The Breeding Technician

Spring is creeping up on the farm like a stranger about to put his warm hands over your eyes from behind. Spring means sunshine and tight little buds on the flowering trees. It means crickets every night and blackbirds every morning; it means the resurfacing of my milky collarbones from their coarse flannel scarves, my thighs seeing the sunlight again when I let the tire swing hike my skirt up. And more than anything, spring means breeding season for the livestock. But for all his grumbling superstition, my daddy can't get the bulls to lay their claim.

He comes up to my loft room to complain about this, and at the sound of his knuckles on the door I have to untangle myself from the goosefeather pillow and the knotted quilt that, positioned just so between my legs, was just about to make me see God.

"We're going to have to hire out," he says, while I reposition my chemise. "We need a tech."

"A what?" I ask. I almost think I see him narrow his eyes at the flush in my cheeks.

"A breeding technician," he tells me. "An expert. I do just fine looking after a farm, but I can only do so much when the animals don't want to fuck."

The obscenity startles me; he must really be angry. The blood leaves my face and pools in the pit of my stomach. By the grace of the lord he shrugs and leaves, shutting the door behind him. I tip onto my back and gather the pillow up against me again. It's still warm, one faint stripe still damp to the touch like a bookmark for me to return to. I do, and it carries me all the way through. Guiltily, with more than a small dose of my daddy's superstition, I wonder if I'm so deeply in heat I'm the reason nothing else around here will mount.

***

Daddy works fast; the breeding technician comes not two days later, rumbling up in a truck nicer and newer than ours, yet still worn enough to be respectable. So many things around here are about respect. It's a word that I don't hear so much as feel. I rarely know what it really means -- it's just a ghost in the room when I set my bible down too carelessly and hear the leather zipping through my daddy's belt loops like a snake about to strike. It's there, too, when he catches me washing my feet in the creek while the neighbor boys are outside. Be respectable, he says, and I try, but I've got something dark and sick inside that doesn't answer to me.

So when I see the technician step out of his truck -- the fullness of his arms, the glint of determination beneath his furrowed brow, the beard he touches with curious fingers -- I know I'm going to be asking for forgiveness soon. For what, I don't know yet, but he sees me watching him from my bedroom window and gives me an amused little wave. I duck out of sight, praying he didn't see the desperate way I was already sucking my own knuckles. With an ear to the floor, I listen as my daddy lets him in and the man starts talking. I press my lips to the supple flesh on the back of my hand, practice kissing him. Wet warmth blooms in my panties when I surprise myself with my own tongue against my skin. My free hand follows it. The technician's name is Mr. Peck. He's talking about potency, pheromones. More than once he says insemination. I nearly cum to the sound of his voice, but my bastard father ushers him out towards the barn.

I sit upright, glare at the crooked floorboards. I lap up the sheen from my fingers: a calf at a salt lick.

***

Over the next few days, my daddy trails Mr. Peck like a sheepdog. I can't hardly tell whether he's suspicious of him, or eager to learn the secrets of his trade. They bicker and banter but at the end of the day there's always respect, that word again, and this time it means a tall glass of cream soda I'm expected to serve Mr. Peck in the kitchen every evening before he heads out.

Usually daddy sticks around to try and fail to talk him into a round of double trouble, but tonight he heads right up to bed before the foam has even settled on our guest's drink. So we find ourselves alone, for the first and maybe last time.

Over the lip of his glass, Mr. Peck asks me if I do a lot of work for my daddy on the farm. He says it just like that, "your daddy," though I'm nearly tall enough to meet his eye and he knows I'm grown enough to be on my own.

Yes, I tell him, I do. "I know I don't look fit to do it, but I am."

"You do a lot of heavy lifting, huh?" He asks me, eyeing my narrow waist, my willowy arms.

"I'm the only one chops firewood around here," I tell him. "I even built the woodshed you saw out back."

He perks up, sets his glass down. "Is that so?" He asks me.

Mr. Peck follows me outside and we walk the short walk to the little shed, the firewood scant inside as the nights are warmer and warmer now. He eyes it, impressed.

I didn't build the woodshed. I watched real close and chewed on licorice while a couple of the Callahan boys put it together. Mr. Peck doesn't need to know that, though. He's here, that's what matters, and he's still touching the walls and admiring the door hinge when I lead him inside into the shadows.

He looks lovely in here, like an oil painting, dim in the late light. I can feel the heat coming off of his body. The air in the shed is muggy, and the thin cotton of my dress sticks to my chest like a second skin.

"What d'you think?" I ask, and he looks at me for a long time before he says, "I think it's just fine."

And then he says, "Well, I better get going," and he reaches for the door. He's acting funny, the first I've seen from him since he's been here. He's turning his body away from me, everything tensed -- not like the lithe, broad-chested expert who strode up to the farmhouse so confidently that first time. I catch his hand.

"What's wrong, mister?" I ask, but I don't need an answer. All I need is for him to turn and face me for just another moment, just long enough so that I can -- yes -- see the bulge rising in his slacks. He lets out a quick exasperated huff of a breath, a little fight left in him. But he's still touching my hand. So I keep hold of it while I drop to my knees on the splintery floor of the woodshed, and I place his palm on the crown of my head for him, lacing his fingers into my hair.

His hand is heavy and trembling. I release it; he stays put. I can hardly see his eyes in the darkness but I can easily imagine the look of agony on his face when he says, "now, honey--"

A weak little non-argument before I take his fly down and pull out his cock.

"You don't know what you're doing," he says. "You shouldn't --"

And then it's not words but sound, just a low groan vanishing into a gasp when I take the tip of him into my mouth and swallow the droplets that come spurting out in reply.

"You're a terrible little thing," he tells me, even as he holds my head steady and pumps his length deeper into my throat. I hum around him in agreement and his knees begin to buckle.

"Let me just --" he says, and takes a seat on the floor, pulling me greedily by the forearm. "You gotta take care of this now," he warns me.

I'm obedient enough to draw closer and lean in close to his face. I smell the cream soda on his breath and nip at his lower lip. His mouth seizes mine but I'm the one who slips my tongue in, violating him just a little, his cock pulsing in my hand again.

Mr. Peck is holding my face so sweetly, just like a boy in a movie, trying so diligently to earn the feeling of my drool on his erection again, when I gather a fistful of my dress aside and straddle his lap.

He grabs my waist as if to haul me off of him, but he's not quick enough -- his grip weakens when I guide the head of his cock up between my legs and he realizes I don't have anything on underneath. It's just warm and bare and soft to the touch, and he's so caught off guard by this that I'm able to stuff him a few inches deep before he starts to protest.

I expect him to curse my name or issue some vague threat -- all these things I'm prepared for, but what Mr. Peck says with a breathless misery is: "Your daddy trusts me."

"He should," I say, rising halfway up off his shaft. "You're a professional, aren't you?"

"He's not paying me to defile his daughter," he says, but on the last few syllables I can feel him throb inside me, straining against the squeeze of my desperate cunt.

He's not going to last long. If he wants to argue the whole time, so be it.

"He's paying you," I say, "to make the animals fuck." And then I lean in and sink my teeth just a little too hard into the curve of his neck. He hisses and groans. His reluctant strokes into me become more purposeful, more obscenely slicked with his precum.

"You're a little beast," he says.

"Then breed me," I tell him, "I'm old enough and you know how. Everything works, I promise."

"You don't know what you're asking," says Mr. Peck, but his hands have worked their way up under my chemise and he's filling them with my breasts. He pinches my nipples and I yelp like a puppy, bearing down harder on his girth, which makes his eyes roll back.

What a fine businessman, I think to myself, underneath the sound of my own keening and gasping. Getting his cock wet in some rickety woodshed, warming his hands on my tits, his tongue practically lolling out of his mouth. No better than the bulls and the roosters. All that research and practice and focus, and for what? To end up stuffing some farmer's daughter's cunt among the lumber? To become the subject of his own breeding study?

"You know you're gonna," I tell him, cupping his hands in mine, making him squeeze me even harder. "That's why you're letting me milk it out of you."

Mr. Peck lets out a growl and in one fluid motion, he wrenches me off of him and bends me over the woodstack.

"What's wrong?" I ask him in a halting, gulping tone, as he pounds into me and sends tremors from my thighs to the teardrop-undersides of my breasts. He's bouncing me against him so he can hear the clap of his skin against mine, I realize. He's making sure it's loud enough for daddy to hear from the house.

"You don't want this," he chokes out. "You don't want me to do this to you."

The reproach in his voice almost stops me. It fills me with a cold dread that ripples down from my ears to my heels in one wave after another, and I almost laugh to myself when I realize it's only making me squeeze tighter, only making me that much wetter.

"Fuck, mister, you're gonna fill me up, aren't you?" I ask him. "Are you gonna inseminate me?"

"Don't use that word," he huffs, but the next thing I feel is his fist knotting itself in my hair. He yanks my head back. And then, through gritted teeth, he says: "god forgive me."

I'm not too busy soaking his cock to giggle. "God's not gonna forgive you once he sees what you've done to me, Mr. Peck," I say. "Nobody's gonna forgive you."

"Goddamn you," he says, delivering particularly punishing thrust that makes me yelp. "You want your daddy to hear you getting your little cunt filled up? You want him to come out here to the sound of your little pig squeals and find you bent over with some man's seed spilling into your belly?"

The noise I make next isn't composed of words, just a desperate whine as I feel his whole hot length enter me again and I come helplessly all over it. My legs vibrate and my abdomen clenches, my nipples pressing almost painfully into the wood, and I hear Mr. Peck appeal to the lord one more time before he lets my climax squeeze a thick, warm load of cum out of his cock.

The spreading sensation of it makes me purr, makes me rut back even harder against his groin while it oozes out between my thighs. He's not pulling out; he fucks it deeper into me, a perverse squelching sound audible over our labored breaths. He stays in me like that a while, grunting, withdrawing just a bit before sliding himself all the way back in to watch his handiwork drip onto the lumber.

And then he's softening, slipping out. He stands up. I'm breathing in the scent of pine while the breeding technician zips himself back up and leaves the shed without a word, letting the door hang open.

I turn and look back at the farmhouse through the doorframe. A light is on in my daddy's bedroom; I can see his silhouette at the window, unmoving. Straight-backed. Respect, always, respect.

He'll be so relieved to know all the animals here have been bred for the season. Mr. Peck has already collected his pay, and I think we'll agree it's well earned.