Two farm boys collide at university
- Thread starter jayson_steyn
- Start date
Chapter 37
The room settled into a heavy quiet, the storm of their wild, passionate sex fading into a warm, buzzing haze. Jo and Piet lay tangled on Piet’s bed—sheets twisted, sweat cooling on their skin, breaths slowing from ragged gasps to steady rhythms. Jo sprawled in his usual way—head nestled on Piet’s shoulder, freckled cheek pressed to hairy chest, one arm slung across Piet’s waist, ginger fuzz brushing Piet’s side. Piet’s arm curled around him, stocky frame relaxed, fingers idly twirling in Jo’s blonde mop—damp, mussed from their frenzy—his brown eyes half-lidded, basking in the post-sex high, a grin tugging at his sunburnt face.
Jo’s cock lay soft against his thigh, cum streaking his abs from the climax he’d chased after fucking Piet—Piet’s own load still drying inside, a raw mark of their night. The air smelled of them—sweat, musk, a faint tang of beer from the braai— mingled with the dorm’s stale familiarity. “Fok, bru,” Piet murmured, voice low, rough from groaning, “that was…” He trailed off, chuckling soft, hand stroking Jo’s hair.
Jo grinned against his skin, nuzzling closer, “Ja, fixed you good, hey.” His green eyes glinted, teasing, the high still humming through him—Matt and Byron’s secret buried deep, this moment all Piet’s. They lay there, silent for a stretch, just breathing, the chaos of exams and braai tension burned away in their release.
Piet broke the quiet, whispering, “Shit, boet, I’m gonna miss your crazy circus over the holidays.” His fingers twirled tighter in Jo’s mop, a tender edge to his words—tomorrow, holidays started, two weeks apart looming, a gap they’d never planned through the exam whirlwind and everything else—Gillian, suspicions, stolen nights.
Jo sat up fast, propping on an elbow, green eyes wide, realizing the oversight. “No, bru!” he exclaimed, voice cracking with mock horror, “We can’t be apart for so long!” Two weeks felt like forever—his freckled face flushed, half-laughing, half-serious, the idea of splitting unbearable after their term’s chaos. Piet chuckled, sitting up too, briefs discarded somewhere on the floor, “Ja, fok that—what we doing then?”
They hashed it out—chatter spilling, plans snapping into place. “First week at my farm,” Piet said, grinning, “you’ll see Malmesbury, bru—proper country.” Jo nodded, eager, “Then week two at mine—Robertson’s calling, boet, cattle and all.” A deal struck—two farms, two weeks, no gap—their bond cemented, excitement buzzing as they traded stories of farm life, voices overlapping, laughter cutting the night. The high carried them—plans set, they drifted off, Jo’s head back on Piet’s shoulder, legs tangled, snores mingling as sleep took them fast.
Saturday dawned early—sunlight slicing through the blinds, rousing them from a deep, sated sleep. Piet stirred first, nudging Jo, “Up, bru—shower, pack, let’s roll.” Jo groaned, rolling off, boxers snagged from the floor, “Fok, too early,” but he moved—green eyes bleary but grinning. They hit the showers—communal chaos, steam thick, other guys scrubbing off exam week—Jo splashing Piet, “Wash that farm stink off first, hey,” Piet shoving back, laughing, water slicking their tired frames.
Back in the room, they packed fast—duffels stuffed with clothes, Jo’s rugby ball crammed in, Piet’s notes shoved aside, a term’s mess left behind. They swung by the quad—gang straggling, Matt and Byron waving lazy, “See you, Braai Master,” Matt’s wink sharp, Byron’s nod quiet—Henk clapping backs, Sarah hugging, goodbyes quick. Piet’s grandfather rolled up—an old bakkie rattling in, dust-coated, the grizzled farmer tipping his hat, “Ready, boys?” They piled in—bags tossed in the back, Jo shotgun, Piet squeezed beside—Malmesbury bound, a short drive ahead.
The road hummed—windows down, wind whipping through, Piet’s stress creeping up as fields blurred past. “Don’t get your hopes up, bru,” he said, voice tight, glancing at Jo, “Farm’s a kak state—needs desperate attention, been a rough go.” Jo smirked, tossing the rugby ball between his hands, “We’ll fix it, boet—got two weeks, hey.” Piet nodded, half-relieved, half-doubting—Jo’s energy a balm against the worry.
The bakkie rattled into Malmesbury—Piet’s farm sprawling ahead, a patchwork of neglect—fences sagging, barn paint peeling, fields patchy with weeds, but the homestead stood proud, weathered stone and a wide stoep. A warm welcome waited—Piet’s mother bustling out, apron dusted with flour, “My boys!” she cried, pulling them into bone-crushing hugs, her greying hair brushing their shoulders. His father’s absence gnawing at his heart but they Piets sisters appeared—two older, loud—swarmed, teasing, “Fok, Piet, you brought the circus!” as Jo grinned, charm on full.
Lunch hit the table—fresh bread, butter thick, lamb stew steaming, a hearty spread that went down a treat after the dorm’s slop. Jo piled his plate, “Fok, this is gold, hey,” Piet laughing, “Better than res kak.” Full and buzzing, they set off—mission clear: explore the farm. Jo took mental notes—fences needing wire, barn doors hanging loose, irrigation clogged—trailing Piet through overgrown paths, past rusted tractors, a windmill creaking slow. “Lots to fix, bru,” Jo said, kicking a rock, “but we got this.” Piet nodded, brown eyes softening—Jo’s spark lifting the weight.
Night fell cool—stars sharp over the farm, a hearty meal settling warm in their guts. They trudged upstairs, Piet’s childhood bedroom waiting—two single beds, just like the dorm, faded rugby posters peeling from the walls, a creaky floorboard under a braided rug. Jo dropped his bag, green eyes glinting mischievous as he looked at Piet—brown eyes catching the spark—smirking, “We aren’t really sleeping in two beds, are we, bru?”
Piet laughed low, stripping to his briefs, “Fok no, boet—get over here.” Jo grinned wider, shedding his shirt and shorts—boxers tight, freckled frame glowing in the dim light—climbing into Piet’s bed, head finding his shoulder, legs tangling fast. The farm stretched quiet outside, but their world shrank to this—two weeks ahead, a bond unbroken, mischief and care curling tight as they drifted off, the holidays theirs to claim.
The room settled into a heavy quiet, the storm of their wild, passionate sex fading into a warm, buzzing haze. Jo and Piet lay tangled on Piet’s bed—sheets twisted, sweat cooling on their skin, breaths slowing from ragged gasps to steady rhythms. Jo sprawled in his usual way—head nestled on Piet’s shoulder, freckled cheek pressed to hairy chest, one arm slung across Piet’s waist, ginger fuzz brushing Piet’s side. Piet’s arm curled around him, stocky frame relaxed, fingers idly twirling in Jo’s blonde mop—damp, mussed from their frenzy—his brown eyes half-lidded, basking in the post-sex high, a grin tugging at his sunburnt face.
Jo’s cock lay soft against his thigh, cum streaking his abs from the climax he’d chased after fucking Piet—Piet’s own load still drying inside, a raw mark of their night. The air smelled of them—sweat, musk, a faint tang of beer from the braai— mingled with the dorm’s stale familiarity. “Fok, bru,” Piet murmured, voice low, rough from groaning, “that was…” He trailed off, chuckling soft, hand stroking Jo’s hair.
Jo grinned against his skin, nuzzling closer, “Ja, fixed you good, hey.” His green eyes glinted, teasing, the high still humming through him—Matt and Byron’s secret buried deep, this moment all Piet’s. They lay there, silent for a stretch, just breathing, the chaos of exams and braai tension burned away in their release.
Piet broke the quiet, whispering, “Shit, boet, I’m gonna miss your crazy circus over the holidays.” His fingers twirled tighter in Jo’s mop, a tender edge to his words—tomorrow, holidays started, two weeks apart looming, a gap they’d never planned through the exam whirlwind and everything else—Gillian, suspicions, stolen nights.
Jo sat up fast, propping on an elbow, green eyes wide, realizing the oversight. “No, bru!” he exclaimed, voice cracking with mock horror, “We can’t be apart for so long!” Two weeks felt like forever—his freckled face flushed, half-laughing, half-serious, the idea of splitting unbearable after their term’s chaos. Piet chuckled, sitting up too, briefs discarded somewhere on the floor, “Ja, fok that—what we doing then?”
They hashed it out—chatter spilling, plans snapping into place. “First week at my farm,” Piet said, grinning, “you’ll see Malmesbury, bru—proper country.” Jo nodded, eager, “Then week two at mine—Robertson’s calling, boet, cattle and all.” A deal struck—two farms, two weeks, no gap—their bond cemented, excitement buzzing as they traded stories of farm life, voices overlapping, laughter cutting the night. The high carried them—plans set, they drifted off, Jo’s head back on Piet’s shoulder, legs tangled, snores mingling as sleep took them fast.
Saturday dawned early—sunlight slicing through the blinds, rousing them from a deep, sated sleep. Piet stirred first, nudging Jo, “Up, bru—shower, pack, let’s roll.” Jo groaned, rolling off, boxers snagged from the floor, “Fok, too early,” but he moved—green eyes bleary but grinning. They hit the showers—communal chaos, steam thick, other guys scrubbing off exam week—Jo splashing Piet, “Wash that farm stink off first, hey,” Piet shoving back, laughing, water slicking their tired frames.
Back in the room, they packed fast—duffels stuffed with clothes, Jo’s rugby ball crammed in, Piet’s notes shoved aside, a term’s mess left behind. They swung by the quad—gang straggling, Matt and Byron waving lazy, “See you, Braai Master,” Matt’s wink sharp, Byron’s nod quiet—Henk clapping backs, Sarah hugging, goodbyes quick. Piet’s grandfather rolled up—an old bakkie rattling in, dust-coated, the grizzled farmer tipping his hat, “Ready, boys?” They piled in—bags tossed in the back, Jo shotgun, Piet squeezed beside—Malmesbury bound, a short drive ahead.
The road hummed—windows down, wind whipping through, Piet’s stress creeping up as fields blurred past. “Don’t get your hopes up, bru,” he said, voice tight, glancing at Jo, “Farm’s a kak state—needs desperate attention, been a rough go.” Jo smirked, tossing the rugby ball between his hands, “We’ll fix it, boet—got two weeks, hey.” Piet nodded, half-relieved, half-doubting—Jo’s energy a balm against the worry.
The bakkie rattled into Malmesbury—Piet’s farm sprawling ahead, a patchwork of neglect—fences sagging, barn paint peeling, fields patchy with weeds, but the homestead stood proud, weathered stone and a wide stoep. A warm welcome waited—Piet’s mother bustling out, apron dusted with flour, “My boys!” she cried, pulling them into bone-crushing hugs, her greying hair brushing their shoulders. His father’s absence gnawing at his heart but they Piets sisters appeared—two older, loud—swarmed, teasing, “Fok, Piet, you brought the circus!” as Jo grinned, charm on full.
Lunch hit the table—fresh bread, butter thick, lamb stew steaming, a hearty spread that went down a treat after the dorm’s slop. Jo piled his plate, “Fok, this is gold, hey,” Piet laughing, “Better than res kak.” Full and buzzing, they set off—mission clear: explore the farm. Jo took mental notes—fences needing wire, barn doors hanging loose, irrigation clogged—trailing Piet through overgrown paths, past rusted tractors, a windmill creaking slow. “Lots to fix, bru,” Jo said, kicking a rock, “but we got this.” Piet nodded, brown eyes softening—Jo’s spark lifting the weight.
Night fell cool—stars sharp over the farm, a hearty meal settling warm in their guts. They trudged upstairs, Piet’s childhood bedroom waiting—two single beds, just like the dorm, faded rugby posters peeling from the walls, a creaky floorboard under a braided rug. Jo dropped his bag, green eyes glinting mischievous as he looked at Piet—brown eyes catching the spark—smirking, “We aren’t really sleeping in two beds, are we, bru?”
Piet laughed low, stripping to his briefs, “Fok no, boet—get over here.” Jo grinned wider, shedding his shirt and shorts—boxers tight, freckled frame glowing in the dim light—climbing into Piet’s bed, head finding his shoulder, legs tangling fast. The farm stretched quiet outside, but their world shrank to this—two weeks ahead, a bond unbroken, mischief and care curling tight as they drifted off, the holidays theirs to claim.
