Mr. (mrs?) Garcia

Mr. (Mrs?) Garcia

1,281 words

5-minute read

Mom and I were drinking and talking.

"Well, okay, but not when you jacked off the first time, Son; I mean, the first time you had sex with another body."

"Well, that is different. I promised Rosalie that I wouldn't tell anyone if she would let me fuck her."

"Rosalie? That down-the-street girl, Rosalie? The chubby girl in your classes? Was she trying to get you to marry her?"

"I didn't think about marrying her. Why would you ask that?"

Mom said, "Rosalie's Dad is Mr. Garcia, the farmer I hire to farm our acreage. He was always a big flirt. One time, we got drunk during rice harvest, and he convinced me the water would sober me up and stop the itching if we went skinny dipping. We had been driving the bank out wagons for almost twelve hours every day for a week, drinking moonshine to offset the itchy work.

The rice dust coated the cab, me, and my clothes. The dust would itch when it came into contact with sweat, so after a full day, the itching was insistent and insane. The moonshine was to be the itch cure, but all it did was reduce inhibitions.

At the end of the day, we were driving past the pond and headed to the barn when Mr. Garcia stopped his wagon, climbed down, and walked over to the pond. Stood on the weir, stripped, turned toward me, and said, "Last one in eats last."

He dove in head first. What I haven't told you is that Mr. Garcia didn't have a penis. He had a vagina. I was stunned. My thinking became a confused jumble.

"I am not sure what you mean. Do I call you Mrs. Garcia now?"

"Come on, kid, the water does stop the itching."

For that promise of relief, I dove in with my underwear on.

I had stripped to only my bra and panties, which became transparent after I got them wet.

When he turned around, holding out his arms, he said, "You lose, I eat first. Opening his arms, he swept me into them. I felt his breasts against my back, and as he pulled me backward, we floated on his back, with me on my back above him. He held his arms around me and seemed to be bouncing off the bottom as we moved around the pond. As we developed a position of comfort, he stepped in a hole, and down we went.

We both came up, spewing pond water and laughing the laugh of the inebriated.

He said, "I want to see your tits."

He released his grip, and we both stood on the now shallower bottom. I stared at him and didn't move or say anything.

At first, I was shocked at his request. But he followed it up with, "My invitation was for skinny dipping, not swimming. Those two pieces of lacy frill need to go because I am sure the vision of your naked loveliness will be far more interesting than those fancy clothes."

I  was so surprised, I wanted to do as he asked; I was frozen in doubt. I was bouncing on the bottom, and as we moved around the pond, it got shallower. As we bounced around the pond, we moved onto an upward-sloping gravel bottom. The water had been over my shoulders, and as it got shallower, my breasts were bouncing in the water. My nipples were growing with every wash of the pond water over them after they crested the surface. We kept bouncing, and she, Mr. Garcia, led us into shallower water, where our tits were exposed. Her tits were pancakes, with tiny nipples and areola.

Mine are a pair of proud old forty's. Big and sagging from their size, with flat nipples and large areola.

We were in water that was only mid-thigh deep when I had to stop in one spot or crash into her. I did stop, and then I felt it. She had a hand on me.

My life had not been completely innocent up to then. Still, I had never been touched on my bare stomach by another woman, and I was immediately panting and wanting more of her hot touch. It was as if a branding iron touched my vagina.

I must have moaned or said okay to her because she turned me around and unfastened my bra. After releasing the four eye hooks, she turned me again and lifted the straps off my shoulders, dropping the cups and baring my breasts. Her hands were first, and then her lips.

I couldn't write a clear sentence to tell how wonderful that orgasm was. It started inside a nipple and went racing around my body, cooled by the pond water. We touched so carefully and tenderly, nipples scratchy and stiff from the excitement. The feelings of orgasmic release were an ethereal experience. I leaned toward the quenching pain of my nipples and even against her five o'clock shadow, and French kissed her without even thinking about it again.

We kissed, fingered, and hugged each other for a long time, long enough for it to become dusk. We climbed the weir onto our dirty, dusty clothes. She took my hand, laid me on the clothes, and said, "It is important that you feel my touch now because it will be a new pleasure in your relatively inexperienced life.

The next thing I recall is screaming as loud as I have ever uttered any sound. Her tongue had curled around my clitoris, which was stiffly protruding from the gash of my cunt. The look of her was of fright almost. Determining that I was having a long orgasm, her ministrations were tender, steady, and sensitive to my reactions.

She had a beard; she was the body shape of every man I knew then, except she had no penis. Her vagina was covered with black fuzz, and the bouquet as she sat on my face was heavenly. Her smell and copious flooding fluids were a feel and taste of heaven; plus, it was probably addicting. It was so good. Most good things are possibly addicting, and sex is.

She talked to me the entire time, assuring me, cooing, little kisses, and moans; eventually, she had me on all fours and had her mouth against my sensitive asshole long enough that I came again.

I collapsed on the weir, and she eventually got tired of cunnilingus and lay beside me. We kissed before grabbing our clothes and driving up to the barn. There was no one else at the barn, so we grabbed the barn hoses and washed in the warm water of the milk parlor.

I got brave enough to ask her about her sexual differences. She said she was born a girl, but as the oldest child, her Dad had wanted her to be born a boy, so he raised her as a boy. She had been told the beard was a chromosomal mismatch and that she would probably be bald before she was twenty. Now she was thirty-eight, and she loved how women reacted to her when she revealed herself.

She had no interest in men, boys, or males of any type and could not tell me why she desired me. But she did, and she and I met for years at the local hotel meeting rooms to sign our lease contract. Then, we would check in and destroy each other for the weekend.

I raised my glass to her, and she clinked with me in my toast.

"Fortunately, you do like cock, my cock, in fact," I said.