The green barn was distant, small, old-fashioned, ramshackle and it smelled permanently of goats. He would feel vulnerable there, not that he really felt safe and comfortable here either. Walsingham — he was the farmer who owned this land, and both barns — was a good, Christian man. It still tasted like sweat even though it had been washed off by the shower spray; it still tasted of salt and body hair and sunlight and loamy soil, and it still made Roger hungry despite his distaste for it. Let him leave, okay? About half the workers were proud of Brad and jeered at Roger, while the other half thought that Brad should be more ashamed of his sinfulness. Roger went into the water too.
You can still go to the red barn. Its heat seeped into his body, and Roger could feel it in his arms and his legs, his fingers, his toes and even in his face. Brad was the nicest person in the green barn, at least out of the folks Roger had met so far. It dripped into the folds of his guts as he took wad after wad of hot cum. Roger sunk to his knees. He just hoped none of these men ever found out how easily-intimidated he was. That was the only reason he and his friends had managed to get a job picking strawberries at all. Stick it in his ass, Brad! Some of the other men were already touching dicks. His prostate sang and screamed as Roger reached orgasm. He was tall, broad-shouldered, easy-grinned, with a confederate flag tattoo over his heart. They were shooting their own loads now as they watched, circlejerking onto the floor of the green barn just a few feet from where Roger crouched. Besides, he thought, he might be able to distract anyone from noticing he had a small cock — and if he got hard, they might not even see it until it had gotten bigger. He was the youngest by far — most of the other young men went to the red barn, it seemed. Make him suck it! His socks were soaked in sweat, which also dripped off his brow in rivulets. One person was left, standing there naked and watching him with pity in his eyes. The Green Barn , a new story by Bubba Marshall! He felt clean for the first time since he had started work this morning. He was shocked at himself for agreeing to this, but he wanted desperately to fit in. Walsingham — he was the farmer who owned this land, and both barns — was a good, Christian man. So he decided to go to the green barn, which was a little further away, along the northeastern edge of the farm, away from the road and away from the main farmhouse. But Roger was too shy to say anything to the other workers; he wanted to be accepted just like the others, so he just nodded and went along with it. It was just a small barn that had been rigged with running water for a big group shower. Luckily he came from a rural part of eastern Mississippi were the soil was poor, which meant there was not enough demand for farmwork to attract very many of the braceros who did most of that labor outside of Mississippi.
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