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