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.
Chaper 38
Jo woke first, sunlight spilling through the cracked curtains of Piet’s childhood room, his energy a live wire—electric, uncontainable. Piet squinted awake beside him, Jo’s head no longer on his shoulder but bouncing off the walls—literally, his freckled frame darting from bed to window to dresser, green eyes blazing, a grin splitting his face. “Fok, bru, a farm—a proper farm!” Jo shouted, voice cracking with glee, “Good day coming, hey—best day!” Piet had seen him wound up—braai highs, rugby buzz—but this was next-level, Jo a whirlwind of pure, wild joy.
Breakfast was chaos—Jo a tornado at the table, shovelling Piet’s ma’s flapjacks, bacon crisp and dripping, chattering nonstop through mouthfuls. “This air, bru—smells like freedom! Todays gonna be epic!” His laughs boomed, infectious—Piet’s sisters, Anna and Lize, giggling as they passed the syrup, Anna quipping, “See why you call him a circus, Piet—this one’s a whole show!” Piet’s grandfather grunted a rare chuckle, his ma beaming, “Slow down, Jo, there’s plenty!” Piet watched, brown eyes soft, sipping coffee—Jo’s buzz lifting the room, though his own gut twisted, suspicion lingering from exam week.
After breakfast, they headed out—boots crunching gravel, the farm sprawling under a clear sky, Jo still bouncing, rugby ball swapped for a stick he twirled like a baton. Piet trailed, his grandfather hobbling behind, cane tapping, face growing heavier with every step. They assessed—fences leaning, wire rusted and snapped; barn doors dangling, hinges groaning; irrigation ditches clogged with mud and weeds; fields patchy, overgrown with thornbush. Grandpa pointed, voice low, “This used to be solid, Piet—since you’ve been at uni, it’s gone to kak.” His shoulders slumped, depression etching deeper—Piet nodding, guilt gnawing, Jo oblivious, kicking a clod of dirt, “We’ll sort it, oupa—no sweat!”
Back toward the farmhouse, dust kicked up—Piet froze, spotting a string of bakkies and trucks rumbling up the gravel road, engines growling, tires spitting stones. He turned, confused, “Oupa, you expecting deliveries today?” His grandfather frowned, shaking his head, “Nee, niks—wat’s dit?” Jo erupted—a loud, bellowing yell, “They’re here!!” sprinting off, arms flailing, leaving Piet shouting, “Who? Who’s here? What have you done, Jo?”—running after, heart pounding, suspicion flaring.
Jo reached the lead bakkie—a big, bulky man in his 50s stepped out, khaki shorts and matching shirt dusty, a broad grin under a weathered cap. Jo launched—practically jumping into his arms, a bear hug that rocked the man back. Piet caught up, breathless, as Jo spun, green eyes wild, “Boet, this is Kobus—our farm manager! Him and his team, they’re here to make things right!” Piet’s jaw dropped—Kobus, burly and tanned, clapping Jo’s back, “Good to see you, kleinbaas!”—Piet’s grandfather hobbling up, catching the tail end, eyes wide in disbelief.
Piet stood rooted, tears streaming down his sunburnt face—shock, gratitude, suspicion crashing together—his grandfather mirroring him, mouth agape. Words broke free, shaky, “No—no—we can’t accept this—we could never pay you back!” His head spun—Jo’s exam nonchalance gnawing at him—was this it? Family money buying grades, buying this? Intrusive thoughts clawed—guilt surging for doubting Jo’s grace—but Jo slapped his bum as he passed, chatting with Kobus, pausing to grin, “We’re brothers, bru—I’m not doing this to have you owe me anything.” Off he went, rattling off fixes—fences, barn, irrigation—Kobus nodding, team unloading tools, Piet’s tears drying, suspicion shoved down by Jo’s reckless kindness.
Over the next few days, Kobus and his team worked nonstop—hammers banging, saws whining, engines rumbling—under Jo’s constant watch, his energy a whirlwind guiding them. Fences rose straight, wire taut and gleaming; barn doors hung solid, freshly painted red; ditches cleared, water flowing clean; fields tamed, thornbush burned to ash. The farm shifted—hour by hour—looking better, alive again. Piet’s mother cooked feasts—roast lamb, mieliepap, pumpkin fritters—served on the stoep, Kobus and crew praising nonstop, “Fok, mevrou, you’re a marvel!” her smile wide, flour-dusted hands proud. Piet and his grandfather trailed Jo and Kobus, disbelief fading to awe—Piet’s stress easing, Jo’s buzz infectious.
By week’s end, the farm was unrecognizable—barns sturdy, fields green, fences proud—a total turnaround. Kobus and his team packed up Friday dusk, engines roaring as they rolled down the sandy road—gone as quick as they’d come, dust settling in their wake. Piet, his mother, and grandfather stood on the stoep, staring—a miracle stitched into the land.
Piet’s mother grabbed Jo’s hands, tears brimming, “Jo, from the bottom of our hearts—thank you, seun—this farm… it’s ours again.” Grandpa nodded, voice thick, “We don’t know how to repay you, jongen—nothing’s enough.” Piet stepped up, brown eyes glistening, “Ja, bru—you’ve saved us—we’ll pay you back somehow, I swear.” Jo grinned, green eyes soft, pulling Piet into a rough hug, “You’ve already paid me back—by giving me Piet.” His voice cracked, earnest—Piet’s heart nearly burst, chest tight, brown meeting green, a bond sealed deeper than words.
That night, they camped—end of the field, a fire crackling under a vast, star-strewn sky, tent pitched on a grassy patch near a gnarled oak, blankets spread thick over the earth. The farm slept quiet, crickets chirping soft, but their energy roared—wild, unchecked, a release pent up from the week. Clothes tore off in a frenzy—Jo’s shirt ripped open, buttons scattering into the grass like tiny fireflies; Piet’s tee yanked over his head, snagging on the oak’s low branch; Jo’s shorts and boxers shredded down, kicked into a dusty heap; Piet’s jeans and briefs torn off, landing with a thud near the fire—naked now, freckled skin on hairy skin, cocks hard and leaking, glinting in the flickering firelight.
Lips crashed—Jo’s tongue plunging into Piet’s mouth, deep and claiming, Piet groaning loud, hands gripping Jo’s freckled shoulders, pulling him down onto the blankets, the coarse weave scratching their backs. Jo’s kisses trailed—hot, wet—down Piet’s neck, sucking hard, leaving red welts that throbbed, then across his shoulders, teeth grazing the sunburnt skin, tasting salt and earth. Piet’s head tipped back, “Fok—Jo—” rasping as Jo’s lips moved lower—kissing his hairy chest, tongue swirling a nipple, sucking till it peaked under the coarse hair, Piet’s hands tangling in Jo’s blonde mop, tugging desperate, hips bucking up. Jo grinned, licking down—slow, deliberate—tracing Piet’s abs, coarse hair tickling his tongue, dipping into his navel, Piet’s groan deepening, “Ja—more—” spilling out as his thighs twitched.
Jo reached Piet’s cock—fat, uncut, throbbing—nuzzling the thick, dark pubes, inhaling deep, musky and raw, then taking it slow—lips parting, sucking the head, tongue flicking the slit, precum sharp and bitter on his taste. Piet’s fists clenched the blanket—white-knuckled, tearing at the weave—groans spilling loud, “Fok—suck it—” as Jo went deeper—sloppy, wet—lips sliding down the shaft, throat flexing, taking it all, pubes brushing his nose, a long, languid rhythm building. His hands massaged Piet’s heavy balls—rolling them firm, tugging soft—Piet’s legs spreading wide, thighs hairy and thick, hips lifting high, an invitation raw in his moans, “Lower, bru—fok, do it.”
Jo pulled off—spit stringing from his lips to Piet’s cock, snapping as he grinned—eyes glinting green, hands spreading Piet’s cheeks, exposing his tight, hairy hole nestled in dark curls. His tongue flicked out—probing slow, circling the rim—Piet jolting hard, a sharp “Fok!” tearing free, hips bucking up into Jo’s face. “More—go—” Piet growled, lost in ecstasy, hands gripping Jo’s head tighter, fingers knotting in his mop, urging deeper—Jo dove in—lapping long, hot, pushing inside—tongue fucking relentless, wet and slick—Piet’s moans echoing over the field, thighs trembling, spreading wider still till his knees grazed the blanket’s edges. Jo’s fingers joined—one sliding in, spit-slick, curling against Piet’s spot, sending a shudder through him—Piet’s back arching off the ground, “Ja—fok—deeper—” a second finger pumping in, stretching him open slow and deliberate, tongue teasing the rim’s edge, lust shredding them both into a haze.
Jo climbed up—his cock now bare, circumcised, standing proud—straight and thick, the head flushed pink and glistening with precum, veins pulsing along its length, ginger pubes sparse at the base—aligning slow, pushing in—tender at first, inch by inch—Piet’s tight heat gripping him like a vice, a low groan spilling as Jo bottomed out, hips flush against Piet’s hairy ass, trembling with care. “Fok, bru—ja,” Piet breathed, brown eyes locked on green, hands clutching Jo’s freckled ass cheeks, pulling him closer—slow thrusts starting, blankets shifting under their weight, firelight dancing on their sweat-slick skin, Jo’s circumcised cock sliding smooth and deliberate, the exposed head catching every nerve inside. “Harder—” Piet rasped, voice wrecked, hips bucking up sharp—Jo grinned, green eyes flashing, giving in—pace shifting wild, hard—slamming deep, skin slapping loud against skin, Piet’s shouts ringing out, “Fok—Jo—yes!” Jo gripped Piet’s thighs—spreading them wider, thrusting relentless—sweat dripping from his brow, cock pounding, Piet’s fists tearing the blanket’s weave, back arching high off the ground, the earth beneath trembling with each impact.
It stretched—hours of raw, primal fucking—Jo’s tongue darted back to Piet’s cock between rounds, sucking sloppy and deep—lips stretched wide, spit dripping—Piet’s hands guiding, cum blasting across Jo’s freckled chest in thick, white ropes—then Jo inside again—slow, tender strokes with his circumcised cock, the tight skin gliding smooth, then wild, hard thrusts shaking the blanket—Piet’s load spilling into the grass, a sticky puddle soaking the earth, Jo’s twice inside, hot and thick, flooding Piet’s insides, a third streaking the blanket in messy arcs—positions flipping, Jo on his back, Piet riding hard, Jo’s pink-tipped cock gleaming as it plunged up, then Jo behind, relentless—hands gripping Piet’s hips, bruising, driving deep—fire dying to embers, stars spinning overhead, their groans and curses a symphony cutting through the night air—wild grunts, “Fok—harder—” from Piet, “Ja—take it—” from Jo—till dawn crept in, the wildest, longest sex they’d ever had—passion burning out the week, their bond blazing under the Malmesbury sky, sweat-soaked and spent, collapsing in a tangle as the first light kissed their skin.
Jo woke first, sunlight spilling through the cracked curtains of Piet’s childhood room, his energy a live wire—electric, uncontainable. Piet squinted awake beside him, Jo’s head no longer on his shoulder but bouncing off the walls—literally, his freckled frame darting from bed to window to dresser, green eyes blazing, a grin splitting his face. “Fok, bru, a farm—a proper farm!” Jo shouted, voice cracking with glee, “Good day coming, hey—best day!” Piet had seen him wound up—braai highs, rugby buzz—but this was next-level, Jo a whirlwind of pure, wild joy.
Breakfast was chaos—Jo a tornado at the table, shovelling Piet’s ma’s flapjacks, bacon crisp and dripping, chattering nonstop through mouthfuls. “This air, bru—smells like freedom! Todays gonna be epic!” His laughs boomed, infectious—Piet’s sisters, Anna and Lize, giggling as they passed the syrup, Anna quipping, “See why you call him a circus, Piet—this one’s a whole show!” Piet’s grandfather grunted a rare chuckle, his ma beaming, “Slow down, Jo, there’s plenty!” Piet watched, brown eyes soft, sipping coffee—Jo’s buzz lifting the room, though his own gut twisted, suspicion lingering from exam week.
After breakfast, they headed out—boots crunching gravel, the farm sprawling under a clear sky, Jo still bouncing, rugby ball swapped for a stick he twirled like a baton. Piet trailed, his grandfather hobbling behind, cane tapping, face growing heavier with every step. They assessed—fences leaning, wire rusted and snapped; barn doors dangling, hinges groaning; irrigation ditches clogged with mud and weeds; fields patchy, overgrown with thornbush. Grandpa pointed, voice low, “This used to be solid, Piet—since you’ve been at uni, it’s gone to kak.” His shoulders slumped, depression etching deeper—Piet nodding, guilt gnawing, Jo oblivious, kicking a clod of dirt, “We’ll sort it, oupa—no sweat!”
Back toward the farmhouse, dust kicked up—Piet froze, spotting a string of bakkies and trucks rumbling up the gravel road, engines growling, tires spitting stones. He turned, confused, “Oupa, you expecting deliveries today?” His grandfather frowned, shaking his head, “Nee, niks—wat’s dit?” Jo erupted—a loud, bellowing yell, “They’re here!!” sprinting off, arms flailing, leaving Piet shouting, “Who? Who’s here? What have you done, Jo?”—running after, heart pounding, suspicion flaring.
Jo reached the lead bakkie—a big, bulky man in his 50s stepped out, khaki shorts and matching shirt dusty, a broad grin under a weathered cap. Jo launched—practically jumping into his arms, a bear hug that rocked the man back. Piet caught up, breathless, as Jo spun, green eyes wild, “Boet, this is Kobus—our farm manager! Him and his team, they’re here to make things right!” Piet’s jaw dropped—Kobus, burly and tanned, clapping Jo’s back, “Good to see you, kleinbaas!”—Piet’s grandfather hobbling up, catching the tail end, eyes wide in disbelief.
Piet stood rooted, tears streaming down his sunburnt face—shock, gratitude, suspicion crashing together—his grandfather mirroring him, mouth agape. Words broke free, shaky, “No—no—we can’t accept this—we could never pay you back!” His head spun—Jo’s exam nonchalance gnawing at him—was this it? Family money buying grades, buying this? Intrusive thoughts clawed—guilt surging for doubting Jo’s grace—but Jo slapped his bum as he passed, chatting with Kobus, pausing to grin, “We’re brothers, bru—I’m not doing this to have you owe me anything.” Off he went, rattling off fixes—fences, barn, irrigation—Kobus nodding, team unloading tools, Piet’s tears drying, suspicion shoved down by Jo’s reckless kindness.
Over the next few days, Kobus and his team worked nonstop—hammers banging, saws whining, engines rumbling—under Jo’s constant watch, his energy a whirlwind guiding them. Fences rose straight, wire taut and gleaming; barn doors hung solid, freshly painted red; ditches cleared, water flowing clean; fields tamed, thornbush burned to ash. The farm shifted—hour by hour—looking better, alive again. Piet’s mother cooked feasts—roast lamb, mieliepap, pumpkin fritters—served on the stoep, Kobus and crew praising nonstop, “Fok, mevrou, you’re a marvel!” her smile wide, flour-dusted hands proud. Piet and his grandfather trailed Jo and Kobus, disbelief fading to awe—Piet’s stress easing, Jo’s buzz infectious.
By week’s end, the farm was unrecognizable—barns sturdy, fields green, fences proud—a total turnaround. Kobus and his team packed up Friday dusk, engines roaring as they rolled down the sandy road—gone as quick as they’d come, dust settling in their wake. Piet, his mother, and grandfather stood on the stoep, staring—a miracle stitched into the land.
Piet’s mother grabbed Jo’s hands, tears brimming, “Jo, from the bottom of our hearts—thank you, seun—this farm… it’s ours again.” Grandpa nodded, voice thick, “We don’t know how to repay you, jongen—nothing’s enough.” Piet stepped up, brown eyes glistening, “Ja, bru—you’ve saved us—we’ll pay you back somehow, I swear.” Jo grinned, green eyes soft, pulling Piet into a rough hug, “You’ve already paid me back—by giving me Piet.” His voice cracked, earnest—Piet’s heart nearly burst, chest tight, brown meeting green, a bond sealed deeper than words.
That night, they camped—end of the field, a fire crackling under a vast, star-strewn sky, tent pitched on a grassy patch near a gnarled oak, blankets spread thick over the earth. The farm slept quiet, crickets chirping soft, but their energy roared—wild, unchecked, a release pent up from the week. Clothes tore off in a frenzy—Jo’s shirt ripped open, buttons scattering into the grass like tiny fireflies; Piet’s tee yanked over his head, snagging on the oak’s low branch; Jo’s shorts and boxers shredded down, kicked into a dusty heap; Piet’s jeans and briefs torn off, landing with a thud near the fire—naked now, freckled skin on hairy skin, cocks hard and leaking, glinting in the flickering firelight.
Lips crashed—Jo’s tongue plunging into Piet’s mouth, deep and claiming, Piet groaning loud, hands gripping Jo’s freckled shoulders, pulling him down onto the blankets, the coarse weave scratching their backs. Jo’s kisses trailed—hot, wet—down Piet’s neck, sucking hard, leaving red welts that throbbed, then across his shoulders, teeth grazing the sunburnt skin, tasting salt and earth. Piet’s head tipped back, “Fok—Jo—” rasping as Jo’s lips moved lower—kissing his hairy chest, tongue swirling a nipple, sucking till it peaked under the coarse hair, Piet’s hands tangling in Jo’s blonde mop, tugging desperate, hips bucking up. Jo grinned, licking down—slow, deliberate—tracing Piet’s abs, coarse hair tickling his tongue, dipping into his navel, Piet’s groan deepening, “Ja—more—” spilling out as his thighs twitched.
Jo reached Piet’s cock—fat, uncut, throbbing—nuzzling the thick, dark pubes, inhaling deep, musky and raw, then taking it slow—lips parting, sucking the head, tongue flicking the slit, precum sharp and bitter on his taste. Piet’s fists clenched the blanket—white-knuckled, tearing at the weave—groans spilling loud, “Fok—suck it—” as Jo went deeper—sloppy, wet—lips sliding down the shaft, throat flexing, taking it all, pubes brushing his nose, a long, languid rhythm building. His hands massaged Piet’s heavy balls—rolling them firm, tugging soft—Piet’s legs spreading wide, thighs hairy and thick, hips lifting high, an invitation raw in his moans, “Lower, bru—fok, do it.”
Jo pulled off—spit stringing from his lips to Piet’s cock, snapping as he grinned—eyes glinting green, hands spreading Piet’s cheeks, exposing his tight, hairy hole nestled in dark curls. His tongue flicked out—probing slow, circling the rim—Piet jolting hard, a sharp “Fok!” tearing free, hips bucking up into Jo’s face. “More—go—” Piet growled, lost in ecstasy, hands gripping Jo’s head tighter, fingers knotting in his mop, urging deeper—Jo dove in—lapping long, hot, pushing inside—tongue fucking relentless, wet and slick—Piet’s moans echoing over the field, thighs trembling, spreading wider still till his knees grazed the blanket’s edges. Jo’s fingers joined—one sliding in, spit-slick, curling against Piet’s spot, sending a shudder through him—Piet’s back arching off the ground, “Ja—fok—deeper—” a second finger pumping in, stretching him open slow and deliberate, tongue teasing the rim’s edge, lust shredding them both into a haze.
Jo climbed up—his cock now bare, circumcised, standing proud—straight and thick, the head flushed pink and glistening with precum, veins pulsing along its length, ginger pubes sparse at the base—aligning slow, pushing in—tender at first, inch by inch—Piet’s tight heat gripping him like a vice, a low groan spilling as Jo bottomed out, hips flush against Piet’s hairy ass, trembling with care. “Fok, bru—ja,” Piet breathed, brown eyes locked on green, hands clutching Jo’s freckled ass cheeks, pulling him closer—slow thrusts starting, blankets shifting under their weight, firelight dancing on their sweat-slick skin, Jo’s circumcised cock sliding smooth and deliberate, the exposed head catching every nerve inside. “Harder—” Piet rasped, voice wrecked, hips bucking up sharp—Jo grinned, green eyes flashing, giving in—pace shifting wild, hard—slamming deep, skin slapping loud against skin, Piet’s shouts ringing out, “Fok—Jo—yes!” Jo gripped Piet’s thighs—spreading them wider, thrusting relentless—sweat dripping from his brow, cock pounding, Piet’s fists tearing the blanket’s weave, back arching high off the ground, the earth beneath trembling with each impact.
It stretched—hours of raw, primal fucking—Jo’s tongue darted back to Piet’s cock between rounds, sucking sloppy and deep—lips stretched wide, spit dripping—Piet’s hands guiding, cum blasting across Jo’s freckled chest in thick, white ropes—then Jo inside again—slow, tender strokes with his circumcised cock, the tight skin gliding smooth, then wild, hard thrusts shaking the blanket—Piet’s load spilling into the grass, a sticky puddle soaking the earth, Jo’s twice inside, hot and thick, flooding Piet’s insides, a third streaking the blanket in messy arcs—positions flipping, Jo on his back, Piet riding hard, Jo’s pink-tipped cock gleaming as it plunged up, then Jo behind, relentless—hands gripping Piet’s hips, bruising, driving deep—fire dying to embers, stars spinning overhead, their groans and curses a symphony cutting through the night air—wild grunts, “Fok—harder—” from Piet, “Ja—take it—” from Jo—till dawn crept in, the wildest, longest sex they’d ever had—passion burning out the week, their bond blazing under the Malmesbury sky, sweat-soaked and spent, collapsing in a tangle as the first light kissed their skin.
Awesome writer man---Thanks for all your hot stories.
Thanks was awesome---damn so well written. Hot as fuck as well...Please give them a "Happy Ending"...PLEASE...
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Maybe they can get married and operate the two farms together!
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Jayson, this really is both engrossing and hot.
One thing, though: Isn't anyone overhearing all that sex shouting? In the dorm especially, but here on the farm, too -- if Piet's shouts were echoing across the field, wouldn't they be audible in the house?
Are they about to get busted?
Come to think of it, though, maybe Jo having his crew fix up the de Wet farm means the de Wets can't object to the Piet-Jo relationship ...
One thing, though: Isn't anyone overhearing all that sex shouting? In the dorm especially, but here on the farm, too -- if Piet's shouts were echoing across the field, wouldn't they be audible in the house?
Are they about to get busted?
Come to think of it, though, maybe Jo having his crew fix up the de Wet farm means the de Wets can't object to the Piet-Jo relationship ...
Sleep was a lost cause—the boys’ wild, hours-long sex under the stars left them too wired, too sticky with sweat and cum to drift off. Jo stirred first, green eyes glinting in the dawn light, rolling off the tangled blankets with a grin. “Fok, bru—stream time,” he said, voice rough, tugging Piet’s arm. Piet groaned, brown eyes bleary but laughing, “Ja, wash this kak off,” hauling himself up, cock half-hard, cum crusted on his hairy chest.
They stumbled to the nearby stream—water glinting silver, cold and clear— cocks half mast, swinging as they waded in, splashing to rinse the night’s passion. Cold bit their skin—Jo yelped, “Fok, that’s sharp!”—then turned playful, splashing Piet, water arcing in the morning sun. Piet retaliated—grabbing Jo’s freckled shoulders, wrestling him down—bodies slipping, laughter echoing as they grappled, water churning around their waists. Naturally their cocks hardened, Joes slender and long, Piet’s shorter but fatter rubbing against each other—tension flaring, hands roaming slick skin, Jo pinning Piet briefly, grinning, “Got you, bru,” before Piet flipped him, splashing back.
Piet pulled away, panting, “Fok, Jo—we’re getting picked up at ten, remember? Gotta pack.” Jo sighed, giving Piet’s cock one last teasing tug—“Fine, boet—spoilsport.” They climbed out, cocks still hard, tucking them into damp underwear with a wince, pulling on shorts and shirts—Jo’s crumpled, Piet’s sweat-stained. The unused tent came down fast—poles clattering, fabric stuffed into a bag—blankets gathered in a messy heap, thrown into the old bakkie’s bed. The engine sputtered to life, Piet driving the quick, bumpy ride back, Jo bouncing beside him, freckled arm out the window, wind tousling his blonde mop.
Breakfast waited—a feast on the farmhouse table. Piet’s family sat around—mom beaming, grandpa nodding, sisters chattering—a new relief settling in, the farm’s revival breathing life into them. “She’s got a few years left in her now,” Grandpa said, voice thick, sipping tea, “thanks to you, Jo.” Jo grinned, mouth full, “Fokkin pleasure, oupa,” as Anna teased, “Circus saved the day!” Laughter rang, Piet’s brown eyes soft—stress easing, though suspicion lingered, unspoken.
At 10 a.m. sharp, two shiny Range Rovers growled up the gravel drive—black, gleaming, chrome catching the sun—Piet’s oupa letting out a long whistle, “My vok, those are fancy,” marveling, leaning on his cane. Kobus climbed out of one—khaki-clad, grinning—another team mate from the other, both rugged against the polished rides. Quick greetings—Kobus shaking grandpa hand, “we’ll keep her going, oom,” promising, “We’ll check in soon”—then they hopped into one Range Rover, speeding off, dust swirling, leaving the second behind.
Piet scratched his neck, glancing at Jo, “Thought we were being picked up?” Jo mumbled, “Ja, well, sort of,” green eyes dodging—a flicker Piet caught, suspicion tightening his gut. Emotional goodbyes followed—Piet’s mom hugging Jo tight, “Come back next holidays, promise,” tears in her eyes; Grandpa’s handshake firm, “You’re family now”; sisters piling on, “Don’t be strangers!” Piet hugged them all, chest tight, “Ja, we’ll be back,” promising over their chatter. Bags tossed in the back of the Range Rover they climbed in, Jo taking the driver’s seat, Piet his trusty co-pilot as always, beside him.
The two-hour drive to Robertson was awkward—Jo’s energy low, slumped in the plush leather, green eyes dim; Piet’s suspicion simmering, brown eyes flicking between Jo and the road, questions unasked. The Range Rover purred—air-con humming, a stark contrast to the bakkie’s rattle—Piet’s mom’s padkos a saving grace: biltong, droëwors, vetkoek stuffed with mince, a mountain of it unpacked between them. Piet chewed, “Fok, this is good,” breaking the silence; Jo nodded, “Ja, your moms a legend,” nibbling half-hearted, the quiet stretching, heavy.
As they rolled into Robertson, Jo sighed—just loud enough—“Here we go,” his voice flat, Piet catching it, brow furrowing. Pulling off the tar road on to the gravel road leading up to the farm , just ten minutes out of town, massive imposing gates looming—wrought iron, polished, swinging open smooth—they pulled through, and Piet’s jaw dropped. Jo had undersold it—drastically. The farm was enormous, pristine—manicured fields stretching endless, lush green under irrigation hum; livestock dotted—cattle sleek, sheep fat; machinery gleaming—tractors, harvesters, modern as hell. “Sorry,” Jo muttered, green eyes on Piet, meaning it—Piet didn’t answer, eyes darting—crops to livestock to machinery.
They pulled up to the house —a massive Cape Dutch sprawl, whitewashed walls glowing, gables sharp against the sky, a plaque above the door: *1901*. Piet’s mind spun—proper old money, wealth carved into stone, history in every brick. Jo parked, engine ticking off, and his family bounded out—chaos of warmth, no stiff collars here. His mom—petite, freckled like Jo—hugged Piet tight, “Finally, Piet!” voice bright; Jo dad—tall, rugged—clapped his back, “Heard all about you, boet”; two sisters—teen twins, blonde and loud—squealed, “It’s Piet! He’s real!” jumping on Jo, tickling, “Thought you made him up!” Jo wrestled back, laughing, “Fok off, you terrors!” Piet relaxed—normal, abnormally rich, but normal—grinning as they dragged him in.
Lunch was delicious—roast chicken, mielies, malva pudding dripping syrup—catching up over lunch, Jo’s family grilling Piet, “Uni treating you good?” his dad asking, Piet nodding, “Ja, surviving—Jo’s the chaos.” Laughter rang, Jo’s mom teasing, “Always has been.” Post-lunch, Jo took Piet on a tour—acres unfolding, sheds packed with gear, cattle pens pristine, ending on a hill overlooking the valley—sun setting, orange bleeding into purple, a breeze rustling the grass. Jo stretched out—leaning on his elbows, freckled chest bare under an open shirt—Piet hunched forward, hugging his knees, brown eyes distant.
Suspicion gnawed—Jo’s exam ease, this wealth, answers lurking by week’s end. Piet wasn’t sure he was ready for them or even wanted them—Jo lay with a lob-sided grin beside him, the farm’s perfection below, their bond too vital to crack. Silence held—Jo’s green eyes soft, Piet’s brown steady—holiday week two starting, questions hovering, unspoken.
They stumbled to the nearby stream—water glinting silver, cold and clear— cocks half mast, swinging as they waded in, splashing to rinse the night’s passion. Cold bit their skin—Jo yelped, “Fok, that’s sharp!”—then turned playful, splashing Piet, water arcing in the morning sun. Piet retaliated—grabbing Jo’s freckled shoulders, wrestling him down—bodies slipping, laughter echoing as they grappled, water churning around their waists. Naturally their cocks hardened, Joes slender and long, Piet’s shorter but fatter rubbing against each other—tension flaring, hands roaming slick skin, Jo pinning Piet briefly, grinning, “Got you, bru,” before Piet flipped him, splashing back.
Piet pulled away, panting, “Fok, Jo—we’re getting picked up at ten, remember? Gotta pack.” Jo sighed, giving Piet’s cock one last teasing tug—“Fine, boet—spoilsport.” They climbed out, cocks still hard, tucking them into damp underwear with a wince, pulling on shorts and shirts—Jo’s crumpled, Piet’s sweat-stained. The unused tent came down fast—poles clattering, fabric stuffed into a bag—blankets gathered in a messy heap, thrown into the old bakkie’s bed. The engine sputtered to life, Piet driving the quick, bumpy ride back, Jo bouncing beside him, freckled arm out the window, wind tousling his blonde mop.
Breakfast waited—a feast on the farmhouse table. Piet’s family sat around—mom beaming, grandpa nodding, sisters chattering—a new relief settling in, the farm’s revival breathing life into them. “She’s got a few years left in her now,” Grandpa said, voice thick, sipping tea, “thanks to you, Jo.” Jo grinned, mouth full, “Fokkin pleasure, oupa,” as Anna teased, “Circus saved the day!” Laughter rang, Piet’s brown eyes soft—stress easing, though suspicion lingered, unspoken.
At 10 a.m. sharp, two shiny Range Rovers growled up the gravel drive—black, gleaming, chrome catching the sun—Piet’s oupa letting out a long whistle, “My vok, those are fancy,” marveling, leaning on his cane. Kobus climbed out of one—khaki-clad, grinning—another team mate from the other, both rugged against the polished rides. Quick greetings—Kobus shaking grandpa hand, “we’ll keep her going, oom,” promising, “We’ll check in soon”—then they hopped into one Range Rover, speeding off, dust swirling, leaving the second behind.
Piet scratched his neck, glancing at Jo, “Thought we were being picked up?” Jo mumbled, “Ja, well, sort of,” green eyes dodging—a flicker Piet caught, suspicion tightening his gut. Emotional goodbyes followed—Piet’s mom hugging Jo tight, “Come back next holidays, promise,” tears in her eyes; Grandpa’s handshake firm, “You’re family now”; sisters piling on, “Don’t be strangers!” Piet hugged them all, chest tight, “Ja, we’ll be back,” promising over their chatter. Bags tossed in the back of the Range Rover they climbed in, Jo taking the driver’s seat, Piet his trusty co-pilot as always, beside him.
The two-hour drive to Robertson was awkward—Jo’s energy low, slumped in the plush leather, green eyes dim; Piet’s suspicion simmering, brown eyes flicking between Jo and the road, questions unasked. The Range Rover purred—air-con humming, a stark contrast to the bakkie’s rattle—Piet’s mom’s padkos a saving grace: biltong, droëwors, vetkoek stuffed with mince, a mountain of it unpacked between them. Piet chewed, “Fok, this is good,” breaking the silence; Jo nodded, “Ja, your moms a legend,” nibbling half-hearted, the quiet stretching, heavy.
As they rolled into Robertson, Jo sighed—just loud enough—“Here we go,” his voice flat, Piet catching it, brow furrowing. Pulling off the tar road on to the gravel road leading up to the farm , just ten minutes out of town, massive imposing gates looming—wrought iron, polished, swinging open smooth—they pulled through, and Piet’s jaw dropped. Jo had undersold it—drastically. The farm was enormous, pristine—manicured fields stretching endless, lush green under irrigation hum; livestock dotted—cattle sleek, sheep fat; machinery gleaming—tractors, harvesters, modern as hell. “Sorry,” Jo muttered, green eyes on Piet, meaning it—Piet didn’t answer, eyes darting—crops to livestock to machinery.
They pulled up to the house —a massive Cape Dutch sprawl, whitewashed walls glowing, gables sharp against the sky, a plaque above the door: *1901*. Piet’s mind spun—proper old money, wealth carved into stone, history in every brick. Jo parked, engine ticking off, and his family bounded out—chaos of warmth, no stiff collars here. His mom—petite, freckled like Jo—hugged Piet tight, “Finally, Piet!” voice bright; Jo dad—tall, rugged—clapped his back, “Heard all about you, boet”; two sisters—teen twins, blonde and loud—squealed, “It’s Piet! He’s real!” jumping on Jo, tickling, “Thought you made him up!” Jo wrestled back, laughing, “Fok off, you terrors!” Piet relaxed—normal, abnormally rich, but normal—grinning as they dragged him in.
Lunch was delicious—roast chicken, mielies, malva pudding dripping syrup—catching up over lunch, Jo’s family grilling Piet, “Uni treating you good?” his dad asking, Piet nodding, “Ja, surviving—Jo’s the chaos.” Laughter rang, Jo’s mom teasing, “Always has been.” Post-lunch, Jo took Piet on a tour—acres unfolding, sheds packed with gear, cattle pens pristine, ending on a hill overlooking the valley—sun setting, orange bleeding into purple, a breeze rustling the grass. Jo stretched out—leaning on his elbows, freckled chest bare under an open shirt—Piet hunched forward, hugging his knees, brown eyes distant.
Suspicion gnawed—Jo’s exam ease, this wealth, answers lurking by week’s end. Piet wasn’t sure he was ready for them or even wanted them—Jo lay with a lob-sided grin beside him, the farm’s perfection below, their bond too vital to crack. Silence held—Jo’s green eyes soft, Piet’s brown steady—holiday week two starting, questions hovering, unspoken.
Awesome addition but my mind is overflowing with what ifs---I am so hesitant to read each paragraph because I have become so connected to J & P---I had a similar story during my life history but I screwed it up big time because I was so obsessed with all the reasons and suspicions of why we could not work. I know this is your story and not my life, but please I have HOPE..
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Oh, good -- if they had to drive a pickup truck from where they were camping back to Piet's house, then they were probably far enough away not to be heard. Phew!
Jo expressing dread as they approached his home was not something I was expecting. Interesting ...
Jo expressing dread as they approached his home was not something I was expecting. Interesting ...
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
Jayson, do Afrikaners really say "fok" to their parents and grandparents? And grandparents and parents say "fok" back?
The sun dipped low over Robertson’s valley, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple, a breeze rustling the grass on the hill where Jo and Piet sat—Jo stretched out, leaning on his elbows, freckled chest bare under an open shirt, green eyes soft; Piet hunched forward, hugging his knees, brown eyes distant, suspicion simmering beneath the calm. The farm sprawled below—lush fields, sleek cattle, gleaming machinery—its pristine expanse a silent testament to Jo’s undersold stories, a world Piet’s mind churned to reconcile with Jo’s exam ease and their dorm chaos.
“C’mon, bru—back to the house,” Jo said, rolling to his feet, dusting off his shorts, energy flickering despite the day’s weight. Piet nodded, standing slow, they trudged to the gleaming Land Cruiser parked at the hill’s base—even the farm vehicles shone with pride—Jo sliding into the driver’s seat, Piet beside him, their bags rattling in the back.
As they rumbled down the gravel path, Piet’s hand found Jo’s thigh—high, near the groin, fingers resting gentle but firm, an erotic edge unintended, just instinct seeking connection. He looked over—Jo’s one hand loose on the wheel, the other making wave motions out the open window, blonde mop blowing wild in the breeze, green eyes catching the fading light. “Boet,” Piet whispered, voice soft, brown eyes crashing into Jo’s as he turned—intense, searching—“why are you sorry? This place is incredible—your family clearly loves you.”
Jo sighed, slumping deeper into the seat, foot easing off the accelerator—the bakkie coasted to a gentle stop, gravel crunching soft beneath. He frowned, another sigh escaping, “It’s just a lot, you know—this place, all of it. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, love my family—it just hasn’t been easy. People think money means no problems, but we’ve got ‘em same as anyone.” His words hung—thick, heavy, laced with something Piet couldn’t pin—suspicion flaring, mind shifting into overdrive, though he masked it, face steady, hand still warm on Jo’s thigh.
“Well, it doesn’t change who you are to me,” Piet whispered, giving Jo’s thigh a tight squeeze—fingers pressing into the muscle through his shorts, a grounding pulse. Jo smiled, green eyes locking deep into Piet’s brown, voice shaking, “You’ve been my first real friend, bru—all my others were here for this,” hands gesturing to the farm’s vastness, “always some motive, you know. You knew nothing about it—I was scared it’d change us.”
“Boet,” Piet beamed, dry quip cutting through, “all that’s changed is now you’re a rich circus!” Laughter broke—Jo’s loud bark, Piet’s low rumble—tension dissolving, Piet’s hand staying on Jo’s thigh, stroking gently, a comforting rhythm as they drove on, the farmhouse looming closer, their groove steady despite the unspoken weight.
They pulled up—the driveway a chaotic sea of expensive SUVs and bakkies, gleaming under the late sun, a stark upgrade from the lone Range Rover they’d rolled in on. Jo exhaled, “Great, they’ve invited everyone,” voice flat but resigned—Piet’s heart thumped hard in his chest, “Meeting the whole fokkin family already?” The house buzzed—a sprawling Cape Dutch expanse, whitewashed walls glowing, gables sharp, 1901 plaque proud above the door—old money etched in every brick, now alive with voices spilling out.
Jo’s family erupted— aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents swarming from the wide stoep, a cacophony of greetings. “Jo, seun!” an aunt cried, pulling him into a hug, her floral dress fluttering; an uncle—broad, tanned—clapped his back, “How’s varsity, boet?”; cousins—loud, teenage—dogpiled, “Where’s the rugby stories?”; grandparents beaming, “Look how you’ve grown!”—all eager to chat, more about rugby than grades, Piet noticed, suspicion prickling. He wasn’t left out—an uncle boomed, “Piet, the brother we’ve heard about!” clapping his shoulder; an aunt hugged him, “Jo’s told us everything—welcome!”—their warmth wrapping him like an old friend, Piet picking up Jo’s tales of “the brother he finally had,” guilt stinging for his doubts, though not enough to bury them.
The party roared—long, entertaining—tables groaning under the farm’s resident chef’s work: seared ostrich steaks, roasted root veg, trifle layered with cream, exquisitely plated—expensive wine flowing, glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings. Jo’s mom—an electric high, commanding like Jo at a braai—“That’s where he gets it,” Piet smiled—arm around him, “Sorry for lumpin’ this on you, Piet—everyone was keen to meet you and catch up with Jo.” Piet grinned, whispering, “No problem”—Jo joining, arm over her shoulders, as Jos mom was telling Jo that they had set up one of the guest suits for him, cutting in, “Mom, Piet’s staying in my room—we’ve shared all term, used to it, and it’s four times the size of our dorm anyway.” She raised an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want,” turning to Piet, “But if this clown’s too much, pick a guest suite—this is your house now,” swanning off to refill a cousin’s glass.
Goodnights stretched—wine-soaked stragglers lingering—Jo and Piet slipping away, climbing the grand staircase to Jo’s bedroom: sprawling, oak floors polished, high ceilings with exposed beams, a king bed dwarfing their dorm singles, windows framing the starlit valley. The door clicked shut—Jo pulled Piet in, a deep, long kiss—lips crashing, tongues brushing slow then fierce, hands roaming over shirts—breaking away, green eyes glinting, “Fancy a shower together, bru?”
Fresh from the long, steamy shower, the boys collapsed onto Jo’s king bed—towels discarded, naked, cocks half-mast, still heavy from last night’s marathon session under the stars, yet twitching with faint Readiness for more if the spark struck. The mattress sank under their weight—soft, plush, a world away from dorm creaks—Jo’s freckled frame sprawling beside Piet’s stocky one, bodies glistening faintly in the dim lamplight. Piet lay on his back—brown eyes tracing the beamed ceiling, hairy chest rising slow—Jo curling up beside him, head nestling on his shoulder, one freckled arm draping across Piet’s waist, ginger fuzz brushing his side. Their cocks rested—Jo’s circumcised, pink-tipped length soft against his thigh, Piet’s uncut, ruddy one nestled in dark pubes—tired but primed, a quiet promise lingering. Jo’s breath tickled Piet’s ear, whispering low, “Mind if we just cuddle tonight, bru?” voice soft, a tender edge cutting through their usual heat. Piet grinned, turning his head, brown meeting green, “Ja, boet—works for me,” hand finding Jo’s blonde mop, stroking gently as they drifted off—legs tangled, bodies pressed, sleep claiming them fast in the vast, quiet room.
“C’mon, bru—back to the house,” Jo said, rolling to his feet, dusting off his shorts, energy flickering despite the day’s weight. Piet nodded, standing slow, they trudged to the gleaming Land Cruiser parked at the hill’s base—even the farm vehicles shone with pride—Jo sliding into the driver’s seat, Piet beside him, their bags rattling in the back.
As they rumbled down the gravel path, Piet’s hand found Jo’s thigh—high, near the groin, fingers resting gentle but firm, an erotic edge unintended, just instinct seeking connection. He looked over—Jo’s one hand loose on the wheel, the other making wave motions out the open window, blonde mop blowing wild in the breeze, green eyes catching the fading light. “Boet,” Piet whispered, voice soft, brown eyes crashing into Jo’s as he turned—intense, searching—“why are you sorry? This place is incredible—your family clearly loves you.”
Jo sighed, slumping deeper into the seat, foot easing off the accelerator—the bakkie coasted to a gentle stop, gravel crunching soft beneath. He frowned, another sigh escaping, “It’s just a lot, you know—this place, all of it. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, love my family—it just hasn’t been easy. People think money means no problems, but we’ve got ‘em same as anyone.” His words hung—thick, heavy, laced with something Piet couldn’t pin—suspicion flaring, mind shifting into overdrive, though he masked it, face steady, hand still warm on Jo’s thigh.
“Well, it doesn’t change who you are to me,” Piet whispered, giving Jo’s thigh a tight squeeze—fingers pressing into the muscle through his shorts, a grounding pulse. Jo smiled, green eyes locking deep into Piet’s brown, voice shaking, “You’ve been my first real friend, bru—all my others were here for this,” hands gesturing to the farm’s vastness, “always some motive, you know. You knew nothing about it—I was scared it’d change us.”
“Boet,” Piet beamed, dry quip cutting through, “all that’s changed is now you’re a rich circus!” Laughter broke—Jo’s loud bark, Piet’s low rumble—tension dissolving, Piet’s hand staying on Jo’s thigh, stroking gently, a comforting rhythm as they drove on, the farmhouse looming closer, their groove steady despite the unspoken weight.
They pulled up—the driveway a chaotic sea of expensive SUVs and bakkies, gleaming under the late sun, a stark upgrade from the lone Range Rover they’d rolled in on. Jo exhaled, “Great, they’ve invited everyone,” voice flat but resigned—Piet’s heart thumped hard in his chest, “Meeting the whole fokkin family already?” The house buzzed—a sprawling Cape Dutch expanse, whitewashed walls glowing, gables sharp, 1901 plaque proud above the door—old money etched in every brick, now alive with voices spilling out.
Jo’s family erupted— aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents swarming from the wide stoep, a cacophony of greetings. “Jo, seun!” an aunt cried, pulling him into a hug, her floral dress fluttering; an uncle—broad, tanned—clapped his back, “How’s varsity, boet?”; cousins—loud, teenage—dogpiled, “Where’s the rugby stories?”; grandparents beaming, “Look how you’ve grown!”—all eager to chat, more about rugby than grades, Piet noticed, suspicion prickling. He wasn’t left out—an uncle boomed, “Piet, the brother we’ve heard about!” clapping his shoulder; an aunt hugged him, “Jo’s told us everything—welcome!”—their warmth wrapping him like an old friend, Piet picking up Jo’s tales of “the brother he finally had,” guilt stinging for his doubts, though not enough to bury them.
The party roared—long, entertaining—tables groaning under the farm’s resident chef’s work: seared ostrich steaks, roasted root veg, trifle layered with cream, exquisitely plated—expensive wine flowing, glasses clinking, laughter bouncing off the high ceilings. Jo’s mom—an electric high, commanding like Jo at a braai—“That’s where he gets it,” Piet smiled—arm around him, “Sorry for lumpin’ this on you, Piet—everyone was keen to meet you and catch up with Jo.” Piet grinned, whispering, “No problem”—Jo joining, arm over her shoulders, as Jos mom was telling Jo that they had set up one of the guest suits for him, cutting in, “Mom, Piet’s staying in my room—we’ve shared all term, used to it, and it’s four times the size of our dorm anyway.” She raised an eyebrow, “If that’s what you want,” turning to Piet, “But if this clown’s too much, pick a guest suite—this is your house now,” swanning off to refill a cousin’s glass.
Goodnights stretched—wine-soaked stragglers lingering—Jo and Piet slipping away, climbing the grand staircase to Jo’s bedroom: sprawling, oak floors polished, high ceilings with exposed beams, a king bed dwarfing their dorm singles, windows framing the starlit valley. The door clicked shut—Jo pulled Piet in, a deep, long kiss—lips crashing, tongues brushing slow then fierce, hands roaming over shirts—breaking away, green eyes glinting, “Fancy a shower together, bru?”
Fresh from the long, steamy shower, the boys collapsed onto Jo’s king bed—towels discarded, naked, cocks half-mast, still heavy from last night’s marathon session under the stars, yet twitching with faint Readiness for more if the spark struck. The mattress sank under their weight—soft, plush, a world away from dorm creaks—Jo’s freckled frame sprawling beside Piet’s stocky one, bodies glistening faintly in the dim lamplight. Piet lay on his back—brown eyes tracing the beamed ceiling, hairy chest rising slow—Jo curling up beside him, head nestling on his shoulder, one freckled arm draping across Piet’s waist, ginger fuzz brushing his side. Their cocks rested—Jo’s circumcised, pink-tipped length soft against his thigh, Piet’s uncut, ruddy one nestled in dark pubes—tired but primed, a quiet promise lingering. Jo’s breath tickled Piet’s ear, whispering low, “Mind if we just cuddle tonight, bru?” voice soft, a tender edge cutting through their usual heat. Piet grinned, turning his head, brown meeting green, “Ja, boet—works for me,” hand finding Jo’s blonde mop, stroking gently as they drifted off—legs tangled, bodies pressed, sleep claiming them fast in the vast, quiet room.
It depends. In my family, as we got older, swearing wasn't an issue, especially in the more relaxed farming community. But in the more traditional, especially more religious families, respecting elders is very important, and swearing is a big no-no.
Awesome update--soft and tender----and yet hot as always. Thanks
PouletAuPoivre
Cherished Member
This whole episode is so sweet and loving and, well, comforting.
Piet woke to the deepest sleep he’d had in ages—limbs heavy, mind still a bit foggy, the king-sized bed a cloud of soft sheets and thick pillows cradling his stocky frame. He rolled over, hand reaching for Jo’s familiar warmth, but the space beside him was empty—cool, the imprint of Jo’s freckled body long gone. The room stayed dark, thick curtains drawn tight, blocking the world outside. Piet stretched, groaning low then hauled himself up, bare feet padding across the polished oak floor. He yanked the curtains open—sunlight streamed in, blinding, forcing a squint as his brown eyes adjusted. The view was a dream—Jo’s farm buzzing with activity: workers hauling bales, cattle grazing in neat rows, machinery humming, all framed by soft yet intimidating mountains, a rugged backdrop cutting the sky.
He glanced at his watch—10:30! “Fok,” he muttered, it must have been years since he’d slept that late, the farm’s quiet rhythm and last night’s cuddles pulling him under. Pulling on shorts and a faded t-shirt—rumpled from his bag—he headed out to find Jo, the maze of corridors and rooms twisting around him—high ceilings echoing his steps, walls lined with old portraits and polished wood. The house felt empty—save for a helper dusting a banister, another fluffing scatter cushions on a plush sofa—smiling soft, “Morning, meneer,” as he passed. Out the front door, he squinted into the sun, trying to recall the farm’s layout from Jo’s tour, aiming for the big barn—halfway there, lost in a daze, when a loud *beep* jolted him.
Piet jumped off the path—a bright green John Deere tractor rolled up, Jo behind the wheel, beaming wide, blonde mop tousled under a cap. “Finally decided to join us, sleepyhead!” Jo joked, voice bright, reaching an arm out—freckled, strong—helping Piet clamber up beside him. “What time’d you get up?” Piet asked, settling in, the engine rumbling beneath. “Four a.m.,” Jo replied, spritely, green eyes glinting, “Couldn’t sleep—too buzzed for farm air, bru.”
They trundled down the road—chatting merrily, Jo laying out the day’s chores: checking fences, feeding calves, tinkering with a pump—his energy a spark Piet couldn’t match but rode anyway, grinning at Jo’s wild plans, suspicion tucked for now.
Just after lunch—sandwiches and iced tea on the stoep—Jo showed Piet his favorite Nguni cows in a paddock, their hides a patchwork of black and white, Jo rattling off names like old friends. A shiny Land Cruiser rolled up—Jacques, Jo’s dad, stepping out, tall and rugged in khakis, silver streaking his blonde hair. “Jo, my boy,” he called, voice warm but firm, “need you to run to oom Dono’s farm—get some medicine for the pigs.” Jo nodded, “Sure—let’s go, Piet.” Jacques waved a hand, “Piet, why don’t you stay with me? Let’s get to know each other.” Jo shrugged—thinking nothing of it—jumped onto the tractor, trundling back to swap it for the Range Rover, speeding off to Caledon, an hour-and-a-half away.
Jacques put an arm around Piet’s shoulder—broad, steady—“Let’s walk, son,” he said, guiding him across the paddock. He launched into the farm’s history—generations deep, cattle and crops its backbone—quizzing Piet about Malmesbury, “Heard Kobus gave you a hand—anything more we can do?” Piet, humbled but not cowed, shook his head, “No, sir—means a lot already.” Jacques was easy to talk to and Piet longed for talks like this with his own father, a deep pang in his heart. They looped back to the farmhouse, Jacques leading him into a study—dark wood, bookshelves groaning, a wide desk cluttered with maps—closing the door with a soft click. He poured two whiskies into heavy crystal glasses—amber glinting—handing one to Piet, “Sit,” pointing to a plush leather sofa, sinking into an armchair, legs stretched out.
Piet’s heart pounded—*where’s this going?*—head whirring as Jacques leaned back, green eyes—Jo’s eyes—locking deep into his brown ones. “So… you and Jo—what’s that about?” Jacques said, voice steady, probing. “You’re inseparable—stayed in his room last night, one bed.” The last bit hung heavy—Piet’s face flushed, color draining then surging hot, heat rising to a boil. “Sir—it’s not what you think,” he stammered, hands waving, “I never knew about all this—I never knew I was like this.” Emphasis sharp on *I*—voice cracking—“I’m straight, so’s Jo—but we’re connected, brothers.”
Jacques stayed quiet—studying, searching Piet’s face for cracks, motives—finding none, just honesty, a trembling lip. “Look,” he said, swirling his whisky, “what you do in the bedroom’s your business—I’m not saying you *do*. My business is this farm, this family—we’ve got a lot riding on it. I can’t afford scandals, you understand?” “Yes, sir—yes, I understand,” Piet stammered, close to tears, glass shaking in his hand.
“Let me explain it to you,” Jacques said, leaning forward, voice softening. Piet braced—*here it comes*, suspicions peaking—Jo’s nonchalance, money buying grades? “We come from a long line of farmers—this is one of the biggest in the region, eyes on it for a million reasons. I need an heir—Jo’s it, whether he likes it or not. He’s my son, I love him—but he’s not the brightest academically.” Piet perched on the sofa’s edge—*it’s true, they’re paying it off*—mind short-circuiting.
“So I made a plan,” Jacques said, pausing, sipping whisky. “No bribes, no cheating—Jo’s not slipping through cracks. I struck a deal with Stellenbosch—practical credits, not book grades. He’s on a tailored track—Ag Econ, sure, but half his marks come from farm work, hands-on stuff he’s damn good at. Kobus oversees it—logs hours, reports progress. Jo’s earning it—honest, just not the usual way. I’m not buying his degree; I’m buying him a fit.” He grinned, “He’s no fool with cattle or land—just books.”
Piet exhaled—relief crashing, suspicion dissolving—*no payoffs, no lies*. “Fok, sorry sorry, I mean wow! sir—that’s… smart,” he said, voice steadying, sipping whisky, the burn grounding him.
The study door swung open—Jo strode in, dirt-streaked, Range Rover keys jangling, green eyes bright—Jacques and Piet mid-laugh, hunched over a photo album, childhood snaps of Jo: gap-toothed on a pony, mud-caked with a calf, blonde mop wild. “What’s this, hey?” Jo grinned, tossing the pig medicine bag onto the desk, peering over—Jacques chuckling, “You were a terror, seun,” pointing to a shot of Jo stuck in a hay bale. Piet laughed, “Fok, sorry sorry! bru—same circus then!” Jo flopped beside him, arm over Piet’s shoulder, “Always, boet,” their ease filling the room—Piet’s answers honest, Jo’s secret none, the farm’s weight lifting as they traded jabs under Jacques’ green gaze.
He glanced at his watch—10:30! “Fok,” he muttered, it must have been years since he’d slept that late, the farm’s quiet rhythm and last night’s cuddles pulling him under. Pulling on shorts and a faded t-shirt—rumpled from his bag—he headed out to find Jo, the maze of corridors and rooms twisting around him—high ceilings echoing his steps, walls lined with old portraits and polished wood. The house felt empty—save for a helper dusting a banister, another fluffing scatter cushions on a plush sofa—smiling soft, “Morning, meneer,” as he passed. Out the front door, he squinted into the sun, trying to recall the farm’s layout from Jo’s tour, aiming for the big barn—halfway there, lost in a daze, when a loud *beep* jolted him.
Piet jumped off the path—a bright green John Deere tractor rolled up, Jo behind the wheel, beaming wide, blonde mop tousled under a cap. “Finally decided to join us, sleepyhead!” Jo joked, voice bright, reaching an arm out—freckled, strong—helping Piet clamber up beside him. “What time’d you get up?” Piet asked, settling in, the engine rumbling beneath. “Four a.m.,” Jo replied, spritely, green eyes glinting, “Couldn’t sleep—too buzzed for farm air, bru.”
They trundled down the road—chatting merrily, Jo laying out the day’s chores: checking fences, feeding calves, tinkering with a pump—his energy a spark Piet couldn’t match but rode anyway, grinning at Jo’s wild plans, suspicion tucked for now.
Just after lunch—sandwiches and iced tea on the stoep—Jo showed Piet his favorite Nguni cows in a paddock, their hides a patchwork of black and white, Jo rattling off names like old friends. A shiny Land Cruiser rolled up—Jacques, Jo’s dad, stepping out, tall and rugged in khakis, silver streaking his blonde hair. “Jo, my boy,” he called, voice warm but firm, “need you to run to oom Dono’s farm—get some medicine for the pigs.” Jo nodded, “Sure—let’s go, Piet.” Jacques waved a hand, “Piet, why don’t you stay with me? Let’s get to know each other.” Jo shrugged—thinking nothing of it—jumped onto the tractor, trundling back to swap it for the Range Rover, speeding off to Caledon, an hour-and-a-half away.
Jacques put an arm around Piet’s shoulder—broad, steady—“Let’s walk, son,” he said, guiding him across the paddock. He launched into the farm’s history—generations deep, cattle and crops its backbone—quizzing Piet about Malmesbury, “Heard Kobus gave you a hand—anything more we can do?” Piet, humbled but not cowed, shook his head, “No, sir—means a lot already.” Jacques was easy to talk to and Piet longed for talks like this with his own father, a deep pang in his heart. They looped back to the farmhouse, Jacques leading him into a study—dark wood, bookshelves groaning, a wide desk cluttered with maps—closing the door with a soft click. He poured two whiskies into heavy crystal glasses—amber glinting—handing one to Piet, “Sit,” pointing to a plush leather sofa, sinking into an armchair, legs stretched out.
Piet’s heart pounded—*where’s this going?*—head whirring as Jacques leaned back, green eyes—Jo’s eyes—locking deep into his brown ones. “So… you and Jo—what’s that about?” Jacques said, voice steady, probing. “You’re inseparable—stayed in his room last night, one bed.” The last bit hung heavy—Piet’s face flushed, color draining then surging hot, heat rising to a boil. “Sir—it’s not what you think,” he stammered, hands waving, “I never knew about all this—I never knew I was like this.” Emphasis sharp on *I*—voice cracking—“I’m straight, so’s Jo—but we’re connected, brothers.”
Jacques stayed quiet—studying, searching Piet’s face for cracks, motives—finding none, just honesty, a trembling lip. “Look,” he said, swirling his whisky, “what you do in the bedroom’s your business—I’m not saying you *do*. My business is this farm, this family—we’ve got a lot riding on it. I can’t afford scandals, you understand?” “Yes, sir—yes, I understand,” Piet stammered, close to tears, glass shaking in his hand.
“Let me explain it to you,” Jacques said, leaning forward, voice softening. Piet braced—*here it comes*, suspicions peaking—Jo’s nonchalance, money buying grades? “We come from a long line of farmers—this is one of the biggest in the region, eyes on it for a million reasons. I need an heir—Jo’s it, whether he likes it or not. He’s my son, I love him—but he’s not the brightest academically.” Piet perched on the sofa’s edge—*it’s true, they’re paying it off*—mind short-circuiting.
“So I made a plan,” Jacques said, pausing, sipping whisky. “No bribes, no cheating—Jo’s not slipping through cracks. I struck a deal with Stellenbosch—practical credits, not book grades. He’s on a tailored track—Ag Econ, sure, but half his marks come from farm work, hands-on stuff he’s damn good at. Kobus oversees it—logs hours, reports progress. Jo’s earning it—honest, just not the usual way. I’m not buying his degree; I’m buying him a fit.” He grinned, “He’s no fool with cattle or land—just books.”
Piet exhaled—relief crashing, suspicion dissolving—*no payoffs, no lies*. “Fok, sorry sorry, I mean wow! sir—that’s… smart,” he said, voice steadying, sipping whisky, the burn grounding him.
The study door swung open—Jo strode in, dirt-streaked, Range Rover keys jangling, green eyes bright—Jacques and Piet mid-laugh, hunched over a photo album, childhood snaps of Jo: gap-toothed on a pony, mud-caked with a calf, blonde mop wild. “What’s this, hey?” Jo grinned, tossing the pig medicine bag onto the desk, peering over—Jacques chuckling, “You were a terror, seun,” pointing to a shot of Jo stuck in a hay bale. Piet laughed, “Fok, sorry sorry! bru—same circus then!” Jo flopped beside him, arm over Piet’s shoulder, “Always, boet,” their ease filling the room—Piet’s answers honest, Jo’s secret none, the farm’s weight lifting as they traded jabs under Jacques’ green gaze.
The story is actually amazing. Love the slow buildup and character development!! Can't wait for more!
I have to say that you do have a way with words and style. Truly an awesome experience. Thanks for sharing with all of us.
The evening unfurled around the large dining table—polished oak stretching long under a chandelier’s soft glow, the family sprawled across it, plates scraped clean of roast lamb and creamy potatoes, wine glasses catching the light. Chatter filled the room—Jo’s parents, Jacques and Carol, trading stories with Piet, mostly about Jo’s childhood chaos: the time he’d roped a calf and ended up dragged through mud, or when he’d climbed the windmill and got stuck, yelling for hours. Laughter bounced off the high walls, Piet’s brown eyes crinkling, “Fok, sorry, sorry, bru! always a circus,” Jo grinning, “Still am, hey.” Outside, the weather turned—the infamous South Easter howling, torrents of rain lashing the windows, a gale rattling the old house. Inside, the cheer stood stark—warmth against the storm’s fury.
The twin sisters yawned off to bed—giggling goodnights—leaving Piet, Jo, and his parents to shift to the living room: plush leather sofas sinking under their weight, a fire crackling in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls. Carol—elegant, blonde hair swept back—sipped her wine, long fingers caressing the stem of her glass, green eyes—Jo’s eyes—softening as they landed on the boys sprawled close on the couch. “Boys,” she said, voice motherly, gentle, “no judgment—I just want to know what we’re dealing with. Are you a couple?” Jo cut in fast, “Mom!” voice sharp, rising, “We’re definitely not a couple—we’re just super close. We get each other, share everything.” The words *not a couple* stung—a pang slicing through Piet’s chest, a part he didn’t know could ache, brown eyes flickering, though he masked it with a tight smile.
Carol nodded, unconvinced, sipping again, “Okay—but if you were, just know we’d support you.” Her tone hung—soft, probing—Jacques sipping whisky, watching quiet. Silence stretched, awkward—Piet shifting, Jo fidgeting—until Jo jumped up, “Right! Thanks for the buzzkill, Mom—I’m off to bed,” shaking his head, chuckling low as he strode out, leaving Piet caught—stay or follow? Obvious either way. He rose slow, “Night, Jacques—Carol,” voice steady, following Jo upstairs, heart thudding with the choice. Back in Jo’s room—a sprawling haven of oak and lamplight—Jo slumped onto his king bed, sighing, “That was awkward as hell,” sprawled across the sheets, green eyes dim. His energy spiked—snapping bright—as Piet peeled his shirt over his head, exposing his firm, hairy chest, muscles flexing under dark curls. Jo sat up, scooting close, lips brushing Piet’s earlobe—nibbling soft, sending a shiver down Piet’s spine, a jolt straight to his cock. “Boet,” Jo whispered, breath hot, “I want to feel what it’s like.” Piet’s eyes widened—excitement flashing—brown meeting green, “You mean… you want me to—” Jo grinned, stretching back, one hand behind his head, ginger pit hair glistening in the bedside lamp glow, the other grabbing his throbbing cock through his shorts—thick, pink head pulsing—waving it at Piet, “Come suck on this while you prep me.”
Piet’s briefs hit the floor—flung across the room—his cock springing free, foreskin fully retracted, fat head glistening, a string of precum dangling off the tip. He scurried between Jo’s legs—Jo kicking off his shorts and boxers, naked now—Piet’s plump lips sliding down Jo’s cock in one fluid motion, enveloping the shaft—warm, wet—sucking slow, tongue swirling the pink tip, tasting the sharp precum leaking steady. Jo’s head fell back—a deep sigh escaping his lungs, “Fok, bru—” hips twitching as Piet bobbed—lips tight, sliding to the base, ginger pubes brushing his nose, sucking harder, cheeks hollowing, spit slicking the length—Jo’s groans low, rumbling.
Piet’s mouth moved—lips popping off, trailing down—sucking Jo’s balls, one then the other, rolling them gentle with his tongue, tugging soft, Jo’s thighs parting wider, “oh fuck, oh fuck—keep going—” voice rough, needy. Piet’s hands spread Jo’s peach coloured, furry cheeks—exposing his tight hole—tongue flicking out, licking slow, circling the rim—Jo jolting, a sharp “Fok!” as Piet lapped deeper—hot, wet—pushing inside, probing, prepping—spit slicking the way, tongue fucking steady, Jo’s moans growing primal, hips lifting, “More—bru—do it—” Piet’s fingers joined—one sliding in, curling slow, then two—stretching—Jo’s ass clenching, then relaxing, ready.
Piet rose—cock thick, leaking—positioning the head at Jo’s hole, pushing in—slow, tender—Jo’s deep, primal moan erupting from his gut, “oh fffuuuccckkk—” echoing as Piet breached, a flash in Jo’s mind: *Thank god everyone’s rooms are on the other side of the house.* Jo winced—pain sharp—then melting to pleasure as Piet’s thrusts deepened—gentle, rocking—Jo’s legs spreading, hands gripping Piet’s hips, urging. Piet intensified—pace quickening, thrusts harder—Jo’s moans rising, “Ja—fok—yes—”
The session peaked—Jo on his back, legs hoisted over Piet’s shoulders—Piet standing on the floor, pounding deep—Jo’s cock erupting violently, cum blasting across his freckled chest in thick, white ropes, splattering up to his collarbone, body shuddering. Piet thrust harder—relentless—his own cock unleashing a torrent inside Jo’s ass—hot, pulsing—groaning loud, collapsing onto Jo, a mix of cum and sweat tangling in his thick chest hair, their breaths ragged, bodies pressed, the storm outside a dull roar against their heat.
The twin sisters yawned off to bed—giggling goodnights—leaving Piet, Jo, and his parents to shift to the living room: plush leather sofas sinking under their weight, a fire crackling in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls. Carol—elegant, blonde hair swept back—sipped her wine, long fingers caressing the stem of her glass, green eyes—Jo’s eyes—softening as they landed on the boys sprawled close on the couch. “Boys,” she said, voice motherly, gentle, “no judgment—I just want to know what we’re dealing with. Are you a couple?” Jo cut in fast, “Mom!” voice sharp, rising, “We’re definitely not a couple—we’re just super close. We get each other, share everything.” The words *not a couple* stung—a pang slicing through Piet’s chest, a part he didn’t know could ache, brown eyes flickering, though he masked it with a tight smile.
Carol nodded, unconvinced, sipping again, “Okay—but if you were, just know we’d support you.” Her tone hung—soft, probing—Jacques sipping whisky, watching quiet. Silence stretched, awkward—Piet shifting, Jo fidgeting—until Jo jumped up, “Right! Thanks for the buzzkill, Mom—I’m off to bed,” shaking his head, chuckling low as he strode out, leaving Piet caught—stay or follow? Obvious either way. He rose slow, “Night, Jacques—Carol,” voice steady, following Jo upstairs, heart thudding with the choice. Back in Jo’s room—a sprawling haven of oak and lamplight—Jo slumped onto his king bed, sighing, “That was awkward as hell,” sprawled across the sheets, green eyes dim. His energy spiked—snapping bright—as Piet peeled his shirt over his head, exposing his firm, hairy chest, muscles flexing under dark curls. Jo sat up, scooting close, lips brushing Piet’s earlobe—nibbling soft, sending a shiver down Piet’s spine, a jolt straight to his cock. “Boet,” Jo whispered, breath hot, “I want to feel what it’s like.” Piet’s eyes widened—excitement flashing—brown meeting green, “You mean… you want me to—” Jo grinned, stretching back, one hand behind his head, ginger pit hair glistening in the bedside lamp glow, the other grabbing his throbbing cock through his shorts—thick, pink head pulsing—waving it at Piet, “Come suck on this while you prep me.”
Piet’s briefs hit the floor—flung across the room—his cock springing free, foreskin fully retracted, fat head glistening, a string of precum dangling off the tip. He scurried between Jo’s legs—Jo kicking off his shorts and boxers, naked now—Piet’s plump lips sliding down Jo’s cock in one fluid motion, enveloping the shaft—warm, wet—sucking slow, tongue swirling the pink tip, tasting the sharp precum leaking steady. Jo’s head fell back—a deep sigh escaping his lungs, “Fok, bru—” hips twitching as Piet bobbed—lips tight, sliding to the base, ginger pubes brushing his nose, sucking harder, cheeks hollowing, spit slicking the length—Jo’s groans low, rumbling.
Piet’s mouth moved—lips popping off, trailing down—sucking Jo’s balls, one then the other, rolling them gentle with his tongue, tugging soft, Jo’s thighs parting wider, “oh fuck, oh fuck—keep going—” voice rough, needy. Piet’s hands spread Jo’s peach coloured, furry cheeks—exposing his tight hole—tongue flicking out, licking slow, circling the rim—Jo jolting, a sharp “Fok!” as Piet lapped deeper—hot, wet—pushing inside, probing, prepping—spit slicking the way, tongue fucking steady, Jo’s moans growing primal, hips lifting, “More—bru—do it—” Piet’s fingers joined—one sliding in, curling slow, then two—stretching—Jo’s ass clenching, then relaxing, ready.
Piet rose—cock thick, leaking—positioning the head at Jo’s hole, pushing in—slow, tender—Jo’s deep, primal moan erupting from his gut, “oh fffuuuccckkk—” echoing as Piet breached, a flash in Jo’s mind: *Thank god everyone’s rooms are on the other side of the house.* Jo winced—pain sharp—then melting to pleasure as Piet’s thrusts deepened—gentle, rocking—Jo’s legs spreading, hands gripping Piet’s hips, urging. Piet intensified—pace quickening, thrusts harder—Jo’s moans rising, “Ja—fok—yes—”
The session peaked—Jo on his back, legs hoisted over Piet’s shoulders—Piet standing on the floor, pounding deep—Jo’s cock erupting violently, cum blasting across his freckled chest in thick, white ropes, splattering up to his collarbone, body shuddering. Piet thrust harder—relentless—his own cock unleashing a torrent inside Jo’s ass—hot, pulsing—groaning loud, collapsing onto Jo, a mix of cum and sweat tangling in his thick chest hair, their breaths ragged, bodies pressed, the storm outside a dull roar against their heat.
