The corn stood tall and thick that summer, the stalks heavy with ears gone wrong. Black galls swelled along the cobs like overripe fruit, split open to spill clouds of dark spores whenever the wind moved. We called it corn smuts, but out here it was just another excuse to get filthy. I had come to the edge of the field looking for work, and Jake had been the one to hire me on the spot, his eyes already stripping me down as he handed over the gloves.
By the third afternoon the heat was a living thing between us. We worked shirtless, sweat cutting channels through the fine black powder that clung to our skin. Every time we snapped a smutted ear the spores burst out in a soft explosion, settling on our chests, our arms, our faces. Jake’s shoulders were dusted with it, the dark grains catching in the hair that ran down his stomach. I couldn’t stop staring.
“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll put you on your knees right here,” he said, voice low and rough.
I dropped the basket. The corn rustled around us, hiding nothing. Jake stepped close, grabbed my jaw, and rubbed his thumb across my lower lip, leaving a streak of smut. “Open.”
I did. He pushed two fingers into my mouth, the taste of earth and salt and something bitter from the spores coating my tongue. I sucked them clean while he watched, his other hand already working open his belt. The moment his cock sprang free I sank down into the soft dirt between the rows, knees grinding into the soil. The black powder rose around us like smoke.
He fed it to me slow at first, letting me taste the sweat and the faint metallic tang the spores left on everything. Then his hand fisted in my hair and he started fucking my throat in earnest, hips snapping forward while the corn stalks swayed and whispered. Every thrust made more spores puff loose from the damaged cobs above us, drifting down to settle on my eyelashes, my cheeks, the stretched corners of my mouth. I gagged and drooled and took it, eyes watering, until he yanked me off and hauled me up.
“Turn around. Hands on the stalks.”
I braced myself between two thick corn plants, the leaves rasping against my bare chest. Jake yanked my jeans down just far enough and spit on his fingers. The first push inside burned, then bloomed into heat as he worked me open with short, dirty thrusts of his hand. When he replaced his fingers with his cock I groaned loud enough that the sound carried across the field. He didn’t care. He drove in deep, one hand gripping my hip, the other reaching around to stroke me in time with his thrusts.
The spores were everywhere now. Every slap of skin sent fresh clouds into the air. They coated his balls where they swung against me, dusted the shaft every time he pulled back, turned the sweat on my back into streaked mud. Jake leaned over me, teeth catching my shoulder, and growled filthy praise into my ear.
“Look at you, taking it like a whore in the middle of my field. Gonna fill you up while the smuts watch.”
He came first, pulsing hot and deep, grinding in as far as he could go. The feeling of it pushed me over; I spilled across his fist and onto the black soil, mixing with the spores already there. We stayed locked together for a long minute, breathing hard, the corn rustling like it approved.
Later, when the sun dropped and the light turned gold, we didn’t bother cleaning up. We walked back to the truck with smut streaking our skin and come drying on our thighs. Jake lit a cigarette, offered it to me, and watched the smoke curl up into the darkening sky.
“Same time tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded, already hard again at the thought of the next harvest. The corn would keep producing those swollen, filthy galls, and we would keep finding new ways to get covered in them. The field didn’t judge. It just grew, and so did we, dirtier every time.
