Down on the Farm

My son lay between my legs sucking my balls. I lay on our bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. He moved on to take my cock into his mouth and tried to say something at the same time.

'Don't speak with your mouth full,' I said.

He let my cock go and cradled my balls in his hand.

He said, 'What I was attempting to say to you was, "I used to be inside these pretty, little bollocks, then you sent me along this delicious lady cocklet to set me in my mother's womb."'

'You can't have said all that.'

'Clever girl. What I really said was, "I'm going to fuck you rigid.'

'I'm so glad,' I said.

He raised my legs and pulled me further down the bed then bent my legs back so that my pussy was entirely exposed to him.

'And now I'm going back inside you, back to near where I came from twenty-six years ago, you lovely girl, and I'm going to make our babies in your womb.'

'Darling, I so wish you could. I want to give you babies as much as you want to give them to me. But I am so happy with what we have: your cock filling my cunt and your cum inside me, at whichever end. Please fuck me.'

Peter took a jar of lube and started to prepare my pussy. Gently he stroked my rosebud and I shivered in anticipation as first one finger, then two, entered her.

'You are still so tight, my love,' he said, 'despite the working- over I gave you last night.'

'I'm glad you think she's a nice pussy.'

'She's the loveliest pussy in the world; you're the loveliest girl in the world and I'm the luckiest man.'

I reached down to his cock, which was now rigid and magnificent. I took his shaft between my fingers and stroked along its eleven inches.

'Let me prepare him,' I said.

I scooped up lube and worked it over the shaft and the commanding, purple helmet head, then lay back again.

My son positioned his man meat at the entrance to my cunt and started to push. My ring resisted and then, suddenly and breath-takingly, welcomed him in. He groaned and his eyes went up into his head as he plunged into my velvet depths. I threw back my head and cried out. His mind came back to focus on me. His eyes smiled into mine and he whispered into my ear, 'Darling wife, I am in paradise, and whatever you say to the contrary, I am going to make my babies inside you.'

He started to fuck me gently but with complete mastery. He was my son but he was also, and above all else, my husband. I was his father but primarily I was his wife. He had taken me for the first time less than a week ago. He had released, at last, the woman I had always known myself to be and now I lived for his caresses, his kisses, his hands moving me to ecstasy and his cock and balls moving me to delirium.

He began to pick up speed. As he thrust, my back rose to meet him. The sound of his balls slapping my buttocks filled the room alongside our groans. As he hit my prostate over and over again my voice rose and I whimpered with lust. That sent him over the edge and he shot wave after wave of cum deep into my womb. From the stickiness between his stomach and mine I assumed I must have come but my true orgasm had occurred, overwhelmingly, deep inside me where his cock lived and moved within me. He lay on me and in me and I drifted to sleep still sheltering the most precious part of my husband deep inside me, as though I was carrying his child.

I woke to find him still inside me. He had started to stir and was getting into rhythm humping me. Already I could feel the ridges of his growing cock stimulating the sides of my vagina (as I now thought of it). He increased his pace; once again his groans echoed in my head and he took me over completely. I was his fuck shute and nothing more and my mind exploded as my cocklet and his iron-hard pole erupted together.

We had to hire help much more regularly now that Larry had gone and so I had to wear men's clothes far more than Peter and I wished, but we didn't have anyone living on site, so we had our evenings and nights, and there were long periods when Peter could do the work that was necessary alone, so I could revert to being his wife full time. Those times were magical for us both.

I learnt what pleased him and what really made him wild with lust and I made sure that he had a full diet of both, so that I had an equally full diet of his cock and balls, his sperm and his tongue. Our love blossomed. I feared that the difference in our ages would mean that he would soon tire of me but that didn't happen. When we started sharing a bed as man and wife Peter was twenty-six and I was forty-four. He swore that I was as fresh as a young girl and he maintained that I looked younger than him. Neither was true but it was sweet of him to say it.

He liked me, in the evening, to dress with special care. His favourite outfit for me was black sheer stockings with a black lace suspender belt and matching bra and panties and a full-length evening dress. In return, to please me, he would come to the table shirtless but wearing a black tie, usually around his neck but sometimes, when he decided to be completely naked, around the base of his cock. On those occasions he had me untie his tie with my teeth before giving him a blow-job and drinking the nectar of his cum.

He now habitually called me 'Chrissie' or 'Pretty-Girl Daddykins' and often, as we snuggled up together after he had exhausted me with his love making, I would be his 'little girly wife'. So our time of ever deepening love went on and I was at last genuinely myself for, I realised, Peter's wife was what I was born to be.

Please don't think for a moment that we had forgotten Larry. I realised that he must have heard Peter and me making love that first day. This is a wooden building and sound carries and the headboard of our bed was bouncing off the wall for much of that day and night. If the sounds I heard were really sobs he must have listened to his father and his brother swearing their love and their lust for each other and he must have heard his brother taking his father sexually and his father demanding to be ravished. He must have been so horrified and disgusted that he could not stay in the same house with us and so he had departed. We thought of advertising for him in social media, declaring our unchanged love for him and asking him to return, but we could imagine the response of everyone who knew us, if any of them saw our advert. We dared not risk it.

So months and years went by and we heard nothing from Larry. It left a sadness always in the back of my mind but it was a bearable sadness because of the continuing joy and deepening delight of my love for Peter and of his for me. I had expected that the urgency of our love-making would diminish with the years as is usual. Instead my husband's passion and inventiveness kept it in a constant state of renewal. For nine years I was the luckiest woman in the world.

At about the time of our ninth anniversary I was taken ill. Except for my time of depression I had never been unwell. I put on my man's clothes and went to see Dr Guthrie. As a newly qualified doctor he had brought Peter into the world thirty -five years earlier. Alan Guthrie was now in his early sixties. He was married but had no children. He had been our doctor and had attended my wife and the boys but I had not seen him for many years.

I was surprised by how much he had changed in personality. I remembered him as friendly and outgoing but he seemed morose, with a twist to his lip which gave him a cynical air.

He asked me what was wrong. I asked for complete confidentiality and he responded as though I had insulted him, which I suppose, inadvertently, I had. I apologised and said, 'I think you will understand if I take my shirt off.'

'Tell me first what is the problem.'

'I have a lump in my right breast.'

I took off my shirt and the restraining bodice and my C cups emerged.

Alan Guthrie looked surprised and then smiled. 'You've been taking female hormones,' he said.

'Yes,' I replied.

'Strip, please and let me see the extent of the change.'

'Is that necessary?'

'It is if you want me to help you.'

I did as he asked.

He felt my breasts and peered at the lump.

'I think it's benign but I'll do a minor op and send some tissue off for a biopsy. Presumably Peter knows about your change?' I nodded. 'Because I shall need him to help with the op. I can't let my nurses see this if you want it to remain secret. They're very good but the fact of your feminisation might be just a bit too interesting for us to risk it.'

'I'd better check the rest of you out. I see you keep your cock and balls region entirely shaved. How about behind?'

I turned around and he ran his hands over my buttocks. His fingers lingered in my crack and when he opened my buttocks I heard his intake of breath.

'This rectum is getting a lot of use,' he said. 'Who's the lucky man?'

Then he laughed softly. 'There's only one real man out at your farm so it must be your son, Peter.'

'I'm admitting nothing,' I said.

'You don't need to. Your body admits it all for you,' he replied and he kissed my pussy lips. He grabbed my hips and slurped his rasping tongue across my pucker before sticking the tip of his tongue into my responding cunt.

I tried to push him away but he stood up, grasped my arms behind me and whispered in my ear, 'Incest is a serious crime. You and your lover-son will go to jail and when the inmates know what you're there for I don't fancy his chances, strong as he is, and yours are nil, so you will do as I say. Your lover need never know, but you will visit me for follow up and I shall use you for my pleasure. Go down under me or go down, period.'

I saw that I had no choice.

He pushed me behind his surgery door, where I couldn't be seen from the outer office, opened the door and said to his receptionist, 'You can go to lunch now, Janet. Mr James is an old friend and we're going to spend some quality time together. You don't need to hurry back. In fact, come to think of it, we don't have anyone coming now till evening surgery so take the afternoon off.'

Janet left. Guthrie locked both the outer and inner doors and we were alone together for the next four hours. In that time he had me suck him off, lick his balls, his arse and his taint; he took my cocklet in his mouth and brought me off, and he fucked my pussy. I was surprised that at his age he could come as frequently as he did, until, as I was lying on my back on his surgery couch and he was lying on top of me, he said, 'I've been waiting twenty-five years to have a man-woman like you and you are worth the wait. Now get dressed and go home. Bring Peter with you at the same time next week and we'll do the op. Come back alone a week later for the results and keep the whole of the rest of that day free so that we can get better acquainted.'

I did as he said, the lump was benign, and I became Alan Guthrie's mistress.

He had spent years trawling the internet but had never dared to contact anyone face to face. He wanted a male but feminine fuck toy and now he had found one, me. I got used to his long, thin cock invading me and to being scratched by the wiry, greying hair of his bush and his chest as he pounded me. I got used to the cloying but salty taste of his cum.

He bought lingerie for me to wear specially for him, which I wore under my men's clothing when I came to see him and, when I was with him, he liked me to replace my trousers and shirt by a slinky skirt and a tarty blouse before he stripped and mounted me or put me on my knees, clad in my stockings, suspender belt, panty and bra, to suck him off.

He was in good shape for his age. He clearly worked out and, although I felt guilty, I secretly came to enjoy being taken by a body so different from my son's. Alan's cock was shorter and thinner than Peter's but he instinctively knew how to use it to give us both maximum pleasure. His balls were surprisingly large and I enjoyed pulling each one down and sucking on it before bunching them together in my two hands whilst sucking his cock. He particularly enjoyed taking me doggy fashion before eating out my cunt and slurping his juices from me before sharing them with my mouth. I soon came to know every inch of his older but muscular body so well by sight, taste and touch that I could have been blindfold and I should still have recognised any part of him with any of my other senses. I came to revel in the taste of his pits and could always drive him wild within minutes by licking him from pit to nipple and nipple to pit, a sure recipe for getting him humping me as though his life depended on it.

Our sex sessions took place at least once, and sometimes twice, a week, and Peter was becoming suspicious about my needing so many follow-ups, not that he suspected the real reason for them, rather he was worried that something was badly wrong with my health and he wasn't being told. Then, three months into my subjection to Dr Guthrie, Peter cut himself badly whilst mending the roof of our barn, blood-poisoning ensued, and within the week my darling husband was dead.

I attended his funeral in our parish church as a father mourning his son, in a state of shock. Alan Guthrie was surprisingly kind and didn't force himself on me. Instead, when I said I needed to visit the grave as my son's widow, he encouraged me to order an appropriate outfit and, when it arrived, and I had put on the black dress and stockings with the black shoes and the black pill-box hat with a veil, he came out to the farm, as he had done each day on his rounds since Peter's death, but this time, instead of sitting with me for half an hour and letting me talk or remain silent, as I needed, he took me in his car to the cemetery in the afternoon. At that time of day most folks were at work or at home and I knelt beside my husband's grave and wept my heart out without fear of recognition. Alan had bought a small bunch of anemones for me to leave on the grave. He was thoughtful like that.

As we set off from the churchyard in Alan's car a woman who knew Alan came out of the general store and waved at him to stop but he pretended he had not seen her and drove on.

'The news that a grieving woman has been to Peter's grave will be around the town in minutes,' he said. 'We'll say that you are a woman Peter was seeing in the city, that you were abroad when he died and couldn't get back for the funeral, but that Peter's father invited you to stay here overnight to visit the grave and that I took you, because when it came to the day Christopher couldn't bear to go there, because his loss had hit him afresh.'

That became our story. We gave the woman a name and a job but didn't offer any more information except that she and Peter had been fond of each other for only a short time.

Meanwhile I, the real widow, cried myself to sleep night after night. After a month Alan's visits changed from pastoral to sexual and I resumed life as his mistress. He called in each day during his rounds of his patients and we made love. Ladies, sisters, if you are reading this, please do not judge me too harshly. In my shattered world and my equally shattered mind the man who had blackmailed me into having sex with him had become the only representative of continuity. His cock, the only cock now living which had ever entered my cunt, became the guarantor that, despite my misery, I was still a desirable woman. My one stipulation, which Alan respected, was that we should use another bedroom than my marital bedroom. Once a day I would entertain my lover, as I now thought of Alan, in 'our' bedroom and every night I would weep out of longing for my real husband in the bed which had been ours.

I was grateful for Alan's forbearance in the month after Peter's death and I thought he had become more tender. He had, but I was to discover that his sweetness had an ulterior motive. One day, after our afternoon fuck, I lay in my stockings and suspender belt on the bed whilst he licked my clitie balls and cocklet. He looked along my stomach and breast to my face and asked, 'How are you intending to live from now on?'

'How do you mean?'

'I mean you don't have a man to work the farm for you and if you hire men to do it you can't live as a woman. Everyone around here knows you as male. What do you intend to do?'

I genuinely hadn't thought about it but now I saw that Alan was right. With Peter I had allowed myself to become dependent on my man. I liked it. It made me feel more womanly. So I automatically asked Alan what he suggested.

He said, 'I know many men online who would pay very well to have sex with a woman like you. I could arrange a select clientele for you; I should vet them to make sure you aren't in any danger. In fact, if you want, I can arrange your appointments so that I am always here to offer protection, if that would make you feel more secure.'

I lay there silently for a moment, then I experienced a moment of clarity. I thought, 'I am not your mistress; I am your whore. You are being sweet because I can provide you with further, voyeuristic pleasure watching other men take me and you'll take a cut of the profits as my pimp.'

I looked down at him as he resumed suckling on my clitie and thought, 'What the hell? It will make it possible for me to keep this house.'

I said to him, 'Should I rent out the land to someone?'

He said he had already found a local farmer who wanted to expand. I realised that the whole deal had been cut and dried in Alan's mind before he even asked me if I would be a whore for him. He knew I was in no state to resist, whatever proposal he made to me. So I agreed.

In fact, it worked out not at all badly, initially. Despite my age, fifty-four, a surprising number of men, some of them quite young, were interested in having sex with me. Sometimes, at their request, Alan would join in a threesome, sometimes they liked him to take photographs and sometimes they liked to watch him fucking me whilst they jacked off over our bodies. Alan taught me to respond to whatever the client wanted and to look as though I was enjoying it but, sadly, despite the physical stimulation of a big, handsome man grazing on my titties, or thrusting his totemic cock into my cunt, or feeding me his sperm, I never felt with any of them the fulfilment I had felt with Peter. It was all better than nothing, I suppose, in that it allowed me to live as a woman and to put food on the table and some of them, admittedly, gave me sexual pleasure.

There was one client, in particular, whom I liked. He was a massively built, in every respect, black man, called Edgar, who liked to feed me his balls and his cock before entering me doggy style, whilst I took Alan's cock down my throat. The two men would change places after Alan had sucked Edgar's cum from my cunt and fed me with it. Edgar liked to finish our session by watching Alan fuck me whilst he, Edgar, cradled my head in his arms and called me 'his little fuck flower.'

After about six months the pattern of my whoring changed. Alan insisted on my entertaining more and more men. They were still people who had at least as much to lose from exposure as we did, but some of them were men who enjoyed humiliating me or inflicting pain on me. When I complained to Alan he just shrugged his shoulders and said, 'They pay well.' Alan, himself, became more aggressive and I started to be frightened. I wanted out. I should go away somewhere and leave my beloved house, but how to escape? And what work could I do to stay alive? I even thought, 'Perhaps I should be better off dead.' When I said this to Alan he laughed as though I had made a joke.

I had worked as Alan's whore for nearly a year when my life changed again. I was nearing my fifty-fifth birthday and wondered how much longer any man would want me, though my clients seemed as fervent in their sexual demands as ever. One day Alan told me I had a new client, a very rich man who had offered $10,000 for a night with me. I prepared meticulously: my makeup was perfect and I was wearing a full- length dress of dark blue silk, which clung to my figure and indicated, but not too blatantly, my best points, which were shown off, when I removed, or allowed my client to remove, my dress, by the filmiest lingerie available. When Alan walked into the house I saw in his eyes the unmistakable glitter of pure lust, which told me I had done well. The client was to follow almost immediately and he had asked that Alan should disappear, so that, although I should know I had his protection, he would not be in evidence.