Date: Sun, 16 Nov 2014 07:28:01 -0800
From: Seth Kirkcauldy <seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net>
Subject: Weeping Willow 2

Weeping Willow - Part 2 of 4
copyright 2014 Seth Kirkcauldy
seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net

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dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are a
product of the author's imagination, or used fictitiously.  This story
contains erotic situations between intergenerational males of differing
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On his second visit, James entered the barn through the door rather than
the hole in the wall.  The route lent his actions a degree of legitimacy;
he preferred it to skulking about in the shadows.  All his breath deserted
him as he was confronted with the image of Mud out of the bath.  The man
had pulled on a dirty pair of trousers, although that name was fancier than
the course cotton from which they were made.  He was shirtless and
shoeless, a state that might have mesmerized James if Mud's words hadn't
distracted him.

"Yer too late ta dry me off," Mud told him with a slight smirk.

James' smile froze, and then shattered completely, brittle and fragile
shards scattering.  His happiness seemed a bright needle that was now lost
in the haystack of Mud's bed.

He avoided the man's warm brown eyes and dropped his small travel bag upon
the floor of the musty barn.

"Hey now," Mud said gently, his hand suddenly cupping James' chin and his
thumb stroking his cheek.  "Don' get mad.  I tease an' poke dose I like."
He shook his head at the strangeness of it.  "I dunno why, James.  I's
polite ta dose I hate an' tease dose dat I like."

"Well that's stupid," James said, frowning, sending Mud into snorts of
laughter.

"I knows it!"  Tears were gleaming in Mud's golden eyes as he laughed.  "I
cain't help it; it's how I is.  I 'spect ma mamma was like dat.  Hear dat I
like ya; can ya hear dat?"

James' voice was so raw that it hurt him to speak.  "I hear that."

"Good," Mud said, with a brilliant smile.  "Dat's real good.  Why's ya out
here?"

"To sleep with you," James said, before his brain was free of Mud's smile.
"I mean... I mean...  I told Aunt Mary I needed... that I should... sleep
out here so that no one would question the blanket or the tub; you know, so
it wouldn't look..."

"Good.  Dat's real good," Mud said lazily, scratching his stomach.  James
had no idea what he said after that.  There was a slight scritch of blunt
nail on dark skin, leaving a faint white path across the black landscape;
the whispered sound seemed to drown out everything else.

Mud sighed heavily, giving James the impression he'd missed something that
had been said.  The sound pulled his eyes up to meet the older man's.

"Go douse dat lamp an' I's gonna put out dis one after ya is in da bed.  It
get real dark out here in da barn.  I don' want ya assidentally sleepin'
wid da mule."

James smiled at the comment; and Mud's bright smile in return warmed him.
He went and extinguished the furthest lamp and then climbed onto the
blanket which was spread atop the hay.  His body immediately found the
depression that had been created by Mud's larger frame, and he snuggled
into the nest there.

"Ya cain't sleep in da middle; where's I spose ta sleep?"  Mud stood in
front of the lamp so that he was merely a featureless dark mass with his
grey shadow stretching out over James.  It gave the impression that the
shadow cast Mud.  James shivered.

"Ya cole?  I's always hot; specially in dis heat."  He turned down the lamp
to plunge the barn into darkness thick as tar; there was a rustle of
trousers being removed which had James' mouth and eyes opening wide.  He
was glad Mud couldn't see his expression, but he sure wished he could see
Mud.

"I only gots da one pair a trousers, hope ya don' mine dat I don' sleep in
'em."

There was suddenly a muscular arm wrapped around James and pulling him back
against a hard, muscled chest.

"Ya don' feel cole, but ya shore is shiverin'."

"Yeah," James said, licking his dry lips, closing his eyes against the
darkness, and sinking back against the heat of the man who held him.

"James?"

"Hmmm?"

"Ya mine if I asks about yer mamma?"

James stiffened, but forced himself to wonder why he felt defensive.  He
figured if he was ever going to talk about it with anyone, this was the
right time, place, and person.  He felt safe; and he liked that no one
could see his face when he talked about things that made him feel
vulnerable.

"You want to know how she died, I suppose?  It was consumption.  I'd known
it was coming, of course, but knowing it and being ready are further apart
than New York and Mississippi."

"Both is farther'n a boy should travel alone."

"I miss her so much."

"I knows it.  I... I watched ya cry under da willow.  I dint mean ta, but
dat's usually where I spend ma days.  It gets real hot in da barn when da
sun is up, so roun' daybreak I usually head ta da willow which is nice an'
cool but still hidden, see?  When ya came out dere right where I was
hidin', I climbed up in da tree an' hid in da branches."

"But...  I looked for anyone up in the tree after I found..."

"I went back ta da barn when ya's havin' yer supper.  I usually go back
after dark when it's safer; but I figgered ya might be back out dere after
ya'd et."

"Yeah, I came back."

"I knows it."  Mud paused until the silence seemed heavy.  "I watched out
fer ya."

"My mother was... beautiful.  She had blonde hair."

"White as cotton like yourn?"

"Yellower.  Like sunlight, or... I don't know..."

"Golden silk.  Like corn."

James sighed in appreciation.  "Yeah.  Like that.  And blue eyes."

"Mmmmm.  Like Mary's.  An' like yourn."

"Yes."  James licked his lips again.  "But mostly she loved me, you know?
She knew my good parts and my wickedness, and she loved me all the same.
She was funny, too.  She could sound just like our old German neighbor and
used to act like her to make me laugh."

"Mmmm.  Sounds mighty nice.  Tell me da bad stuff."

"What?"

"She was a person, James.  We all gots good an' bad.  Jus' like us, she had
wickedness, huh?"

"Well," James hesitated.  He never expected anyone to ask him about the bad
things.  "Well... I guess she couldn't sing a lick; had a voice like a
squeaky wagon, but wouldn't ever stop singing no matter how much our
neighbors yelled."

"Heh heh.  Dat ain't a bad thin', boy.  Ya loved dat about her.  Try agin,
now."

"It doesn't seem right talking about bad things..."

"She was yer Momma.  Ya hafta put all of her ta rest, not jus' da parts ya
loved."

"She didn't tell me things!" James suddenly said fiercely.  Tears bit at
his eyes and he found himself blinking rapidly in the inky darkness.  "She
wouldn't tell me things about my father even when I asked directly.  She
tried to protect me from everything.  She was sick for a long time before
she told me about that, too, when I could have helped her.  She didn't tell
me she was getting worse; I had no idea she was so close to... to..."

The acrid tears dropped onto Mud's strong arm which held him tight against
the warm skin of his chest.

"She died all by herself because she wouldn't tell me.  Why wouldn't she
just tell me?  I'm not a little kid anymore!"

Mud was quiet a long time, just holding him.  Finally, he said, "No one
likes ta look weak.  Isn't dat why ya cry unda willow trees an' in dark
barns?  Ya's just like yer Momma, an' dat ain't a bad thin' at all."

James huffed at that and took a long shuddering breath.  No, it wasn't a
bad thing at all to be like his mother.

"I think you're the smartest man I've ever met," James whispered.

Mud chuckled.  "How'd ya live up dere in New York an' not meet any men?
Dat don' seem possible."

James huffed again and sniffled.  "I mean it.  I'm not poking fun like you
do.  I think you're the smartest man I've ever met."

Mud sighed.  "I ain't exactly jokin' neider, James; I cain't even read."
His voice was flat; all the richness had bled out so that it was stark.  It
made James shiver in his arms.

James thought about that a moment.  He wondered what it would be like to
not be allowed to read.  It was one of his favorite sanctuaries; and he had
been feeling so vulnerable here, having left all of his books back in New
York.  He felt his heart forge a connection to Mud in that moment, a shared
desire for ink to be thirstily absorbed by the pores of the page until they
were inextricably bound into something more than they had been.  Each word
was magic, each story a spell, and each book a grimoire.

"What would you read if you could?"

"Da Bible, of course," Mud said immediately.  "I'd like ta read dat fer
myself stead of trustin' others ta tell me what it all means."  After a
long pause, he added shyly, "An I wanna read dat Twelve Years a Slave book
I hear'd about.  Dey say dat Negro Northrup tole his story an' dey wrote it
just as he say it.  Imagine dat, would ya?  A book writ by a slave."

James sighed.  "You want to take my place tomorrow and go to school and
learn to read?"

Mud cackled at that.  "Oh Lor'!  I think dey might catch on!  Ain't ever
seen a boy whiter dan ya, or a man blacker dan me!"

James laughed too, but then shifted, irritated.  "I don't want to go; seems
stupid that Aunt Mary signed me up.  Boys will have to start helping in the
fields soon so they'll probably close up the school in only a week or so.
What's the point of starting up now?"

Mud's fingertips brushed gently across James' clavicle, calming him right
down.  James closed his eyes and concentrated on the whispering susurrus of
those large fingers brushing against his collarbone, as soothing as the
breeze in the willow tree.

"Ya go ta school ev'ry day yer allowed.  Hear me?"

"Yes, Sir," James mumbled sleepily.

"Don' call me "Sir".  Dat ain't right."

"Mmm Hmm."

Mud chortled and pulled James against him tightly.

"G'night," the man said, but the boy was already asleep.

When James awoke the next morning, it was to find his aunt feeding
Buchanan.  The spot in the hay bed beside him was vacant.

"Up, now!  School today," she told him cheerily.  He grumbled in response.

"I've new clothes for you laid out on the bed inside, and a bit of
breakfast on the table."

"Thank you," he said groggily.  "When I come home today, how about you show
me how to take care of Buchanan?  Since I sleep out here, it'd be easier
for me."

"Yes, alright.  But school first.  Up, now!"

"Yes ma'am."

The clothes that James donned were itchier than the hay in which he'd
slept, trapping his sweat against his skin in the rising heat of the day.
He did not complain, however, as he sat down and quickly ate his breakfast
of a fried ham steak, boiled hominy, and an egg; and then silently endured
the wagon ride into town so that his aunt could show him the path he would
walk in the future.

In New York, James had attended a private academy for boys where he had
been a day student for a couple years, but had been boarding there during
his latest term.  He now understood why his mother had him stay at the
school while she was dying alone.  He understood and forgave her.  He knew
Mud was right; he was a lot like her and would probably have done the same.

The school in Mississippi was nothing like the academy.  Classes here were
held in the Presbyterian Church and seemed to be run by the women who
attended services there.  They were quite proud of their school, which had
only opened a couple years earlier.  The woman who led him to class
informed him several times that they were New School Presbyterians, trying
vainly to share a joke that James did not comprehend.

The teacher introduced James by telling the class he was from New York,
thereby ensuring he would be called "Yankee" and beaten multiple times in
the coming years.  He did himself no favors, however, by displaying his
intelligence as nurtured by his education.  The class was reciting their
lessons one by one in a line, something James had not seen before.  The
teacher told him he did not need to participate, but when he realized he
knew the answers to every question she asked, he joined the line and scored
perfectly.

He noted the glares of several of the boys and so hung around after class
to talk to his teacher about the schedule; she confirmed his belief that
this was likely the final week of school, and by the time they finished
chatting about differences between New York and Mississippi, the path back
to the Willett Farm was devoid of lingering bullies.

Although he disliked the entire week at school and would have preferred to
stay at the farm talking with Mud, it did allow him to meet some boys his
own age, and there were two that didn't hate him outright for being a
Yankee.  He didn't have much in common with the two boys, other than the
fact that they seemed to also have been shunned by their classmates.  James
was uncertain regarding the nature of their transgressions.

It was on their final day of lessons that James found himself walking home
with John and Davy, and the two acted as tour guides showing him around the
town and its environs.  They had laughed at stories about the other boys in
the school, and his new friends teased him about his northern accent.
Their own words were spoken slowly with vowels that sounded as if the boys
held candy in their mouths; but they did not lazily drop consonants from
their speech the way Mud did.

"You sure don't get that accent from your uncle," John told him.  "That man
has Mississippi River water running in his veins." He paused and then added
quietly, "Like all water adders."  "What are those?" James asked.

"My family calls them cottonmouths," explained Davy.  "They're poisonous
river snakes that..."

"I know what they are by that name."  James turned a scowl on John.  "Are
you calling my uncle a snake?"

John stiffened, but met James' look with a glare of his own.  "Yes, I am."

"Stop it, John.  He don't know."  Davy put a hand on James' arm.  "Have you
met your uncle, James?"

James' eyes were still narrowed at John, but he answered Davy.  "No.  I've
never seen him.  He married my mother's sister before I was born; but he's
my family whether or not by blood."

Davy nodded.  "John's being rude, making you feel like you need to defend
your family; we'd all do the same as you, and he knows it."  He leveled a
glare at his friend, but continued talking to James.  "But your uncle is a
violent sort.  Whenever he comes home he gets in fights with the townsfolk,
and your Aunt Mary suddenly has a lot of accidents."

"Accidents?"

"Broken arms, bruises.  It's his right to discipline his wife as he sees
fit, but she seems to get awfully hurt when he's home; and no one else ever
has a bad word to say about your aunt."

James stilled, the adrenaline rush of the expected fight receding as he
took in the implications of what the boys were telling him.  "Is that so?"

"It's true," John said.  "I was actually offering you a complement when I
said you weren't like your uncle.  He's not a good man: drinks, fights, and
swears.  He doesn't come to church with your Aunt, either."  Both boys
shook their heads to indicate this final transgression held a greater
weight than the others in their minds.

Even with their opinions of his uncle, James had actually been enjoying
himself for much of the afternoon; it had been a long time since he had
felt the friendship of boys his own age.  But that kinship was gravely
tested on the final two stops on the tour.  What he learned there troubled
him profoundly, much more than even his friends' accusations against his
uncle.

The first was at a large white house on the edge of town, closest to his
aunt's farm.  It had a sign out front, but before he could read it, John
was already telling him.

"It's Doc Galen's' place," he said in a conspiratorial whisper.  He and
Davy closed in on James so they could share their gossip, but before they
could launch into it, the door opened and an old gentleman stepped out,
dressed for walking into town.  James was captivated by his twinkling blue
eyes and long white mustache.  The man smiled at the boys before walking
over to them.

"Afternoon to you, John, Davy.  Who's your friend?"

John was the one who responded, although his formal southern stiffness
seemed in stark contrast to the friendliness that James felt from the
doctor.  "This is James.  He's staying at the Willett farm.  James, please
meet Doctor Galen."

The doctor's whole face lit up and he grasped James' hand warmly in a
larger one that had a patina of spots, veins and callouses coloring the
skin.  There was something about the man that drew the boy in.  He seemed
kind, and happy, qualities which - excepting for Mud - seemed rare to him
in the people he'd met since he'd arrived.

"How do you do?"  James asked politely while his hand was pumped by the old
man.

"I'm doing well, thank you.  I'm quite fond of your aunt, you know; she's a
marvelous woman.  Well, gentlemen, I'm off for a bit of shopping; I need a
few supplies today, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to chat, James.
Everyone comes to me sooner or later."  He laughed at his own words as he
set off toward the center of town.

"He's the undertaker, too," Davy giggled.

"That seems like a conflict of interest," James mused aloud, frowning.  It
sent the other boys into hoots of laughter.  "He does seem quite nice,
though."

That pronouncement sobered his companions and John drew close again.
"Don't trust him.  He's a nigger-lover, James; everyone knows it but they
just haven't done anything about it yet.  He'll heal the coloreds just as
soon as he would the whites."

Little Davy's face grew hard and his eyes narrowed.  James was startled by
the transformation.  The boy's lips hardly moved as he whispered to him.

"Daddy says he even uses the same equipment on whites and niggers," he spat
on the road after that pronouncement, purging his mouth of the words.
"We'd go to another doctor if there was one.  Daddy says the town will need
another real soon; the folk around here have just about had enough of this
one."

All three of the boys remained silent and lost in their thoughts as they
walked to their final destination, which proved to be a huge live oak in a
field off the side of the road.  It had drawn James' attention each day
when he walked to and from the school.  It was hard to ignore; it was
massive, but not with the height of most trees.  It had grown outward,
sending its corkscrewing branches in all directions as if vainly searching
for something unattainable.  It formed a natural canopy that could have
easily housed a church service.  Its curling, muscular arms made James
think of Atlas, holding up the weight of the skies.

"The hanging tree," John announced formally.

"Escaped slaves, abolitionists, nigger-lovers; they all hang here
eventually."  Davy's words and expression were juicy with avarice.  "The
old doc will decorate it one day; you'll see."

James decided abruptly that he had experienced enough friendship for the
day, and said goodbye to the boys.  He watched them walk back toward town;
and then he remained there alone in the field, looking at the tree for a
long while and wondering how something so large could make him feel so
empty.

When he finally returned to the farm, he wrestled his way past the cattails
to the spot beneath the willow looking for Mud; he felt a need to lay eyes
on the man and see he was safe.  But Mud was not there; instead, James
found a small sculpture of willow branches twisted into the shape of a
miniature church - strikingly like that of his schoolhouse - laid carefully
upon the bed of mulch and leaves.

That evening was to be bath night, and so after dinner James put the pots
of water on to heat and then went out to the barn.  Mud looked up when the
boy entered, and before he could say a word, James had launched himself at
the man.  He grabbed him in a wild hug until they lost their balance and
tumbled into their hay bed.  There, James buried his head into the black
man's armpit and cried for a long time; Mud held him gently and stroked his
head until he had cried himself out.

"Now what's dat about?" Mud asked him quietly.

"Nothing."

"Ahhh.  Da big nothin'.  I cried over dat many times.  Nothin' happen ta me
so many times, I had ta run away ta get shed of it.  Nothin' happen ta ma
Mamma.  Nothin' happen ta ma wife.  Nothin' happen ta ma daughters.  I's
sorry nothin' happen ta ya; I truly am."

"You have a wife and daughters?"

"Had, James; had."  He turned James' face up so they looked eye-to-eye.
"Nothin' happen ta them, an' I cried a good long time.  I don' want nothin'
ta happen ta ya, too."

"I'll be fine," James managed to whisper around the injustice that clogged
his throat.  "I'm white, after all."

Mud's hand stilled on the back of his head and his brown eyes searched
James thoroughly.  Then he sighed heavily and shook his head.  "It don'
matter yer color; people is gonna hate ya fer da type of boy ya is.  Ya
like men stead of girls.  Ya cain't let peoples know dat; dey hang ya as
shore as if ya was black."

James gulped in surprise and turned bright red.  He was sure that Mud could
feel the heat.  He started voicing his denial, but Mud's gentle smile
stopped his stammering, and he dropped his eyes away from Mud's stare and
finally nodded.

"Not all men, Mud.  You; I like you."

"Colored men, den.  I think ya like dark skin."

James' blush felt hotter than ever.  His face burned with shame and desire.
"Maybe.  You're the only colored man I know and I like you a lot."

Mud snorted.  "Ya's crazy.  But I like ya, too."

"Oh!  The bath; I forgot the water!"  James struggled to his feet and ran
back to the house to start the circuit of filling buckets and hauling them
out to the barn for their tub.  In addition to the work of stocking the
woodpile and working the vegetable garden, he now had the chores of taking
care of Buchanan every day; as well as heating the water and filling the
tub so that he and Mud could both take baths a couple times each week.
He'd even gotten his aunt to let him clean up the dishes after their supper
one afternoon, but she seemed embarrassed by it and took over again the
following day.

When the tub was full, the steam curled from the water as if seeking
freedom from the fetters of the container.  James put a hand in and jerked
it back out.

"Why don't I take my bath first?" James said. "I don't want you to get
burned."

Mud's hard expression held him still; it was a penetrating look on his face
that James had not seen before and could not comprehend.

"I's real sorry, James," Mud finally sighed deeply, sounding sad; although
he was a bit ambiguous about what he was sorry about.  He tried to clear it
up: "People's gonna hurt ya."

"People hurt everyone," James replied, with the wisdom of a boy who had met
people.

"Dey also mend da hurt done by others," Mud countered with the wisdom of a
man who had survived more hurt than a boy could possibly understand.  "How
'bout we both wait until da water don' hurt nobody?"

James scowled.  "Well.... well, now I feel stupid."

"Fer bein' brave?  Fer bein' kind?  Neider one is stupid, boy.  Only
cowardice an' meanness is stupid.  Ya's as smart as dey come."

James began to shake and he felt tears stinging his eyes again.  He hated
that he was so weepy around Mud.  "I... I'm so sorry, Mud.  I'm sorry I
want you so much.  I know it's wicked, but every time you say something so
nice I just wanna... I wanna..."  He stopped and frowned, and it made Mud
grin.  "Well, I honestly don't know what it makes me want to do; but
something important, Mud."

"Yeah," sighed Mud, "I might know what dat somethin' is.  Why don' I take
ma bath first?  I has a feeling ya might need dat.  I figger if God dint
want ya ta touch me, he wouldn't a made me so purdy."  He grinned his broad
grin that showed a flash of blinding white against the black and then they
waited a while for the water to cool a bit.  "Ya wanna do ma back?"

"I... uh... oh, yeah."

"Mmhmm.  Thought ya might."  Mud peeled off his trousers and lowered his
naked bulk into the water.  "Good Lor'!  I guess ya's havin' boiled nigger
fer dinner."

The words and the sight had James gawping comically.  Mud's wince turned to
open laughter when he saw the expression on the boy's face.  James looked
up at his eyes and blushed, but did not look away.  He finally gained the
courage to laugh at himself.

"You are beautiful," he said softly, grinning.

Mud chuckled and reached out to grab the back of James' head to rub it
gently.  "So is ya.  More beauty dan I'd ever thought ta see again.  Why
dontcha use dis cloth here an' start on ma back?"

James' erection was pushing at the front of his trousers as he soaped up
the cloth and softly cleaned the massive shoulders.  The skin was an
immense black canvas that had been previously painted with harsh brush
strokes.

James ran the thin cloth over the puckered scars on the broad back.  He
could feel the ridges under his fingers like a map of roadways, leading to
places he could hardly imagine.  The pretense of the cloth was gone after
just a moment and James' fingertips were stroking the skin gently, raising
shivers from the large man.

"What did this to you?" James asked shakily, reading the horror story
written upon Mud's skin.

"A monster wid a willow branch."

James absorbed this information silently.  There was only the glow of the
lamp and the faint slosh of water as Mud swayed slightly to the stroking on
his back.

"Mud?  Why did you make those sculptures for me?"

Mud sighed in pleasure under his touch, and James thought it was the most
amazing sound he'd ever heard.

"Rememba dis always, James: Ya gotta choice twixt beauty an' ugliness.  Ya
always got dat choice."

Using only his fingertips, James cleansed the expanse of Mud's back, and
then cupping his hands with water, trickled it upon the skin to rinse.
Long after the flesh was clean, his fingers trailed along the slippery
muscles, reluctant to relinquish that feeling of connectedness.

"Ya's gonna give me callouses if ya rub dere much longer," Mud chortled
gently, draping James' smaller hand with his own.  The huge paw was
completely covered in rough callouses, so James assumed the man knew a bit
about that subject.

The boy cleared his throat awkwardly and tried walking around to the front
while still leaving his hand under Mud's.  His arms weren't long enough,
however, and he ended up bent over gawkily, making Mud chuckle again with
warmth.  His rough hand rubbed James' smooth one soothingly.

"Ya might be da sweetest boy dat ever lived; I swear ta da good Lor'," he
said, shaking his head.

But James didn't hear a word of it; a naked Mud was in front of him.

"Oh," he said weakly, holding the cloth he'd reclaimed so that he'd have
some veneer of respectability; but with Mud's thick thighs stretched open
wide, giving James all the access he needed to the place he most wanted to
be, the cloth dropped back into the water with an embarrassing plop.  Mud's
cock was fully extended, a testament to what James' caresses on his back
had meant to the man.

James unconsciously leaned forward to touch Mud's magnificent organ.  His
hand brushed it gently and Mud jerked, sloshing water and causing James to
wake from his stupor.

"Glory, boy!  Ya shouldn't go doing dat!"  His voice shook and his eyes
were closed tightly.  Mud was suddenly breathing heavily.  While the man
had known the direction this would take, even he needed enough room for
respectable denial.  His honor required him to tell the boy what he thought
was right; even if they were going to take a different path.

"Did I hurt you, Mud?  I didn't mean..."

Mud was wheezing with what James finally determined was laughter.  "Hurt
me?  Do it hurt when ya touch ya'self dere?"

James felt rather stupid now, and extremely embarrassed.  "Uh, no, it
doesn't."  He realized belatedly what he just admitted and quickly added:
"I know I shouldn't touch myself there, but I do every once in a while."

Mud opened his eyes enough to look at him flatly.

"Every once in a while each day," James amended, blushing again; but it was
worth it to see Mud's grin.

"Preachers say don' do it; but da good Lor' gave it ta ya.  It don' hurt
nothin' at all ta touch..."

He yelped and jerked a second time as James reached right out and grabbed
hold of that dark organ again.

Mud's voice was no longer deep or slow.  "Good Glory!  What ya doin, boy?
I tole ya..." his breathing was ragged and strained.  "Ahhhh."

"You told me that it doesn't hurt anything."

Mud's whole face was screwed up like he was in pain, but he managed to
squint at James; the boy's eyes were on what his hands were doing, however,
and Mud's face was not the part of him the boy was pondering in that
moment.

"I knows I should stop ya," Mud whispered, "but dat feels so mighty good.
It's been a long, long time since I's been touched."

"I'd like to touch you all the time," James replied hoarsely, watching the
collar of uncircumcised skin on Mud's cock swallow and eject the large
head, forming a slippery sleeve that caused the big man to shudder in
pleasure.  The crown was the size and purple-black color of a ripe plum,
and it made James wonder if it tasted like one.  His squeezing hands milked
out a drop of juice from the tip and it was all he could do to keep from
licking it up to quench his curiosity.

"I... I... Oh, Lor', I think maybe ya better stop..."

"Then tell me you want me to stop," James said determinedly.  The boy had a
look of concentration on his face that said plainly he was not
relinquishing his hold without a fight.  His gaze never rose to meet Mud's
eyes; there was only one part of Mud's body that held his attention in that
moment.

Mud loved that, despite himself.  "Ungh!  Ya's a smart boy; ya knows I
cain't say it an' tell da trufe.  Ahhhh, Lor'...  But if dey catch me, dey
hang me fer sure."

James rolled his eyes at that.  "Can they kill you more than once?  If they
catch you, it doesn't really matter what you're doing; they're going to
hang you."

Mud scrunched up his eyes in an expression quite resembling pain.  "Good
Lor' preserve me from da logic of da young.  Ma prick thinks ya's da
smartest boy alive."

They finally stopped talking and both concentrated on the one thing in
which they were mutually interested.  Unaccountably, James' breath seemed
in shorter supply than Mud's; the experience of holding Mud's pleasure in
his hands was something for which he was not prepared.  The man writhed in
his grasp, grunting and groaning.  James had never felt so powerful in his
life.  His lips and eyes were open with wonder.

Mud thrashed and jerked, pumping his hips upward into the boy's heavenly
grasp.  He fought his desires, perceiving himself as taking advantage.  He
was at war with himself, not wanting to give in to this forbidden act; but
the pleasure and simple human connection created a bridge across the chasm
of their principals and ages.  The fight was a short one; he'd been lonely
a long time.  With a guttural growl and a breathless gasp, the white flag
of Mud's surrender unfurled across his chest and heaving stomach.

James had never seen anything so amazing in his entire life.  Without a
single thought in his head, he leaned forward to the small pool of Mud's
spend caught in the trap of his fingers against the strangled head of that
large cock, pursed his lips, and slurped up the semen noisily.

"I want more," he gasped; and Mud laughed joyfully, pulling the boy into
the crowded tub with him.



On the day after the close of school, Aunt Mary wrestled the barn door open
to find James and Mud huddled over some scratches in the dirt.  She watched
them momentarily while James taught Mud how to trace out the letters in the
dark Mississippi soil.  When they reached a pause, the boy looked up and
studied her face to determine how much trouble he might be in. She firmed
her lips against a smile, making James wonder what sorts of things taught a
person to repress signs of happiness.

She turned then to look at Mud, and the man flinched.

"The boy won't leave me be," he explained with his hands opened helplessly.
It did not sound like a complaint so much as an apology.

She nodded. "I knew someone just like him when I was a child."

She returned her sharp gaze to James. "Is this all your idea, James?" The
question seemed to encompass much more than the teaching of letters.

"Yes, ma'am." He bit his lip but straightened his spine. "I won't leave him
be."

She nodded again thoughtfully. "Your pupil needs to work on his f's;
they're backward."

She turned and left as quietly as she had come.

"Now, why's ya wanna teach me ta read?"  Mud asked when she was gone,
hoping he might get an answer this time.  He was not disappointed.

"To show you how much I like you.  It was either this or learn to sew you
more trousers; but I figured if I did that you might start wearing them to
bed."

Mud's thick lips parted but no sound came out of his mouth.

"What is this letter, Mud?"

"A," the man replied faintly, his eyes wide.



* I appreciate hearing from people who are reading my stories.  Shoot me an
email and let me know what you think.  Your feedback is the only way I know
you're reading and whether or not it makes sense to continue.

I have other stories, too.  Look up Seth Kirkcauldy in the author's
section.

seth-kirkcauldy@sbcglobal.net