While still recovering from my recent broken wrist I've had time to read Literotica stories rather than write. Something I wasn't doing much of previously. I have to say, I was better off not reading.
It was difficult to find the proper category for this story. It could have been first time, or romance, though neither occur until the second half of the story. It's more a story of a middle-aged widow teaching a 19-year-old how to grow into manhood, emotionally and sexually. Therefore I've put the first part into the erotic coupling category. I'm still not sure what category part two will be submitted in.
Leaving Home
Part One
I turned 19 in February of 1979, it was a time of turmoil and upheaval. The world economy was flat, high oil prices, high unemployment and double-digit inflation led to what was called 'stagflation'. Jobs for young people were few and far between, even more so if you lived in an Iowa farming community such as I did. My dad was a pig farmer like his dad, and his dad before him. He and my oldest brother raised about a thousand head from farrow to market hogs year after year. They raised feed for them on a little less than 800 acres of land, mostly planted to corn.
I was the youngest of four with two girls in between, they skipped outa Dodge, so to speak, as soon as they graduated high school. The older sister was a nurse and the younger one was due to graduate college about the same time I graduated from high school. Like my siblings I was large in stature, my dad was six foot three and mom stood an inch below him. My older brother was an inch taller than dad and my sisters were both six feet. Then there was me, six foot one and bulky, as you would expect a farm kid with parents like mine to be.
High school sports weren't of much interest to me, I participated in gym class but that was about it. My older brother had been all-state as a tackle in high school his last three years. It was more or less expected that I would follow in his footsteps, imagine how disappointed and pissed off the coaches were when I didn't want to play football. I was basically ostracized by the jocks, I could have cared less, I was bigger than most of them which meant they left me alone. I had determined that I was going to study and learn and prepare myself for more than raising hogs. Not that it isn't a necessity as part of the food chain, but in my mind, it wasn't for me.
I wasn't what is now called a nerd, I had plenty of friends, computer games didn't exist or smart phones or any of that stuff stealing today's young minds. However, there was a new thing being spoken of throughout, personal computers and software development. Apple and two others launched models in 1978, I determined I was going to learn this new technology and make my living away from the farm. Now, don't misunderstand, just because I wasn't planning to farm didn't mean I wasn't expected to be a part of everything that went on in the family operation.
I never much cared for working with the pigs, something my dad and brother would rather do than fieldwork, for us it was the perfect trade off. By the time I was 14 I could operate every piece of machinery my family owned or leased. If I wasn't in school my days were consumed by field prep, planting, cultivating, harvesting and machinery maintenance. Along with helping my dad and brother when needed.
Knowing I planned to attend Nebraska State the next fall my dad began encouraging me to try and find work in that state for the summer if possible. He and my brother already had two other farm hands with families, adding me would be a drain on the budget. I was discussing my dilemma with the Ag teacher during lunch when he asked if I was averse to working on a farm even if I didn't intend to make a living farming. Considering it was what I had known all my life my answer was, "no, I wasn't against working on a farm."
Mr. Wilomet had to have been in his mid-sixties at that time. He looked at me and smiled.
"There's a posting for a farm hand job near Lincoln, Nebraska David. You might be interested in applying, if it works out maybe you can work there through college and not have as big a student loan when you graduate. It's mostly crop farming, which you already do, and she runs a small herd of beef, only a few hundred."
I looked at him in disbelief, "She? You mean a woman is looking for a farm hand? Never heard of a woman running an operation like that."
"I sort of know her, my youngest daughter went to Nebraska State in Lincoln and Tina worked for her. Her husband was still alive then, I think she's been widowed about five years now."
"Will I be the only farm hand? Seems like a lot of work for one guy and an old lady."
He chuckled, "She isn't old, she's 47. Farm work has kept her fit through the years, she can keep up with most men. She has two other guys working for her seasonally, both with families and they live in town. She hires them during planting and harvest, in between you'd be doing maintenance and general chores. She'll likely work alongside you, but some of the equipment is too big for one person to maintain, that's where you'll come in."
"Yeah but, where would I stay? I wanna earn money, not spend it on rent and food."
He tapped an index finger hard on the table a few times causing me to look up, "It's called a farm hand job for a reason Dave. You live on the farm with her, meals and the rest are covered, plus you'll be paid. Tina's room had an attached bath, I'm pretty sure that's where you'd be staying as well."
I had Mr. Wilomet help draft a letter to the lady and put it in the mail. From my freshman year on I had been involved in a program called "advanced learning", where kids could move ahead of the rest of their class if they qualified. Which meant I would be eligible to graduate in March instead of June. A week after being done with school I received a letter from a Mrs. L. Brantmaier of Prairie Home, Nebraska. Over the next two weeks I was able to secure a position with her via the phone.
The folks gave me an older pickup and $500 as a graduation present. The truck was only nine years old with lots of miles for that day, but dad had it gone through completely, assuring I wouldn't break down halfway to Prairie Home. The trip would be approximately seven hours, remember that 55 was the national speed limit at that time, though most people drove 65 on the freeways. I headed south and west at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning, intending to be there by four or there abouts. It was 5:15 when I stopped at the Sinclair gas station in Prairie Home seeking directions to the Brantmaier farm. The old guy behind the counter looked up and spoke with a sneer.
"Sonny, you'll do well to never call the Brantmaeir Homestead a farm. She'll cut your balls off and feed them to the dogs. So you're the latest sucker huh? Mind you boy, you'll earn every penny you get paid, she don't cut nobody no slack. The kid she hired last spring lasted a total of three weeks before he hightailed it outa here. I reckon you'll do about as well, although you look like you can hold yer own."
I laughed, "Yes, I'm the latest sucker. I was raised on a hog farm so hard work isn't anything new to me. Does Mrs. Brantmaier have a first name? I don't wanna sound like some school kid."
He chuckled, "Yeah, but you are a school kid. How old are ya, 18, 19?" I nodded. "I figered so. Yeah, she got a first name, damn few are allowed to call her anything other than Mrs. B, but if you're feeling balsy, it's Claire."
"I'll be going to college this fall." I blurted out.
"Won't matter kid. Mind yer manners and do what she says, you'll get along."
I bought a bottle of Sprite and a small bag of chips in case I was too late for the evening meal. After having listened to the old man at the gas station I was feeling more dejected than elated. I trusted Mr. Wilomet when he suggested I apply for the job, but damn, what had I gotten myself into? A huge cloud of dust billowed behind the truck as I made my way down a seemingly endless gravel road looking for the gate that said Brantmaier Homestead. The old guy told me it would be on the right. He said I should drive until I thought I was lost and then go one more mile, damned if he wasn't right. There it was, an arched gate way with a sign across the top that said, Brantmaier Homestead, Claire Brantmaier proprietor.
The evening sun was already headed for the horizon when I pulled into the longest gravel driveway I'd ever seen. Long driveways are common in Iowa, but this, holy cow, I could barely see the buildings from the road. About 100 feet into the driveway I crossed a bridge with a creek running beneath. I stopped the truck and listened to the song it played, every creek has a rhythm and sound all its own. The rocks, the twists and turns, the speed of the water, they all contributed to the song the creek played. Along the banks were cowslips and water lilies in full blossom.
As I pulled into the yard area a woman stood on the porch, hands in her pockets, faded but clean jeans, a well-worn cotton blouse, cowboy boots and a dark brown hat. Her hair was pulled back and looked like it was in a braid, which would prove to be true once I was out of the truck. She was nothing special to look at, an average height person, I figured around five foot nine or ten based upon my six foot plus height. Her figure wasn't slim, nor was it heavy, it was somewhere in between, average I guess one might say.
Under the sun bleached and sweat stained hat her face looked weathered and worn. She was a pretty woman, yet there was nothing over the top about her. I couldn't help but notice that along with her stout slender figure a pair of breasts caused the blouse to billow outward. They weren't huge, her chest was there but not overwhelming, they seemed to fit in with the rest of stature.
The hippie dippy days of the late sixties and early seventies were basically gone but there were still elements of that era here and there. As I got out of the truck she displayed one of those elements, pulling her right hand from the pocket she lifted it about mid chest and gave me a peace sign. No smile, no words, just a simple gesture. As I walked to the porch she stood at the edge of the two steps leading up to it, I extended my hand to shake hers. She grabbed hold of my hand like hers was a vice grip, not being used to a woman's handshake being so firm, out of instinct I immediately squeezed in equal proportion to hers. I was eye level with her by the time she let go.
"Good handshake boy. At least you aren't one of those wimps who shake hands like they got no balls. You must be David Winters, is that right?"
Two things had caught me off guard in less than three minutes of being in this woman's presence. Number one, she was as strong as any guy her size, and number two, I'd never been around a woman who cussed.
"Yes ma'am, David. I'm here about the job."
She laughed, "Well no shit Sherlock. Why else would you drive all that way? I'm Mrs. B. Don't call me ma'am, I'm not my mother, nor yours. Have you eaten?" I shook my head. "Speak up David. Have you eaten or not?"
