This is the story of a city boy who worked for a summer in rural Alabama shortly after World War II.
The story is fiction and it involves explicit homosexual activity. If suchis offensive to you or if you are underaged, please read no further. Otherwise, please enjoy.
I would love to hear your reactions to the story. Anything like a summer adventure you've had? All comments or criticisms are welcome, and will be answered. macoutman@yahoo.com.
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SUMMER JOB
by Macout Mann
VI
About nine o'clock Monday morning all hell broke loose. The mill's whistle started to blast, signaling a major emergency.
A huge oak log, almost five feet in diameter, was being pulled up to the head saw when it jumped the track and opened the skull of one of the men who were guiding it into position. The whole town stopped in its tracks.
It turned out that Miranda, our office jack of all trades, was also the company nurse. She ran to give first aid, while Walter Clement rushed to bring a converted station wagon to the site. Meanwhile, Kate, the telephone operator, called the sheriff's office to ask for a police escort. A sheriff's deputy was dispatched to intercept Clement, as he sped away to the tiny hospital in Camden with the injured man.
At the office the accident was the sole subject of conversation for the rest of the morning. Even Matthew Sykes joined in speculating how it could have happened. The log was one of the biggest the mill had ever handled, but it had finally been maneuvered into position and sawed.
My questions, of course, showed a complete ignorance of what was going on.
"You've never been over to the mill?" Mr. Sykes asked me.
"I've walked by," I answered, "but never when it was in operation."
Malone was ordered to arrange for me to have a guided tour the following day.
Walter Clement, one of my fellow poker players, was assigned to show me around. I'd never known what he did, except that he worked at the mill. It turned out that he was Sam Berger's assistant. Berger was in overall charge of operations and Clement was his enforcer. In addition, Clement supervised the hour to hour operation of the mill, hiring and firing laborers, deciding which lumber was to be air dried and which kiln dried. Of course, when we started our tour, I didn't even know what a kiln was.
Although sawmilling is still a dangerous business, today most mill operations are automated. Back then the lumber had to be manipulated mostly by hand. So while motorized rollers now maneuver logs up to the saws and turn them in the proper direction, back then laborers had to guide them. That's how the accident the day before my tour happened.
We started where the accident had happened. At ground level a chain was attached to a log and it was pulled up the jack slip, a couple of slanted rails, to the head saw, which was operated by the master sawyer, Baumgartner. I was amazed at the skill required. He had to decide how to begin to cut the log, so that the maximum amount of lumber could be obtained, set the guides to the proper distance, and control the saw so that the each cut was smooth and even. At Sykes the head saw was a band saw and it made a ferocious sound. Baumgartner sat at the controls about six feet away protected only by a heavy sheet of glass. I could now understand why he was partially deaf.
The planks coming out of the head saw were of various sizes, so they were taken to a resaw, where they were further broken down by width and depth. These were circular saws, and this is where Jerry and his father worked.
Edging occurred at still another circular saw. It removed irregularities, so that the boards now were a standard shape.
And finally the trimming process cut the lumber to standard lengths.
And there was sorting going on at each stage.
So in addition to Baumgartner, there were three other sawyers, performing different operations, and laborers at each station helping to handle the wood, plus many more doing other jobs. I'd say all together there were thirty or forty people on the floor.
When Clement came to get me at the office, he seemed quite put out to have to give me the tour, but as we observed the various operations and he saw that my questions were halfway intelligent, he warmed to the task.
After about ninety minutes, we emerged from the mill itself and he explained that depending on the quality of the wood and its end use it was either air dried or kiln dried. There were stacks of lumber, mostly pine, covering an acre or so being dried in the open. Semitrailers came every day and hauled away the dried wood, one and two by fours, as well as larger sizes to be used in all sorts of construction.
Nearby there were buildings that looked like giant bread boxes. These were the kilns, where steam circulated within the lumber stacks to dry the wood more thoroughly and more uniformly. Inside was the higher quality pine and hardwood, destined for use in cabinetry, furniture, or applications like architectural moldings.
I guessed that counting the crews harvesting trees and scaling the logs being brought in from the forest, as well as the guys replanting the overcut areas, the company employed more than two hundred people, almost all of them men.
When I returned to the office, I learned that the injured man was still in critical condition, but had stabilized and would recover.
After dinner that night, I joined the poker game. Clement acted much friendlier to me than he ever had before. And in the game I broke even.
Going up to my room, I noticed Paul Earl's light was on, but I passed on to my door and was about to put my key in the lock, when he stuck his head out and said, "Come on over for a minute."
He was already naked when I walked in.
"You've already fucked Chuck, so I aint goanna have ta show you what that's like any more," he declared. "But you can still fuck me, if you wanna. But first I want your cherry ass."
I began to undress. "Am I goanna be your first virgin?" I asked.
"Nah. I took Jack's and Jerry's cherries too. After all I got all three of you started. They both wanted you," he chuckled, "but shit! Let them find their own cherry boys."
I couldn't help but giggle. "Seems like you're getting to like fucking around with guys more than gals," I sort of taunted.
"Maybe so. I get off on all of it."
He drew me to him and bit my shoulder. It was goanna leave a hickey. "Something to remember tonight by," he told me. Then he began to kiss my body. Everywhere but the lips. He pulled me onto his bed and blew in my ear, tongued it, and nibbled my tits 'til they were rigid as little dicks.
Man he was getting me so aroused I would have let him do anything he wanted. I also wondered about him. I knew goddamned well he didn't learn what he was doing to me back on shipboard.
"It's goanna hurt at first," he whispered. "You're not stretched like Chuck is. So I'm goanna open you up with my fingers and put some Vaseline up your ass to make it easier."
He began to massage my hole with the grease. God, it felt good. Before he was finished I think he must have been finger fucking me with all five fingers. Then he put me on my back and globed Vaseline on his dick. I raised my legs up just like Chuck had. "Just relax," Paul Earl encouraged me.
Then he rammed just his dickhead into my ass. Damn, it hurt! "It's goanna be o.k.," he said.
Slowly he slipped his tool further up my ass. And slowly the pain began to subside. When he was all the way in, he waited. "Better now?" he asked.
"Yeah," I panted.
He began to slowly slide his prong in and out of my tight asshole, his face expressing pure pleasure as he gazed into my eyes. It felt good, but not as great as it did when I was the one doing the fucking. But I still thought for sure I wouldn't mind getting it again...and again.
He picked up the pace and got down to the short strokes. His heavy moaning signaled he was nearing orgasm. I felt his dick flex and my ass fill with his juice. He became still and let his dick soften while it was still up my ass. "That was great, man," he said. "You've now been righteously fucked."
He pulled out and we lay side by side for several minutes. One part of me wanted to go take a shower, but my still hard dick wanted the same sort of relief I'd given Paul Earl.
"My turn," I said.
"Put some Vaseline on your dick. Feels different."
"I will, but first I want to get you as hot as you got me." I started to use my hands and my lips to stimulate his libido. Despite his having an orgasm just minutes ago, his dick became a rod looking to be sucked. I went down on him, then returned to nibbling his nuts, his pecs, his ears, any place that turned him on, then tasted his dick again. Finally, I tongued his rosebud as I coated my dick with Vaseline. He was whimpering like a bitch in heat, when I entered his asshole. It was heavenly.
The lube on my dick gave me extra staying power. I probably fucked him for ten minutes before I came. He was crying, "Fuck yes," over and over, as I plunged in and out, ultimately dropping an unbelievable load in his hot colon.
We were both exhausted. The next thing I remember was his alarm clock dinging.
It was the first time I'd slept with anybody, and we awoke completely entwined, our dicks, once again hard, pressed against each other. We gave each other a quick blow job, before greeting the new day.
I put my "uniform" back on and Paul Earl pulled on his bib overalls. I made a detour to my room to rumple my bed clothes for the benefit of the maid, and put on a fresh shirt. He went directly to the dining room.
After breakfast I remembered to shave.
Copyright 2013 by Macout Mann. All rights reserved.