I wasn't really a slut. My husband was in Viet Nam, fighting for the American Way. But it seemed to have changed during his absence. All this sexual revolution stuff. It touched me in an unusual manner.

We had rented an ancient trailer in one of those older trailer parks that were not mobile home communities. It sat out on a little creek in southern Mississippi. I'd barely gotten to know my neighbors before my husband, Lance was called up. Those were lonely days for me. It was fall and there was a chill in the air, as cold as my bed was at night. I was only nineteen, and my teenage juices were running like the sap in spring.

One afternoon, after I'd been alone about a month, a man who lived further back into the park, asked me if I would like to pick pecans with him. I was hanging clothes on the community line and he introduced himself as Earl. I shook hands with him and told him mine was Elizabeth. "My wife's got a busted leg," he'd said. "But she can make a damn fine pecan pie. 'Preciate your help."

Without too much thought about it, I agreed. Earl seemed like a nice-enough man; in his thirties, square-jawed and handsome in a rugged way. His sandy hair was too long for my taste, but his eyes were warm and brown. He looked like an aging hippie, except that he wore khaki pants and a red flannel shirt, was clean and neatly dressed. There was a beery smell about him however, a masculine musk. "I'll just change out of this dress," I said.

"No need, Elizabeth," Earl said. "You won't get dirty." I followed Earl through what he referred to as the south meadow, really a collection of pokeberry weeds and Queen Ann's lace bushes. By the time we reached the pecan grove, my yellow dress was stained with the dark red juices of the pokeberries.

"We have to shake the pecans loose," Earl said. "You're small, can you climb the tree?" I felt a warmth spreading in my lower belly, a heat between my legs. We were all alone and his smile was soft and easy. He appeared slightly drunk.

The pecans clattered like dried castanets in the chill wind as he lifted me into the fork of one giant old pecan tree. His hands around my waist felt big and the strength in his arms was amazing. Then he stabilized my footing by holding my ankles to each side of the forked branches. I was painfully conscious of my underwear being visible to him below. I hadn't worn a slip, just my bra and panties.

I felt his grip tighten as I attempted to scale the rough bark of the limb on my right. Then of his hand moving higher, to my calf. A gentle pressure, an upward bunching of my muscle. My foot slipped. His hand did not hold me upright, rather, it slid further up my leg to just above the knee.

Was it me? Did I truly not know what was happening, what I was doing as I lowered myself to his sliding palm? Earl's hands felt rough and calloused as they slid up my legs to the fork of my own body, inverted branches like the pecan tree's. I honestly don't know. I don't remember or don't wish to remember how much resistance I put up as his large, warm hand cupped my mound.

But I do remember the feeling of helplessness to control what was happening to my body. And therein lay the key to my sense of wantonness. Because my body reacted willfully on its own, a traitorous desire against my mind, betraying my expressed fidelity.

"Ah, Bethy," he whispered. "So beautiful." Caressing. Touching. Feeling. My young juices sloshed about in my budding vulva of their own volition. I was powerless to stop the need. Not a word was spoken as I lowered my bottom onto his waiting hand. My vagina was wet, palpitating with animal need.

He slipped my underpants to one side and his finger slid into me easily. My legs trembled and my feet slipped further down the branches of the tree. He was in me all the way and he slipped a second finger into my slickened pussy.

I looked down. Growing from his khaki clad groin, his erection appeared immense. He stroked himself as he worked his finger in me. My juices soiled his hand when he withdrew and a spreading patch of moisture wet his groin. He lifted me and lay me flat on my back.

I was speechless and crossed my arms over my heaving breasts protectively. I had never encountered such apparent male rutting lust as he exuded. "No!" I exclaimed as firmly as I could muster.

Earl used his eyes like weapons, like staccato gun fire, a bursting fusillade of meanings, literally filling the air between us as he uttered the single word,"Yes." And then they softened, drew me in. I fell tumbling headlong into those warm eyes which replaced the blazing contrails of his lust. Something like an ensheathing glove of soft flesh crept up my body, setting every raw red nerve on edge. I teetered on some brink of myself for only a moment longer. It seemed as though a numbness overcame me, a blurring in my eyes and a deep thrumming in my head. I sighed.

Earl knelt down on the ground beside me and put his hands on his hips like a marine drill sergeant. "Take my cock out and suck it for me," he ordered in the manner of that same simile, although a little slurred.

In my own defense, I was terrified. I'm a slight person, weighing between one-twenty and one-twenty five all my life. My husband had referred to me as "wren-like", and I can't argue with that description. My long blond hair was what he'd said had made him fall in love with me.

My hands shook as I fumbled with his zipper. When I succeeded in dragging Earl's dick out, I thought my heart would burst out of my chest. He had an uncut fire hose for a penis and as much foreskin as I've ever seen on any man. His uncircumcised skin formed a huge nozzle over the flaring knob and lubricating drool oozed out in copious amounts. His penis was veiny and the shaft was like a roadmap of bluish worms.

"Skin me back," Earl mumbled. His sweetish breath was hot in my face. His penis felt feverish in my hand. I clutched the shaft and pulled back his skin, feeling like thick rubber and slippery on the bone. I felt his flesh skimming over the veins as I drew back his foreskin and unhooded his bright red knob. He was lubricating as much as some men come, drooling strands of clear oil actually dripping from his maleness.

"Lick on it, open your pretty lips and suck me," he whispered. My husband had asked me to suck him off one time, and I'd tried, not really wanting to. But I found myself actually craving to taste this man's cock. So I sank my mouth down onto his penis and held my fist against my lips, stroking up and down as I sucked slowly on the blood-engorged shank of his incredible maleness. His lubricating juice was mellow on my tongue. He sighed contentedly.

Then he reached over and caressed my breasts through the the thin material of my yellow dress which had fallen slightly open. My nipples stiffened inside my brassier, and he pinched and twisted them gently between his fingers. He held his oversized penis in his fist and growled, "I want to fuck you, Elizabeth."

I could only bite my lips and quiver. He pulled open the buttons of my dress and dug his calloused palms into my cleavage, began to chew his way to my breasts. His breath assaulted my senses as I thrashed in his grasp. I was no match for his absolute insistence and though I attempted to stop myself, I felt my body trembling under his heated mouth. He removed my bra and roughly pushed my panties down to my ankles. I was the one who kicked them off.

As if under a spell, I slumped in his embrace and allowed him to caress my belly, my breasts, down, down between my legs, his hand gently sought my warmth, my juices flowing. I was powerless. I must continue to reaffirm that, I must say it again and again. If only for myself. I was powerless.

I allowed my legs to be stretched open on the ground where he tenderly licked between my thighs, up and down, nibbling on the insides, his tongue a heated organ. In all honesty, I was wet for him. I splayed my legs as wide as they would go and pulled his head to my center. His darting tongue was like a squirming fish at my hole, feasting inside my vaginal lips. I arched my spine and gave myself to him.

He came off me and his lips were moist and hot as he kissed me and I tasted the juices of myself. I sucked out his tongue. He grappled with his pants and pushed them down below his ass. He penetrated my clitoris like a succulent clam, his penis moist and dripping juices, near liquefying my vagina. And I likened his gentle coupling to the sea, a wash of soft foamy waves, cresting and breaking over me. The very air was suffused with such humidity, it was as if I drowned in him, his vastness like the ocean's, tossing and rolling on the heaving body of water I had become.

Indeed his body seemed of the sea, his gonads, growing like treasures from the sea; oysters, scallops, the yielding firmness of unshelled mussels. He smelled and tasted eternal like the sea, liquid and saline, moist juices in unexpected places, faintly sea-weedish, salty shoreline smells wafting from every pore. He had clam-like buttocks of dewy assflesh, smooth as the skin of an eel's as I pulled him into me.

And it. That. That which penetrated me relentlessly, which rode me like a wanton hag, seared my nether depths with a burning intensity unlike any I'd experienced in my life. Sheathed inside my trembling body like a great ship mooring to harbor, skillfully docking with a precision as though this man knew the deepest pits of my being and played them like a mighty orchestra. Then a single willing instrument.

Earl played my body like a guitar and my heart like a violin. His round ass-globes, flexing, alternately taut and relaxed, driving me, driving himself, driving us, over the precipice of simple sex and down into a veritable pit of lust. His rough, calloused hands stroked my heaving breasts, the scabbed flesh of their palms, drawing my nipples to ever greater sensitivity. I felt every scabrous inch of skin tingle throughout my entire midsection and there was no patch of my flesh left unaroused.

I consigned myself to dying in this man's arms. Again and again he brought me up and spilling out in jerking spasms of a turbulent climatic fury, only to ebb then surge anew with ever increasing intensity, like a performing puppet, yanked this way and that by a demented puppeteer, I came time and time again in his arms. His cock battered my depths.