Trent’s Adventure

We begin nearing the end of Trent’s first summer after college graduation.

This story is intended for open minded adults only and has themes of bestiality, bisexuality, and group sex. There will be no cruelty. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.

Trent – Chapter 1

The summer after I completed my degree in Forestry Management my grandfather took sick. He had been complaining of a bad back, but the doctors could find nothing wrong because it wasn’t his back; it was cancer. There was nothing to do, and he lasted three more months and I won’t go into the details.

I stayed with him the entire time at his waterfront home on Lake Lanier.

The funeral was on a Saturday and I was surprised when my father asked me to stay after and meet with the family lawyer. My dad was the oldest son and family traditions dictated that he had more decision-making power than my aunts and uncles.

“Trent.” The layer said. “Your grandfather Jake left you something in his will.” His name was Jonathan, but everyone called him Jake. This was highly irregular. Grandchildren were never included in the wills, everything was passed down one generation at a time to keep the kids from getting lazy. I wasn’t lazy but was not particularly interested in money. Our family has quite a bit of it. Grandpa Jake’s grandfather was in lumber in North Carolina and made lots of it. Grandpa Jake made a bunch also as a general contractor speciating in custom log homes.

“Why me? Was there anyone else?” I asked

“No. You were always his favorite, although never said anything and didn’t play favorites. He was impressed that you chose to study Forest Management instead of business, finance or law.”

I knew my choice would not make as much money as my cousins, but I have always loved being outdoors and if I got masters degree or a Phd, I could always teach.

The lawyer ***********ed some papers from a file and read them aloud. What they said was that Grandpa Jake left me almost one hundred acres of land on the Georgia/Tennessee line and a few thousand dollars he called ‘getting started money.’

With my ten thousand dollar graduation gift from him, it was the most money I ever had in my life. The Wendle family does not have a habit of spoiling their kids. We share a hand-me-down car until we graduate high school. Then an inexpensive new one. After graduating college, we get to pick something reasonable and hand down the old one to one of the cousins. We don’t need to work as long as we are in school but our allowances are barely enough to cover gas, groceries and occasional date.

“Hey dad? You know, with Grandpa sick and all I haven’t really thought about what vehicle I wanted for graduation. Would it be possible to have Jake’s truck?”

I had been driving Jake to doctors in it. A three-year-old Dodge four-wheel-drive pickup with a 6.7 liter Cummins Turbo Diesel with less than ten thousand miles and a topper on the back to keep tools and such out of the rain.

My dad said, “Fine. One less thing to worry about. I would like to ask a favor that you don’t mention this to anyone in the family right away. It could create some jealousy.”

“Was this because I took care of Jake when he got sick?” I asked.

“No. This will was created nearly three years ago,” the lawyer said.

My dad stood up. “Well, if that’s all, I can take you to Dad’s place and you can pick up the truck. I’ll have the papers sent to your… What will be your new address? Boone is too far to run to pick up your mail.” Boone, NC, is where most of my immediate family lived.

“I’ll call you when I figure it out. I’m going to spend the night here and go check out the property first thing in the morning.”

At dawn, I tossed some camping gear in the back and headed north. I gathered my things and put the gun my grandpa gave me in my duffel. His government issue Colt .45 ACP officers pistol from when he served in Viet Nam.

It’s only fifty something miles, and I was there in less than two hours despite the winding two-lane roads and thirty mile per hour speed traps through small towns.

There was no mailbox, but there was a street number on a placard by the gate.

After locking the gate behind me, I motored about a quarter of mile along a single lane pack dirt road surrounded by trees until I came to a clearing. In the clearing was what looked like a forty foot shipping container and a steel roofed open building with a concrete floor. Under the roof was a portable sawmill and a case 580 front loader/ backhoe. The container was secured with a massive padlock and, since I had the keys, I checked it out. It was full of tools. Chain saws, winches, shovels, picks, power tools and had a work bench with a drill press, grinder and all in all it was a pretty impressive machine shop. I was surprised to find a light switch and was further surprised when the overhead florescent lights lamped up. I had not seen any power lines on the property. It was something I was going to have to investigate.

I got back in the truck and went up and down the road to get acquainted with the area. On the west side of the property was a stream that disappeared through a culvert under the road and continued on the other side. That would mark the property line on this side. Right next door was a modern ranch-style house, and the gate was open. I continued down the road and the next neighbor was three miles on the same side and no one else. The other side of the road had no buildings or houses because it was the border of the Chattahoochee National forest.

Heading east toward the nearest town, houses and farms became more prevalent until a small suburb appeared as I crossed into Blanesville. I bought some supplies and ice at the small grocery store but was reluctant to tell anyone about my business.

Since my only neighbors appeared to be the house next door, I decided to introduce myself. Sunday morning was as good a time as any. The gate was still open and the big Dodge diesel was in no way stealthy, so I wasn’t worried about creeping anyone out. I took my time heading for the front door and before I could ring the bell it opened. A woman stood in the doorway wearing a slinky satin robe that was attractive but kept her appropriately covered. “Can I help you?” she asked.

I stopped and didn’t come any closer, but took off my ball cap and held it in my hands in front of me. “Hello. My name is Trent Wendle. My grandfather was Jonathan Wendle. He passed away recently and left me the property on the other side of the creek. I just wanted to make your acquaintance so that if you saw me over there that you wouldn’t be worried.”

“Oh dear. Hello Trent. Nice to meet you. I’m Regina. Sorry to hear about Jake. We knew he was sick and sent him a card.