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I was 22 years old when I first visited Ms. Beck. I finished work at 5pm and started the 45 miles drive out of the city in my green Volkswagen hatchback. By sundown I was driving along winding roads scattered with vineyards and dairy farms. Ms. Beck’s farm was situated on over 20 acres of rolling hills. I accidentally drove past the dirt road leading to her house, and had to double back before finding it. I parked next to a black & white painted mailbox in the shape of a cow. My hands were cold and trembling as I straightened my tie and jacket, locked my car, and walked up the heavy wooden steps to her front door.
I knocked on Ms. Beck’s door, and waited for a few minutes.
“Hi, hun,” her voice startled me from behind.
I turned and saw the 58 year old woman, dressed in a thick red flannel shirt and jeans. She was the splitting image of Betty White. She was carrying a large metal bucket filled with animal feed in each hand. I started down the steps to help her.
“Fiddlesticks,” she mumbled, brushing me aside, “I’ve been doing this for over 50 years, I think I’ll manage.”
“Yes Ma’am,” I replied, stepping aside as she carried the buckets up the stairs and placed them on the porch.
“Well,” she said, brushing her hands off and stamping her feet on the doormat, “Come inside. Wipe your feet first.”
I followed Ms. Beck inside. Hers was a two-story house built in the century prior. Inside was cozy, with knitted throws and knick-knacks as far as the eye could see. Ms. Beck invited me to sit on the soft couch in her living room.
“Would you like some cocoa?” She asked, removing her tan work boots.
“No thank you, Ma’am,” I replied.
“All right,” she said, “Be a dear and hand me my slippers, would you?”
She pointed next to me, and I picked her house slippers up from the floor. I held them out to her, and she sat back in her chair.
“Why don’t you put them on for me?” She asked, lifting her feet from the floor.
With a tight throat, I nodded and knelt on the floor. Gently I placed the slippers on Ms. Beck’s feet.
“Thank you,” she nodded, withdrawing her feet back to the floor.
“Now then,” Ms. Beck said, standing up. “It’s getting late and I still need to make supper after I tend to you. So get undressed now. I need to go check my messages for a moment.”
“Yes Ma’am,” I replied.
She went into the den while I removed all of my clothing and put them aside. I heard Ms. Beck typing on her keyboard for several minutes before returning.
“How old are you?” She asked, sitting back down in her old-fashioned recliner.
I told her my age.
“I have 3 more boys in their 20s wanting to meet me,” she said, “I haven’t even had time to update my profile yet.”
Ms. Beck took off her slippers and put her boots back on.
“Today will be $350,” she said while lacing her boots.
I took the money from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. She took the money to the kitchen to put away. Then she came out and looked at the clock.
“Well,” she said, “Let’s get started.”
She stood up and I followed her back outside. We walked down a dirt path along side of her house and across a large field to the barn. The sun had set already, and the valley was awash in the blue light of dusk. My bare feet stepped gingerly over the dry weeds. Ms. Beck unlocked a combination padlock on the barn door, and leaned her shoulder into the large sliding door to push open. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. There were black iron shackles hanging from the rafters in the middle of the barn. She took me to them.
“Arms up,” Ms. Beck said.
I raised my arms and she locked my hands in the shackles, yanking on a chain to pull them tight over my head. She walked over to a haystack, and retrieved a pair of leather gloves sitting on top.
“One of my boys bought me these gloves,” she said, “They have weights in them for working out.”
Ms. Beck lit a small lantern hanging from a post, and pulled the stiff gloves over her calloused hands.
“Are you ready?” She asked, stretching and closing her fingers, making the leather creak.
“Yes Ma’am,” I said softly.
Ms. Beck stepped briskly up to me and drove her fist deep into my solar plexus. I doubled over, wheezing and moaning after she knocked the wind out of me.
Ms. Beck stepped back for a moment. Then in one instant she threw two jabs that cut my bottom lip, followed by a right cross straight into my nose. I cried out as the lower half of my face erupted in electric-like pain.
“Enough?” Ms. Beck asked.
Suddenly my body jumped and my knees squeezed together after Ms. Beck delivered a swift kick between my legs with her right boot. I hung forward against the shackles, desperately gasping for air.
“ENOUGH?” She barked.
I struggled to look up at her, and was met with her gloved fist once more as she threw a right hook that connected with the tip of my jaw and sent me into blackness for several seconds.
I woke up to see Ms. Beck facing away from me, picking up a 2x4 from the ground. She turned around and walked back to me, her pale blue eyes staring right through me. She paused and leaned the wooden board against her leg. Ms. Beck took a rubber band from her pocket. She held the rubber band between her lips, and pulled her wavy gray hair back into a tight ponytail, and tied it back with the rubber band. Beads of sweat lined her forehead, and she wiped them away with her sleeve before picking up the 2x4 again.
I watched as Ms. Beck raised the board like a baseball bat, and swung it down hitting my kneecap. I gasped as my right leg gave out, pulling the shackles tighter against my sore wrists as I slumped. Ms. Beck pointed the 2x4 downward, and smashed the edge into the toes of my left foot. I screamed, pulling my left leg up and hanging completely from the shackles.
“Enough?” She squinted.
Ms. Beck dropped the 2x4 and took down a bullwhip that was hanging on the wall. She stood in front of me and cracked it. It sounded like a gunshot.
“ENOUGH?” She asked again.
“Y-yes Ma’am,” I said, eyes welling up with tears.
“SAY IT,” she snarled.
“P-please stop Ma’am,” I whimpered, “No more. Please no more. Please don’t hurt me anymore. Please don’t hurt me, Ms. Beck.”
“Smart boy,” She grinned.
Ms. Beck stepped forward with the whip and cracked it again, inches away from my face. She smiled when I flinched.
Ms. Beck put the bullwhip away and pulled off her gloves. I hung there silently, tasting the blood from my split lip. She stood next to me, reaching up to unlock my shackles. I felt her warm body brushing against mine and started to cry.
“Okay, I know,” Ms. Beck said, holding me steady. “There, there now. You did just fine.”
I burst out sobbing. Ms. Beck held me in her arms, rocking back and forth for several minutes.
“You did great for your first time,” she said, “My most experienced boy won’t even say ‘enough’ unless I pull out the board with rusty nails in it. You’ll get there one day.”
She raised her hands to my face and let me kiss them for a while. She watched as I cradled her hands and kissed her rock-hard knuckles, thanking her.
Ms. Beck locked up the barn and we walked back to her house. Inside, Ms. Beck checked the time.
“You have a few minutes left,” she said, “You can either go or you can massage my feet until your time is up.”
I immediately dropped to the floor. Ms. Beck laughed and sat down in her chair. She unlaced her boots and kicked them off.
“Take off my socks,” she said.
I slid off her socks.
“You can touch yourself while you suck my feet,” she said, leaning back in her chair.
I wrapped my lips around Ms. Beck’s toes and sucked while I rubbed my semi-hard penis. Ms. Beck closed her eyes and sighed as I used my lips and tongue to massage her bare feet. After a few minutes I had thoroughly gone over both of her feet, cleaning them and nibbling softly on her heels and corns. My cock was fully hard and I was very close to cumming.
“This feels great,” Ms. Beck said, wiggling her toes. “But I’m afraid your time is up.”
I stood up and got dressed. Ms. Beck walked me to the door and said good night. I leaned forward to kiss her cheek, and she raised her right hand, letting me kiss it instead. I kissed her hand lovingly, and Ms. Beck nodded and told me I could see her again.
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