Date: Mon, 29 Sep 2014 10:44:57 -0700
From: Papa Sport <papa.sport@yahoo.com>
Subject: Grandpa Ira's Farm, Chapter 1

What follows is autobiographical.  And while what happened to me is real,
that does not mean it could or should happen today.  Times have changed;
sexual mores have changed; and what is accepted by society has changed.
And while I think that I have "turned out" okay, the "research" would
suggest that I am an exception, not the rule.  So keep that in mind before
you try to emulate my Grandfather.  If one were to act today as he did
those many years ago, it is likely one would end up in a jail cell.

Many thanks to Kevin Knox for his encouragement.

If you would like to contact me, I may be reached at papa.sport@yahoo.com

GRANDPA IRA'S FARM by Papa Sport


CHAPTER 1

The summer of 1958 I was nine years old.  I had just finished third grade
and was out of school for the summer.  My two older brothers, who had both
been born before World War II, were now teenagers, seven and nine years
older than me.  They were both headed off to Boy Scout Camp that summer in
Michigan.  I thought I would be alone for most of the summer, so I was
really surprised when my parents asked me if I would like to spend a week
with my grandparents on their central Illinois farm.  I really liked the
farm, with all the animals and the tractor and big machines.  But more
importantly, I really liked my grandparents.  I was the youngest of all
their grandchildren, and the only one born post-war.  So whenever I met
them, they would dote on me quite a bit.  So I readily agreed, although in
retrospect, I doubt that I had a lot of choice in the matter.

It was a cloudless hot day in the second week of July then, when my parents
loaded me and my things into our 1956 Plymouth Belvedere for the three hour
trip down Route 66 from our home in Chicago to the little farm town of
Chenoa, Illinois.  The farm was actually about four miles outside of town.
There was nothing out there but corn fields, soy bean fields, alfalfa
fields, and occasional pastures.  Some would call it remote and soulless.
I thought it was beautiful and alive.  I was a city kid after all, but
something really appealed to me about this bucolic rural setting.

It was mid-afternoon when we drove up the gravel driveway to the
whitewashed two story farmhouse.  I remember thinking "This was where my
mother and her sisters grew up."  My Mom had no brothers – four sisters,
yes, but no brothers.  The five girls had produced seventeen grandchildren
altogether.  As we clambered out of the car, my grandparents came out to
meet us.  Ira and Elsie had been married forty nine years at that point.  I
was always surprised when my mother greeted them with "Mom" and "Dad" to
accompany the welcoming hugs.  Grandpa Ira was tall, maybe six two, thin,
but muscular and wiry – the product of a lifetime of farm work.  But
even at age seventy one, he looked youthful and strong.  Grandma Elsie was
the same age as Grandpa Ira.  She was only about five foot three, somewhat
stout, with very large bosoms that she would smother me between when she
hugged me.

My mother said she wanted to return to Chicago right away, so there were
only a few minutes of chat in the driveway.  Mom suggested that I go in the
house and change into overalls from my shorts I had worn in the hot car.
"Nonsense," Grandpa Ira said.  It is hot as blazes, and we have work to
do."  He looked right at me and asked, "You want to help me get some things
done around here, Sport?"  He always called me "Sport".

"Sure, Grandpa," I replied.  So I kissed my Mom and said I'd see her next
week.  And she was off.  Grandma picked up my small suitcase and took it
into the house, while Grandpa and I headed across the pasture toward the
corn crib.

As we walked, careful to avoid the "cow pies" as Grandpa called them, he
told me that he wanted me to help him with a bad weed outbreak that had
recently hit central Illinois.  The weed was called butterprint, and it
strangled crops.  We would need to walk the rows in the fields, and if we
found the weed, we would yank it out.  He said he would show me what the
weed looked like once we got to the field.  By this time, we'd reached the
corn crib and Grandpa slid the door open wide.  There sat his big red
Farmall tractor.  He climbed up into the driver's seat and extended a hand.
"Come on up here", he directed.  I carefully climbed up and sat in his lap.
Grandpa manipulated the controls and the huge red machine roared to life.
He spoke into my ear that the field we were going to was remote, and this
was the fastest way to get there.  He eased the tractor into gear, and off
we went.  I was delighted to get a ride on the tractor right after
arriving.  I was even more excited when Grandpa said "You want to steer?"

"Sure!!" I exuded.

Grandpa kept one strong arm around my waist while I grabbed the big black
wheel.  "Don't do anything sudden," he directed.  "Just keep her pointed
straight and follow the path."  I was so excited.  I was nine years
old...and I was "driving" a tractor.  Truth be told, Grandpa Ira was in
total control, but he made me feel like the luckiest kid on earth.  After
twenty minutes or so of somewhat erratic rumbling, we arrived at the edge
of the field.  Grandpa took over again and eased the loud machine to a
stop.  We climbed down and Grandpa started looking along a fence row for
something.  Soon he found his target – some butterprint.  He pulled out
the weed and showed me what to look for.  He told me that we needed to be
sure to get all the roots.  The field we were weeding was planted with
corn.  By early July, the corn was up around my Grandfather's waist.  But
that was almost over my head!  We walked up and down that field, searching
each row for the weeds. I was elated when I found some and Grandpa helped
me pull them out.  The late afternoon sun was very hot, and there was no
wind at all to relieve us.  Soon we were both sweating profusely.  I wanted
to take my shirt off, but Grandpa said that corn stalks would likely cut
me.  So we walked on and on, pulling weeds and sweating.  Finally we came
to the end of the field.  I was tired, hot, sweaty, and dirty.  So was
Grandpa.  So much so that he suggested we both take our shirts off.  "Time
to head back", he said.  "Let's mount up."

Again I sat in his lap and steered as he worked the controls.  But unlike
last time, he had me put my legs outside of his, spreading them wide apart.
The vibrations of the roaring tractor and the wind from our movement felt
good.  I was concentrating on keeping the tractor pointed straight ahead
when I felt Grandpa's sinewy fingers slip beneath the waistband of my
shorts.  Just then the tractor hit a rut and with the bounce, Grandpa's
hands were right on my little penis and testicles.  He did not move them,
and I did not complain.  Just the opposite.  I actually thought his hands
felt very good the way he was touching me.  The rumbling vibrations of the
tractor were being transmitted directly from his fingertips to the edges of
young ball sac. Then he moved his finger slightly as if to find the outline
of my tiny almond shaped testicles and caress them gently.  My cock
involuntarily hardened.  I sucked in a huge gulp of air.  "Keep your hands
on the wheel and keep us pointed straight" he said in my ear, as he slowed
the tractor down.  His hands were now all over my genitals, rubbing, and
stroking, caressing, feeling.  It felt really good...so much so that I soon
shook in what I now know was a dry orgasm.  Grandpa helped me cum for the
first time, right there on his red Farmall, in the blazing hot afternoon
Illinois sun.  And I loved it.  I let go of the wheel and leaned back
against his naked chest.  He pulled his left hand from my shorts and
grabbed the wheel.  When he did, I felt his swollen cock through his
coveralls, pushing against my nine year old butt.  Grandpa shifted the
tractor into neutral, and revved the engine.  As the vibrations increased
he pulled me tight to him and ground his hips into mine until I heard him
gasp three times deeply.  He slumped just a little in his seat, and then
started the tractor again.  Only once we were back in the corn crib, and I
had dismounted, did I notice the wet stain in the groin area of Grandpa's
overalls.

Before I could say anything, Grandpa told me to run and tell Grandma that
we were back, and that we needed clean towels for a shower, and to meet him
by the pump house.  It seems that Grandma did not like Grandpa carrying all
that field dirt into the house, so he had rigged up an outdoor shower
shielded from the dirt road by the pump house.  He had painted a 55 gallon
drum black and mounted it up on a stand so that when it sat in the sun all
day, he had an ample supply of hot water for a shower at the end of the day
without running a hot water line out from the house. I returned with a
stack of clean towels.  Grandpa was already under the shower, naked.
"Let's get those dirty things off and get you clean," he said
matter-of-factly.  So I stripped off the filthy shorts and got under the
warm water naked with him.  It felt great.  Next thing I knew, Grandpa was
lathering me all up.  He scrubbed me everywhere, paying special attention
to my hairless cock and balls.  Unlike on the tractor, where his touch was
limited by my shorts, he now had access to every part of me.  He stroked my
small penis hard and worked it back and forth between his bony fingers.  He
gently cupped and caressed my balls, while his fingers massaged the bulge
of my prostate.  He leaned down and kissed the top of my head as he
continued manipulate my soapy hairless groin.  I reached out and threw my
arms around his muscular thigh.  This put his genitals right in front of my
face.  I could not take my eyes off his seventy one year old penis.  Unlike
me, he was uncircumcised.  And although flaccid, his penis looked like a
tree trunk to me.  His balls drooped heavily in their hairy sac.  His pubic
hair was all gray and white, like the little remaining hair on his head.
Grandpa continued to stroke and play with me until I shuddered again with
the most exquisite explosion of pleasure I had ever felt.  I panted and
gripped him tighter as the warm water continued to cascade down.  After I
returned to "normal" Grandpa stood erect.  He carefully rinsed me, even
lifting me up and holding my spread legs directly in the spray, making sure
the entire region between my legs was soap free.

Grandpa then set me down, turned off the shower, carefully dried me and
then wrapped a towel around my waist.  "Head on in and change for supper",
he said.  "I'll be right behind you."  I scampered into the farmhouse to be
greeted by the wonderful aroma of my Grandmother's cooking.  I ran up the
stairs to my room where Grandma had put my suitcase.  I donned clean
clothes.  By the time I got back downstairs, Grandpa was already in and
dressed.  We dined on chicken and dumplings, one of my favorites.

After dinner, Grandpa asked me if I'd like to watch the baseball game with
him.  His beloved St. Louis Cardinals were on his black and white TV.  Sure
I said, and cuddled up against him on the couch.  Grandma didn't care too
much for baseball, so she went into the other room to sew and listen to the
Gospel hour radio.  Whenever he'd watch TV, regardless of the temperature,
Grandpa Ira would always pull up a thin afghan that Grandma had made.  This
night was no different.  He covered us both.  No sooner were we covered
than his hands began feeling me.  I liked the feel of his hands on my body.
He did not move toward my groin, but primarily played with chest, nipples,
and belly button.  It soon became apparent that I was falling asleep.

Grandpa uncovered us, and we headed upstairs, stopping to kiss my Grandma.
She asked if I wanted her to tuck me in, but Grandpa said he'd take care of
it.  She nodded and kissed me goodnight.  Grandpa and I went to my room,
where he watched as I changed into my pajamas.  Now there was no air
conditioning back then in the farmhouse, and the room had to be eighty
degrees, even with the windows open.  As I crawled into bed, Grandpa pulled
my pajama top off and said "It's too hot for that."  I nodded in agreement.
He then read me a story.  I was still sweating, so he pulled off my bottoms
too and said "It's so hot you might as well sleep the way you were born."
I smiled up at him as I again felt his leathery hands caress my body.  It
seemed that there was no part of me he did not touch.  Grandpa loved to
play with my balls, and the more he touched them, the more I liked it.
Just like earlier in the day, I sprouted my small erection.  And just like
earlier, Grandpa continued to manipulate me – tugging, stroking,
caressing – as my breath came in shorter and shorter pants.  Grandpa
watched my body carefully, his eyes glowing. He licked his lips as my
muscles tightened and the tidal wave of pleasure washed over me again.  I
shuddered and jerked in my third orgasm of the day.  Grandpa was so gentle
and loving as he brought me off that it seemed that absolutely the right
thing to do.  I fell sound asleep until morning.

The rest of the week went much the same way.  Grandpa and I would do farm
chores; he would find a way to use those chores to give him access to my
body, whether it was in the barn feeding the cows, the chicken coop
collecting eggs, the hay loft tossing bales, or out in the fields checking
on the crops.  He managed to find ways to touch and stroke and caress my
body.  His hands would find their way into my shorts and play with my
hairless genitals until I came.  We showered together every day before
supper.  And I would orgasm again under the warm stream.  By the end of the
week, Grandpa allowed me to wash him like he washed me. And although he
never got hard when I did that, I could tell by the look on his face that
he truly enjoyed it.

By the third night, Grandma did not even ask if I wanted her to tuck me in.
She just assumed Grandpa would do it.  And every night Grandpa would caress
and feel my entire body, always ending a sweet intense orgasm.  It was only
on the last night there that Grandpa told me to roll over on my belly.  He
said "you must be sore after a hard week of farm work, let me give you a
massage."  So he did. Starting with my shoulders, his hands worked their
way down my back.  He bypassed my butt and went to my feet and legs
instead.  He kneaded my calves and then thighs.  He told me to spread my
legs, and then he started massaging my butt.  My whole body felt alive and
wonderful.  I only felt the slightest of touch as my Grandpa's fingertips
lightly passed over my puckered anus...but it was electric!  My body felt
like it wanted to pull his entire hand into my bowels.  But nothing further
happened as Grandpa flipped onto my back and performed his now familiar
magic and bringing me to yet another intense dry orgasm.

The next day the end of the week came...far too early for my thinking.  But
the agreement between my parents and grandparents was for one week.  "Maybe
next summer, he can come for two weeks," my Grandpa suggested when my Mom
came to pick me up.  "Maybe," she said, "if you think you can handle him
for that long."

"Oh, I think we can enjoy each other for that long.  What do you think,
Sport?"

"I think we can, Grandpa," I grinned.