Randy scooped his hand under each of her thighs and, with rock-solid strength, lifted her up and held her, her legs wrapping around him, her hands reaching for the solidity of his firmly muscled shoulders. Then he lowered her onto him. The tip of his large, blood-infused penis dipping in and out of her, slowly at first. Edging in gently, thrust by wanting thrust. Anne couldn’t wait though for such a slow entry. She tilted her pelvis, pulled herself down and slammed herself deeply onto the rigid strength of his cock. He was so powerful, his thigh muscles like steel, his tanned biceps like rocks. He moved her up and down with ease, pleasuring himself with her, all the while giving her all she needed in the form of the hardest erection she had ever been blessed to know.
Next she heard him turning off the taps behind her.
‘We’ll drain the river and flood the campsite at this rate, baby,’ he said quietly. ‘Come with me.’
Then he stepped from the shower, still inside her, and carried her over to where the horse tack was stored. He dragged down some rugs and horse blankets and gently lay her in the nest of fabric, of summer rugs and coarse cotton-weave saddlecloths. She felt the rough sensation on the skin of her back as he lay on top of her, the sunburn sting barely registering beyond her longing for this cowboy. His horseman hips began to grind against her, so exquisitely slowly, so achingly deliciously, she thought she would die if she couldn’t pull him closer, get him to ride her faster.
She cupped her hands around the cheek of each of his pert buttocks and pushed upwards to him, wanting him in every way. He kissed her along the side of her neck, and she shut her eyes and breathed in the smell of horses and working men. He began to ride her faster now, driving into her more firmly and deeply, and she felt the crest of an orgasm build. Lost in a galloping rhythm, she gave in, gave way, gave up and gave to him as her body convulsed in one enormous heave of orgasmic bliss. Then she felt her entire being soften, her whole world soften. Pliable in his hands, he turned her, rolled her onto all fours and pulled her hips and buttocks up to him. In the wet gush of her recent coming, he plunged into her from behind, his hands drawing her to him as he pushed into her.
From beneath the veil of her bobbing fringe, Anne looked up to the end of the Gooseneck trailer. There she saw Randy’s golden stallion, his ears pricked forward, his excited gaze in their direction, his head held high. And then Anne saw it, the horse’s enormous erection, the mushroom head of his penis inflamed and dripping fluid, bouncing excitedly up against the stallion’s belly. The horse didn’t shift his hooves. He didn’t cry out. Instead, the stallion simply watched.
Anne watched him back. Looking at the giant sex of the animal, feeling like an animal on all fours herself, she gave way to a primeval urge to sap her lover of his semen. She wanted to feel her animal nature that was buried within. She began to flex her buttocks upwards in a rhythm, answering every slam the cowboy gave. The chains of the Gooseneck’s dividers began rattling; the whole truck started rocking. She slammed and slammed and slammed against the man behind her and grunted with effort, gritting her teeth. Then she felt the strong clutch of his cowboy grip press into the skin of her rump as he cried out an explosion within her.
Sweating, he draped his body over hers. She kissed the length of his upper arms, their toned perfection. Then Randy rolled onto his back and gently coaxed her to lie in his arms on the horse blankets. He kissed her on her sweating forehead and with a gravelly voice asked if she was alright.
She giggled a girlish giggle. ‘I’ve never been better.’
They lay there for a time, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, its tune a fit and steady rhythm. His was a good heart. This she could feel.
‘Tell me the truth,’ Randy said eventually, in his mesmerising southern drawl. ‘A girl don’t learn stuff like that from her mama. You’ve been reading that naughty book everyone’s been goin’ on about, haven’t ya?’
‘I most certainly have not,’ Anne said, her tone of offence returning. ‘It’s not to my literary tastes. Nor feminist ideology. I would never read a book that—’ But Randy cut her off mid-sentence.
‘Ah, never say never, darlin’! Before today, cowboys weren’t your taste. But now you’ve tried one, you’ll want him again.’
‘Will I now?’ she said, knowing it was true.
‘You wanna come back to my farm where I breed the bucking bulls? I can show you some real good beef. Nice animals. Top bulls. Heck, I might even have fifty bulls of grey. How’s that grab you?’
She looked over to his manly godsend of a face and for the first time in years Anne laughed properly. From her belly. Without the weight of the world. Without thinking of anything, other than simply feeling gratitude for the bliss, beauty and mystery of life.
‘Fifty bulls of grey!’ she laughed. ‘That’s funny! Oh, you clown!’
‘Actually, in the industry,’ Randy said with a slow and cheeky grin, ‘we ain’t clowns. We prefer to call ourselves bullfighters. And that’s what I do, with people and animals, fight the bull out of them.’
‘Is that right?’ she said.
‘That’s right,’ he said, winking.
And with that, Anne sank back into his big strong cowboy arms and sighed, realising how long her journey to find this place had been.
It came as somewhat of a pleasant shock for Marrilyn Ruthbridge that she was getting banged solidly from behind, doggy-style, by Garry Goodwood, in her home. Both of them were almost fully clothed save for Garry’s half-mast trousers and Marrilyn’s slightly unbuttoned blouse and rucked-up tweed skirt. Her undergarment of cream bloomers had been hastily tossed away and now lay beneath the chaise.
How this act came to pass was something of a mystery to her, but for now, feeling the happy slap of the gentleman’s low-slung balls against her buttocks and sensing the thick smooth skin of his manhood rim in and out of her own surprisingly moistened lady parts, Marrilyn had decided to go with the situation. She glanced sideways beyond the floral couch and out her lounge-room window to the decking where King, her prizewinning trial kelpie, stood, knotted and panting with Garry’s bitch, Cindy.
As Garry pumped like a man possessed, Marrilyn decided she was enjoying being on all fours. It was so much nicer than the last time she assumed this bodily position, when she had recently been cleaning the kitchen cupboards. The slate flooring had given her knees hell at the time, but today, her knees felt rather fine on the pure wool carpet … tickety-boo, in fact. It was possibly a decade since her last sexual encounter and Marrilyn had forgotten how vigorous it was. And how much fun.
She was not used to entertaining men in her home either. Certainly not like this! It was only recently that her lovely wisteria-shaded deck outside the lounge room had become a place of canine lovemaking, as kelpie bitches roamed the deck with swollen vulvas, squatting to leave urine and a heady dose of pheromones ready for King to inspect, and later, for Marrilyn to hose away. The men who brought the bitches would make polite bloodlines and breeding chitchat as they sipped from Marrilyn’s small teacups, while King humped his way home.
Up until today, Marrilyn thought the men had all come to woo King for the purposes of breeding, not her. But then Garry, the quiet widower, had surprised her with a stammering confession. He had fancied her for the past year on the Yard Dog Trial competition circuit and would she be so kind as to have a meal at the local hotel with him tonight, before he began his journey back to his property in South Australia?
Marrilyn