Episode 3 – Cornfield Confessions | Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm

Episode 3 – Cornfield Confessions | Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm

Anal Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm Big Ass

 The next morning broke soft and golden, the kind of August dawn that makes you forget yesterday ever happened. Ben woke up sore in places he didn’t know could be sore, with the faint echo of last night’s kitchen symphony still ringing in his ears. Coffee was already brewed downstairs—Aunt Mary’s doing, of course—but she wasn’t in the kitchen. Just a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a Holstein cow:

*“Gone to check the back forty. Feed the pigs and cows some fresh corn if you’re up before noon. Don’t dawdle, city boy. —M”*

Ben smiled despite himself, grabbed the old burlap sack from the mudroom, and headed out toward the cornfield behind the barn. The stalks were taller than his head now, heavy with fat ears ready to be stripped. He stepped between the rows, feeling the leaves brush his arms like friendly strangers, and started twisting off the ripest ones—two, three, four at a time—tossing them into the sack.

He was maybe twenty yards in when he heard it.

A low, rolling moan. Not pain. Not surprise. Pure, shameless pleasure.

Ben froze.

The sound came again, louder, breathier, punctuated by wet little gasps and the rustle of leaves. He edged forward, quiet as he could, heart suddenly loud enough to drown out the cicadas.

There—in a small clearing where the corn had been trampled flat—Aunt Mary lay on her back atop a makeshift bed of flattened stalks. Her overalls were shoved down to her knees, tank top rucked up under her heavy breasts. One hand was between her thick thighs, fingers working fast and slick over her clit. The other hand—two thick fingers buried to the knuckle—was slowly pumping in and out of her asshole.

She was glistening with sweat and something else.

Her head was thrown back, straw hat long gone, mouth open in a lazy, filthy grin. Every few strokes she’d curl those fingers deeper, twist, and let out a throaty “Fuuuck yes…” that vibrated straight through Ben’s spine.

He should have backed away. Should have coughed. Should have done literally anything except what he actually did.

He dropped the sack—quietly—and leaned against the nearest stalk, hand already sliding inside his jeans before he could talk himself out of it.

Mary didn’t notice him at first. She was too busy chasing her own rhythm, hips rolling up to meet her hand, ass clenching around her fingers like she was trying to pull them deeper. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, filthy little encouragements to herself:

“That’s it… stretch me good… fuck, I need more…”

Ben’s fist moved in time with her thrusts. He couldn’t look away. The sight of her—strong, shameless, completely lost in her own body—was doing things to him he didn’t have words for. His breathing matched hers. His grip tightened.

Then Mary’s eyes fluttered open.

For one heartbeat she looked straight at him.

And instead of stopping, she smiled—slow, wicked, triumphant.

“Morning, Benji,” she purred, voice thick with lust. “Enjoyin’ the show?”

She didn’t pull her fingers out. If anything, she pushed them deeper, let out a long, deliberate moan just for him.

Ben couldn’t speak. His hand kept moving.

Mary laughed low in her throat. “Good boy. Keep watchin’.”

She reached to the side with her free hand, plucked a perfect, thick ear of corn from the ground beside her—still wrapped in green leaves, fat and firm. She brought it to her mouth, dragged her tongue along the kernels, then spat generously onto the tip.

“Been thinkin’ about this since breakfast,” she murmured.

Eyes locked on Ben’s, she guided the blunt, rounded end of the cob to her already slick, stretched hole. She teased the rim for a second—circling, pressing—then pushed.

The first inch disappeared with a wet, sucking sound.

Mary’s head fell back. “Ohhh God yes…”

She worked it in slowly at first—half an inch, then more—hips rocking to meet it. When half the ear was buried inside her she paused, panting, then started fucking herself with it in long, deliberate strokes. Each thrust made her breasts bounce, made her toes curl in the dirt, made her voice crack into something raw and animal.

“Fuck… look at that… takin’ it so good…”

Ben’s strokes sped up. He was close—dangerously close—just from watching her use the corn like it was made for exactly this purpose.

Mary’s gaze never left his face.

“Come closer,” she ordered, voice hoarse. “Let me see you.”

He stumbled forward three steps until he was standing over her, jeans around his thighs, fist flying.

Mary grinned up at him, corn still sliding in and out of her ass with wet, obscene sounds.

“That’s it… show me how hard you got watching your dirty aunt play with her hole…”

That did it.

Ben came with a choked groan, spilling over his fist and onto the crushed cornstalks beside her hip.

Mary watched every pulse, every shudder, licking her lips like she wanted to taste it from the air.

Only when he was finished trembling did she finally pull the cob free—slowly, inch by glistening inch—then tossed it aside with a satisfied sigh.

She lay there a moment, catching her breath, legs still spread, asshole pink and slightly gaping.

Then she reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt, and tugged him down until he was kneeling between her thighs.

She kissed him once—hard, possessive, tasting of sweat and morning and zero regret.

“Next time,” she whispered against his mouth, “you’re gonna help me pick which one goes in first.”

She released him, sat up, tugged her overalls back into place like nothing had happened, and stood.

“C’mon. Cows are still hungry. Grab that sack you dropped.”

Ben stared up at her, dazed, jeans still open, heart hammering.

Mary winked, slapped her own ass once—loud enough to echo through the rows—and sauntered back toward the barn, hips rolling like she owned every inch of this farm and every filthy thought in it.

Ben stayed on his knees another ten seconds, breathing hard.

Then he laughed—quiet, helpless, completely undone.

He zipped up, picked up the sack, and followed her out of the cornfield.

The cows didn’t care why the corn was late.

But Ben was pretty sure he’d never look at an ear of corn the same way again.

Summer was getting dangerous.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted it to stop.

Episode 2 – The Mushroom Moon | Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm

Episode 2 – The Mushroom Moon | Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm

Anal Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm Big Ass

The second week of August turned unusually warm, even for Willow Creek. The kind of heat that makes metal roofs tick like they're counting down to something. Ben had already adjusted to the rhythm: dawn coffee on the porch, morning chores, midday collapse under the big maple, evening beer-and-stories with Aunt Mary until the mosquitoes declared victory.

That particular Tuesday, Mary came back from the far pasture with a small wicker basket and a grin that looked borrowed from someone much younger.

“Found a jackpot,” she announced, tipping the basket toward Ben. Inside were a dozen fat, tawny mushrooms with wide caps and ghostly-white gills. “Chanterelles mostly… but these two big ones? Special guests. Old-timers used to call ’em ‘moon caps.’ Said they make you feel twenty again for one night.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “You’re not actually planning to eat mystery mushrooms you foraged next to the cow pond, are you?”

“Honey, I’ve been eating things out of this dirt since Nixon was in office. These are fine.” She plucked the two largest ones, gave them a theatrical sniff, then popped them into her mouth like they were popcorn. “Mmm. Earthy. Little piney kick at the end.”

Ben watched her chew, half expecting her to sprout antlers. Nothing happened for ten minutes.

Then the giggling started.

Not her usual big laugh—this was softer, breathier, like someone had turned up the treble on her voice. She leaned back in the kitchen chair, fanned herself with a dishtowel, and fixed Ben with eyes that suddenly seemed three shades darker.

“Lord almighty,” she murmured. “It’s like someone lit a pilot light in my pelvis.”

Ben, who had been rinsing dinner dishes, froze mid-scrub. “You okay?”

“Better than okay.” She stood up slowly, stretched her arms overhead so her tank top rode up and showed the strong roll of her belly and the deep dip of her waist. “Feelin’… spacious. Needy. Like there’s a big ol’ empty room in me that’s been waitin’ for company.”

She stepped closer. The kitchen suddenly felt very small.

“Benji.” Her voice dropped half an octave. “You ever think about how some cravings don’t ask permission?”

He swallowed. “Aunt Mary, those mushrooms—”

“—are doin’ exactly what they’re supposed to do.” She reached out, brushed a wet thumb across his cheek where dishwater had splashed. “I’m forty-eight years old and horny as a teenager on prom night. And right now, darlin’, all I can think about is gettin’ filled up. Back there.” She turned slightly, patted her own wide, denim-clad backside with unmistakable meaning. “Hard. Deep. No polite tap-tap nonsense. I want to feel it tomorrow when I walk.”

Ben’s brain attempted several emergency shutdowns and failed each time.

She didn’t wait for him to reboot.

Mary took his hand—strong, calloused, warm—and placed it firmly on the curve of her ass. “Feel that? That’s years of squats and saddles and stubbornness. It can take a hell of a lot more than you think.”

She leaned in until her breath was against his ear. “I’m not askin’ for sweet. I’m askin’ for rough. I want you to fuck my ass like you’re tryin’ to prove something to both of us. No half measures. No ‘are you sure.’ Just give it to me until I forget what day it is.”

The mushroom haze had sharpened her pupils to pinpricks and flushed her cheeks dark rose. She looked wild, joyful, terrifyingly alive.

Ben felt his own pulse hammering behind his eyes. Part of him screamed this was wrong in seventeen different languages. Another part—the part that had spent two weeks watching this woman lift hay bales like they were pillows, laugh like thunder, and live without apology—whispered something much simpler:

She’s asking.

And she means it.

Mary turned, braced both hands on the kitchen table, looked back over her shoulder with a grin that was half challenge, half plea.

“C’mon, city boy. Show your aunt what you got.”

She popped the top button of her overalls.

The crickets outside were suddenly very loud.

Ben took one step forward.

Then another.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a small, responsible voice tried to file an objection.

It was overruled.

The screen door banged shut behind the last mosquito of the evening.

And the farmhouse kitchen—lit only by the yellow bulb over the sink—became the loudest, sweatiest, most honest room in three counties for the next forty-seven minutes.

Mary was not quiet.

She laughed, she cursed, she begged, she roared.

Ben—awkward and earnest and suddenly very determined—gave her exactly what she demanded: no hesitation, no gentleness, just raw, focused force until her knees shook and the table creaked like it might surrender.

When it was finally over she slumped forward, forehead on her forearms, breathing like she’d run the county line twice.

Ben stood behind her, dazed, sweat-soaked, heart thundering.

Mary lifted her head just enough to look back at him with a slow, sated, wicked smile.

“Well damn,” she panted. “You listen good when you want to.”

She straightened—slowly, gloriously—then reached back and gave his cheek a fond pat.

“Those mushrooms wore off about ten minutes ago, by the way.”

Ben blinked. “Wait… so you—”

“Meant every word.” She winked. “Just needed a little courage to say it out loud.”

She tugged her overalls back into place, stretched like a cat in sunlight, and sauntered toward the stairs.

“Shower’s free if you want it. I’m takin’ the big one upstairs. And Benji?”

He looked up, still half in shock.

“Next time,” she said, voice low and amused, “don’t wait for me to eat funny fungus first.”

She disappeared up the steps, humming an old Tammy Wynette song like nothing extraordinary had happened at all.

Ben stood alone in the kitchen for a long minute.

Then he laughed—quiet, disbelieving, exhilarated.

He turned off the sink faucet someone had forgotten about.

And went to find a cold shower.

Because tomorrow morning there would still be cows to feed, fences to mend, and one very unapologetic aunt waiting on the porch with coffee and zero regrets.

Summer wasn’t over yet.

Not even close.

Episode 1 - Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm

Episode 1 - Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm

Anal Ben and the Summer of Aunt Mary's Farm Big Ass

 Benjamin — “Ben” to everyone who mattered — stepped off the dusty bus at the edge of Willow Creek with a backpack, a half-dead phone, and the vague hope that two months away from the city might not completely bore him to death. He was nineteen, lanky, perpetually headphone-wearing, and still figuring out whether he wanted to be a sound engineer, a game developer, or just someone who got paid to nap.

The farm appeared around the bend like it had been waiting to ambush him: big red barn that had clearly won several “Most Photogenic Decay” awards, fields of corn that whispered conspiracy theories in the wind, and — standing in the middle of the gravel drive like she owned gravity itself — Aunt Mary.

She was shorter than he remembered, wider than he remembered, and louder than physics should allow.

“BENJAMIN MICHAEL YOU GREW UP AND FORGOT HOW TO WAVE, HUH?”

Her voice carried across forty acres like a foghorn with feelings. She wore faded overalls, mud-caked work boots, a tank top that had once been white, and a straw hat that looked like it had personally survived three wars. Her arms were thick from years of hay bales, fence posts, and sheer stubbornness. Ten years since Uncle Ray passed, and the farm was still standing — mostly because Aunt Mary refused to let it fall down.

Ben managed a half-wave. “Hey, Aunt Mary. Looking… strong.”

“Strong? Honey, I’m a goddamn agricultural tank. Come here and give your favorite aunt a hug before I bench-press you.”

The hug smelled like sunscreen, motor oil, and something faintly sweet like fermenting apples. She squeezed until his spine made small polite protests, then released him with a theatrical slap on the back.

“Lord, you’re skinny. We’re gonna fix that. You lift anything heavier than a laptop lately?”

“…My dignity?”

She cackled — a big, rolling sound that scared two chickens into flight. “Good. You’ll need it.”

The first week was mostly manual labor disguised as character-building. Ben learned that “helping on the farm” meant:

Carrying fifty-pound feed sacks while Aunt Mary carried two at a time and sang Dolly Parton songs off-key

Fixing a fence while she told him extremely detailed stories about how she once arm-wrestled a traveling farrier and won his favorite belt buckle

Discovering that Aunt Mary had zero filter and apparently zero shame

One sticky afternoon, while they were repairing the old pig pen (the pigs had long since moved to a nicer retirement community), she leaned on her sledgehammer like it was a parasol and fixed Ben with a mischievous look.

“You know why I never remarried, kid?”

Ben, covered in dirt and regret, shrugged. “You like being the boss?”

“Damn right. But also…” She lowered her voice to a conspiracy-whisper that could still be heard in the next county. “Ray was sweet, God rest him, but the man had the bedroom imagination of a Methodist hymnal. Me? I like a little… backroad adventure, if you catch my drift.”

Ben blinked. Then blinked again. “Aunt Mary. I’m literally holding a shovel.”

“And I’m literally holding court. You’re old enough to hear the truth: your auntie Mary is an anal enthusiast and proud of it. Don’t look so shocked — it’s just geometry with better payoff.”

He stared at the fence post like it might save him. It didn’t.

She roared with laughter and clapped him on the shoulder so hard his teeth clicked. “Relax, city boy. I ain’t trying to scandalize you. Just letting you know the woman who raised these hogs and this hellscape has layers. Many, many glorious layers.”

The rest of the summer became a strange, hilarious education.

Aunt Mary taught him how to drive the ancient John Deere without stalling it in dramatic fashion.

She taught him how to make peach cobbler that could bring tears to a tax auditor’s eyes.

She taught him — mostly by merciless teasing — that it was okay to laugh at yourself, at life, at the absurd things bodies want sometimes.

Late one August evening, after they’d finished baling the last of the hay and the sky looked like someone had spilled raspberry jam across it, they sat on the porch swing with cold lemonade and fireflies doing their silent rave.

Ben, quieter than usual, finally spoke.

“You’re kinda amazing, you know that?”

Mary snorted. “Took you eight weeks to figure that out?”

“I mean it. Running all this alone. Staying funny. Staying… you. Most people would’ve sold the place and moved to Florida.”

She looked out at the darkening fields for a long moment.

“Ray always said this land had good bones. I figured I’d keep the bones warm till someone else needed ’em.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Maybe that’s you, huh? You gonna come back next summer and save me from dying of boredom?”

Ben smiled — small, but real. “Only if you promise not to teach me any more euphemisms involving farm equipment.”

“No promises,” she said, grinning wide enough to show the silver crown on her back molar. “But I’ll teach you how to two-step instead. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The swing creaked. Crickets argued. Somewhere in the barn a cow lowed like she was judging them both.

And for the first time in a long time, Ben didn’t feel like he was just passing through.

He felt like he belonged to something rowdy, ridiculous, and — in the very best way — unapologetically alive.