Southern Fried Read Online Free PDF

colliding, his hands wrapped around my waist, rigid cock
    to rigid cock. I felt his hand reaching for something behind me,
    the soap, I realized. He pulled his face an inch away, and added,
    “Besides, I hear I’m quite good at cleaning the animals around
    here.”
    He grabbed my hands and placed them over my head, sapphire
    blue eyes locked on tight with mine as he lathered me up, head
    to toe, white bubbles covering up my budding summer tan. Last,
    but certainly not least, because, come on, he cleans horses for a
    living – hint, hint – he grabbed a hold of my dick with his soapy
    hand, a million volts of adrenalin shooting straight up my back
    as he mashed his mouth into mine. I sighed, exhaling down his
    throat. Sex and death. A heady mixture to be sure, and one that
    I gladly gave in to.
    So, with my fist happily stroking his hefty schlong, and his
    working the come up from my balls for a second time that day, I
    temporarily forgot the miserable circumstances that brought us
    together. Yes, again, we’ll call that the ignorance of youth. But
    then, who else could come twice in practically an hour?
    Which is just what we did, both of us moaning and groaning,
    the sound ricocheting around the tiled room, swirling in my ears
    like a swarm of hornets as his load splattered on my lathered
    belly, mine on his trembling thighs and buckling knees, our faces
    so close together it was impossible to tell where he ended and I
    began. He collapsed into me, cheek on my shoulder as he fought
    to catch his breath. “You made a mess,” I whispered into his ear.
    He laughed, wrapping his hands around me and pulling me in.
    “Then thank goodness we’re in the shower already.”
    My hands found his ass, my finger gently swirling around his
    puckered hole. “Are you bucking for a raise, Zeb?”
    Again he laughed. “Did you say bucking or fucking?”
    Well, suffice it to say, the witty repartee went on for quite
    some time. For a stable boy, he had a rather nice sense of humor.
    A rather nice everything, really. But once the lather got washed
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    down the drain, reality set in. The funeral was tomorrow. And
    then Granny really would be out of my life forever. Meaning, my
    youthful ignorance was fast waning, right along with my lengthy
    boner.
    In any case, Zeb and I toweled off and he hot-footed it out of
    the house. He wasn’t kidding when he implied that Pearl would
    skin him alive if she found him in the mansion. And it wasn’t
    something I wanted to witness either. I’d seen her do coons and
    crocs, deer and doves, and that was plenty enough for me, thank
    you kindly.
    Dinner, however, wasn’t any of those things; it was fried
    chicken, the foul purchased at the local Piggly Wiggly. So, in this
    instance, I was spared. Mouth watering, I sat at the kitchen table
    and greedily breathed in all the familiar aromas, my belly gurgling
    in anticipation. New York was full of fabulous restaurants, but
    none of them could hold a candle to Pearl’s cooking. Not by a
    country mile. “I’m so hungry I could eat with a Yankee,” I said,
    using one of Granny’s colorful expressions.
    Pearl turned and smiled. “You are a Yankee, Trip. Ten years
    makes it official.”
    I moved my head from side to side. “Nuh uh. You can take
    the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the
    boy.”
    And then she sighed, turning back to her work, plating our
    meals. “And you ain’t no boy no more, neither.” She turned and
    set our meals down on the table, then put a folded piece of paper
    to the side of my plate.
    “What’s that?” I asked, my heart suddenly racing.
    She sat down and looked at me. “The lawyer’s office called.
    That there’s the list of us who’s expected at the reading of the
    will the day after tomorrow.”
    I lifted the paper up and unfolded it, a pit forming in my
    stomach where once a joyous hunger had been. “Any surprises?”
    I thought to ask before I read what she’d written