HARVESTING DEAL
The road up the mountain smelled like dust and wet leaves. He drove slow, windows down, stomach tight. Back home, shelves were bare. People were counting rice by cups now. Someone said the farm up here still had fruit.
The farmer was already working when he arrived. Bent over a crate, sleeves rolled up, sweat darkening his shirt. Every move looked calm and sure, like he knew this land would still feed him even when everything else failed.
“Can I buy some?” the man asked.
The farmer didn’t stop picking. “Don’t sell.” “
I really need it,” the man said. “People are waiting.”
“I trade,” he said. The word landed heavy.
They stood there a moment, the wind moving through the leaves, insects buzzing like they knew something was about to happen. The man nodded, pulse loud in his ears.
They moved behind the trees, where the rows bent inward and the shade felt thicker.
The farmer stepped close, close enough that the man could feel heat off his body. “You can stop anytime,” the farmer said low. “I won’t chase.”
“I won’t stop,” the man answered, surprised at himself.
Hands came first. Firm, guiding. The farmer didn’t rush. He spun the man around, pressing him face-first against a thick tree trunk. He yanked the man's trousers down, exposing his ass. The man felt rough fingers probing his hole, then a glob of spit slicking him up.
The farmer kicked his legs apart and lined up his thick, hard cock. He pushed in with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The man cried out, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the bark. The farmer started to fuck, hard and deep, his hips slapping against the man's ass with a wet, rhythmic sound. He gripped the man's shoulders, using him for leverage, pounding into him without mercy.
The man felt awkward, then shaky, then strangely focused. Every sound felt louder — fabric shifting, breath catching, a low hum from the farmer like he was testing a note. “Relax,” the farmer murmured. “Let it happen.”
The man did. His thoughts slipped away. There was only closeness, weight, warmth, the steady rhythm behind him.
He grabbed bark when his knees weakened. The farmer stayed quiet except for short words, soft but commanding, telling him he was doing fine, telling him not to move yet. When it ended, the farmer rested his forehead against the man’s back for a second, both of them breathing hard. No rush. No shame. Just the quiet after.
The farmer handed him a full basket.
Heavy. Real. “That feeds people,” he said. “That’s why I do it.” The man nodded, legs still unsteady. “Can I come back?” The farmer opened the gate for him and stepped aside.
“Help pick next time,” he said. “Then we’ll talk.”
The man walked down the road with the basket on his shoulder, body sore, mind loud. He didn’t know what he’d traded exactly — pride, comfort, something else. But the weight of the fruit was real, and so was the memory burning under his skin.
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