[See Autumn Romantic Encounters]

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

Autumn has arrived in the blink of an eye, and the night dew, arriving as scheduled, acts as a catalyst for the growth of crops. The ripe grains

bring wealth and hope to everyone. Soybeans, sorghum, millet, and corn change every day, becoming

heavy and plump. Where there's planting, there's also theft; from ancient times to the present, there have always been those who want to reap without sowing. At this time, the production team

arranges for the men to go to the fields at night to watch over the crops. The men are all happy to watch over the crops; each watch earns several work points. They can

lie down by the field, legs crossed, enjoying the cool autumn breeze, and comfortably earn their work points. Watching over the crops also

has other benefits, benefits that everyone knows, but no one dares to say aloud.

Our village is vast and rich in resources, with

crops needs someone to guard it. Watching over the crops is a rule passed down from our ancestors. Everyone worked independently, forbidden from forming

cliques, chatting aimlessly, or playing cards by lamplight. Zhang San went to the southeast to check on the corn, Li Si went to the southwest to check on the sweet potatoes, and everyone

followed the village chief's orders. After dinner, before the women at home could even nag, the men rolled up

some tobacco, smoked it, and set off. They carried cotton quilts, some new, some old, on their shoulders, and tucked a roll of straw mats under their arms or

carried a roll of tubular mats in their hands, making their way to the fields outside the village in the dark.

Experienced people knew that these bedding items were essential for sleeping in the dew-laden fields all night

. Conversely, they didn't carry any weapons; kitchen knives and spears were all kept at home, unused. Our

people here all have iron fists, which, when clenched, resemble two flesh-colored iron hammers—these were our weapons. Before setting off,

the men never forgot to tell their wives to lock the door when they went to sleep. Some mischievous women,

understanding what their husbands meant by telling them to close the door, would deliberately say they wouldn't, letting anyone come in—it wouldn't hurt

them anyway. When wives said they wouldn't close the door, men didn't take it seriously, often just laughing and leaving. They knew that the more a wife

said wouldn't close the door, the better she would close it, while a wife who solemnly agreed to close it was

the one her husband, watching over the fields at night, needed to be more careful.

Today I was assigned to watch the corn in the southeast field, and after getting the confirmation, my wife insisted on coming with me. "I

'll go with you,"

I said, knowing she was just saying it and didn't mean it, "Come on, you'll be my comfortable mattress!"

I winked at her.

My wife pouted and said, "Who's going to be your mattress? I won't! I'm afraid something will happen to you;

there's a ghost ." My wife spoke with a certain seriousness; two years ago, a young woman died in a car accident nearby, and her grave was in

that field. My wife tells me to tuck the blankets in tightly when I sleep, so a female ghost won't sneak into my bed and drain

my yang energy .

I'm a materialist and never believe in ghosts. Even if a ghost did sneak into my bed, I'd have a good

talk ! Preferably a beautiful ghost.

Leaving home with my "equipment," I set off to see the autumn sky. Walking along, I habitually

looked up at the sky. Tonight was overcast, the sky full of clouds with no moon, and the stars were shyly hiding,

only occasionally peeking out on the northeastern horizon. We call this a "dew flash." It's called a dew flash

because there's no thunder at all, seemingly unrelated to rain. Dew flashes are extremely fast, without any

concealment, disappearing in a flash. Some older people say it doesn't look like a dew flash, but like a ghost blinking; only a ghost

's eyelids blink that fast. Having at least some education, I know ghosts are a myth. They claim to light the way

, but in reality, it's worse than nothing. Their light flickers, only blurring our vision and making the night

seem even darker, more elusive, like a series of earthen walls.

But that didn't matter to me. I'd walked the village roads and alleys a thousand times over. I knew every stone block and

every crooked tree like the back of my hand. Even if I were

blindfolded , I wouldn't stumble, bump into walls, or step into the village pond.

I strode forward, crossed a small brick bridge in the southwest corner of the village, and reached the production team's fields.

On one side were bean fields, on the other, cornfields, and in the middle, a dirt path. Here, I was even less likely to get lost, because

countless insects chirped in the fields on both sides, their calls quite pleasant. Their chirping seemed to act as audible

road signs, guiding me along a path; I could simply choose the quietest spots.

Beyond the bean field was the team's orchard. I saw a bright flame rising in the orchard, knowing it was an old man growing melons

shaking a hemp stalk to light his pipe. Selected hemp stalks, peeled, and fed with wood ash, became hemp stalks.

Once lit, the hemp stalks burned like the flame of youth, never extinguishing. When not in use, the hemp stalks were like ordinary hemp stalks;

when needed, a shake or a strong blow would ignite a bright blue flame. Only after the bright flame faded to a smoldering ember

did I continue deeper into the fields.

Today, my targets were sorghum and corn. As soon as I stepped onto the path flanked by the two tall crops

, a cool breeze seemed to rush in as if to welcome me, making me feel as if I had fallen into a river

that suddenly became deeper, and I felt shorter, about to be submerged. Just then, I heard someone cough.

From the sound, I knew it was Old Sheephead leading the way, but I still asked, "Who is it?"

Old Sheephead, also shrouded in darkness, didn't answer, but just grunted again, as if to say,

"Who do you think I am? Can't you tell from my cough?"

With the experienced Old Sheephead leading the way, I felt much more at ease. In the blink of an eye, I arrived at my

post. I put away my equipment and lay down comfortably. In the latter half of the night, when I got up to relieve myself,

I remembered the task my wife had given me: to secretly pick a couple of ears of corn to take home and eat. The previous two nights, the village chief had sent me to

the northwest field to watch over the soybeans, and each time I had brought back some high-quality edamame. My wife shelled the beans and added them to

the porridge, or she would crush the green beans, mix them with flour, and make green dumplings—they were incredibly delicious! Just thinking about them

makes my mouth water.

You might be wondering, how could they do that? Well, it's nothing, it's the old custom. Watching the harvest, picking melons; watching the harvest, picking beans—

almost everyone watching the harvest was also a thief. The crops in the field belonged to the state; only what was

stolen and taken home was theirs. Not stealing was foolish. The harvest watchers would return home before dawn, still carrying

straw mats under their arms and blankets on their shoulders, showing no sign of anything amiss. As soon as they got home, the women would take the straw mats and

blankets, close the door, and unroll the things inside—sweet potatoes and corn would roll out. That's how it was calculated .

It's a thief. The big thieves, every time they're on duty guarding the fields for the autumn harvest, hide pockets under their blankets beforehand. In the middle of the night, they

get up , prop the blankets up with shoes to make it look like someone's still sleeping, and then crawl

into the field to dig up sweet potatoes. Once they've dug up enough, they carry them home and return to the field to continue their guard duty. I

'm a good lad; I don't do big theft. A little bit here and there, just to try it out

, is fine. My wife asked me to take two ears of corn, and I planned to take three—not too much. Hehe!

But I never imagined I'd find something else tonight. I quietly slipped into the cornfield, and just as I was about to twist off

an ear, I heard a sound from the ground. What? Does the corn have a spirit and feel pain? I hadn't even

twisted it yet, how could the corn make a sound on its own? I let go of the

corn a sound like tuning a small violin, like the sound of the corn ear being twisted off the stalk. Oh no, someone's

stealing! I shouted, "Who's there?" and lunged towards the source of the sound. The corn

stalks rustled, and I found the basket the corn thief was carrying, grabbing his arm. He struggled desperately

to escape. I said, "Don't move, you can't get away!" I swung my fist at the thief, landing a punch on

his head and another on his arm. I hit hard; usually, after two punches, the thief

would beg for mercy, or, pushed to the limit, fight back. But the unseen thief didn't utter a sound, nor did

he seem to fight back; he just struggled in vain. Something felt off. When I punched him on the head

, his hair felt thicker than usual. And his arm—it felt fleshy.

Could I have grabbed a female? Easy, I'll find out by feeling her chest.

I felt it immediately; the corn thief was indeed female. That woman's breasts were quite large, probably

comparable to ripe melons. What puzzled me was that as soon as I touched them, she stopped moving,

became still, and seemed not to object to me touching them. She was wearing a thin blouse, and I slipped my hand under it

for a more direct touch. She had her back to me, and I stood behind her, reaching forward to touch her. Not content with one, I

touched the other. Both breasts were full and smooth, feeling wonderful to the touch.

What to do next? Everyone knows! I was naked, and my

manhood, like a corncob, was rapidly swelling; my target seemed locked. So, I reached down

to pull down her pants. She struggled violently, seemingly unwilling to accept my further actions. But through

my strong cues and pulling, I managed to pull off her trousers. I whispered a threat and a promise: "

Behave yourself, let me do it once and I'll let you take the corn!"

Then I pulled down her floral panties and slowly knelt behind her, rubbing my penis against her vulva

a couple of times to get some lubrication before thrusting it into her vagina from behind. Her vagina was so tight, it made me feel like I

was floating .

She seemed quite satisfied with my large penis, her beautiful buttocks thrusting forcefully against it, while

she arched her back and lifted her chest, occasionally thrusting backward to push my penis deeper. 　　I held her snow-white waist and kept thrusting hard, her short hair swinging wildly in the air. Soon her back was covered in a lot of sweat, glistening like pearls. 　　My movements became faster and faster, as if she were a steed on which I was riding, galloping . With each thrust, she bit her lip and let out soft moans, accompanied by her constant forward and backward head tilts, as if my thrusts were taking her to a fairyland. 　　While the rear-entry position was comfortable, I couldn't resist wanting to see her face, so I wanted to change positions. I quickly withdrew my still-slicked penis and laid her body flat on the ground. She was completely powerless , not even offering feigned resistance. She lay down wearily, supported by me, and unexpectedly, she immediately turned her head away, preventing me from seeing her face. But by then I could no longer control my desire; her snow-white body was welcoming me! 　　I deftly lifted her thighs, hoisting them onto my shoulders, then grasped my still-erect penis between her legs and thrust forward, successfully inserting myself into her body once again. 　　She let out a soft moan of excitement, which only fueled my lust. I began thrusting , even supporting her buttocks with my hands, my fingernails seemingly digging into her flesh. This position allowed my penis to penetrate as far as possible. 　　Her lower body was now raised high, and I could feel her perineum and even the muscles of her buttocks contracting repeatedly. Her vaginal fluids gushed out like a fountain, carried by my penis . 　　She was completely exhausted, limply lying on the ground, her hands clutching my head peeking out from between her legs, moaning weakly, "You...you're so... 　　so amazing. Really...I can't take it anymore." Just as she finished speaking, another orgasm seemed to surge from her vagina. She cried out, her mouth and lips covered in saliva. 　　This was followed by a violent spasm. She reached her climax, and I felt her entire body trembling and spasming. If I could see her genitals clearly at that moment, I believe it was sucking my testicles in. 　　At that moment, I was also nearing my limit. I thrust a few more times with all my might, then lifted her buttocks upwards and roared loudly. With my roar, my large penis thrust upwards with such force that my entire body seemed to be suspended in mid-air. 　　The woman below seemed to know I was about to climax; she tried her best to cooperate, barely lifting her hips and controlling the rapid contractions of her vaginal muscles as she stroked my penis! It seemed she was quite experienced! 　　My testicles contracted tightly, and then trembled again. Between the tremors, my penis involuntarily bounced up and down, these bounces barely managing to open her tight vagina a little, and...

Thick, white fluid was squeezed out around her vaginal opening between the throbbing of my penis.

My ejaculation was large; dozens of throbbing thrusts had left a large pool of semen stuck to her vaginal opening—

an unimaginable amount. Yet her vagina remained so tight, like a rubber band,

gripping .

Finally, I stopped throbbing, my body, suspended in mid-air, crashing heavily onto her. She

nestled in my arms, holding me tightly. We lay there, panting, and I continued

to take advantage—pushing my tongue into her mouth, teasing her tongue until it

intertwined .

Unconsciously, my hands were now on her full breasts, kneading them, and my penis began to stir again

. Just as I was about to begin my second assault, the woman beneath me scrambled to her feet, pulled up her pants, and

walked away with a rustling sound.

I should know who this woman was. I wanted to chase after her to find out, but after a moment's hesitation, the unknown woman

had already disappeared into the distant darkness.

Good heavens, what's going on here? This really needs some serious analysis. I lay back

down , chuckled silently, and scratched my head. Watching the autumn harvest and having such a romantic encounter, such an unexpected gain—

it's wonderful, truly wonderful! I realized that my principle with the corn-stealing woman was one of exchange: she would

use her body, and I would allow her to take the corn; neither of us owed the other anything. Anyway, the corn belongs to the public; exchanging public

corn for a woman—why not?

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