the lower field, ma’am?” I said.
“Yes, from the lower field,” she said, smiling for the first time. “Well, then we’ll get this place going again, and we’ll be fine with our neighbors, and you’ll come back and we’ll show you our gratitude for your kindness. But till then, there’s nothing I can give you. Unless you want my dog. Can’t eat him, he don’t give milk or lay eggs, and he ain’t much use as a guard.”
“Thanks, but I prefer to travel alone.”
“You could stay for a night, maybe?”
I saw the loneliness and fear that made up her day-to-day life. I might have stayed there, licked the farm into shape, kept her safe—but how long before I was chased out of town again? And this time they wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. A black man shacked up with a white woman? It was their favorite nightmare.
“Thanks, but I better be moving along.”
“Wait,” she said, and ran into the house. When she came down, she had a rolled blanket under her arm. “Here’s a few things I don’t need no more. You can keep them or sell them, whatever…”
The roll was bulky. I could see from the expression on her face that it was best not to look inside it just now. Instead I expressed my thanks, and walked on, with many glances back to that brave, lonely woman as she stood, watching and waving, at her kitchen door.
Regaining the relative shelter of the woods, I unrolled the blanket and took stock of its contents. Two clean white shirts, a pair of pants, a pair of thick woolen socks, and even, to my astonishment, a large hunting knife. I took it from its sheath and felt the edge; it was as sharp as a razor.
And so I found at my first stop several of the necessities of life, but I was still lacking a few essentials. I knew I had to move quickly; word of my presence in such a small community would soon get around, and I was reluctant to travel much further on foot. A horse was at the top of my shopping list.
Keeping to the woods, I skirted two more farms where the yards were busy, the comings and goings too regular. I had not consciously decided that I was going to steal a horse; the plan seemed, instead, to have formed itself in my head without my wishing it.
Finally, I came upon a house at the far end of the village; like the first, it had that unkempt, wartime look that spoke of absent men and struggling women. There was a stable building, and the unmistakable scent of horse shit.
Dropping down behind the house to avoid being seen from the windows, I ran quietly to the stable and looked in. There were three horses in there, all sound-looking animals. And there was something else: a stable boy. He was crouching at the furthest of the three stalls, picking at the horse’s hoof with a small knife. He was half naked; his shirt was hanging over a saddle rack, presumably to protect it from the muck that inevitably comes with horse husbandry. For a moment, I could study him unobserved. He was a strong lad, perhaps 19 or 20 years of age, with curly brown hair that could do with a trim, a snub nose, and freckles across his face and neck, extending over his broad upper back. There was a patch of hair on his chest and a little on his stomach, standing out in stark relief from the milky whiteness of his skin. As he delved away with his knife, the muscles bunched and extended under that skin; his lower arms were sunburned to a brick red. It was obvious that he was well fed, and could look after himself in a fight. But he was, I reckoned, shorter than me by a good six inches, and if it came to a simple trial of strength, I could overpower him in a second.
I had no desire to harm him, however, not least because I was enjoying looking at him so much. Where you, Jack, are smooth and slender, with blond hair and a skin that tans gold, this lad was stocky and sturdy—a worker, rather than a student of life. And he was good at his work; with a final, deft twist of his knife, he shot a jagged stone the size of a walnut out of the horse’s hoof, and stood up, patting the beast on its big brown behind.
I thought it better to announce my presence, not least because he had a knife in his hand, so I coughed gently. He didn’t jump. Instead he just looked toward the door, shielding his eyes against the light, which was behind me and put me into silhouette.
“Ben, is that you?”
“N
o, it’s not Ben,” I said, taking a step forward. When he saw me more clearly, his hands went to his sides and he adopted a defensive posture. The muscles in his chest bunched up, with two pink buds on top of them that looked good enough to eat.
“What do you want? Who are you?”
“I just wondered if you were interested in maybe selling me one of your horses.”
“Selling? You were planning on stealing one, more like.” He relaxed a little, and rubbed a hand across his torso, where a trickle of sweat ran from neck to navel. His hand left a dirty track behind it.
“And could you stop me if I did?” I asked, smiling.
“Maybe.”
“And maybe not.” We stood facing each other, and I became aware of the scent of his sweat above the smell of the horses—a rich scent, like wood smoke. I was already half-hard from watching him at work, and that smell finished the job. I saw him glance down toward my swollen crotch, and his body relaxed.
“We don’t have to fight,” he said. “You can take one of the horses, as far as I’m concerned. They’re not mine, and I don’t care what happens to them. But if you do take one, you can do me a favor and take me as well.”
“You want to ride with me?”
“I want to get out of here.”
“Why would I want to saddle myself with a boy like you?” I said, liking the idea very much indeed.
“You want the horse?”
“Yes, I want the horse. But do I want you?”
He looked down again and smiled. “Looks like you do from where I’m standing.” He laughed and licked his lips.
“So—do I have a ride?”
“I’ve never ridden a black stallion before,” he said, his hand straying back to his chest and finding one of his nipples, which he unconsciously played with till it was stiff.
“You better have a good seat if you’re going to ride this,” I said, squeezing my cock.
In answer, he turned around and dropped his pants. “How does this look? Good enough for you?” He bent forward slightly, and parted his ass cheeks with his hands. Through the dark hair, I could see his pink hole. My head swam, and all the frustration of the last months blinded me. God knows, Jack, I was aware of the dangers. But now, all my fears had been realized: I was an outcast, struggling to stay alive. And, you see, I needed that horse.
I leaped forward, fell to my knees, and dived in. My tongue found his asshole and started licking. He gave one loud “God damn!” and then surrendered to the experience. His ass tasted of sweat, but it was clean and sweet as I lapped at it. My cock was like an iron bar inside my pants, and it was desperate for release. Unwilling to relinquish his ass, I started struggling with my belt and buttons, and ended up losing my balance and rolling over in the straw of the stable floor.
“Shit!”
I looked up and saw the boy gazing down at me. His pants were around his ankles, and his cock, which was small and thick, stuck up at a jaunty angle from his furry belly.
“Need a hand?”
He didn’t wait for a reply, but knelt beside me and continued to open my trousers. I put my hands behind my head and let him get on with the job. When my dick was finally free, it sprang out of my pants as if it was on a spring.
His eyes goggled, and his mouth fell open. “Gee… I’ve never seen one that big before… I don’t know if I can… Well…” He started toying with it, stroking the underside with his fingertips, tracing up to the tip, where my foreskin was starting to pull back. Finally he grasped it, and moved his hand up and down. With each stroke, more of the head was exposed. He appeared to be transfixed. I reached around with one hand and found his cock. He was still rock hard, so I guessed that any misgivings he had about my size were not enough to scare him off. We stayed that way, playing with each other, for a while, as the sun illuminated the dusty straw and the horses occasionally snuffled and stamped in their stalls.
“What’s your name, boy?” I said.
“Edward.”
“Well, Eddie, you want this up your ass?”
“Yeah…”
“Then you’d better get it nice and wet.”
I wanted to see his cute little face looking up at me while my dick plowed into his mouth.
He lay down beside me, his head near my stomach, so I could play with his curly hair while he made a few tentative licks and kisses on my cock. It had been a long time since I was touched there, and I could have wept with relief. Finally he opened his mouth wide and took the head. I rubbed the back of his neck and encouraged him gently downward. When he’d got the measure of me, and was working his lips up and down my shaft with increasing pace, I moved my hand over his shoulders and down his back until I could play with his ass. I kneaded the white, elastic flesh of each cheek, and then, by poking and prodding, I found his hole. Wetting my finger with spit, I pushed it into him to the first knuckle, then the second. He didn’t stop sucking, but started moaning. He was ready.
He rolled off me and, lying beside me, kicked off his boots and pants. Now he was completely naked, while I was fully clothed, with my pants open and my shirt pushed up. The contrast—his nakedness and my clothes, his white skin and my black—made me even more eager to fuck him.
I thought I would have to break him in gently, but this jockey knew exactly what to do. Springing up, he placed a knee on either side of my hips and, holding my prick, guided it to the target. He ass was wet and open, my dick was lubricated with his saliva and the juice that was flowing out of the tip. All I had to do was brace my hips slightly upward, and I entered him. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, still holding on to me. Then, relinquishing his grip, he started to lower himself. He took it slowly, and I didn’t thrust, unwilling to hurt him—but, when he reached the thickest central part of my shaft, he stopped.
“It hurts,” he said.
“Take your time, Eddie.”
His thigh muscles were tensed; I stroked them, and they felt like steel. His cock had gone soft and was nestling in his bush like an acorn. With one finger, I stroked the hairy passage between his ass and his balls, then the tight skin of his ball sack. His cock stirred back to life, and as it grew he moved himself gently around my cock, getting used to the feel of it inside him. Then, as his dick began to swell and climb, his ass suddenly relaxed and he sat all the way down.
“Are you inside me?”
“Every inch, boy.”
“Oh, fuck.”
In response, I gently thrust. His cock danced further upward until it was rigid against his bush. He reached around and felt the lips of his ass stretched around me, and squeezed my balls. He started to move, meeting my thrusts, and gradually the motion became faster, bigger, harder. My dick was getting even bigger inside him, and his ass took everything I could give him. He settled into a rhythm and, supporting himself with one hand braced against my leg, started to jerk himself off.
I put my hands behind my head again, tensed my stomach muscles, and shoved my dick as far inside him as I could. He responded by thrusting his ass up and down like a pump; all I had to do was stay still and let him do the work. Finally, he screwed his eyes up and started squirting all over the muscles of my stomach. His ass clamped around me as he came, and we remained locked together as he emptied himself of every drop.
To my surprise, he neither went soft nor made any attempt to dismount. He leaned forward and kissed me full on the mouth, then, pulling me up and forward, rolled over onto his back. Somehow, I kept my cock inside him. He pointed his legs at the roof and said, “Fuck me. Hard.”
And so I did. I nailed him to that stable floor. Sweat was pouring off me, dripping from my forehead and the end of my nose onto his face. We kissed, eating each other’s mouths, bruising our lips. His spunk was now smeared from my stomach onto his body; we were glued together. The scent of sweat and sperm and horse shit filled my nostrils. I braced myself on my arms, lifted myself a little so I could look into his eyes, and fucked him harder than I had fucked anyone before. He pushed his prick fo
rward, so I could see that he was still stiff. His face, neck, and chest were flushed a bright pink, the same color as the head of his dick. When I started to come inside him, he moaned and squirmed, but stayed staring straight into my eyes.
We lay like that for a while, until our breathing had slowed and the position became too uncomfortable to sustain. I pulled out of him and immediately plugged the hole with two fingers. With one arm around his shoulders, lifting him so he was resting partly on my lap, I kept fucking him that way until he brought himself to another climax.
We cleaned up with straw, dressed ourselves, and then, without much discussion, saddled the horses and rode quietly away from the stables. When we had covered a couple of miles and reached open country far from any habitation, we slowed to a walk and he told me his story.
He had been orphaned at the age of six, when his mother died in childbirth. His father, who had traveled west to seek out a new home, had been killed in an outbreak of cholera just after Eddie was born. He and his infant sister were looked after by a succession of relatives, none of whom really wanted them, until the girl was sent into service in Boston and Eddie, at the age of 15, was left to fend for himself. He’d worked his way around the local farms, finally finding the position as stable boy, groom, and man-of-all-work where I found him. His employers, a tight-fisted couple whom he described as wretched Puritans, had fled the area at the first news of Confederate incursions out of Virginia, imagining that they would have their throats cut by Rebel soldiers within days. He had not heard from them in weeks, and kept the farm going as best he could. When I found him, he had been on the verge of selling the horses and joining the army.
We sold the third horse, a sorry-looking gray mare that looked far from roadworthy, to a traveler we met on the road. He got the horse; we got razors, soap, blankets, matches, and a couple of water bottles. I know who got the better bargain.
Thus equipped, we turned south, and rode all day until we pitched camp just above Shelburne Falls. We lit a fire, made beds in an abandoned hut, and settled in for the evening. Eddie prepared our dinner, and we slept together, rolled in blankets, as warm as two bears in a cave. As he breathed gently in my arms, I allowed myself to believe that I had found the friend I had so long searched for, and that the open road, the woods and mountains, would give us the freedom to live and love in peace.
