The Sharecropper’s Widow

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With my life drawing to a close, I want to make a confession. A long time ago I did something I’m not proud of. Maybe it did keep a family together. But as I look back, it was still wrong.

When World War II ended I was in good shape. I’d saved some money, and had a wife and job to come home to. The Army Air Force kept me in Germany until 1946, but then I was a free man.

I went back to work for my Uncle Plez. He owned 2500 acres of Oklahoma prairie, much of it good bottomland. As foreman, my job was to oversee our crops: winter wheat, cotton, and peanuts. And the people who actually did the work, the sharecroppers.

We had a dozen sharecropper families. They planted and harvested, worked like slaves, in return for a house, garden space, and a half share of their crops’ sales value. The ‘croppers had to buy everything they needed to grow their crop from Uncle Plez, usually on credit. If the crop failed or commodity prices were low, then they would end up in debt to him. Some had owed him money for years, and were legally bound to the land until the debt was cleared. He was neither the best nor the worst of landowners, just a man of the times.

I’d married Gloria in 1943. She and our boy Tommy, who was three, were waiting for me when I arrived home on the Tulsa Limited. It was the first time I ever saw the kid, and I thought with relief, yes, he’s me all over again.

For a while I wore Gloria out in the bedroom, making up for lost time, never missing a night. Twice on Saturdays. But things cooled as time went by. After Gloria had Tommy she gained some weight, which she never lost. To make matters worse, she was raised a city girl, and could not get used to her man coming home with good honest dirt on his pants and under his fingernails. I really got tired of hearing, “No, not until you take a bath.”

The day it all began was warm for mid-November. The hackberries and oaks along the creeks were in rich autumn color, a nice contrast to the emerald green fields of winter wheat that had been planted the month before.

With sharecroppers it’s always something. They catch pneumonia, or sometimes just vanish into the night, no forwarding address. With the Jenkins family it was a hard-drinking husband who was now dead. Joe Jenkins had gotten into a fight outside a local tavern and was smashed in the back of the head with a Schlitz beer bottle. He fell and hit his temple on the grille of a 1942 DeSoto, which pretty much finished him off.

He lay in a coma for a week and then passed away. An ignominious yet somehow fitting end to the man’s life. Today I had the task of throwing his widow and her children off the land.

I pulled my jeep into their front yard, scattering chickens, mostly Rhode Island Reds and a few bantams. The older boy Earl, six years old, was crouched on the ground shooting marbles.

“Mornin’, Earl,” I said, “your Mama home?”

“Reckon so,” he replied, glancing up. “Don’t know where else she’d be.”

Alma Jenkins stood in the doorway of the clapboard house, which had once been painted white. “Mornin’, Mr. Tillman,” she smiled.

“Good mornin’, Alma,” I answered. She was trying to be friendly and casual, and not doing a good job of it. Anxiety was written on her face. Overseers don’t make social calls on the ‘croppers, so something was up, probably not good.

I entered the house, which had three rooms: a living room, a kitchen beyond that, and off to the right a single bedroom. In that room was Alma’s bed and a crib for her other boy Donald, who was eighteen months old. Earl slept on a cot in the living room.

“Would you like some coffee?” Alma asked in a nervous voice. Sure, I thought. Give me some coffee and maybe I’ll go away.

“No thanks.”

“Have a seat over in that chair, Mr. Tillman,” she said, still tense. I sat in an old stuffed chair, my back to the window. Alma sat in an equally worn sofa facing a cast iron stove that provided the only heat for the house.

Alma was about 25, I knew, of good pioneer stock. Her wavy hair was the color of sand, parted in the middle. She had a ruddy face from hours spent in the sun and wind. Like most countrywomen, she had muscular arms and legs. Being a housewife in those days meant hard work; there were no buttons in the kitchen to push. But with her full bosom and wide hips, you never forgot she was a woman.

I got to the point. “I was wondering, Alma, if you had any kinfolk you and these boys could go live with.”

The woman slumped, heaving a deep sigh. “So you’re putting us off the land?”

“Yes Ma’m, I’m afraid so. We’ve got the legal right if the head of the household dies.”

“Look,” she said, desperation in her voice, “there ain’t much work to do around here for the next few months. Couldn’t we stay through the winter?”

“I’m sorry, Alma, but no. Uncle Plez is already looking for another family to move in here. They need to settle in and start getting ready for next year’s crops.”

Alma got up and stared past me through the window, tears in her eyes. “All of mine ‘n perabet Joe’s folks went out to California back when we had those dry years and the crops failed. We don’t have nobody that could take us. I asked around at the funeral. Nobody a’tall.”

She went on, “We don’t own nothin’ except some furniture ‘n tools. But at least it’s a home. Earl ‘n Donnie was born here. I like it here, especially in the fall ‘n spring. It’s so peaceful, ‘n a farm’s a good place to raise boys. They can roam here, and not get in trouble.”

“Could you make it through the winter?” I asked, feeling a twinge of pity for the first time.

“Yes!” Alma said emphatically. “I canned lots o’ tomatoes ‘n beans last summer. And the root cellar is full of potatoes. Plus we got that hog out back. The Walkers said they’d help slaughter it soon as the weather turns cold.”

“You got any money for coal oil, lard, corn meal? Winter clothes for these young’uns?”

She shook her head. “No, I spent our last dime on Joe’s funeral, not that we had much before.” She added bitterly, “Your Uncle Plez makes sure of that.”

Alma sat back down on the sofa. Soon little Donnie, wearing only shorts and a flannel undershirt, crawled over to her. He rose up, clutching the hem of her dress, saying, “Hungry, Mama, hungry!”

“Not now, sugar, Mama’s busy.”

But the tot persisted. “Hungry, Mama!” he pleaded, speaking the only two words he knew.

Alma turned to me. “I’m sorry, but he won’t quit ’til I nurse him. Do you mind?”

I shrugged. She took the little boy into her lap and began to unbutton the feedsack dress that she was wearing. She turned partly away from me, toward the bedroom. In a few seconds the child grew quiet and began to suckle his mother’s breast.

Alma looked over her right shoulder to me. “I even thought maybe I could put out the peanut crop next summer myself. I ain’t afraid o’ hard work. And some of the other ‘cropper families talked like they could help.” After a pause she continued, “I really want to stay here and keep my family together; that’s all I’m askin’. My little boys are all I’ve got now. They need their mother. Please, Mr. Tillman, please?”

I had turned away too, looking at the stove. “If you don’t have any money, Alma, then you couldn’t even buy seed next spring. There’s no way you could put out a crop.”

I glanced back to her and blinked in surprise. The woman had turned toward me, her dress unbuttoned to the waist. She had pulled it off her shoulders to reveal both breasts. They were large and turgid, pure cream in color where no sun had fallen on them. In the center of her right breast was a great dark areola, jutting out from which was a nipple almost an inch long. At the moment, mother’s milk was oozing from it, trailing down the fullness of her breast and onto her stomach. Little Donnie contentedly suckled the other breast.

Alma did not try to look seductive. Blushing intensely, eyes damp with tears, she just gazed at me fiercely, saying with her eyes, this is what I have to offer you. It is all I have.

I watched her suckle the child for almost a full minute, glancing from her ripe breast to her face, then back to her breast. She returned my look, never wavering. A ray of pale sunlight fell upon the woman. Its radiance gave her skin and hair a warm glow. The house was dead silent except for the ticking of an oak wood mantel clock, the Jenkins’ only possession of any value. To this day the ticking of such a clock brings to mind the impassioned look Alma gave me that moment so long ago. And I am filled with many strong emotions at the memory.

Finally I said, “Well, let me think it over. Maybe I’ll come by Monday morning and we can talk about it some more.”

“Best to come after noon,” she said evenly. “Earl will be in school, ‘n Donnie takes a long nap then.”


Monday was overcast, a wind keening around the corners of the Jenkins house when I pulled up. I was wearing a fedora and my leather bombardier’s jacket. I had been a side gunner on a B-24 bomber, so had come by the jacket honestly.

Alma answered my knock at once. Today she had combed her hair carefully, and was wearing a flower print dress. It was not her best dress, not the one she wore to church, but one that she might wear to a movie.

“Brought some things I thought y’all could use,” I said. From the back of the jeep I began to unload a large can of kerosene, two ten-pound bags of corn meal, and a country ham.

Without a word Alma helped me carry the goods to the kitchen and put them away. As promised, Donnie was sound asleep in his crib. The radio was playing softly. In between commercials for Clabber Girl and Brylcreem could be heard the music of Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys; then, an Eddy Arnold love song.

“Do you want to see the bedroom?” she asked. I arched a questioning eyebrow, but she said with a faint smile, “It’s okay, he sleeps like a baby.”

I sat in a rocking chair in the bedroom; Alma stood before me as we eyed each other nervously. Both of us perabet giriş had the same thought: can we do it? Should we? After this moment, there would be no turning back. Her face blushing crimson, Alma took a deep breath, reached back, and unzipped the dress. She let it fall from her arms; then, slid it over her hips and stepped out of it. Nude from the waist up, she was wearing large peach-colored panties. Underneath was a garter belt that held her tan hose.

Still blushing intensely, she held her hands over her swollen breasts. “I don’t wear a brassiere much around the house,” she said in a quiet voice. “Seems like ever time I turn around Donnie wants to nurse.”

“You’re a fine-looking woman, Alma,” I said with a smile. She took a deep breath, then pulled the panties down and stepped out of them, revealing a thick russet-brown bush that went part way to her navel.

I admired her naked body for a moment, and then spoke. “Go sit on the edge of the bed.”

She did so and I approached her, unzipping my work pants and pulling out my semi-hard cock. I held it in front of her. Soon a look of understanding crossed her face.

“Lord,” she whispered, “I ain’t never done that! Not even to Joe. Please don’t make me do it, Mr. Tillman.”

I smiled. “The German whores around the Frankfurt air base didn’t seem to mind.” But at once I regretted saying it. Alma winced as if I had struck her with my hand instead of cruel words. She glanced up at me, her look one of hurt and anger, yet mixed with awareness that the comparison had not been entirely unfair.

Taking another deep breath, she reached out and took the cock into her hand, caressing it. I stepped closer; she began to kiss it. “I never thought I’d be doin’ this,” she murmured.

Mustering her willpower, Alma gave a deep sigh and opened her lips enough to let the cock slide into her mouth. She took it to the back and then withdrew, wiping her lips with her tongue. Once again she drew the cock into her mouth and began to glide back and forth on it.

I had thought to tell her how to satisfy a man this way, but decided to see what Alma would do on her own. To my surprise she settled into a slow pleasing rhythm, much more enjoyable than the German whores, who just wanted to get it over with.

I closed my eyes and caressed her shoulders, fully savoring the woman’s mouth. Occasionally, without prompting, she would withdraw and cover my manhood with kisses before once again engulfing me. Having overcome her great reluctance to suck a cock, I realized that Alma was now intent on giving me complete satisfaction. In those days, that was what a woman did when it came to sex. She pleased a man. That was the way it was.

The wind keened; the mantel clock ticked faintly. A warm mouth sucked and licked my hard cock, occasionally pausing to hold it within her delightful wetness. After a few moments I could feel my semen rise. Sensing this, Alma paused, giving me one more pleading glance, but I just nodded my head. She again took the cock to the back of her mouth and gamely held on as I felt my semen surge through the cock and into her waiting mouth. She took all my come, emitting a low “uh … uh!” Her eyes closed, she held the cock until I was spent.

Then Alma withdrew, a mow of disgust on her face. She rose and hurried to the kitchen, where I could hear her spitting into the sink, followed by the sound of her running water from the pump next to the sink.

Alma returned to the bedroom shaking her head. “That’s the awfullest tastin’ stuff I ever had in my mouth. Do you really enjoy that?”

“Uh huh. I always have.”

Still glowering, she said, “Does Mrs. Tillman do it?”

“None of your business. Now, take off your garter belt.”

One of the great erotic pleasures, now seldom seen, is watching a woman unfasten her garter belt from her hose. Alma bent and swiveled her body, her ripe breasts free and swaying, as she released the hooks at the back and front. She then rotated the garter belt so that the snap was in front of her, finally undoing it and tossing it aside.

“The hose too?” she asked.

“No, they’re fine.” I had stripped down to my boxers when she was in the kitchen. Now I embraced her, relishing the silky warmth of Alma’s naked body. We kissed awkwardly at first, then more easily.

“Mm,” she smiled, “you kiss pretty good. Did them German whores teach you to kiss like this?”

“No, my Mama did.”

Alma giggled, breaking the tension. Soon we were under the bed covers. I pulled her to me as she said, “Easy, easy, my breasts are real tender.” I gently caressed them, once again offering Alma soft kisses.

She was more than ready when I mounted her. Having climaxed once already, I was just hard enough to penetrate the woman. Alma’s sheath was warm and surprisingly wet, a snug fit for my cock. I moved the cock slowly into and out of her in the time-honored fashion. The sensation of being inside her soon brought me to full stiffness again.

I took my time, pausing now and then to withdraw perabet güvenilir mi and to caress her. Alma played the dutiful receptacle for my passion, freely submitting her body for my pleasure. Her eyes half-closed, at first I could not tell if she were enjoying my cock, or perhaps thinking instead of how she would cook the country ham I had brought.

But as the moments went by, her body became warmer, her breathing more rapid. Alma did not have an orgasm, but a warm smile came to her face when she realized that I would do so, this time filling her pussy with my come. I was surprised by how intense was the sensation; by my reluctance to see it end. But it always ends, leaving the man drained but satisfied. Alma was by now damp with perspiration. Part of my own satisfaction came from the fact that she had taken some pleasure too. She had enjoyed the feel of her legs wrapped around a man’s torso.

Then we lay gently kissing again. After a moment Alma rose up on one elbow, saying, “How come you’re kissin’ me now?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“Of course. But you already got what you wanted.”

“I know. But I just like to kiss a woman, that’s all.”

She smiled and ran her hand over my hair as I kissed her breasts. Soon little Donnie began to awaken, fussing quietly. Alma rose up and looked over to him.

“If I don’t give him the tit, he’ll just start cryin’. Do you mind?”

“No, in fact, bring him over here.”

Alma rose and brought the child to our bed, settling under the covers as Donnie began to eagerly suckle at his mother’s left breast. Soon mother’s milk began to seep from the other one. I watched in fascination. A look of comprehension passed over her face. “You can’t be serious!”

“Uh huh.”

I licked the milk from her breast, savoring the warm taste of it. I hadn’t really meant to, but could not resist taking Alma’s thick nipple and sucking it. Immediately there was a small flow of milk into my mouth. I suckled for a moment, at the same time gently squeezing her breast, before finally pulling away.

Alma was shaking her head, a deep blush again on her cheeks. “I guess I have to let you do anything you want with me. Is that the way it is?”

“Yes, Alma,” I said with a slight grin, “that’s the way it is.”


The next day Uncle Plez and I sat in his office, drinking coffee and having a smoke. We talked about repairs needed on the farm. And a topic that farmers have discussed for thousands of years, the weather.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, “when is the widow Jenkins movin’ out?”

“Yeah, about that. I was thinkin’ that maybe we ought to let them stay the winter. She says she doesn’t have anywhere to go with those kids. She even wants to put out the peanut crop next year.”

“By herself? Does she have the money to buy fertilizer and seed?”

“Uh huh,” I lied, “I think she’s got enough squirreled away for that. Says the other ‘croppers will help with planting and harvesting. I wouldn’t mind giving her a chance.”

“I see.” Uncle Plez eyed me in silence for a while. And of course he knew, as surely as if he had stood outside the window and watched as I had my way with Alma Jenkins. But Uncle Plez was a businessman, not a moralist. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind, weighing the pros and cons of the situation. If he fired me, he could get rid of the widow and take back that part of his property. But he would lose a good overseer.

His second option was to bawl me out. To say, You’re married, dammit; keep your pecker in your pants. But a man would never show up another man that way. Not in those days.

If he said nothing he would probably lose the value of the Jenkins crops. But he would still have a good overseer. His decision was based purely on business; on the financial ledger.

“Well,” he said, snuffing out his cigar, “I’ll let you do as you see fit.” His role was to act as if he didn’t know what I was up to. Mine was to act as if I didn’t know that he knew.

That winter I visited the widow Jenkins every week. I’d bring canned goods, sweet milk and buttermilk, apples and the like. Several times I pulled up with a rick of split oak for her kitchen stove. Providing clothes for the boys and good shoes for Earl was a bit tricky. But I suggested to Uncle Plez that the poor widow could use a line of credit at the local dry goods store, as an act of charity. He agreed to cover it. To him it was just another expenditure to keep the farm running smoothly.

In return Alma gave the only thing she had to offer: her body. On each visit she began by kneeling before me and sucking my cock. She never really enjoyed it, just accepted that it was part of the arrangement. But she knew that it pleased me. She would take her time, giving me all the pleasure her mouth could offer. She would dutifully let me hold her head to the cock as I climaxed and filled her mouth with come. When I finished, she would release my come into a damp cloth, wiping her mouth with its edge.

Like any young countrywoman, Alma had a healthy appetite for sex. Each time I mounted her and buried my cock in her pussy, I saw a gleam in her eyes that I never saw any other time. Only occasionally did she reach orgasm, but the pleasure she took in using her body to satisfy a man was genuine.

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