The Farmer

Shanequa bent down, inspecting the zucchini carefully, her round Black ass fighting a winning battle against the tattered Daisy Dukes holding them in. Wilbur, a local farmer, stared at her lustfully from the table where he sold fresh produce.

"Like 'em big I see," WIlbur said lecherously, as Shanequa brought an armful of produce. Shanequa shrugged.

"I seen bigger," she responded. "Just cause you're a bigass ginger cracker, don't mean you got the biggest ... produce." She smirked, pausing for emphasis.

Wilbur was big, 6'6 and 300 pounds. They said he could be a wrestler or a football player, but he'd never aspired to do anything more than manage his father's farm. Shanequa had never seen him in anything other than overalls, his skin always red and irritated from the sun and sweat. He had a bright orange shock of hair. And perhaps most intriguingly, his produce did seem quite substantial.

"Don't knock a ginger till you've tried him," he responded cockily. Shanequa considered him for a moment. She and Will had discussed a breeding bull for her. Perhaps this hick farmer would do the trick. Will had let her pick -- he probably thought she'd go for the ranchhand, Rex. But this redneck did have a taboo quality to him.

"Why don't you come by our dinner, see what I do with your produce, white boy."