(Loving) The Farmer's Wife

By Diana St. James

Peter is a recent high school graduate who needs a job, but the only one he can find near his parents’ house is on a farm owned by the Henleys. The work is hard and boring, causing him to question the wisdom of anyone who would willingly farm for a living.

However, after a few weeks the matronly but attractive farmer’s wife begins to make advances toward him. It appears that although she loves her husband, she has been sexually frustrated and unappreciated for many years.

An affair develops between her and Peter that fulfills all of his wildest fantasies. It is almost unbelievable to him that such a domestic, mature, pleasant woman could have such a wild side.

Even as Peter revels in his good fortune, trouble is brewing. One of the hired hands catches the two lovers in an intimate moment. Will he keep quiet about it or find a way to profit from his knowledge?

Story length: 28,000+ words. For adults only.

EXCERPT

“Why don’t you finish cleaning up and give me about ten minutes,” Mrs. Henley said.

I stowed everything away and then washed myself in the downstairs bathroom with soap. By the time I headed up the stairs, my heart was pounding and sweat was beginning to form in my armpits.

It took me a second to find my way around, since I had never been on the second floor before. “In here,” I heard her call from the end of the hallway.

The sight that greeted me as I walked into her bedroom was stunning. Mrs. Henley was kneeling on her bedspread wearing a sexy purple nightgown made of some thin, silky material that just came down to her thighs. The plunging neckline and body-hugging material put her cleavage on full display. “I bought this years ago to try to get Mr. Henley to notice me, but he didn’t like it,” she said.

“It’s awesome,” I said, stepping closer to the bed.

She smiled. “I had something in mind, but you don’t have to do it if you don’t want. I just wanted to experience it at some point in my life.” She lifted up the side of her negligee over her hips to reveal the fact that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. “Have you ever put your head between a girl’s legs, Peter?” she asked.

My mouth went dry. “Um, uh, yes,” I lied. “I like doing it.”

Her smile became wider. “I was hoping you would say that.” She lay down on her back and gently pulled on the fabric to expose her thighs and the briefest hint of pubic hair. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana St. James
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005738389

Diana St. James

Diana St. James grew up in a small town outside of Charleston (West Virginia) with dreams of becoming an erotica writer from an early age. Many of these stories were written years ago and are just now being published for the first time. She considers her job as a banquet captain to be only temporary, since her little pug Sammie wants her to work from home full-time as a writer!All of her titles involve happily consenting adults in strange (taboo) situations. Why does she like writing about taboo subjects, you may ask? She doesn’t know either. But hopefully readers will enjoy her stories and use them to escape to another place, if only for a few blissful minutes! Thanks to all who have downloaded my books, and thank you for all the support!

Book preview

(Loving) The Farmer’s Wife

By Diana St. James

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2022 Diana St. James and Samantha Fobare. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations. Unauthorized use of this work is expressly forbidden under United States copyright law.

This book is classified as fiction, and any resemblance to real people, places, or events is unintentional. It contains sexually explicit situations and is intended for mature audiences only. By downloading and opening this document, you are stating that you are of legal age to access and view this work. All persons depicted herein are eighteen or older at the time sexual activity takes place and not related.

***

Contents

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

***

Part I

Well this is a fine mess I’ve gotten myself into. All I needed to do was save up enough money to buy a car so I could commute into town and get a real job. To do that, I needed to get a temporary job within a few miles of my parents’ house so I could ride my bike. Little did I know what kind of summer was ahead of me.

My family is considered middle class, but my parents never seem to have any money at the end of the month after the bills are paid. What little money I’ve made while in high school doing odd jobs for the neighbors was used to buy clothes, Christmas presents, or the occasional coin for my collection. Therefore there was nothing saved up to put towards a car and nothing coming in to pay for related expenses such as gas and insurance.

That meant my only choice for earning money over the summer was to go to work on the Henley Farm two miles down the road. It was a decision that will ultimately affect my life forever. Exactly how is yet to be seen, but it doesn’t look good.

My parents are on friendly terms with Mr. Henley—they let him rent ten acres of fields behind our house so he can grow Indian corn to feed his cows over the winter. When Henley stopped by in the late spring to let Dad know he was going to use the field again that year, he mentioned how short-handed he was this season. Naturally my father offered my services immediately.

Seriously? I asked when Dad told me.

Well, do you have anything else lined up? Because if you do, I’d sure like to hear about it.

Well, no, but farm work is hard. That summer I worked at Jones’s farm I thought I was going to have a heat stroke ten days in a row.

Up to you, Dad said with a shrug. But you’re going to have to do something to make some money, and around here there aren’t many options that you can walk or bike ride to.

You sure there aren’t any openings at your shop?

He gave me a sidelong glance. Obviously if there was I would’ve mentioned it. So I strongly suggest you go over to Henley’s place and at least make a little money until some other opportunity comes up.

I glumly considered my options and realized there weren’t any. Alright. I guess it can’t hurt to give it a try.

That’s what I’m saying.

The very next day (a Saturday, no less), I found myself pedaling my bike up and down the hills that led to the Henley Farm. I was already off to a bad start, having irritated Mr. Henley over the phone when I expressed dismay that he wanted me to start on the weekend.

There ain’t no weekend on the farm! he cried. It’s seven days a week, fifteen hours a day, rain or shine. Make sure you’re here by seven in the AM.

Seven o’clock in the…? I started to ask, but he had already hung up the phone.

Son of a crap! I said to Dad. Is he expecting me to work fifteen hours a day, seven days a week?

Well, explain to him that you can’t handle those kind of hours, if that’s what he means. I doubt it, though.

It sure sounded like it, but I would soon find out. After a rather grueling ten minute ride, I reached the top of the hill overlooking the farm and could see the large cow barn; the milk house on the left; several feed storage, equipment, and other outbuildings to the right; and the farmhouse just behind the barn, partially hidden behind some oak trees. Beyond the little cluster of buildings stretched a hundred acres of corn and alfalfa fields that Henley either owned or rented.

About a quarter of a mile before I even reached the farm, a powerful odor of cow manure wafted up from the valley. I had a feeling it was a smell that would become part of my life in a very few minutes.

I stowed my bike out of the way and walked into the barn. Mr. Henley was just in the process of detaching the milking machines from his cows. He motioned me over.

I’m runnin’ late today, he yelled over the sounds of the machines. Gregor called out sick today, the bastard. Somethin’ about the flu. So that leaves just me and Wayne to milk the cows.

I looked around the barn and saw Wayne at the other end performing similar work. One of the cows used her tail to swat at the flies buzzing around her backside and smacked Wayne right in the face. Jesus! he cried.

The two men could not be more opposite. Mr. Henley is an intimidating individual, standing about six feet three inches tall. His frame is solid and burly without a speck of body fat. His black hair, dark eyes, and dark skin tone indicate he could be part American Indian, but I never asked about it. True to his name, he always wears dark green work pants and a dark green shirt. Because he has such long arms and legs, the sleeves of his shirts (or maybe he just wore the same shirt every day) and legs of his pants are a bit short on him, so his wrists and socks are always showing. Whether he has nice teeth or not is a mystery, since he never smiles.

I met Wayne last year when he accompanied Henley to harvest our field. From a distance his shoulder length, curly blonde hair made him seem out of place on a farm, but up close he begins to fit in better. His skinny frame has small but knotted muscles from years of back breaking labor, while his face has the bug-eyed appearance of someone who hates the smell of manure and just fell into a large pile of it. His slightly dopey appearance is magnified by the fact that his mouth is always hanging open (unless he’s eating), and he invariably seems to have dirt streaks across his face, even when he first shows up to work.

Here, grab that shovel over there and the wheelbarrow, Mr. Henley ordered. You can start by shovelin’ the manure out of the gutters and bringing it out back. You’ll see where we dump it. That’ll be the first thing you do every day, actually.

Okay, I said, trying hard to keep my face stoic. Of all the nasty chores to do in the world, shoveling cow manure has got to be one of the worst. Manure that is seasoned for a few days isn’t so bad. Some would even call it fragrant. But manure that just spilled out of a cow’s derriere is another thing entirely. The smell is so powerful that it causes headaches until one becomes acclimated to it.

So I spent the morning shoveling cow manure into a wheelbarrow and hauling it around to the back near the little silo. There it is piled up into a giant, smelly mountain until Mr. Henley uses it to fertilize his fields. It is back breaking work, since fresh manure is dense and weighs considerably more than when it’s dry. My only consolation when I finished at 11:30 was that Mr. Henley said