In the southeast corner of Missouri, where the Mississippi River carves its path through the fertile plains, lies New Madrid County-a quiet farming community steeped in history and tradition. Here, on a sprawling 2,000-acre estate, Hazel La Forge grew up as the spirited daughter of a proud agricultural dynasty. The land, flat and rich, hugged the riverbanks and yielded bountiful harvests year after year. It was a family treasure, held by the La Forges since before Missouri joined the Union in 1821.
The story begins with Hazel’s great-great-grandfather, a captain under Colonel George Morgan, who founded New Madrid in 1789. As a reward for his service, he claimed this prime farmland-a legacy that would endure through generations. In the late 1800s, Hazel’s great-grandfather turned down a staggering $1,500 per acre, refusing to part with even a sliver of the property. Instead, the family cultivated a tradition: each married La Forge child received two acres to build a home, staying close to the land and sharing in its prosperity. Today, 34 families descended from that original captain live and work on the farm, a testament to resilience and unity.
Hazel, born the third of five children and the only girl, was raised among four protective brothers: Thomas, George, Earl, and Walter. On the farm, she was no delicate flower-she matched her siblings’ strength, heaving hay bales with ease and earning a reputation as both tough and striking. By her teenage years, Hazel was a standout at New Madrid High School. With sandy blonde hair tied back in a practical ponytail, sparkling blue eyes, and a figure that turned heads, she exuded confidence and charm. She was friendly and imaginative, though her sharp tongue and occasional arrogance hinted at a fiery spirit.
At 18, Hazel caught the eye of Andrew Winston, a reserved local boy. Her brothers, ever watchful, grilled him relentlessly, but George, the second eldest, eventually warmed to the idea of a match. He even pushed for it, insisting the couple marry and claim their own plot of land. Some whispered George’s enthusiasm stemmed from more than brotherly duty-rumors swirled when Hazel gave birth to a son just eight months after the wedding. Andrew proudly claimed the child, but speculation about George lingered. The couple went on to have three more children, including my father, cementing their place in the family fold.
Now in her late 50s, Hazel remains a force. Years under the sun have bronzed her skin and etched fine lines across her face, while her once-blonde hair has turned silver. Her blue eyes, though weary, still gleam with determination. She’s the undisputed matriarch of the farm, steering it to impressive profits with a will of steel. Everyone-from her husband to her children-bows to her command.
I’m Johnny, Hazel’s grandson, and I spend my summers working the land she rules. The labor is grueling, but it’s shaped me-physically and otherwise. Among the farmhands, Chester Johnson stands out. At 28, he’s a towering figure with dark skin and a sharp mind, pursuing a Master’s in Agricultural Economics while funding it with summer work. Raised by his mother in a middle-class neighborhood after his father’s imprisonment, Chester brings both grit and intellect to the fields. A devout Christian with a sly streak, he’s taught me the business of farming-how to maximize yields and turn sweat into profit.
Our days start early, fueled by Hazel’s hearty breakfasts of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and gravy. She swears by the adage, “Eat breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince, and supper like a pauper,” and no one argues. Chester and I tackle the chores-barn cleaning, hay pitching, fence repairs—while he often assists Hazel with the books, his business degree proving its worth.
One morning, I forgot my gloves and doubled back to the house. What I saw through the kitchen door stopped me cold. Hazel, in her usual bathrobe, lay sprawled across the breakfast table, bare beneath the open fabric. Chester stood between her legs, pants at his ankles, moving with a steady rhythm. I froze, unnoticed, as she pulled him closer, her heels locked behind his thighs. The scene-raw, intimate, and shocking-burned into my mind. I bolted back to the barn, heart pounding, wrestling with what I’d witnessed.
That night at dinner, Hazel acted as if nothing had happened, though her glances my way felt loaded. I couldn’t shake the image-or the unsettling stir it ignited in me. Over the next few weeks, our dynamic shifted. She’d catch me staring, offering a smile or a wink, even leaning forward to reveal a glimpse of skin beneath her robe. I told myself it was wrong, but the thoughts wouldn’t fade.
One Sunday, with the family at church, I lingered in the kitchen as Hazel prepared her weekly buffet. Clad in tight black pants that hugged her still-firm frame, she turned and caught me admiring her. “What’s so fascinating about my backside, Johnny?” she teased. Flustered, I stammered a denial, but she brushed it off with a knowing grin. “I’m used to men looking,” she said. Then, her tone softened. “Ever since you saw me with Chester, I’ve been thinking about you too. If you ever want to act on it, I’m here.”
I protested-family ties, laws, morality-but she dismissed my fears. “Your grandpa gets plenty from me,” she said. “I’m the one who needs more. You’d be doing him a favor.” With my grandfather away at a farmers’ convention the next week, she left the door open-literally. “Knock if you want to talk,” she said. “No pressure.”
That night, I did. She greeted me in a sheer blue teddy, her curves illuminated by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. The sight stole my breath. “You like?” she asked, handing me a bourbon. My resolve crumbled as she urged me to undress, her voice firm yet inviting. What followed was a blur of passion-her lips on me, her body against mine, a collision of guilt and desire. She guided me with a hunger that erased boundaries, whispering encouragements as we crossed lines I’d never imagined.
Afterward, breathless and tangled in sheets, I voiced my fears about the future-about Grandpa’s return. “Leave that to me,” she said, resolute. “If I can manage Chester every morning, I’ll find a way for us.” Her confidence was unshakable, and as I lay there, I knew this wasn’t the end. The farm, the family, the legacy-it all paled against the pull of Hazel La Forge, a woman who defied convention and claimed what she wanted, no matter the cost.
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