Fifty Bales of Hay (10 page)

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.

I
t 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.

For a long time now, Marrilyn had shut herself off from men and had never really been that interested in sexual acts. Mother and Father had never much made mention of the birds and the bees when she was growing up. But lately Marrilyn had noticed everyone seemed to be talking about fornication since questionable books began appearing in supermarkets. Farming folk on the dog trial circuit were even talking about the books. It was unusual that anal fisting was a topic of conversation around the yards, but the books seemed to have prompted such talk. They didn’t appeal to Marrilyn at all. Give her a Simone de Beauvoir and D.H. Lawrence any day, she thought. However, if it made people happy, who was she to judge the literary tastes of other grocery shoppers? Live and let live, she had always thought.

Today, though, the feeling of a man being so deep inside and heavy upon her made her think she ought to reconsider her stance on physical liaisons. It was actually really, really rather nice, and not simply for the purpose of reproduction of the human species.

Without a word, Garry suddenly withdrew from her and, using his slim grazier’s hands to guide her, encouraged Marrilyn to roll over onto her back, those same hands gently spreading her thin, strong legs. Marrilyn lay still as Garry guided his John Thomas into her once more and she again felt the odd sensation of sexual arousal when he resumed
his thrusts in what she knew was the missionary position. This time the cabinet only rattled slightly, the figurines safe from the outside world of vibrations brought on by the sudden copulation. From this new angle, Marrilyn could see the fabric peony-print pelmets of the curtains above her head. They were terribly pretty. But could do with a dust.

‘Everything alright, dear?’ Garry queried, pausing for a moment, looking down at her from where he was propped above, his tidy striped farm shirt still buttoned almost to his neck, his neatly creased cream slacks and navy underpants trapping his ankles together at his R.M. Williams polished boots. ‘Comfortable? Enjoying yourself?’

‘Oh, yes! Bwilliant, thank you,’ she said. Then, by way of encouragement, she gave him the slightest slap on his bottom as a ‘giddy-up’ cue to resume his very pleasant gait. He enjoyed this action immensely, judging by his immediate response of strong vocals … made up mostly of wobbly vowels strung together.

‘OooOoo OoooooOo! Aeeeiiooouuu! Ouuuuooo!’ said Garry.

She slapped him again, a little harder, and extracted an ‘AHH!’ from him, then kept on with the occasional smack to his rump, increasing the hardness every now and again, as Garry kept on with his vocalisations. The slapping action made Marrilyn think of her lovely mount, Hot to Trot, who, when being trained for the Garryowen event, loved a bit of a slap on the rump and a stroke on his sweat-sheened neck, particularly following a big, collected canter of figure of eights in the manege arena.

He had been a big strong gelding who had sailed over jumps with a steady mind, and drifted about the dressage arena collected up and floating, as if he could walk on air. It had been a sad day when Frankcombe, the vet, had to put him down due to his age. Hot to Trot was buried under the giant oak, next to the bluestone stables, and every day as Marrilyn went about her business on the farm, directing the men, drifting mobs steadily across wintertime paddocks with her kelpie dogs, she missed him terribly.

Hot to Trot had been the love of her life, especially due to the fact that that bounder, Hugo, had left her, without so much as a ‘toodle-pip’. It was not long after they’d lost the baby. Hot to Trot had filled the emotional void for a decade. Thank god the horse had then come into her life.

And now, thank god King had come along, she mused. She had got King as a puppy after Father had passed, as a gift from Father’s elderly friend Angus McRodgers. Angus had an exclusive line of kelpies, the bloodlines of which were mostly kept under lock and key and not shared with the wider world beyond his farm. Since that time, King had certainly opened up her world. Through the Yard Dog Trial circuit, the kelpie had given her new experiences, new places and lovely people.
Very
lovely people, if today’s joining was anything to go by, Marrilyn thought happily.

After only three seasons in working-dog sports, she was excelling. This year she had blitzed the trial season with King. The Australian working-dog world had been witness to this remarkable dog and his handler and their perfect synergy in moving sheep through the yards. On the
farm, King was an all-rounder in his work abilities and had a very fine temperament. This year, since winning the national championship, requests came in for access to his bloodlines. Suddenly Marrilyn and King were being visited by the finest kelpie bitches from across Australia.

The vehicles would roll in along the pine-lined drive of Glencraig Estate and the dog men would tumble out, crumpled from travel, and then hitch bitches on leads and seek out her King. The men knew that the genetics contained within his glossy black-and-tan body were utterly special and rare and his first pups on the ground were showing true ability. She had hiked up her service fee to put some of the kelpie men off, but they just seemed to keep coming as word spread.

She looked at the dog tenderly now through the French doors to the deck where he was still knotted painfully to Cindy, the pink of his swollen penis angling awkwardly backwards from its sheath. There was a look of worry in his eyes that the excited bitch might suddenly move again and reef on his ‘whatnot’. She noticed the saliva was dripping from King’s long pink tongue as he swivelled and whined a little from the pain of being caught, knotted. He really needed a drink of water, she thought. King looked into Marrilyn’s eyes through the glass panes, as if to say, ‘I’ve done the fun bit of the job. How long will this next bit take?’

Dog joining always looked so rewarding for the dogs at the start, with all the tail wagging and play bouncing, but it could end so horribly at the finish for the male if the bitch was skittish. Poor King.

Marrilyn wondered how her own coupling with Garry would end too? She must remember to offer Garry water when they were done. Then she began to wonder when
would
he be done? Hugo had always been so quick at it. Hardly a bother, really. You barely had to put down your book. Not like Garry, who was clearly a bit of a stayer, especially considering his age. In fact, he could almost enter the Tom Quilty without a horse, he seemed that much of an endurance man, Marrilyn realised happily!

As Garry upped his pace and started thrusting like a barley-crushing machine and Marrilyn again felt the budding of her clitoris in response to the sexual stimulation, she was getting an idea why King got so excited when the farmers brought their kelpie females to him for joining. This was feeling rather good, Marrilyn thought, as she gave Garry another slap on his rather flaccid buttock. If she had a tail, she felt she’d certainly be wagging it now! She wanted to start panting too, like a bitch in heat, but she thought Garry might find that behaviour unseemly. Instead, she let a few vowel sounds go herself.