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Harvests home

The silence came upon me in 1952, the day mum asked me to read out the telegram. I’d never seen one before.

“Corporal Charles Cooper. Stop – Missing. Stop – Believed killed in action. Stop”

Something died inside me when I knew dad would never come back from the forgotten war. I vowed to never speak again.

After a year, people gave up talking to me – they stopped trying to break my silence. “Poor Billy,” they’d say, “He’s lost his marbles.”

I turned sixteen in the June of ‘56’. Ma said I had to stop lollygagging around the house and go help the menfolk in the fields. That same day a man came to live in our house. He slept on dad’s side of the bed. Mum said we were to call him Uncle Tommy.

I liked working in the fields with the men. I was free to be myself; treated as one of their own. They were bold, brash, and muscular, and didn’t care that I couldn’t talk, “Talk is for politicians and fisher-wives,” they’d say. I worked until my muscles burned and my hands bled, but I never missed a day.

They sang and laughed, and we drank rough cider that burnt my throat and made my head swim. When it wasn’t raining, dust-covered everything, including our half-naked bodies that glistened from hard labour and burning sun.

Insects buzzed amongst the grime that made the golden air as thick as London smog. House-martins flew above our heads taking flies on the wing, and Kestrels hovered in the hot air searching for a homeless treat.

It was nearly eight o’clock when our gang trudged wearily home, on the last exhausting day of the harvest. As we turned into the village Tommy said I could walk at the front, “Your Dad would be so proud son.”

Women came out from their cottages offering glasses of ginger beer and cigarettes. There was talk of a bumper crop, the best since the old war.

When Tommy and I got home, Mum waved a tiny Union-Jack; last seen on VE day. “The harvest is home,” she cried.

The radio blasted out Glen Miller adding to the party mood. Tommy playfully smacked mum’s bum and she giggled. As always, my sisters ignored me; busy chatting with a young woman that I’d never met before; cascades of champagne hair curled against her lily-white shoulders. She caught me staring and winked.

“Hello Dad!” she called, but Tommy ignored her.

His attention was grabbed by my mother’s animated voice, “The tin-baths in the backyard filled with warm water, there’s soap and clean towels.” Tommy got in first, his honour.

It was almost dark by the time I stepped into the comfort of the now tepid water. I closed my eyes and poured water over my head. The dust ran from my body adding to the brown soup below. The cool air against my wet skin felt good. I hadn’t noticed the wedge of house light spreading across the yard from the open kitchen door.

“They’ve all gone to the pub,” she said, nonchalantly.

I panicked! My hands instantly left my cheerful cock, then just as quickly returned trying to cover myself. I wanted to shout at her, but nothing would come out.

“I’m Sally, Tommy’s daughter,” her voice never faltered, as if talking to a naked man was an everyday occurrence. “You’re Silent Billy aren’t cha. You’re cute!” I couldn’t look at her, sweat bubbled on my red face.

“It’s okay I don’t bite,” she smiled, her hand reached out and touched my muscled thigh, “Powerful legs, I like that!” A tingle travelled up my limbs. “Look, we’ve only got ten minutes before they’ll send out a search party, so let’s turn up the music and sort you out, shall we?”

I stood like a statue, too scared to move. She knelt beside me, hands dipping into the water, searching amongst my feet for the soap. Lathered fingers gently loosened my protective grip. Her hand tightened around the base of my cock, while experienced fingers rubbed the purple head. The brand-new impact of female hands on my cock was overpowering, making my heart race.

She slowly worked me into hardened ecstasy, as she sang along with the radio. “One – Two – Three o’clock. Four o’clock rock!” her grip tightened with the beat of the song, “Five – Six – Seven o’clock. Eight o’clock rock!” her voice sweet and tuneless, “Who’s the singer?” she added.

I could feel her warm breath on my wet stomach, “We’re gonna rock, around the clock tonight!” her hand now stroking with determination, “Come on Billy Boy! Let’s get this done before we get caught, maybe this will help?”

She removed a hand, and as I looked down, I saw her loosen the ties on her embroidered top, releasing the perfect pair of white porcelain tits.

My first sight of actual breasts made every muscle in my body spasm. My balls tensed sending a hot stream of milky juice out of my rigid cock, that flowed down her beautiful cleavage. The second squirt was more powerful, exploding on her neck – followed by a third and fourth that bathed her shocked face.

There was something strangely funny about her huge, surprised eyes. I laughed uncontrollably between breathless moans.

“You dirty bastard!” she screamed, wiping spunk from her cheek, which made me laugh even more. Her eyes dropped as they followed translucent pearls of semen that ran down her nose and onto her lips. A smile spread across her face, followed by a soft sexy giggle. I passed her a towel and she laughed until tears run down her face.

As we walked to the pub, we hooked pinkie fingers. Something had changed, something was different now.

Bill Haley,” I whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

She sharply turned towards me, and frowned, “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?” Her mischievous eyes sparkled, “I love surprises!”

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than Lushstories.com with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © All my stories are written entirely by myself. Do not copy or repost them. All the names used in my stories are either fabricated or imaginary. However if I have offended anyone by using these names, it is purely cioncedental and unitentional on my part.

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