Rob’s stranded on the side of the road in Sweden, where he ends up in the barn of the depressive macho farmer Olle Andersson… can he ease Olle’s woe and his need for man-on-man action?!
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This skier, Rob thought, had better be worth it. He wished he had stayed in Stockholm until the weather changed, so he could fly. But after a week in that dismal, gray little city, he was ready to move on.
Sweden, thus far, had been a bust. Boring. Cold. Gray. Not even cold or gray enough to be interesting though. It was precisely as boring, cold and gray as a frozen block of wet newspaper, and it was about as interesting.
The men were skinny prettyboys who weren’t pretty, a milquetoast collection of duds, sour-faced and scrawny like petrified herring. Oh, there were hot Swedettes a plenty: blondes with blue eyes and alluring grins, Saami babes with thickness in all the right spots, even a bubbling squadron of ladies who had filled up the Pressbyrån convenience store that Rob was trying to get gas in at the time — they carried hockey sticks and other gear which Rob later discovered was technically for a sport called bandy, which was hockey using a ball instead of a puck.
Rob set off to look for an allegedly handsome skier Johan Ström. He wasn’t Swedish — Johan was actually Norwegian, but he lived in Sweden, supposedly.
Even that trek to the other side of the country had turned boring and banal. Rob just wanted to go back to his hotel. This whole mission was getting boring. Sweden was a drab green, cloudy, full of emotionless skinny men who made Rob’s dick shrivel up at the sight of them. They all appeared to be sucking on a lemon, Rob thought, but that couldn’t be true because there were no lemons here — that would have been too much flavor for Swedish cuisine. This was a country of heavy, dull carbs with the taste cooked out of them. Here, porridge had been the most delightful thing Rob had yet eaten. It tasted of nothing, which was a step up from other Swedish food.
He was driving through Västergötland in the southwest when his car stalled. It happened suddenly, as he was coasting to a stop near a farm. There was a stop-sign for no obvious reason. No intersection to stop at, just a stop sign like a cry for help from the land itself, begging for a break in the relentless march to the post-capitalist industrial hellscape of the inevitable future.
The car emitted a dull wheeze like a dying reindeer, then shuddered to a soul-shattering stop. Rob tried the key a few times, but it was dead. As if to punctuate the point, there was a cluddy thunking sound and then all of the lights on the dashboard turned on. After a moment, they all turned off. The car had never been more silent.
“Fucking damn it! Sweden is the worst!” Rob got out of the car and muttered obscenities to himself. There was mud and mire everywhere, the ground a soggy, grass-dappled wasteland.
He could either call for an Uber or a tow or call the car-rental company or walk to the farmhouse he saw just over yonder. He figured this area was so rural, he’d probably be waiting awhile regardless, so he headed towards the farmhouse. He called the car-rental agency, and they said they’d send him a replacement car.
What were they growing here?
Rob couldn’t tell. This was some sort of root vegetable, he suspected — though not potatoes. The leaves looked like marigolds, he thought, but were much too long and bunchy, and there were no flowers that he could see. Maybe kale? It looked vaguely kale-esque. Were kale roots edible?
The door to the farmhouse opened well before Rob got there. Out walked an incredible man.
Rob stopped short, both because his eyes opened wide and his heart skipped a beat, and because he wondered if he was in trouble. Would he be perceived as a trespasser? Was this man the studliest Swede?
He very well might have been.
The man stood solidly in front of the farmhouse. He wore a ruddy brown and orange shirt under a navy blue coat and black trousers that ended at the knee, his ankles covered by long white socks. Though his clothing was ill-matched and rough, he had an intensely arousing physique, a splendid work-hewn frame. He was one of the biggest and strongest men Rob had seen in weeks. He was tall and broad, muscular like only a farmworker could be, with layers of heft upon muscle upon brawn. His hair was long and scraggly like a Viking, and it extended well past his shoulders.
“Hallå,” he said gruffly when Rob was close enough to hear him. His voice had a low throaty growl to it.
“Hej,” Rob said, in his rudimentary Swedish. He blushed. “My name is Rob.”
The farmer grunted, eyeing him suspiciously. His gray-blue eyes reflected the limpid white clouds behind Rob.
“Uh, well, sorry for just barging in on your farm. I’m having car trouble out on the road over there — see, you can see my car from here-“
“I know.”
Rob’s face bloomed red, and he scratched his chin. “Ah… You… You already knew I had car trouble?”
“I witnessed it.” His deep voice boomed in Rob’s ears. He sighed as though surrendering to unseen forces. “You may come in. Do you wish to use the telefon?”
“Uh, no, my cell phone is fine, I just called the car rental company,” Rob said. “Thanks though.” He came in and instantly winced as the foulest odor he’d ever had the misfortune of smelling hit his nose. It was like a fish farted out a different, deader fish in an ocean made of skunk-spray. It smelled so bad, so strongly, that it had a physical presence — Rob had to walk through it like it was a rank cotton ball in the air, it seeped into his pores, and he doubled over. “Oh god-“
“Yes, it is bad. I am sorry, I did forget du är amerikan. That smell is surströmming.” He pointed to a can open on the table. Inside was some goo Rob couldn’t bear to look at more closely — it was fish. Was the farmer really eating that stuff? Had Rob interrupted the world’s most disgusting lunch? It did not smell edible.
The farmer waited for a moment, and when it became apparent that Rob was not going to acclimate to this smell, he rolled his eyes and motioned for Rob to come with him. “It is a smell you must get used to.”
“Not with this nose!” Rob said, still gagging even when he finally got out into the fresh air. “Oh god, that was nasty. You eat that stuff?”
He nodded. “It is a Swedish custom.”
“That is a terrible custom,” Rob said, “Absolutely terrible. Get better customs.” He straightened his back. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude-“
“No, not at all, I do not eat it around outsiders because they react as you do. Even most Swedes do not eat it these days,” he said. He sounded mournful, and he looked down at the ground as he led Rob towards a barn. “The old traditions are dying, gentle Rob. They die not like the turnip, which sweetens and grows in quality as it lays dormant in the winter, but rather like the gray clouds themselves, which dissipate into gentle rain and then… nothingness.” He scoffed. “Bah. It rains again.” Sure enough, a fine mist was starting to fall, and a chill was in the air. “Always it is rain. Regnet är ett lager av död på mig. The sky is as sour as life itself. I do not weep it.”
“Oh.” Rob was overwhelmed by the dour man’s aura of angst. Was he suicidal?
Another chill ran up Rob’s spine at the sight of a small gravestone near the barn. It read min älskade Elsa — my beloved Elsa — but had nothing else, no date of birth nor of death, nor any symbols or markings. It was a smallish gravestone, making Rob wonder if it was a child’s. But the look the farmer gave it as they passed was more one of intimate love. Rob could see sweetly summer nights reflected in his eyes, and he knew then that it was no child: it was a wife.
“Yes, that is min älskade Elsa. It is her loss that makes the summertimes so gray. Light itself mourns her,” the farmer said. He looked to Rob and sighed again as though even sighing was an imposition. “I am sorry in my apologizery, I forget my manners. My name is Olle Andersson.”
“Hej Olle. It is nice to meet you.” Rob was lying though. Olle was depressing, and Rob felt tired, like something heavy and oppressive was weighing upon his very soul. Every step grew arduous.
“You can wait for a new car in here, on your precious app that you cling to like a raft in the tumultuous sea of progress,” he said.. “This barn is very nice, there is water and a toilet.” He pointed to a long trough-like sink, presumably for washing the turnips that were heaped up along the wall like forgotten orphans. A door in one corner presumably led to the bathroom.
Aside from smelling earthy and turnipy, it was indeed nice in here. The smell was pleasant in comparison to the surströmming that lingered in Rob’s nostrils. He let the cool farm breeze waft the stink free from his nostrils.
“I’ve never been in a barn this nice. I like it, it’s homey and cozy, it gives me a feeling I can’t quite name…” Rob said. The emotion he was unable to name was mys, and it was as uncommon as pineapple on Olle’s farm. The barn was the only vestige of mys left in this land.
“It will be gone soon.”
“Oh.” Rob was beginning to get depressed too. Olle’s mood was catching.
“The bank is foreclosing on my farm. They will replace it with an electrical substation. I am but the tracks upon which the train of time progresses,” Olle said, his voice flat and squalid. He grabbed a hacka and hung his head, leaning on it. His grim mood had almost made Rob forget how arousing he was, but when he lifted the hacka off its spot mounted on the wall, he had to raise those beefy farm-working arms. Rob saw them bulge against the stiff fabric of his shirt. “Bah! Bättre brödlös än rådlös.”
“How much do you owe the bank?” Rob asked. “Because I have ten thousand krona in my pocket, and I’m looking for someone who can do something for me.”
For the first time, Olle looked genuinely interested in Rob. His eyebrows raised. “Giving me money would be a waste. I have no skills but the growing of turnips.” He picked one up. “Like my beloved Elsa, this turnip is hard and rough to the touch but beautiful and nourishing to the soul.” He bit into it, through the dirt that clung to the skin, his massive teeth tearing into it — were turnips even edible raw? Rob hadn’t thought so, but Olle didn’t seem to mind — and chewed on the bit of turnip in his mouth, clumps cascading out and clapping moistly onto the ground. “But I am, unlike the lowly turnip, worth nothing. I am best replaced by an electrical substation.”
“Oh, no, Olle… You are, uh… Not… Don’t be, uh… sad,” Rob said. He wasn’t very good at cheering people up, and the more time he spent with Olle, the more depressed they both became.
“Bah. I shall stoically surrender to the maw of progress. Let time devour me like so many salted herring,” Olle said with a dismissive wave of his giant hand. He sat and leaned against a mound of turnips. “I will not do your work. Ten thousand krona is not enough to save the farm. It can only buy me a few months, perhaps, at best. Life is an exercise in grayest futility, a sisyphean chore with neither end nor beginning, only an enduring middle. Do not bother to help me. I am strong but dumb like a getabock.” He tapped himself on the skull. “I don’t have all my horses in the stable.”
“That’s fine. I don’t need brains,” Rob said. “Will you cornhole me?”
Olle looked up after a few moments of pondering his words, like it took him that time for Rob’s meaning to sink through the fog of his mind. He grunted. “What?”
“I want to jack you off, and I want to feel you inside me. Is that okay? Can you do that? I’ll give you ten thousand krona. Actually, I’ll give you all the cash I’ve got in my pocket. That’s ten thousand krona, and some Canadian dollars and like two hundred euros. I don’t even know what it all adds up to.”
“And you will… stroke on my penis? Why?”
“Cuz I’m horny.” Rob shrugged. He actually intended to say more — he wanted to taste Olle’s dick because he needed an affectionate touch, because Olle seemed so down, because it was the only spark that could lighten such grayness as hung over Sweden’s much today.
But Olle’s sadness had caught, and Rob had not the energy nor the vitality to explain himself more fully.
Olle furrowed his thick brow again like this didn’t compute. “Are you aroused by turnips?” He picked one up. “Riken är en sexig grönsak. Det påminner mig om Elsa. Turnips smell of her delicate womanhood, and I do miss it so.”
“No, Olle, I’m aroused by you. You’re really intense. You-“
“False.” Olle stood up and sighed. “Fine. Yes. You may do it. It is, at least, more pleasant than washing turnips and praying for the sweet release of death.”
“Yeah… Yeah, that’s… true. It is better than that,” Rob said. He felt like a giddy idiot because Olle was so sullen and aloof. Olle stood still in front of him. Rob was much shorter than he was, so he started by having him shrug off that coat, and then he lifted off the shirt.
Olle stood there, his big broad chest gleaming a porcelain vitblek — obviously he rarely went shirtless in the sun. A layer of blond hair covered his massive pecs, and his fleshy belly was flat, another layer of hair leading over it to his crotch.
“Damn, Olle… No one ever told you you’re handsome. Not Elsa?”
“Bah! Yes, of course, she did say it, but she suffered from the cruel illness that the Danes call true love,” he said. “It blinded her to the truth. Oh what a fool she was. A lovely fool, perfection incarnate, now swallowed by gray nothingness.”
“Okay, Olle, relax,” Rob said. He clutched his chest, kneading the meaty part of his belly — he very nearly had a six-pack, but had just a bit of thickness there, probably, Rob thought, because he ate a ton of carb-heavy turnips. His pecs were nice and heavy too, radiating power even as Olle frowned and ignored Rob’s touch. They weren’t like hard and unyielding stones either, they were booming and manlig and hairy and Rob could feel Olle’s powerful heart beating beneath them.
He sucked on Olle’s nipple, while one hand snuck under the waistband of his trousers. Olle twitched like this had only just now become real, like he had barely noticed until now, as Rob’s hands slipped into his crotch. Rob gripped his cock and squeezed.
It was just as big as he was, Rob though, as wide as a turnip but still soft. He’s not too depressed to get hard, is he? Rob hoped not — antidepressants could cause erectile dysfunction, he remembered reading that somewhere. Olle certainly ought to be on antidepressants.
But before Rob even got those trousers down, Olle’s cock twitched once more, pulsating under his grasp. Olle let out a moan that somehow sounded both pleasurable and sad, som början till en sorglig sång. Rob wanted to sing along with it, but the tune, he suspected, would make Olle cry if he heard another voice sing it.
“You touch me like Elsa…” Olle wiped a single tear away.
“Uh-huh.” Rob decided his best course of action was to just plow forward. Olle obviously was going to continue to pine for Elsa and bemoan his various fates as long as Rob listened. So he just stroked Olle’s manhood as he kissed his way down Olle’s torso.
It popped out, fresh from the dark and damp of his pants but smelling of stale sweat and old turnips, with a bit of that rotten fish-smell to provide a bit of funk. It wasn’t exactly a good smell, of course, but Rob inhaled it deeply as he lowered his head and got to work.
“Her soul lingers here,” Olle said as his dick stiffened up. He turned to face the turnips instead of Rob. “I tell myself that she would have me live on, to endure despite the unbearable grimness of being. But I do not believe it. I am a liar. I can feel her judgments upon me. Oh, my American friend, how I wish I could be carefree as you are.” He plopped back down on his ass on the floor, sprawled out on a bed of turnips, which rolled over the barn.
“I’m not that carefree,” Rob said him, before he went right back to Olle’s cock, which flopped free and slapped against his belly when he laid down. Rob licked him from root to tip, and a shudder of visible pleasure ran up Olle’s spine. At last it was as firm as the uncooked turnips that filled the barn.
But he only moaned as though sad still, even as his dick leaked precum onto Rob’s tongue. Rob deep-throated Olle to the root, his nose nuzzling the warmth and the light brown hair of his crotch, som smakade av ren mark och natt. There, at the base of his dick, was where the earthy soil smell was greatest, and it finally wiped away the last of the surströmming from Rob’s nose.
“This pleasure is a curse. Må min förmögenhet slå mig död, for I can not take this any longer.” Olle’s baritone voice resonated in the high-ceilinged barn.
Rob lifted his head. “Sorry… are you…? Did you want me to stop?”
Olle frowned at him. “No. Do not stop-“
“Oh. You said it was a curse, I just thought-“
“It is utter torture that I should feel pleasure without my Elsa. I am not worthy of it. Min älskade Elsa, how I crave you instead of this wanton lust! I should burn this money and let the bank take my farm, they can sell my battered corpse to the electric company,” he said with an air of resignation on his squarish face He looked back down at Rob and thwacked him across the face with his dick. “Why did you stop?”
“I, uh… You said…” Rob shrugged. He kissed the tip of Olle’s cock. “Are you ready to cornhole me?”
“Yes. You must ride me. Standing is such sweet sorrow. I do not wish for min älskade Elsa to witness me standing for such perversity — I-” He paused and looked at Rob, who used Olle’s thick body for support as he mounted him. Olle cleared his throat. “It is perverse to bring pleasure into a world so saddened by the relentless onslaught of time-“
“Uh-huh.” Rob had to spread his legs wide to fit atop Olle, who continued, ignoring Rob and gesticulating wildly upward, as though he blamed his barn’s roof for all of his misfortune.
Rob didn’t mind having to ride him. Olle’s dick was thick and knobbly like a turnip, and it could easily hurt if he didn’t take it gently. Rob always carried lube in his pocket, so he got his ass good and slick before sitting on Olle’s shaft.
“-Att skiljas är att dö en smula!-” Olle shouted. But Rob had stopped listening as he strained to accept that massive cock. Olle didn’t seem to notice that no one listened but the turnips.
Only when Rob had it in and had sunk down a few inches did Olle stop wailing. Olle’s muscles lay limp, like he was too tired already to even raise his head and look at his dick sliding upwards into Rob’s ass. Rob had to lean on his chest, kneading his muscles as he sank lower and lower.
“Goddamn…” Rob grunted and took a deep breath. At last he felt coarse pubic hairs scratching at his ass, and a moan of unadulterated pleasure escaped from Olle’s lips.
Rob kept his hands on those bulging pecs, which flexed as Olle twisted back and forth without lifting his head up. His arms flailed among the turnips piled around him. Rob played with the sweat-dappled blond chest hairs too, giggling at the sight of Olle groaning and showing a little emotion, just a fleeting bit of bliss visible on his face.
Then, at last, Olle actually gripped Rob’s waist and helped him ride his cock up and down. Rob sighed and moaned along with Olle — adding a sweeter, more mellifluous sound than Olle’s dirge-like wail — as he squeezed his ass on Olle’s cock.
It was as good as Rob could ever have expected. He didn’t know a depressive man like Olle could even cornhole half as good as this. His dick raged inside Rob, finding his prostate and stimulating it until Rob couldn’t take it anymore. His dick was everywhere inside him, and Rob felt his precum flow freely.
Rob stroked himself off, but then found that Olle took his dick in hand. Rob was shocked — he hadn’t asked for that, but Olle, it seemed didn’t mind. He stroked Rob with his big meaty hand, caked with dirt from the turnips. He stroked it furiously, in sync with Rob’s rising up and down on his dick.
It felt like they continued forever, but Rob knew it couldn’t have been very long because his phone didn’t ring to tell him the car rental agency had sent his replacement. It simply felt like a long time because it was the most potent orgasm Rob had experienced since beginning his trip.
“Oh god, Olle!”
Rob’s orgasm began at both ends, with cum spraying into his ass and coating his prostate, just as he reached his own climax in Olle’s hands. Rob cried out and buckled when sheer pleasure washed through him and wracked his body. He gulped, biting his lip so hard he drew blood.
Olle’s squarish jaw clenched shut, and he didn’t even seem to notice Rob shooting his load all over Olle’s bear-like paws and onto his hairy chest. Still more came, wad after wad of creamy juice that coated Olle’s broad body in Rob’s sticky warmth.
The load in his ass was huge too, flowing into him like a river, more and more, gobs of it until Rob could feel it throughout his body and dripping out onto the dirt floor of the barn.
That single glorious moment seemed to last forever. Rob wanted to beg for more, but at the same time, this was too intense to endure. At last, he could take it no longer, and he lifted his ass off Olle’s cock, bit by bit, inch by inch.
Olle showed no emotion, even as Rob panted with anticipation, until Rob’s ass finally slipped off. Then Olle grunted and his whole body writhed. A second little mini-orgasm hit Rob like a steamship as his sensitive asshole adjusted to being empty, and Rob knelt in front of Olle’s still-prone body.
He licked up all the cum that clung to Olle’s big bear-like chest, savoring the sticky-sweetness of his own load. Then he curled up next to Olle, pushing aside turnips to make room. He nuzzled Olle’s bicep.
“Thanks, Olle. I’m glad you’re, you know… slogging through, despite all that… woe you’re experiencing.”
But Olle just nodded. “You will have to go soon. Darkness will fall, and then, I must be alone to experience… myself. Do not return, for I shall be replaced by a power line.”
Rob sighed. “Okay. I won’t be back,” he said.
