My Coc Stands Tall

Five a.m. Give or take. And my cock is already up. Standing tall and proud for all the world to admire. Or not -- as the case may be. It's been the same every morning for a while now. At the first hint of daylight... kapow! Or should that be cock-a-doodle-do? It almost makes me wish that I was a teenager again.

Back in those days, I had a reputation for being able to sleep through anything. Alarm clocks. Radios. The noisy kids next door and their yapping dog. And, yes, an early rising cock reaching for the sky. None of it made any difference. I just kept on sleeping.

'What are you doing?' Julia asks.

'Nothing.'

'You have a very funny way of doing nothing.'

'Not my fault,' I tell her. 'I'm awake.'

'And I was asleep until you started that.'

'We were all asleep. But now we're awake. Blame Elvis.'

'Well, let's go back to sleep, shall we?' Julia says. 'It's only just gone five.'

'I have wood,' I tell her. 'It would be a pity to waste it.'

'Well, you can sort that out yourself. You've had enough practice, for goodness sake.'

'Yeah. But DIY's not the same. And, anyway, you're awake.'

'Only temporarily, I assure you,' she says.

'You don't need to actually do anything,' I tell her. 'You can just lie there. Just leave the work to me.'

Julia harrumphs.

'Just spread your legs a bit,' I say.

I don't know why Julia protests so much at the prospect of an early morning quickie. By the time that I get a finger or two into her furry furrow, she is invariably well on her way to an admirable slickness.

I slip the middle finger of my right hand into her and, yes, sure enough, she is already getting slippery. 'See?' I say. 'Your lips might be saying no, but your sweet cunt is saying yes. Yes, yes, yes. Pick me.'

Julia harrumphs again.

I work my finger around her warm, soft cuntal valley. When I withdraw it, it is coated in slick juice of grade A viscosity. Which I smear on the head of my hard cock. I spread her legs a little further and then position myself between her thighs. She is pretending not to be interested, but I know that she is. Really.

I place the tip of my cock at her slippery entrance. And then I pause. Anticipation is part of the fun. In his mind, James Taylor was going to Carolina. Interestingly, Juia's sister is called Carolina. Not that she and I have ever made the beast with two backs. At least not while I was awake. Perhaps in a dream or two. But this is not a dream.

'Ready?' I say. And it's time to push. Just slowly. Just gently. And I feel Julia's hot cunt drawing me into her. She grunts softly. Her eyes are closed. But she's smiling that dopey smile of hers that says: 'Don't you stop now, you bastard.'

With the head of my cock engulfed, I pause again. 'Still awake?' I say.

'Who's asking?'

And then I continue on in, enjoying the feeling of Julia's corrugated cunt grabbing at my shaft and sucking it in still further. Oh, yes! And then I almost pull right back out before plunging back in. In... and almost out. In... and almost out. And then, picking up the pace... in and almost out. From a gentle walking pace to a trot. From a trot to a light canter. I'm imagining myself rising and falling in the saddle. Head held high. Shoulders relaxed. Back straight. A light rein on my willing steed. In and almost out. In and almost out.

And then all the way out so that my cock is ploughing the length of her secret valley; my suitably-slicked cockhead massaging her swelling clit; my balls slapping against her beautiful arsehole. Oh, yes! Oh, fucking yes! This is the way to start a day.

And then we are approaching the crest. Arriving at le moment critique. Should we pause? Can we pause, that's the question. Can we extend the moment for a moment or two longer? Probably not. In fact, definitely not. It's already too late. The cock crows. And I am already flooding Julia's silky blonde bush with pearly-morning cum. Happily, she hits her mark at almost the same moment.

It is about ten o'clock when Mike comes over. He's bringing us a jar of honey from his hives. 'I think it's mainly clover,' he says. Mike is a real farmer. Or at least he was. He's pretty much retired now. His kids run the farm, and Mike and Marcia live on the lifestyle block next to ours.

'Oh, thank you. That looks great. Let me give you some eggs in exchange,' I say.

We wander into the barn where I grab an egg tray and carefully fill it with freshly-laid free-range eggs.

'Your poultry flock seems to be growing,' Mike says. 'Have you bought a few more layers? Or are they breeding?'

'I bought a few more Buff Orpingtons,' I tell him. 'Good layers, Orpies. Each one should be good for a couple of hundred eggs a year.'

Mike nods.

'But I'm thinking that a few of the less productive girls might have to be consigned to the pot,' I say.

Mike nods again. Mike believes in looking after animals, but there's nothing sentimental about him. Animals are raised to be eaten. Well... not his dog. Not Tess. Obviously. She's a retired sheepdog. (And a hell of a lot smarter than my mutt, Boner.) But, in Mike's world, pretty much everything else is destined to end up on someone's supper table. 'Have you acquired a new rooster too?' Mike asks.

'No. Still just Elvis,' I tell him.

'Elvis?'

'The one that my mother bought for me as a birthday present. Strange birthday present. She claims he's special. Very special. But I still haven't been able to work out in what way.'

Mike smiles. 'Those poultry fanciers are a breed apart,' he says.

'Mother reckons that he cost her a pretty penny.'

Mike nods. 'He certainly knows how to make a racket.' And, right on cue, Elvis cock-a-doodle-does.

'Look, if you want me to take care of the girls who are past their best,' Mike says, 'just put them in one of the big cages. I'll come and get them tomorrow.'

'Well... if you're sure,' I say. (I don't want Mike to think that I'm not up to the job. But I'm sure that he will do it better than I would. Or could.) 'And maybe take a couple for your own pot,' I suggest.

The cock is slower to rise the next morning. Maybe it's because it's cloudy.

Julia is lying on her side with her back towards me. Her sleepshirt has risen up during the night, leaving her shapely arse exposed. I part her buttocks slightly and nose my morning cock into the gap.

'Must you?' she says.

'Morning wood,' I tell her. 'Waste not, want not. There will come a day....'

She pretends not to be interested. But, nevertheless, she wriggles her bum slightly. My cock slides deeper into the gap, and I am already sensing the beginnings of a damp patch. I slip my hand down between us. My fingers separate the globes of her buttocks a little further and, with the ball of my thumb, I begin to massage her beautiful arsehole. Julia lets out a soft sigh and pushes back against my hand. I sometimes wonder if Julia enjoys having a cock in her arse even more than she enjoys having a cock in her cunt.

The following day is Saturday. Farmers' Market Day. It's the one day of the week when even part-time farmers like Julia and me have to be up really early. This week, in addition to our free-range eggs, we're taking three varieties of heirloom tomatoes, along with our first picking of heirloom purple beans.

The sun is just coming up over the poplar trees when we leave for town. A few of the Buff Orpingtons are out stretching their legs in the home paddock, but most are still roosting in the small barn where they spend their nights. As I drive across the cattle stop and out onto the main road, I wonder if Julia notices how uncharacteristically quiet it is. Or is it just uncharacteristically quiet because I know that it is uncharacteristically quiet?

There's a pretty good crowd at the market, and by eleven we are all cleaned out. 'Perhaps we should try bringing a few bundles of fresh herbs,' Julia says. 'We've got plenty at the moment.'

'Yeah. Next weekend perhaps,' I say.

We treat ourselves to a coffee from Red Roasters' stand and then head for home.

Mike has been to call while we've been at the market and there's a Styrofoam cool box waiting for us on the kitchen table. 'Tomorrow's lunch,' I say, tapping the top of the box with two fingers.

It's after eight by the time that we wake on Sunday morning. 'Gosh, that was a long sleep,' I say. And then I realise something. 'Oh dear. I don't even have wood,' I say. 'I hope that doesn't mean that I'm going to be needing little blue pills.'

Julia laughs. 'I suppose that we need to think about prepping lunch,' she says. 'It needs a bit of a slow cook.'

'Plenty of time,' I tell her. But Julia is already heading for the shower. Oh, well. I give her a bit of a head start and then go and join her. Save water; shower with a friend. That's what the guy who sold us the new jumbo-sized shower box said.

'What are you doing?' Julia asks.

'I thought that you might like me to wash your back,' I say. 'And maybe I could give you a bit of a finger fuck at the same time.'

'I've got things to do,' she says.

'It won't take long,' I assure her. 'And maybe you could soap my cock. Important that we keep everything in good working order.' Julia gives me one of her looks. But we get down to business anyway. Start every day with a bang. Or the next best thing.

My mother arrives at one o'clock. On the dot. Mother is a strong believer in punctuality. 'You have more chickens,' she tells me.

'Do we?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps a few,' I say. 'The free-range eggs are quite a good little earner.'

She nods. 'Well, you can't trust the ones you get from the supermarkets these days,' she says. And then she says: 'I didn't see your rooster.'

'Elvis.'

'Elvis? Is that what you call him? Couldn't you have come up with something better? Something more imaginative? He's a very special rooster, you know. He cost real money. And the man who sold him to me said that he had the makings of a champion. You should show him. You should enter him into the county agricultural fair.'

I smile and nod.

'So where is he?' Mother asks.

'I think he may have gone next door,' I say. 'Gone visiting.'

Mother frowns. 'Next door? You mean to the next farm? I thought that roosters stayed pretty close to their flock,' she says. 'I thought that they stayed pretty close to their hens.'

'Perhaps a few hens went with him,' I say.

Julia brings the pot to the table and, with suitably dramatic flair, lifts the lid. The aromas are something to behold. The rich fruity Burgundy wine. The earthy mushrooms. The sweet onions. The fresh hint of pungency from the late-added herbs.

'That smells very nice,' Mother says. 'What is it?'

'Coq au Vin,' I tell her.

'Coq au Vin? That's chicken, isn't it?'

'Coq,' I tell her. 'It's French.'

'Ooh. French. Very nice,' she says.

I don't think Mother notices that, as we each take our first mouthful of poultry deliciousness, the radio in the kitchen is playing Elvis' 1956 hit: 'Love Me Tender'.

'Slow cooked,' I tell her.