Fifty More Bales of Hay
Fifty More Bales of Hay
Rachael Treasure
A further collection of sexy stories set in the surprisingly racy world of farm life that will have you reaching for the riding crop.A second helping of steamy stories celebrating the sexy side of rural life that will have you longing for a roll in the hay with a sturdy saddle-hand.Rachael Treasures sexy tales are guaranteed to get your tractor revving, FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY is an honest and imaginative exploration of everyday men and women getting down and dirty on the land.From the dairy shed to the stables, Treasure's cheeky satirical humour and wicked imagination offers up a dozen fun-filled, and sometimes thought-provoking, tales of dirt, dust and lust.
FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY
RACHAEL TREASURE
Dedication (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
For ordinary everyday goddesses like you and me
Contents
Title Page (#ub2f45ace-76f1-5a42-9cd6-badfbd46dd99)
Dedication
Letter to Reader
Rodeo Clown
The Joining
Showtime Line-up
Milking Time
Branded
The Ride-on Serviceman
About the Author
Other Books by Rachael Treasure
The Farmer’s Wife
Copyright
About the Publisher
Letter to Reader (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
Hello dear reader,
Can I please take a moment to let you know in real life I am a nerd? I am more likely to be found in bed with a thesaurus than with an actual bloke, so I must stress … these stories are fiction. Because of this I haven’t bored the reader with all the safe sex practices needed to get you through life to a healthy age without your private bits falling off. Therefore, I stress, to young and old, in real life practise safe sex and while you are at it, practise love, respect and kindness with the one you’re with!
Remember, no balloon, no party.
Rachael
Rodeo Clown (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
Driving her little green bubble car, Anne Boxright turned into the Tunbamboola Twilight Rodeo grounds and stopped at the gate, where one of two rather frumpy-looking women in high-vis vests trundled over from the shade of a canopy tent.
Anne jabbed off the air-conditioning, turned down her favourite indie rock band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who were playing from her iPhone through the car stereo, and wound the window down.
‘Fifty dollars for the weekend,’ one of the women said in a broad accent, ‘or fifteen dollars just for this arvo and the band tonight.’
‘Fifty bucks!’ answered Anne. ‘That’s a bit steep. I’m here on a uni assignment. I’m a student. Can I get in for free?’ Anne had barely had enough money for fuel for the drive here. She’d blown her last student payment buying some eccy at a nightclub and was still paying for it in other ways. After her all-nighter and the buzz she no longer remembered, the world still seemed a little weird and she felt a whole lot poorer in every way.
The high-vis woman turned to her mate. ‘Shirl, this here’s a uni student. Can she come in for free?’
The woman, who Anne now knew as Shirl, waddled over in her sensible navy shoes and lavender tracksuit and top. The woman surveyed Anne’s pale skinny arms and her bobbed black hair and fringe that was cut in a dead-straight line across her pixie-like serious face. Shirl then took time to stare at her cream, see-through, draped-crepe top with black sailor-boy collar and matching black buttons.
‘A student, eh? I can see you’re not from round here. What are you studyin’, darl?’
Anne almost rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to get stuck here talking to two old crones who couldn’t apply lipstick properly, had haircuts like road workers, and clothes that looked as if they were bought from the specials racks at Best & Less. She sighed.
‘Sociology, anthropology and environmentalism. You know,’ Anne said with boredom in her tone.
‘Is that right?’ said Shirl. ‘In-ter-esting. And what brings you to the Tunbamboola Rodeo?’
‘Oh, just the assignment.’
‘And what assignment would that be, darl?’
‘An anthropological study on male aggression.’
‘Male aggression?’ Shirl looked perplexed. ‘Bull males? Or human males?’
‘It’s anthropology,’ Anne said as if spelling the word out to a simple person. ‘Human male aggression.’
‘You won’t find much human male aggression round here, but anyways suit yourself. If you want in, you can have in.’ Then the woman paused, narrowed her eyes and said slowly, ‘You’re not from one of those animal activity mobs, are you, sweetheart? Coz if you are, the rodeo folk said if any one of youse turn up, they’re happy to give you a cuppa and a tour of the back chutes and a chance to meet the riders and animals. Bulls and all. I’m not that into rodeos meself, just here for the Ladies Guild, but I do love animals. I’m very good to my animals … in fact, my dog—’
‘No! I’m not here about animals!’ Anne interrupted. ‘I’m just doing an anthropological assignment, like I told you. I’ve got an interview with…’ Anne looked across to her notes that were sitting on the passenger seat of the car, ‘a … Randy Carter from the Rodeo Association.’
The older women exchanged knowing glances.
‘Ooh! Randy!’ Both of them chuckled and nodded in what looked like appreciation and admiration for the man.
‘He’ll be happy to chat to a pretty little thing like you.’ Shirl grinned with her badly capped teeth. Then the other woman piped up.
‘Randy’s working flat out, darling, with the rodeo. And he won’t be done till dark. Then he’s got to water and feed his horses and all. You’d best get the weekend ticket, if I was you. Catch up with him first thing in the morning, before the Professional Bareback.’ She shook her head. ‘Tonight’ll be too noisy when the band’s on, to interview anyone. Those Wolfe Brothers really do crank it up for us.’
Still offended by being called ‘a pretty little thing’, Anne shook her head and sighed. These women truly were simple.
‘Fine. So, how much for my entry?’ Anne asked.
Shirl scratched her jagged short grey hair with thick, chunky fingers.
‘Well, dear, the proceeds of the gate fees go to the local respite care … if you’d like to make a contribution, just a donation, we can let you in on student rates.’
‘And how much would that be?’ Anne said, getting really hot under her sailor’s collar.
‘Whatever you can spare, duck.’
Anne fished around in the ashtray of her car and passed the lady a couple of two-dollar coins, then looked distastefully at the program that the woman handed her. It had the silhouette of a cowboy riding a bucking horse.
‘Thank you for your generosity,’ the woman said, smiling but with a hint of piss-take in her tone. ‘You’ve missed the broncs, darl. But you may be in time for the roping. Enjoy yourself and your studyin’.’
‘Right. Thanks,’ Anne said, wondering if all country people were that slow. She accelerated away, driving on to where rows and rows of country cars and utes were parked. Her little car lumped and thumped its way over the rough-mown, clumpy pasture. Anne grimaced with each jolt. Then she grimaced some more when she saw some redneck rodeo patrons passing by in frayed jeans and shorts, boots and checked shirts and cowboy hats. It was all so predictable. The people looked hostile. Like fringe-dwellers.
‘So uncool,’ she muttered to herself.
She really wished her roommate, Sally, had come with her, but Sally was living it up at a rave somewhere out on the eastern side of the city. Sally didn’t like the country. It was too uncouth for her. Even Anne’s boyfriend, Simon, had passed on coming with her on the trip, despite her offering to pay for a motel room. He had said he was busy with his computer networking thesis, but Anne knew he would be going to see Eddie, and his housemates, to spend the weekend drinking beers and playing stupid computer games.
She could picture (and smell) the wobbly-gutted Eddie now, sitting in his tip of a bedroom, while her pale, thin boyfriend, Simon, would be plugged into his laptop in the lounge room, blinking behind his glasses. The other housemates, Skeet and Thommo, would be in on it too, isolated in their own rooms, but linked into the same virtual reality game via wi-fi. They were games involving warriors and bomb making and the boys were obsessed with them.
Early in their relationship, Anne would go with Simon to Eddie’s and sit at Simon’s feet reading her books while he played on the computer. But the male testosterone that lurked in the house, the smell of boy farts and lack of sunlight started to get to her. She discovered early on it was best to leave Simon to it when he was gaming.
As she got out of her car, she felt the heat of the afternoon wrap around her. She tugged down her high-waisted black pencil skirt and kicked a grass seed off the top of her dainty little foot, which was encased by delicate red cloth-covered flats, trimmed with tiny black bows. She grabbed for her natural-fibre woven overseas-aid bag from the front seat, which contained her pad and pen, and picked up her iPhone so as to record this so-called ‘U.S. rodeo star’. As she locked her car, she felt apprehension gather in her. She was about to throw herself into this very male and brutish domain of animal cruelty and machismo.
As Anne walked around a big corrugated shed, she was met with a sight she hadn’t been expecting. The rodeo ground was shaded by large leafy trees and beneath them sat groups of people on beautiful green lawns. Mostly families on picnic blankets. There were cowboy-type dads pushing strollers, young girls lying in the sun in cut-off jeans and kids running about, their faces painted, balloons in hand. Mums sat chatting or passing food to their kids. Up in the stand were more clusters of families, all wearing hats against the brightness and heat of the summer afternoon, watching the dusty space of the arena that lay before them surrounded by high metal railings.
Gingerly Anne sidestepped up the scaffold seating in her rather restrictive skirt and sat. With a sudden burst, gates clanged open below. A calf sprang from nowhere. Two riders pelted out twirling ropes and within seconds, before the dust even had time to rise, they had lassoed a little horned steer the colour of caramel slice. The horses stood stock-still, keeping the ropes taut, the cowboys leaping off and hitching the calf, the crowd thundering applause like rain and the commentator revving the show along with an excited twang.
Anne wasn’t sure what she had just seen, but as the men let the little calf up again, she watched as it shook the dust from its coat. It instantly cast its ears forward to the gate where its friends were waiting. Calmly the calf trotted back from whence it had come. The men ambled back over to their horses, took up the split reins, smoothed grateful gloved hands down the perfectly muscled necks of their well-trained mounts, stepped back into their saddles and, like the calf, calmly walked their horses from the arena. As the announcer introduced the next roping pair, Anne looked about. She wondered which of the cowboys around the ground might be Randy Carter.
‘Hat, love?’ came a voice beside her.
She turned to see a middle-aged woman with two freckled redhead kids sitting beside her. ‘Pardon?’
‘Would you like a hat? I’ve got a spare,’ the woman said, offering up a cap with Darren’s Stock Transport embroidered on it. ‘Wouldn’t want to see that pretty little face of yours get burnt.’
Anne frowned. What was it with these people and the ‘pretty little’ line? She shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Not in an hour you won’t be. I suggest you sit in the shade, if you’re not gunna wear a hat. This sun will sting that lovely pale skin of yours.’
Anne tugged the skirt down over her white knees and looked at the woman as if she was an irritating insect. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find Randy Carter, would you?’
The woman laughed. ‘Randy Carter! Ha! Why sure I know where to find him. Every woman knows where to find Randy.’
‘Yes, but where would I find him?’ Anne asked, hot and irritated.
The woman looked at Anne for a moment, her head tilted quizzically to the side, as if she was reading something about her. Eventually she said, after a subtle lift of her eyebrows, ‘Round the back of the bull chutes, I expect. But he’s on after this. He won’t be done until at least after five. I reckon you’re gunna have to wait.’
Anne sighed and stood up. She had to find some water. As she went to leave, the woman called after her, ‘My pleasure, love. No worries.’
Bull riding was the last event of the day and Anne, who was now lobster pink, stood beneath one of the giant elms, feeling her skin pulling taut painfully from sunburn. The noise from the bar was lifting. She was hoping to witness some rodeo male aggression there, but so far the lads and older men stood chatting in a friendly manner, stopping every now and then to watch the arena events. A buzz seemed to rise when the bulls were let up into the chutes and cowboys in white hats and tight safety vests emerged on the rail.
Anne couldn’t help but notice the fitness of the men. Their fringed leather chaps opened up to denim in the crutch area at the front, and at the back highlighted perfect denim-clad backsides. Every one of the cowboys seemed to have on a colourful shirt with Wrangler written on the sleeve or back. And each had spurs and dusty white hats that curved upwards at the sides. She had to swallow down a feeling that the men looked sexy. Really sexy. But in an aggressive over-the-top masculine way. Not like Simon who wore slip-on shoes, with long shorts and, mostly pilling, polo tops he bought from the op shop. He preferred to spend his money on computer games than clothing.
Over the loudspeaker, country rock music cranked loudly, the strains of a maniac harmonica blared and deep thumping drums kicked out a Garth Brooks tune as the first gate was swung and a bull rocked from the crush. On the giant black beast’s back sat the most athletic man Anne had ever seen. He was flung this way and that, one arm cast back high in the air, the other clutching a rope around the bull’s neck. She wondered for a moment if that was Randy Carter. She hadn’t caught the commentator’s call. She was feeling a little giddy. Then she heard a bell ring and a cheer rise up from the crowd. She watched as a man who had been standing behind a colourful barrel sprinted towards the beast and leaped in front of the big horned bull. He was dressed as a clown and darted this way and that as another clown dived in to help unhook the rider who was clearly stuck fast to the binding on the bull’s rigging and was getting tossed about like a rag doll. It looked rough. It looked dangerous. It looked … and it was at that point, Anne fainted.
When she woke, Anne found herself on a St John Ambulance stretcher bed, with the doors of the cab wide open, revealing the leafy canopy of the shady trees. Above her was a red-faced man and a pimply young woman.
‘Where’s your hat, young lady?’ said the man.
‘What?’
‘Heatstroke.’
‘But…’
‘Don’t worry, love. Someone’s gone to find Randy. They said he was a friend of yours.’
‘Randy?’ Anne said, sitting up and feeling woozy, knowing that it was more than just heatstroke that had caused her to faint. After another fight with Simon she’d partied pretty hard this week. Memories of her drug-fuelled rave came back to haunt her. She was still toxed. She knew it.
At that moment, at the back of the vehicle, the rodeo clown she saw earlier appeared. He wore runners, bright red skins that showed off perfectly formed legs, big oversized denim shorts held up with yellow braces and a pink shirt with large stars of various colours splashed over it. Rags of green, yellow and red hung from his belt and beneath his dusty cowboy hat was a riotous red curling wig. His face was painted, smeared with white, a big red clown mouth turned upwards and he had the signature black smudges above and below the white circles of his clown eyes.
‘Randy, hi!’ said the pimply girl in the tone of an airhead, Anne thought.
‘Why hello, Darlene,’ he said in a slow southern American accent.
‘Thanks for visiting my brother in hospital last week,’ the spotty St John volunteer said, her eyes illuminated with an obvious display of girlie crush.
‘My pleasure. He’s a cute kid. I hope he’s feelin’ better.’ Randy turned to look at Anne. ‘So, they tell me you’re the lass from the uni, come to grill me?’
‘I…?’ Anne began, embarrassed to be found in an ambulance by her interviewee. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, just as the St John man stepped forward with a rehydration drink for her.
‘Sit up slowly, young lady. We don’t want you cracking your scone if you faint again.’
Randy surveyed her from behind his clown make-up and shook his head. ‘No point you interviewing me in your present state. You’d better come back to my camp. Have a bit of a rest. Thank you, Darlene, thank you, Frank. I can take the little lady from here.’
A while later Anne found herself with a thumping headache at Randy’s ‘camp’, which was an extremely long horse trailer he called a Gooseneck. Inside were angled bays for the horses, where a big palomino stood munching on hay. Randy had sat her in a deck chair and showed her where he cooked, ate, slept and showered, which was basically in the back of the truck with the horses.
‘It’s charming,’ she said sarcastically. ‘And why isn’t this poor horse out in the yards with the others? Why is he shut in here?’ Anne turned to look at the strangely dressed man before her. It was hard to tell his age through the face paint. It was hard to tell his body shape. He had protective gear under his shirt and just looked boxy and square.
‘Mostly coz he likes it in here with me. We’re pretty good mates and because he’s a bull.’
‘A bull? But he’s a horse,’ Anne said.
Randy laughed. ‘I mean he’s a bull. He’s a stallion,’ he said. ‘You want to know about male aggression, little lady? He’ll kill another male that gets between him and his girls.’
Anne looked at the placid horse with the golden mane that looked as if it belonged in a Disney video. ‘Really?’
‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you don’t know much about animals and men, do ya?’
Anne felt herself stiffen. She was dux of her year last year at uni and had scored distinctions right the way through this semester. And she had a boyfriend.
She was about to answer when Randy, who was chewing on the end of a bit of hay, said, ‘Why do you think we castrate most of the male animals in our farming systems? It’s to keep order. That many males and all that testosterone would be too hard to handle. If you had seen them bulls out there today, you would’ve realised that running one thousand of those boys in one herd together would create all kinds of hell-raising. That’s kinda what’s happened to humans on planet Earth. There are a lot of males out there should never been bred, causing wars and pollution and a whole world of trouble. In farming, we leave the nuts in the best of them, the calm ones, the handsome ones, the most productive ones. You cut the nuts out of the rest, because that way you have order and a nice line of animals. I reckon there’d be plenty of women like to do the same to humanity. No use it being a “man’s world” when the men ain’t payin’ attention to what the women want.’
Anne tried to take in what he was saying. Her head was still thumping.
‘Way you come across in the world, ma’am, I reckon you’d like to castrate the aggressive, useless males and select the ones you women want and need for breeding.’
‘Excuse me? No! I…’ Anne said, her cheeks flaming red with offence.
‘Of course, I can say that confidently, about the castration, because I know the women would keep me as a bull. Not many women wouldn’t want babies outta me.’
Anne’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. The arrogance of the man! ‘Why … you…!’
She was about to stand up, but Randy had already ducked out of the Gooseneck. When he returned, he handed her a packet of painkillers and a pannikin of what smelled like rum.
‘Wash it down with that and it’ll all seem better, darlin’. And you do know, I’m teasin’ ya. You look like you could do with a bellyachin’ laugh.’
‘Don’t you darlin’ me,’ Anne said. ‘It’s patronising.’
‘Patronising? Or flatterising?’ he said with his clownish grin. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a shower. I’m stiff, I’m sore, I’m busted and I’m dusted. This make-up is annoying the hollerin’ hell outta me.’ And with that, the rodeo clown began to take off his runners and proceeded to undress right there in front of Anne.
‘I … You … Um, excuse me?’ she stammered.
He stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked at her. Anne could see vibrant blue pupils ringed with grey.
‘Well, you are in my shower room. You never seen a man’s body before? You can sit outside, but the mozzies’ll eat you this time of evening. I suggest you stay right there with your headache and look away, young lady. Or you’re welcome to jump right in and join me. It’s river water pumped from just outside. Makes your hair nice and soft. Might wash away your headache and your sins.’
‘Sins?’ She rolled her eyes again. This man was frustrating! Arrogant, aggressive and frustrating!
But Anne found she couldn’t help sneaking glances as he dropped the denim clown shorts, pulled off the skins and stood just in his shirt, which he had unbuttoned and was now dropping to the floor. The Velcro of his protective vest made loud ripping noises as he peeled it from his body and then slipped off his singlet. Unashamedly he dropped his underpants, turning to the shower bay that was right there in the back of the Gooseneck alongside the small stove and a pile of horse gear and Anne’s chair.
Anne’s mouth dropped when she saw his male perfection from behind. The broad shoulders were so brown and muscled that as he reached for the taps she could see the mechanics of his divine body beneath his skin. The way his waist tapered into narrow white buttocks that topped muscled thighs, sculpted as perfectly as the statue of David. Across his back and his side were red welts and bruising. Along his knee she saw a deep red scar that ran in an arc down his shin.
‘Why do you do it to your body? Why do rodeo?’
‘Why do people base jump?’ he said, scrubbing soap onto his chest. ‘Why do people race cars? Or surf giant waves?’
‘Males seeking mindless adrenaline, through egotistical risk-taking,’ she answered.
‘Not only males. You take risks.’
‘I do not.’
‘Why do you risk your life taking them dangerous party drugs? Why do you jeopardise that tiny little body of yours that’s no bigger than a widget and your busy brain that’s too noisy to think straight?’
She sat up, surprised at his question, insulted by his comments.
He ducked under the spray of the shower and began to soap his legs, turning his head to her. Waiting for an answer. She saw the colours of his clown face run in rivulets down his tanned body.
‘How do you know I take drugs?’
He began to scrub his face with a flannel, and she watched his shoulder blades move beneath his smooth skin.
‘Your eyes are dulled by something, and it isn’t the hardship of life. You’re as spoiled as Paris Hilton. Nope. You take them drugs. I can read it in your energy. You ain’t balanced.’
‘Oh, great. Judged by a clown. What would you know about my energy?’
‘It’s aggressive for one thing,’ he said in his southern drawl. ‘And your energy is all prickly like.’
‘Are you trying to talk metaphysics with me?’ she said, flabbergasted by this strange conversation she was having with a naked rodeo clown.
‘Would it surprise you if I was? How else does a rodeo protection athlete do his job? We have to know a bit of kinesiology, a bit of quantum physics, a bit of ethology so we can read the bull. How else do we keep ourselves and the bull rider alive unless by knowledge of energetics and our own intuition so we can keep two steps ahead of the bull? And on the ranch, how else does a cowboy gauge the movement of a herd of cattle or the inner ways, the emotions, of his horse? It’s all energetics. With some critters, the softer you are, the more powerful you are.’
‘Then why torment those poor bulls and horses?’
‘Torment! Those animals are bred for it, trained for it, fed and conditioned for it. They are athletes too. They have long lives, long careers and they love it. You can’t make a bull buck, same as you can’t make a horse buck. You’ve no doubt heard the expression that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. It’s the same with this game. If they don’t want to do it, they just don’t do it. But the animals that do want to do it, they’re chasin’ the same rush as us. We’re a team, them animals and us.’
‘I don’t need to hear your pro-rodeo spiel,’ she said, realising she’d been staring at his buttocks and back for a long time. She took another big slug of rum. ‘I’m just here to ask questions for my assignment.’
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ Randy said, turning to face her as the water streamed over his toned body. ‘I thought I could’ve changed your mind about aggression in men. Most of us cowboys are gentle types. Gentle with horses, gentle with women. Family men.’
When Anne saw his face for the first time clean of make-up, she almost fainted again. He was so good-looking, so beautiful, it felt to Anne as if she had looked into the eyes of a god. Cleaned of the face paint, Randy had looks that stole hearts. His skin was smooth and tanned, his jet-black hair framed a manly square-jawed face, his teeth were white and perfect and his sensuous mouth was now moving into a slowly evolving grin.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Boxright, but if you stay at university too long, you’ll forget about real life. And you may miss your calling as a mother.’
‘Excuse me!’ she said, red-faced, and angry yet again at this arrogant, yet incredibly delectable, man before her.
‘You use this too much,’ Randy said, tapping his temple with an index finger. ‘When you don’t get around animals much, lots of folk forget they are animals. You are an animal, and you gotta go with your instincts as the female of the species, not against them.’
‘My instinct is not to have children yet … I’ve got a whole…’
‘Would your instinct be to hop into this shower with me, as an animal, say, not as a woman, a student and a feminist? As an animal?’
‘No, it certainly would not!’ she said.
‘That’s a shame. You might only have fifty eggs to lay.’
‘Pardon? Fifty eggs to lay?’
‘That’s all you might have left inside there.’ He gestured to her stomach region. ‘So if I were you, I’d be gettin’ in touch with your animal instincts. Can you get me a beer, by the way? I wanna wash my hair. If you’re feelin’ fine to stand and all.’
As Anne got up and reached for a beer out of the tiny fridge, she felt anger simmering within her. She knew he was teasing her. She knew he was playing her. A cowboy as good-looking as him, and clearly as smart as him, could get any woman he wanted.
She thought of Simon, of his spindly legs and flaccid computer-geek arms. His glasses that had fogged when they first kissed. The way he liked to tie her up and hit her with his computer cords. He was weird with sex. She had thought it might grow to be fun, but as time went on, Anne had found herself withering within as a woman. As a lover. No amount of academic reading or study on the matter seemed to ease or help the situation.
‘I have a boyfriend, you know,’ she said defensively.
‘That’s just a social construct,’ Randy said. ‘You know back in the day when we all lived in caves, women mated with many men, at the same time. That’s why nowadays men are visually stimulated by watching copulation, because essentially, we are all still animals. It was the strongest sperm that the female was after, so to get a whole bunch of it from different males meant the strongest would fertilise her egg. Mother Nature helping human survival. And, I’m tipping, it’s the same today. If women were more like animals and forgot about the money and what life is supposed to be according to the TV, they’d pick the kinder males for most of their love action.’
‘And where on the rodeo circuit did you come up with your ingenious anthropological insights, Mr Carter?’
‘You’re not the only one who is university educated, ma’am, with respect,’ he said with a quick tilt of his head and a lift of one eyebrow.
As she handed Randy the beer, their hands touched. She felt water splash onto the front of her top and she looked down to see that the lace bra beneath was clearly showing through.
‘You’re very pretty,’ Randy said, ‘and I’m going to embarrass myself in this here shower if you don’t turn that lovely face of yours away along with those two pretty lady thangs.’
She looked at him with her deep brown angry eyes. ‘Getting all male on me, are you? And what about my prickly energy … you happy to fuck that too?’
‘There’s no need to be coarse and hostile now, Anne,’ Randy said, sipping calmly on his beer. ‘I can see what’s within you. You’re like a scared filly that keeps laying her ears back at the world and threatening to kick. Once you find your place of love and lose the fear, you’ll learn to look at the world with your ears forward, gal. And you’ll learn the words “thank you”. You’re a rare creature. And a beautiful one at that. Worth educatin’, I’d say.’
Her present mind flashed insult and anger, but beneath the surface flashed disappointment in herself. In her disasters with men. Her anguished relationship with Simon. His distant, cold ways once he was unplugged from the violence of his virtual reality games. She felt she had been lost in the world of drug-induced nights in clubs, along with other sweating unhinged souls, lost in the facades of materialism. But here before her was perhaps the toughest, rudest, yet most peaceful, gentle man she had ever met. She felt a tiny crack in her armour.
‘And how would you suggest I find my place of love? Through some southern-drawling Jesus church, like you clearly have?’
Anne felt Randy grasp her tiny wrist.
‘Our capacity to love is all we truly have,’ he said. He pulled her under the jets of the shower and began to kiss her. With a hunger like no other, Anne began to kiss him back. Desperately she helped him peel the sodden shirt from her, reefing off her skirt, dragging down her lace panties, unhooking her bra until she stood naked. The water caressed the skin of her hot, fearful body, washing away the stress of the day and softening her to this foreign world that was such a contrast to the rush and bustle of her life in the city. The aggressive rush and bustle of the city, she realised now, that man-made concrete world of commerce and consumerism. She was swamped by it.
Not like here, this dozing place of summertime and countryside, where Mother Nature ruled and there was a peacefulness even in the midst of a jostling rodeo ring. Coarse and rough maybe sometimes, but Anne had seen there was a steady, polite and caring rhythm in the people, a calmness in the animals and a grounding presence from the land. It was all so much more gentle than where she was from.
Pressing herself against Randy’s torso, Anne felt his gentle hands roving over her skin. There was a sureness to his touch and with it, she felt every nerve in her body settling. Yielding to him, like she’d seen the horses yield. Big strong men reining their beautifully educated horses around with the softest of imperceptible cues, like a male dancer leading his partner in a waltz.
Randy’s lips were full and soft, and his tongue inside her mouth felt warm and sensual. His hands reached for the shower gel and pumped a dollop of pearl liquid onto his palm. Still kissing her, he began to lather the gel over her firm small breasts, and as he did, she felt his knees give a little from the hunger of his own desire. The slide of the lather, the caress of his hands up and over her body, the way he cupped her face, the way he cupped her soft white rounded arse, all made her gasp. A feeling of weakness in her legs from desire overtook her as well, but a feeling of strength in her feminine power suddenly consumed her. She was gone. The thoughts in her head silenced. There was only the beingness of living.
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.
The Joining (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
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 had felt a flash of shyness. But as King and Cindy began to flirt and King mounted Cindy outside the window, Marrilyn felt a sudden rush within her. Garry must have sensed it and had swooped upon Marrilyn, holding her breathlessly and pressing what was a desperate kiss upon her lips. In the past, she would have been shocked, but it had been a lonely few years and Marrilyn was grateful that a fine man like Garry would have deep feelings for her. Her memory flickered through a movie of past encounters with Garry at various Yard Dog competitions at various showgrounds around the country. She recalled Garry bringing her a salad roll during a lunch break, and a paper plate loaded with slice and biscuits during morning tea. On their arrival at the trial grounds he had often walked with her while King emptied out, the dog focused intently on his toileting. The way he had heartily congratulated her with a kiss after she had beaten him and Cindy by three points in the semifinals. His concern each time she put King in the dog crate and started her engine to make the long journey home to Glencraig. She smiled. She hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t been looking to see.
Now with each thrust from Garry, she noticed the rattling of the glass cabinet containing her fine bone china figurines. The floor shook and the Limited Edition Monica, who carried the flower basket of roses, began to wobble; the delicate woman teetered on the dust-free shelf inside and was rattling her way dangerously close to the Swan Lake ballerina. Suddenly the Limited Edition Monica took a tumble, toppling the ballerina over with a chink. That, in turn, brought down the tuxedoed Rhett, who up until a moment ago, had stood in an elegant waltz pose with the equally limited edition ‘Gone with the Wind Scarlett Southern Belle of the Ball’. Marrilyn had set herself a goal of collecting fifty of the figurines before her fiftieth birthday. If one broke now, it would leave her with forty-eight in her collection. Two off target before June.
‘Excuse me,’ Marrilyn said to Garry. ‘Tewwibly sowwy to point this out wight now, but my Woyal Doulton is getting quite upset. Would you mind?’ She nodded towards the cabinet.
‘Pardon?’ said Garry, who momentarily stopped his thrusting and looked towards the oakwood display case. ‘Oh, yes. Awfully sorry. Shall we … ah?’ He inclined his head in the direction of the dogs outside the French doors.
‘Ehm, yes,’ she said primly, which she realised was rather an odd tone for her to use, given her situation. ‘That would be tewwific. Thank you.’ Then Garry and she, still joined, crab-crawled across the rug towards the window, safely away from the figurines. There, in a patch of sunlight, Garry Goodwood gently cupped Marrilyn Ruthbridge’s broad horsewoman’s hips, and began again to tip his pelvis towards her, in and out, with a punctual beat.
Normally she wouldn’t ever have entertained the thought of starting a relationship with a man named Garry. Not that they were in a relationship, and not that she had an aversion to his name, although she knew her mother would have. But she had always been careful in her younger years to select boyfriends who carried no ‘r’ in their name. Not that she’d had many boyfriends. Only one to speak of. Only Hugo.
Back when Marrilyn’s parents had christened their baby girl in a Cambridge church, they hadn’t known that their child wouldn’t ever be able to say her ‘r’s. Had they known this fact, they would never have named their baby Marrilyn Roweena Ruthbridge.
The issue of Marrilyn’s speech had meant a lifetime of avoiding eye contact with people so as not to engage in conversation. It had meant not saying very much at all … especially to Australian boys. Boys who cruelly teased her at her rural school.
‘Mawwilyn Woweena Wuthbwidge,’ they would taunt. ‘Fwom Gweat Bwitain now wesiding in Victowia, Austwalia, on Glencwaig Fawm!’ Then they would pretend to ride horses and call out, ‘Twot on! Twot on!’
Her adolescence was a disaster. It was easier for Marrilyn to stay out with the poddy lambs and the sheep dogs when Mother entertained the other graziers’ wives and their children than to sit and join in. As a result, Marrilyn spent much of her time on the farm with the workmen and Father, or on her pony getting more and more precise in her riding and competitive about beating the popular girls at pony club. She had quite a talent with animals. And Father had taught her about British class and status, so her speech deficit never bothered her around the workmen, because she became a good leader to them. It was only in the world outside Glencraig Estate that she struggled.
Marrilyn’s life had been something of a solo journey for her. She had been twelve when she had been shipped out from Britain to the antipodes by her parents, following the death of an Australian-based relative, who owned a rather large estate in Victoria’s Western District. The distant uncle was somehow connected to them through the Earl of Dottingtonshire, a somewhat distant line itself, and in a twist of fate, had left his entire farming estate to his sole surviving relative, Marrilyn’s father.
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Rachael Treasure
A further collection of sexy stories set in the surprisingly racy world of farm life that will have you reaching for the riding crop.A second helping of steamy stories celebrating the sexy side of rural life that will have you longing for a roll in the hay with a sturdy saddle-hand.Rachael Treasures sexy tales are guaranteed to get your tractor revving, FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY is an honest and imaginative exploration of everyday men and women getting down and dirty on the land.From the dairy shed to the stables, Treasure's cheeky satirical humour and wicked imagination offers up a dozen fun-filled, and sometimes thought-provoking, tales of dirt, dust and lust.
FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY
RACHAEL TREASURE
Dedication (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
For ordinary everyday goddesses like you and me
Contents
Title Page (#ub2f45ace-76f1-5a42-9cd6-badfbd46dd99)
Dedication
Letter to Reader
Rodeo Clown
The Joining
Showtime Line-up
Milking Time
Branded
The Ride-on Serviceman
About the Author
Other Books by Rachael Treasure
The Farmer’s Wife
Copyright
About the Publisher
Letter to Reader (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
Hello dear reader,
Can I please take a moment to let you know in real life I am a nerd? I am more likely to be found in bed with a thesaurus than with an actual bloke, so I must stress … these stories are fiction. Because of this I haven’t bored the reader with all the safe sex practices needed to get you through life to a healthy age without your private bits falling off. Therefore, I stress, to young and old, in real life practise safe sex and while you are at it, practise love, respect and kindness with the one you’re with!
Remember, no balloon, no party.
Rachael
Rodeo Clown (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
Driving her little green bubble car, Anne Boxright turned into the Tunbamboola Twilight Rodeo grounds and stopped at the gate, where one of two rather frumpy-looking women in high-vis vests trundled over from the shade of a canopy tent.
Anne jabbed off the air-conditioning, turned down her favourite indie rock band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who were playing from her iPhone through the car stereo, and wound the window down.
‘Fifty dollars for the weekend,’ one of the women said in a broad accent, ‘or fifteen dollars just for this arvo and the band tonight.’
‘Fifty bucks!’ answered Anne. ‘That’s a bit steep. I’m here on a uni assignment. I’m a student. Can I get in for free?’ Anne had barely had enough money for fuel for the drive here. She’d blown her last student payment buying some eccy at a nightclub and was still paying for it in other ways. After her all-nighter and the buzz she no longer remembered, the world still seemed a little weird and she felt a whole lot poorer in every way.
The high-vis woman turned to her mate. ‘Shirl, this here’s a uni student. Can she come in for free?’
The woman, who Anne now knew as Shirl, waddled over in her sensible navy shoes and lavender tracksuit and top. The woman surveyed Anne’s pale skinny arms and her bobbed black hair and fringe that was cut in a dead-straight line across her pixie-like serious face. Shirl then took time to stare at her cream, see-through, draped-crepe top with black sailor-boy collar and matching black buttons.
‘A student, eh? I can see you’re not from round here. What are you studyin’, darl?’
Anne almost rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to get stuck here talking to two old crones who couldn’t apply lipstick properly, had haircuts like road workers, and clothes that looked as if they were bought from the specials racks at Best & Less. She sighed.
‘Sociology, anthropology and environmentalism. You know,’ Anne said with boredom in her tone.
‘Is that right?’ said Shirl. ‘In-ter-esting. And what brings you to the Tunbamboola Rodeo?’
‘Oh, just the assignment.’
‘And what assignment would that be, darl?’
‘An anthropological study on male aggression.’
‘Male aggression?’ Shirl looked perplexed. ‘Bull males? Or human males?’
‘It’s anthropology,’ Anne said as if spelling the word out to a simple person. ‘Human male aggression.’
‘You won’t find much human male aggression round here, but anyways suit yourself. If you want in, you can have in.’ Then the woman paused, narrowed her eyes and said slowly, ‘You’re not from one of those animal activity mobs, are you, sweetheart? Coz if you are, the rodeo folk said if any one of youse turn up, they’re happy to give you a cuppa and a tour of the back chutes and a chance to meet the riders and animals. Bulls and all. I’m not that into rodeos meself, just here for the Ladies Guild, but I do love animals. I’m very good to my animals … in fact, my dog—’
‘No! I’m not here about animals!’ Anne interrupted. ‘I’m just doing an anthropological assignment, like I told you. I’ve got an interview with…’ Anne looked across to her notes that were sitting on the passenger seat of the car, ‘a … Randy Carter from the Rodeo Association.’
The older women exchanged knowing glances.
‘Ooh! Randy!’ Both of them chuckled and nodded in what looked like appreciation and admiration for the man.
‘He’ll be happy to chat to a pretty little thing like you.’ Shirl grinned with her badly capped teeth. Then the other woman piped up.
‘Randy’s working flat out, darling, with the rodeo. And he won’t be done till dark. Then he’s got to water and feed his horses and all. You’d best get the weekend ticket, if I was you. Catch up with him first thing in the morning, before the Professional Bareback.’ She shook her head. ‘Tonight’ll be too noisy when the band’s on, to interview anyone. Those Wolfe Brothers really do crank it up for us.’
Still offended by being called ‘a pretty little thing’, Anne shook her head and sighed. These women truly were simple.
‘Fine. So, how much for my entry?’ Anne asked.
Shirl scratched her jagged short grey hair with thick, chunky fingers.
‘Well, dear, the proceeds of the gate fees go to the local respite care … if you’d like to make a contribution, just a donation, we can let you in on student rates.’
‘And how much would that be?’ Anne said, getting really hot under her sailor’s collar.
‘Whatever you can spare, duck.’
Anne fished around in the ashtray of her car and passed the lady a couple of two-dollar coins, then looked distastefully at the program that the woman handed her. It had the silhouette of a cowboy riding a bucking horse.
‘Thank you for your generosity,’ the woman said, smiling but with a hint of piss-take in her tone. ‘You’ve missed the broncs, darl. But you may be in time for the roping. Enjoy yourself and your studyin’.’
‘Right. Thanks,’ Anne said, wondering if all country people were that slow. She accelerated away, driving on to where rows and rows of country cars and utes were parked. Her little car lumped and thumped its way over the rough-mown, clumpy pasture. Anne grimaced with each jolt. Then she grimaced some more when she saw some redneck rodeo patrons passing by in frayed jeans and shorts, boots and checked shirts and cowboy hats. It was all so predictable. The people looked hostile. Like fringe-dwellers.
‘So uncool,’ she muttered to herself.
She really wished her roommate, Sally, had come with her, but Sally was living it up at a rave somewhere out on the eastern side of the city. Sally didn’t like the country. It was too uncouth for her. Even Anne’s boyfriend, Simon, had passed on coming with her on the trip, despite her offering to pay for a motel room. He had said he was busy with his computer networking thesis, but Anne knew he would be going to see Eddie, and his housemates, to spend the weekend drinking beers and playing stupid computer games.
She could picture (and smell) the wobbly-gutted Eddie now, sitting in his tip of a bedroom, while her pale, thin boyfriend, Simon, would be plugged into his laptop in the lounge room, blinking behind his glasses. The other housemates, Skeet and Thommo, would be in on it too, isolated in their own rooms, but linked into the same virtual reality game via wi-fi. They were games involving warriors and bomb making and the boys were obsessed with them.
Early in their relationship, Anne would go with Simon to Eddie’s and sit at Simon’s feet reading her books while he played on the computer. But the male testosterone that lurked in the house, the smell of boy farts and lack of sunlight started to get to her. She discovered early on it was best to leave Simon to it when he was gaming.
As she got out of her car, she felt the heat of the afternoon wrap around her. She tugged down her high-waisted black pencil skirt and kicked a grass seed off the top of her dainty little foot, which was encased by delicate red cloth-covered flats, trimmed with tiny black bows. She grabbed for her natural-fibre woven overseas-aid bag from the front seat, which contained her pad and pen, and picked up her iPhone so as to record this so-called ‘U.S. rodeo star’. As she locked her car, she felt apprehension gather in her. She was about to throw herself into this very male and brutish domain of animal cruelty and machismo.
As Anne walked around a big corrugated shed, she was met with a sight she hadn’t been expecting. The rodeo ground was shaded by large leafy trees and beneath them sat groups of people on beautiful green lawns. Mostly families on picnic blankets. There were cowboy-type dads pushing strollers, young girls lying in the sun in cut-off jeans and kids running about, their faces painted, balloons in hand. Mums sat chatting or passing food to their kids. Up in the stand were more clusters of families, all wearing hats against the brightness and heat of the summer afternoon, watching the dusty space of the arena that lay before them surrounded by high metal railings.
Gingerly Anne sidestepped up the scaffold seating in her rather restrictive skirt and sat. With a sudden burst, gates clanged open below. A calf sprang from nowhere. Two riders pelted out twirling ropes and within seconds, before the dust even had time to rise, they had lassoed a little horned steer the colour of caramel slice. The horses stood stock-still, keeping the ropes taut, the cowboys leaping off and hitching the calf, the crowd thundering applause like rain and the commentator revving the show along with an excited twang.
Anne wasn’t sure what she had just seen, but as the men let the little calf up again, she watched as it shook the dust from its coat. It instantly cast its ears forward to the gate where its friends were waiting. Calmly the calf trotted back from whence it had come. The men ambled back over to their horses, took up the split reins, smoothed grateful gloved hands down the perfectly muscled necks of their well-trained mounts, stepped back into their saddles and, like the calf, calmly walked their horses from the arena. As the announcer introduced the next roping pair, Anne looked about. She wondered which of the cowboys around the ground might be Randy Carter.
‘Hat, love?’ came a voice beside her.
She turned to see a middle-aged woman with two freckled redhead kids sitting beside her. ‘Pardon?’
‘Would you like a hat? I’ve got a spare,’ the woman said, offering up a cap with Darren’s Stock Transport embroidered on it. ‘Wouldn’t want to see that pretty little face of yours get burnt.’
Anne frowned. What was it with these people and the ‘pretty little’ line? She shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Not in an hour you won’t be. I suggest you sit in the shade, if you’re not gunna wear a hat. This sun will sting that lovely pale skin of yours.’
Anne tugged the skirt down over her white knees and looked at the woman as if she was an irritating insect. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find Randy Carter, would you?’
The woman laughed. ‘Randy Carter! Ha! Why sure I know where to find him. Every woman knows where to find Randy.’
‘Yes, but where would I find him?’ Anne asked, hot and irritated.
The woman looked at Anne for a moment, her head tilted quizzically to the side, as if she was reading something about her. Eventually she said, after a subtle lift of her eyebrows, ‘Round the back of the bull chutes, I expect. But he’s on after this. He won’t be done until at least after five. I reckon you’re gunna have to wait.’
Anne sighed and stood up. She had to find some water. As she went to leave, the woman called after her, ‘My pleasure, love. No worries.’
Bull riding was the last event of the day and Anne, who was now lobster pink, stood beneath one of the giant elms, feeling her skin pulling taut painfully from sunburn. The noise from the bar was lifting. She was hoping to witness some rodeo male aggression there, but so far the lads and older men stood chatting in a friendly manner, stopping every now and then to watch the arena events. A buzz seemed to rise when the bulls were let up into the chutes and cowboys in white hats and tight safety vests emerged on the rail.
Anne couldn’t help but notice the fitness of the men. Their fringed leather chaps opened up to denim in the crutch area at the front, and at the back highlighted perfect denim-clad backsides. Every one of the cowboys seemed to have on a colourful shirt with Wrangler written on the sleeve or back. And each had spurs and dusty white hats that curved upwards at the sides. She had to swallow down a feeling that the men looked sexy. Really sexy. But in an aggressive over-the-top masculine way. Not like Simon who wore slip-on shoes, with long shorts and, mostly pilling, polo tops he bought from the op shop. He preferred to spend his money on computer games than clothing.
Over the loudspeaker, country rock music cranked loudly, the strains of a maniac harmonica blared and deep thumping drums kicked out a Garth Brooks tune as the first gate was swung and a bull rocked from the crush. On the giant black beast’s back sat the most athletic man Anne had ever seen. He was flung this way and that, one arm cast back high in the air, the other clutching a rope around the bull’s neck. She wondered for a moment if that was Randy Carter. She hadn’t caught the commentator’s call. She was feeling a little giddy. Then she heard a bell ring and a cheer rise up from the crowd. She watched as a man who had been standing behind a colourful barrel sprinted towards the beast and leaped in front of the big horned bull. He was dressed as a clown and darted this way and that as another clown dived in to help unhook the rider who was clearly stuck fast to the binding on the bull’s rigging and was getting tossed about like a rag doll. It looked rough. It looked dangerous. It looked … and it was at that point, Anne fainted.
When she woke, Anne found herself on a St John Ambulance stretcher bed, with the doors of the cab wide open, revealing the leafy canopy of the shady trees. Above her was a red-faced man and a pimply young woman.
‘Where’s your hat, young lady?’ said the man.
‘What?’
‘Heatstroke.’
‘But…’
‘Don’t worry, love. Someone’s gone to find Randy. They said he was a friend of yours.’
‘Randy?’ Anne said, sitting up and feeling woozy, knowing that it was more than just heatstroke that had caused her to faint. After another fight with Simon she’d partied pretty hard this week. Memories of her drug-fuelled rave came back to haunt her. She was still toxed. She knew it.
At that moment, at the back of the vehicle, the rodeo clown she saw earlier appeared. He wore runners, bright red skins that showed off perfectly formed legs, big oversized denim shorts held up with yellow braces and a pink shirt with large stars of various colours splashed over it. Rags of green, yellow and red hung from his belt and beneath his dusty cowboy hat was a riotous red curling wig. His face was painted, smeared with white, a big red clown mouth turned upwards and he had the signature black smudges above and below the white circles of his clown eyes.
‘Randy, hi!’ said the pimply girl in the tone of an airhead, Anne thought.
‘Why hello, Darlene,’ he said in a slow southern American accent.
‘Thanks for visiting my brother in hospital last week,’ the spotty St John volunteer said, her eyes illuminated with an obvious display of girlie crush.
‘My pleasure. He’s a cute kid. I hope he’s feelin’ better.’ Randy turned to look at Anne. ‘So, they tell me you’re the lass from the uni, come to grill me?’
‘I…?’ Anne began, embarrassed to be found in an ambulance by her interviewee. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, just as the St John man stepped forward with a rehydration drink for her.
‘Sit up slowly, young lady. We don’t want you cracking your scone if you faint again.’
Randy surveyed her from behind his clown make-up and shook his head. ‘No point you interviewing me in your present state. You’d better come back to my camp. Have a bit of a rest. Thank you, Darlene, thank you, Frank. I can take the little lady from here.’
A while later Anne found herself with a thumping headache at Randy’s ‘camp’, which was an extremely long horse trailer he called a Gooseneck. Inside were angled bays for the horses, where a big palomino stood munching on hay. Randy had sat her in a deck chair and showed her where he cooked, ate, slept and showered, which was basically in the back of the truck with the horses.
‘It’s charming,’ she said sarcastically. ‘And why isn’t this poor horse out in the yards with the others? Why is he shut in here?’ Anne turned to look at the strangely dressed man before her. It was hard to tell his age through the face paint. It was hard to tell his body shape. He had protective gear under his shirt and just looked boxy and square.
‘Mostly coz he likes it in here with me. We’re pretty good mates and because he’s a bull.’
‘A bull? But he’s a horse,’ Anne said.
Randy laughed. ‘I mean he’s a bull. He’s a stallion,’ he said. ‘You want to know about male aggression, little lady? He’ll kill another male that gets between him and his girls.’
Anne looked at the placid horse with the golden mane that looked as if it belonged in a Disney video. ‘Really?’
‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you don’t know much about animals and men, do ya?’
Anne felt herself stiffen. She was dux of her year last year at uni and had scored distinctions right the way through this semester. And she had a boyfriend.
She was about to answer when Randy, who was chewing on the end of a bit of hay, said, ‘Why do you think we castrate most of the male animals in our farming systems? It’s to keep order. That many males and all that testosterone would be too hard to handle. If you had seen them bulls out there today, you would’ve realised that running one thousand of those boys in one herd together would create all kinds of hell-raising. That’s kinda what’s happened to humans on planet Earth. There are a lot of males out there should never been bred, causing wars and pollution and a whole world of trouble. In farming, we leave the nuts in the best of them, the calm ones, the handsome ones, the most productive ones. You cut the nuts out of the rest, because that way you have order and a nice line of animals. I reckon there’d be plenty of women like to do the same to humanity. No use it being a “man’s world” when the men ain’t payin’ attention to what the women want.’
Anne tried to take in what he was saying. Her head was still thumping.
‘Way you come across in the world, ma’am, I reckon you’d like to castrate the aggressive, useless males and select the ones you women want and need for breeding.’
‘Excuse me? No! I…’ Anne said, her cheeks flaming red with offence.
‘Of course, I can say that confidently, about the castration, because I know the women would keep me as a bull. Not many women wouldn’t want babies outta me.’
Anne’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. The arrogance of the man! ‘Why … you…!’
She was about to stand up, but Randy had already ducked out of the Gooseneck. When he returned, he handed her a packet of painkillers and a pannikin of what smelled like rum.
‘Wash it down with that and it’ll all seem better, darlin’. And you do know, I’m teasin’ ya. You look like you could do with a bellyachin’ laugh.’
‘Don’t you darlin’ me,’ Anne said. ‘It’s patronising.’
‘Patronising? Or flatterising?’ he said with his clownish grin. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take a shower. I’m stiff, I’m sore, I’m busted and I’m dusted. This make-up is annoying the hollerin’ hell outta me.’ And with that, the rodeo clown began to take off his runners and proceeded to undress right there in front of Anne.
‘I … You … Um, excuse me?’ she stammered.
He stopped unbuttoning his shirt and looked at her. Anne could see vibrant blue pupils ringed with grey.
‘Well, you are in my shower room. You never seen a man’s body before? You can sit outside, but the mozzies’ll eat you this time of evening. I suggest you stay right there with your headache and look away, young lady. Or you’re welcome to jump right in and join me. It’s river water pumped from just outside. Makes your hair nice and soft. Might wash away your headache and your sins.’
‘Sins?’ She rolled her eyes again. This man was frustrating! Arrogant, aggressive and frustrating!
But Anne found she couldn’t help sneaking glances as he dropped the denim clown shorts, pulled off the skins and stood just in his shirt, which he had unbuttoned and was now dropping to the floor. The Velcro of his protective vest made loud ripping noises as he peeled it from his body and then slipped off his singlet. Unashamedly he dropped his underpants, turning to the shower bay that was right there in the back of the Gooseneck alongside the small stove and a pile of horse gear and Anne’s chair.
Anne’s mouth dropped when she saw his male perfection from behind. The broad shoulders were so brown and muscled that as he reached for the taps she could see the mechanics of his divine body beneath his skin. The way his waist tapered into narrow white buttocks that topped muscled thighs, sculpted as perfectly as the statue of David. Across his back and his side were red welts and bruising. Along his knee she saw a deep red scar that ran in an arc down his shin.
‘Why do you do it to your body? Why do rodeo?’
‘Why do people base jump?’ he said, scrubbing soap onto his chest. ‘Why do people race cars? Or surf giant waves?’
‘Males seeking mindless adrenaline, through egotistical risk-taking,’ she answered.
‘Not only males. You take risks.’
‘I do not.’
‘Why do you risk your life taking them dangerous party drugs? Why do you jeopardise that tiny little body of yours that’s no bigger than a widget and your busy brain that’s too noisy to think straight?’
She sat up, surprised at his question, insulted by his comments.
He ducked under the spray of the shower and began to soap his legs, turning his head to her. Waiting for an answer. She saw the colours of his clown face run in rivulets down his tanned body.
‘How do you know I take drugs?’
He began to scrub his face with a flannel, and she watched his shoulder blades move beneath his smooth skin.
‘Your eyes are dulled by something, and it isn’t the hardship of life. You’re as spoiled as Paris Hilton. Nope. You take them drugs. I can read it in your energy. You ain’t balanced.’
‘Oh, great. Judged by a clown. What would you know about my energy?’
‘It’s aggressive for one thing,’ he said in his southern drawl. ‘And your energy is all prickly like.’
‘Are you trying to talk metaphysics with me?’ she said, flabbergasted by this strange conversation she was having with a naked rodeo clown.
‘Would it surprise you if I was? How else does a rodeo protection athlete do his job? We have to know a bit of kinesiology, a bit of quantum physics, a bit of ethology so we can read the bull. How else do we keep ourselves and the bull rider alive unless by knowledge of energetics and our own intuition so we can keep two steps ahead of the bull? And on the ranch, how else does a cowboy gauge the movement of a herd of cattle or the inner ways, the emotions, of his horse? It’s all energetics. With some critters, the softer you are, the more powerful you are.’
‘Then why torment those poor bulls and horses?’
‘Torment! Those animals are bred for it, trained for it, fed and conditioned for it. They are athletes too. They have long lives, long careers and they love it. You can’t make a bull buck, same as you can’t make a horse buck. You’ve no doubt heard the expression that you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. It’s the same with this game. If they don’t want to do it, they just don’t do it. But the animals that do want to do it, they’re chasin’ the same rush as us. We’re a team, them animals and us.’
‘I don’t need to hear your pro-rodeo spiel,’ she said, realising she’d been staring at his buttocks and back for a long time. She took another big slug of rum. ‘I’m just here to ask questions for my assignment.’
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ Randy said, turning to face her as the water streamed over his toned body. ‘I thought I could’ve changed your mind about aggression in men. Most of us cowboys are gentle types. Gentle with horses, gentle with women. Family men.’
When Anne saw his face for the first time clean of make-up, she almost fainted again. He was so good-looking, so beautiful, it felt to Anne as if she had looked into the eyes of a god. Cleaned of the face paint, Randy had looks that stole hearts. His skin was smooth and tanned, his jet-black hair framed a manly square-jawed face, his teeth were white and perfect and his sensuous mouth was now moving into a slowly evolving grin.
‘I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Boxright, but if you stay at university too long, you’ll forget about real life. And you may miss your calling as a mother.’
‘Excuse me!’ she said, red-faced, and angry yet again at this arrogant, yet incredibly delectable, man before her.
‘You use this too much,’ Randy said, tapping his temple with an index finger. ‘When you don’t get around animals much, lots of folk forget they are animals. You are an animal, and you gotta go with your instincts as the female of the species, not against them.’
‘My instinct is not to have children yet … I’ve got a whole…’
‘Would your instinct be to hop into this shower with me, as an animal, say, not as a woman, a student and a feminist? As an animal?’
‘No, it certainly would not!’ she said.
‘That’s a shame. You might only have fifty eggs to lay.’
‘Pardon? Fifty eggs to lay?’
‘That’s all you might have left inside there.’ He gestured to her stomach region. ‘So if I were you, I’d be gettin’ in touch with your animal instincts. Can you get me a beer, by the way? I wanna wash my hair. If you’re feelin’ fine to stand and all.’
As Anne got up and reached for a beer out of the tiny fridge, she felt anger simmering within her. She knew he was teasing her. She knew he was playing her. A cowboy as good-looking as him, and clearly as smart as him, could get any woman he wanted.
She thought of Simon, of his spindly legs and flaccid computer-geek arms. His glasses that had fogged when they first kissed. The way he liked to tie her up and hit her with his computer cords. He was weird with sex. She had thought it might grow to be fun, but as time went on, Anne had found herself withering within as a woman. As a lover. No amount of academic reading or study on the matter seemed to ease or help the situation.
‘I have a boyfriend, you know,’ she said defensively.
‘That’s just a social construct,’ Randy said. ‘You know back in the day when we all lived in caves, women mated with many men, at the same time. That’s why nowadays men are visually stimulated by watching copulation, because essentially, we are all still animals. It was the strongest sperm that the female was after, so to get a whole bunch of it from different males meant the strongest would fertilise her egg. Mother Nature helping human survival. And, I’m tipping, it’s the same today. If women were more like animals and forgot about the money and what life is supposed to be according to the TV, they’d pick the kinder males for most of their love action.’
‘And where on the rodeo circuit did you come up with your ingenious anthropological insights, Mr Carter?’
‘You’re not the only one who is university educated, ma’am, with respect,’ he said with a quick tilt of his head and a lift of one eyebrow.
As she handed Randy the beer, their hands touched. She felt water splash onto the front of her top and she looked down to see that the lace bra beneath was clearly showing through.
‘You’re very pretty,’ Randy said, ‘and I’m going to embarrass myself in this here shower if you don’t turn that lovely face of yours away along with those two pretty lady thangs.’
She looked at him with her deep brown angry eyes. ‘Getting all male on me, are you? And what about my prickly energy … you happy to fuck that too?’
‘There’s no need to be coarse and hostile now, Anne,’ Randy said, sipping calmly on his beer. ‘I can see what’s within you. You’re like a scared filly that keeps laying her ears back at the world and threatening to kick. Once you find your place of love and lose the fear, you’ll learn to look at the world with your ears forward, gal. And you’ll learn the words “thank you”. You’re a rare creature. And a beautiful one at that. Worth educatin’, I’d say.’
Her present mind flashed insult and anger, but beneath the surface flashed disappointment in herself. In her disasters with men. Her anguished relationship with Simon. His distant, cold ways once he was unplugged from the violence of his virtual reality games. She felt she had been lost in the world of drug-induced nights in clubs, along with other sweating unhinged souls, lost in the facades of materialism. But here before her was perhaps the toughest, rudest, yet most peaceful, gentle man she had ever met. She felt a tiny crack in her armour.
‘And how would you suggest I find my place of love? Through some southern-drawling Jesus church, like you clearly have?’
Anne felt Randy grasp her tiny wrist.
‘Our capacity to love is all we truly have,’ he said. He pulled her under the jets of the shower and began to kiss her. With a hunger like no other, Anne began to kiss him back. Desperately she helped him peel the sodden shirt from her, reefing off her skirt, dragging down her lace panties, unhooking her bra until she stood naked. The water caressed the skin of her hot, fearful body, washing away the stress of the day and softening her to this foreign world that was such a contrast to the rush and bustle of her life in the city. The aggressive rush and bustle of the city, she realised now, that man-made concrete world of commerce and consumerism. She was swamped by it.
Not like here, this dozing place of summertime and countryside, where Mother Nature ruled and there was a peacefulness even in the midst of a jostling rodeo ring. Coarse and rough maybe sometimes, but Anne had seen there was a steady, polite and caring rhythm in the people, a calmness in the animals and a grounding presence from the land. It was all so much more gentle than where she was from.
Pressing herself against Randy’s torso, Anne felt his gentle hands roving over her skin. There was a sureness to his touch and with it, she felt every nerve in her body settling. Yielding to him, like she’d seen the horses yield. Big strong men reining their beautifully educated horses around with the softest of imperceptible cues, like a male dancer leading his partner in a waltz.
Randy’s lips were full and soft, and his tongue inside her mouth felt warm and sensual. His hands reached for the shower gel and pumped a dollop of pearl liquid onto his palm. Still kissing her, he began to lather the gel over her firm small breasts, and as he did, she felt his knees give a little from the hunger of his own desire. The slide of the lather, the caress of his hands up and over her body, the way he cupped her face, the way he cupped her soft white rounded arse, all made her gasp. A feeling of weakness in her legs from desire overtook her as well, but a feeling of strength in her feminine power suddenly consumed her. She was gone. The thoughts in her head silenced. There was only the beingness of living.
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.
The Joining (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
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 had felt a flash of shyness. But as King and Cindy began to flirt and King mounted Cindy outside the window, Marrilyn felt a sudden rush within her. Garry must have sensed it and had swooped upon Marrilyn, holding her breathlessly and pressing what was a desperate kiss upon her lips. In the past, she would have been shocked, but it had been a lonely few years and Marrilyn was grateful that a fine man like Garry would have deep feelings for her. Her memory flickered through a movie of past encounters with Garry at various Yard Dog competitions at various showgrounds around the country. She recalled Garry bringing her a salad roll during a lunch break, and a paper plate loaded with slice and biscuits during morning tea. On their arrival at the trial grounds he had often walked with her while King emptied out, the dog focused intently on his toileting. The way he had heartily congratulated her with a kiss after she had beaten him and Cindy by three points in the semifinals. His concern each time she put King in the dog crate and started her engine to make the long journey home to Glencraig. She smiled. She hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t been looking to see.
Now with each thrust from Garry, she noticed the rattling of the glass cabinet containing her fine bone china figurines. The floor shook and the Limited Edition Monica, who carried the flower basket of roses, began to wobble; the delicate woman teetered on the dust-free shelf inside and was rattling her way dangerously close to the Swan Lake ballerina. Suddenly the Limited Edition Monica took a tumble, toppling the ballerina over with a chink. That, in turn, brought down the tuxedoed Rhett, who up until a moment ago, had stood in an elegant waltz pose with the equally limited edition ‘Gone with the Wind Scarlett Southern Belle of the Ball’. Marrilyn had set herself a goal of collecting fifty of the figurines before her fiftieth birthday. If one broke now, it would leave her with forty-eight in her collection. Two off target before June.
‘Excuse me,’ Marrilyn said to Garry. ‘Tewwibly sowwy to point this out wight now, but my Woyal Doulton is getting quite upset. Would you mind?’ She nodded towards the cabinet.
‘Pardon?’ said Garry, who momentarily stopped his thrusting and looked towards the oakwood display case. ‘Oh, yes. Awfully sorry. Shall we … ah?’ He inclined his head in the direction of the dogs outside the French doors.
‘Ehm, yes,’ she said primly, which she realised was rather an odd tone for her to use, given her situation. ‘That would be tewwific. Thank you.’ Then Garry and she, still joined, crab-crawled across the rug towards the window, safely away from the figurines. There, in a patch of sunlight, Garry Goodwood gently cupped Marrilyn Ruthbridge’s broad horsewoman’s hips, and began again to tip his pelvis towards her, in and out, with a punctual beat.
Normally she wouldn’t ever have entertained the thought of starting a relationship with a man named Garry. Not that they were in a relationship, and not that she had an aversion to his name, although she knew her mother would have. But she had always been careful in her younger years to select boyfriends who carried no ‘r’ in their name. Not that she’d had many boyfriends. Only one to speak of. Only Hugo.
Back when Marrilyn’s parents had christened their baby girl in a Cambridge church, they hadn’t known that their child wouldn’t ever be able to say her ‘r’s. Had they known this fact, they would never have named their baby Marrilyn Roweena Ruthbridge.
The issue of Marrilyn’s speech had meant a lifetime of avoiding eye contact with people so as not to engage in conversation. It had meant not saying very much at all … especially to Australian boys. Boys who cruelly teased her at her rural school.
‘Mawwilyn Woweena Wuthbwidge,’ they would taunt. ‘Fwom Gweat Bwitain now wesiding in Victowia, Austwalia, on Glencwaig Fawm!’ Then they would pretend to ride horses and call out, ‘Twot on! Twot on!’
Her adolescence was a disaster. It was easier for Marrilyn to stay out with the poddy lambs and the sheep dogs when Mother entertained the other graziers’ wives and their children than to sit and join in. As a result, Marrilyn spent much of her time on the farm with the workmen and Father, or on her pony getting more and more precise in her riding and competitive about beating the popular girls at pony club. She had quite a talent with animals. And Father had taught her about British class and status, so her speech deficit never bothered her around the workmen, because she became a good leader to them. It was only in the world outside Glencraig Estate that she struggled.
Marrilyn’s life had been something of a solo journey for her. She had been twelve when she had been shipped out from Britain to the antipodes by her parents, following the death of an Australian-based relative, who owned a rather large estate in Victoria’s Western District. The distant uncle was somehow connected to them through the Earl of Dottingtonshire, a somewhat distant line itself, and in a twist of fate, had left his entire farming estate to his sole surviving relative, Marrilyn’s father.
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Rachael Treasure
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A further collection of sexy stories set in the surprisingly racy world of farm life that will have you reaching for the riding crop.A second helping of steamy stories celebrating the sexy side of rural life that will have you longing for a roll in the hay with a sturdy saddle-hand.Rachael Treasures sexy tales are guaranteed to get your tractor revving, FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY is an honest and imaginative exploration of everyday men and women getting down and dirty on the land.From the dairy shed to the stables, Treasure′s cheeky satirical humour and wicked imagination offers up a dozen fun-filled, and sometimes thought-provoking, tales of dirt, dust and lust.