Harvest Weekend Alone With Him

Camila’s little hatchback kicked up dust on the long gravel drive, the farmhouse rising weathered and solid against the late October gold. Nineteen, back from her first stretch of college, she killed the engine and sat a second longer than she needed, pulse already thick in her throat. Mom had texted from the airport an hour ago—business trip, full weekend, don’t burn the place down. That left her alone with Errol.

He came out of the barn wiping his hands on a rag, forty-eight and still cut from decades of real work—broad shoulders under a faded flannel, jeans hanging low on narrow hips, the gray at his temples only making the hard lines of his face sharper. His eyes dragged over her like he hadn’t meant them to. Tight sweater, shorter skirt than she needed for harvest weekend. She felt the stare land between her legs and heat flooded her face, her cunt.

“Hey, kid,” he said, voice rough. It didn’t sound like kid.

“Hey.” She brushed past him with her bag, hip grazing his thigh, and neither of them pretended it was accident.

They worked the fields that afternoon because the pumpkins and late corn wouldn’t wait. Sun poured honey-colored over everything. Camila had changed into denim shorts that barely covered the undersides of her ass and a thin tank that stuck to her when she sweat. Every time she bent to cut a stem she felt him watching. She made sure of it—arching, letting the shorts ride, “accidentally” backing into him when he reached for the same crate. His cock was a thick ridge against her ass for half a second before he stepped away breathing hard.

“Camila.” Her name came out scraped. “You keep that up and I’m gonna do something I can’t take back.”

She turned, cheeks flushed, nipples tight under the cotton. “Then don’t take it back. I’ve wanted your cock for years, Errol. Thick older cock stretching my tight little pussy. Tell me you’ve thought about it.”

He dropped the shears. “Fuck. Every night your mother’s been gone in my head. Wanted that cunt since you turned eighteen and started looking at me like this. Come here.”

They crashed together between the rows, open-mouthed and desperate, his tongue fucking past her lips while her hands shoved under his shirt to map the hard plane of his stomach. He tasted like coffee and salt. She moaned into it, grinding on the bulge behind his zipper until he growled and hauled her toward the old wooden harvest table under the oak.

He spun her, bent her over the scarred wood, yanked the shorts and soaked panties down in one pull. Cool air hit her dripping folds. Then his mouth. Errol ate her from behind like a man starved—broad tongue dragging from clit to hole, spearing inside, sucking her swollen lips while she clawed the table and pushed back. “Shit—yes, eat that pussy, don’t stop—” He growled against her and two thick fingers shoved in alongside his tongue, curling until her knees shook and slick ran down her thighs.

She twisted free only long enough to drop to her knees in the dirt and grass. His cock sprang heavy and dark when she freed it, veins ridged, head already slick. Camila worshipped it messy—long wet licks, then opening wide and taking him deep until her throat bulged and spit poured down her chin. He held her hair and fucked her face in short strokes, groaning filthy praise. “Look at you choking on it. My good girl. Take it deeper.”

When he pulled her up she was gasping, cunt clenching on nothing. He lifted her onto the table, shoved her knees wide, and sank into her in one long ruthless thrust. The stretch burned perfect. She cried out, nails in his shoulders, begging already. “Deeper—fuck me harder, fill me up, please—” He pounded her missionary, table creaking, balls slapping her ass, thumb rough on her clit until she came clenching and wailing.

He flipped her easy, gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, and drove back into her doggy. Deeper like this. She could feel every inch dragging her walls, the head punching that spot that made her see white. “Take it,” he rasped. “This tight fucking cunt is mine this weekend.”

They stumbled to the porch swing still joined, her riding him reverse, feet on the boards for leverage so she could slam herself down on his cock. The chains creaked. Sweat slicked her back. He reached around to rub her clit in tight circles and she broke—squirting in hard pulses over his balls and the wooden seat, cunt milking him in waves. Errol cursed, buried to the root, and flooded her with thick ropes of cum, pulsing so deep she felt every spurt.

They stayed locked like that, his seed already leaking warm down her thighs when she turned enough to kiss him slow and deep. “Only the beginning,” she whispered against his mouth. “Whole weekend. Every room.”

He held her a long minute, forehead to her shoulder, breathing her in. Then something quiet settled over him. He eased her off, tucked himself away, and stood. No anger. Just the weight of what they’d done settling into the golden afternoon.

“I’m going to check the north fence,” he said, voice even. He walked down the steps and across the yard without looking back, boots steady on the path until the tall grass took him. Camila sat alone on the wet swing, cum cooling on her skin, the house suddenly too big and too quiet around her.