Fifty Bales of Hay (5 page)

Like an agile trick rider, Kelly swung a leg over the neck of the horse and was soon facing Narra, looking up into his eyes and settling her arms around his waist.

‘Is that better?’

She reached up and began to kiss him, slowly, invitingly. Soon their passion was flooding them and he lifted her up onto his cock. Kelly cried out with relief as she felt him push deep inside her, her legs folding around him. With his large
strong hands, he moved her up and down on his wet shaft. As Narra began to bounce Kelly on his lap, the horse took a spin again, nearly upending them into the dam.

‘Hey!’ Kelly cried out, flinging her arms around Narra’s neck and squealing as Gordy made for the dam’s bank. Narra reached around Kelly to grapple for the split reins that were cast over the gelding’s neck. Kelly dissolved into hysterical laughter at the big stepping movement of the giant horse and the whooshing of water about them as he galumphed forward. The action caused Narra’s cock to bounce deep inside her with every jolt of the Clydey’s trot.

‘This is kinda nice,’ chuckled Kelly, ‘but can you slow him up a bit!’

‘I’ve lost his reins,’ Narra said as his wet body slithered and slammed against hers with each lope of the horse. He grabbed hold of Kelly tighter as Gordon gained pace, making for shore. Kelly was screeching now with laughter, clinging desperately to Narra as she rode backwards.

‘I think we should bail!’ Narra said, but before they could fling themselves sideways into the water, Gordy made the shore and took a giant leap for the steep rise of the dam bank.

‘Too late!’ cried Kelly.

He gave one big lunge, his dinner-plate hooves slipping on the clay. Stepping on the rein, the bit jerked in his mouth and made Gordy pull up short. Suddenly Narra and Kelly were being catapulted sideways. They hit the greasy dam bank with a thud, slithering for a metre or so. Then came the expulsion of conjoined laughter, the sound rising
up to the big blue cloudless sky. As they lay on their backs, panting hard, limbs entwined, they fell silent.

‘You okay?’ Narra asked eventually.

Kelly nodded. ‘Who said this horse was quiet enough to bonk on! Bloody Snooza,’ she said. She turned to Narra and stroked a streak of clay with her index finger across his cheek. ‘At least we gave it a shot.’

‘It was fun,’ he said, marking her cheek with clay also.

‘Oh, it’s not over yet, Narra, my friend,’ she said. ‘Shall we forget the horse and try without?’

He propped himself up on one elbow, smiled at her and nodded.

‘Wait there,’ she said.

Naked and smeared with mud and clay, Kelly stood and tiptoed up the dam bank to Narra’s pile of clothes, where she dragged the hobble belt from his jeans.

‘I’ll sort Gordy out for you, then I’ll be back to sort you.’

She walked over to Gordon, who stood grazing next to Motley, water dripping off his coat, and clearing his nostrils with long vibrating snorts, settling himself. Kelly looped the belt around his feathery fetlocks. Then she stooped again at Motley’s hocks and retrieved her hobble belt. It thrilled her to know that behind her, Narra was watching her body move about the place naked. She knew also that when she returned, his desire for her would be back in the form of a hard long cock. With her belt in hand, she slipped down the dam bank towards him and stood above him. She cast her eyes widely at him and the corner of her mouth turned up in a suggestive grin. The afternoon sun was behind her,
shadowing her downy bush, and her legs were spread a little. Her eyes feasted over his long body that ran in perfect lines down to the springing invitation of his big cock. She dropped onto him, straddling him, and placed his hands above his head, took her belt and looped one loop round Narra’s wrist, then fixed the buckle firmly on the other. As she did, her nipples lightly roamed above his face. She felt his mouth searching out her breasts to suck. She reefed the hobbled belt to the last hole.

‘I’m not letting you get away, you bad, bad cleanskin bull,’ she said.

Narra bit his bottom lip and grinned at her. ‘Oh, Kelly,’ he said.

It was the first time he had used her proper name. She felt another wave of wanting for him.

She lowered herself down, lying her tiny body over his, kissing the skin of him. He tasted of outback soil, sun and freedom. And there on the dam bank the mini-jillaroo rode her favourite long, thin jackaroo until she was bucking back and forth. It took no time for her to come in shuddering waves, her pussy clutching him tightly, moistly.

Barely satisfied with just one orgasm, she dropped forward to kiss him passionately, then, as she did on the horse, lifted herself and spun about on his hard erection. Facing the dam now, she reached forward to grasp the long muscles of his thighs as she pumped her little body up and down on him again, the angle of his penis causing monumental pleasures within her. She heard Narra groan
as he lifted his head and took in the arousing sight of her pert little backside and her tight little muff swallowing up his cock before his eyes. He couldn’t touch her. His wrists strained against the belt. Pinned on the dam bank by the pint-sized jillaroo galloping on him, Narra moaned. She rode him faster and felt the nub of his cock deep within her, moving her to another sexual peak. As she came again, her pussy pulsed in orgasmic waves around his cock. It was too much for him. He exploded into her, the juices of their lovemaking combining with the dam water and clay smeared over their bellies and thighs.

When she had felt the last shuddering wave of pleasure run through her body, Kelly pivoted around to face Narra and, still sitting astride him, gave him a gorgeous smile. His arms, still hobbled, were cast above his head, his knuckles white from the agonising pleasure of it all.

‘You didn’t buck me off,’ Kelly said.

‘I tried,’ he said, grinning.

As she reached to unbuckle the belt from his wrists, she glanced up. Motley had gone. The mare had obviously decided to make her own way back to the homestead, leaving Gordy to himself.

‘Cranky horse. She’s cleared out on us. I knew she would.’

‘Looks like we’ll have to dink back on Gordon,’ Narra said with flirtation in his voice.

‘I go in front,’ she said.

‘Again! We could give it another shot on the way,’ Narra said. ‘Prove Snooza correct.’ And they both laughed.

And together as they splashed into the water to wash the sex and mud from their bodies, they smiled at each other, knowing they were in for many more rides at Bilga Station and the droving was far from done.

I
t was almost that time of the month for Carrie and she was wallowing in a cranky-pants mood she just couldn’t shift. Neither the brightest of summer mornings nor the overzealous tail wagging from curly-coated Muppet could jolt her out of her pre-menstrual grump. Instead, she shut the dog in the laundry and, with a stainless-steel bowl cradled in the bend of her long brown arm, trudged in Zac’s gumboots up to the top end of the raspberry paddock. There she climbed the steepest pitch of the hillside, her elegant, toned legs straining with every step. A frown on her face. Her heart heavy.

It was here on this sharp slope that Carrie knew she would find the juiciest berries clustering thickly under the sheltering leaves. This was the part of the farm where the ‘Pick Your Own’ tourists were too lazy to haul themselves up the last steep incline. The visitors were more likely to be found in the strawberry paddocks beside the dam, or sipping lattes under the café umbrellas at the cottage — picking raspberries and strawberries became tiresome for most, once the novelty wore off. Carrie herself had discovered early that
a kind of mental meditation was needed for the lengthy, sometimes tedious, task.

High on the hills, stooping over her lush prolific canes that grew in long sweeping rows down the face of the slope, Carrie began to draw the bulbous red berries from their hiding places beneath large dank green leaves. An early morning blowie buzzed by. It was going to be a stinker, Carrie thought. The sun was barely up, but already she could feel the drowsiness of a heatwave settling over the landscape. She stood, arched her back to stretch a little, and moved along the row. As she did, she looked beyond the cottage and the Summerberry Shop to the distance where a subdued sea drew a neat blue line on the horizon. Not even the spectacular vista cast before her, the undulating bush-covered hills patched occasionally with summertime paddocks of rich farmland, nor the astoundingly pretty sweep of the white beaches of Moonlight Bay, moved any kind of joy within her.

‘Just put on your big cowgirl boots and deal with it,’ she told herself angrily.

Carrie had a plan to combat her chronic shittyness. She would go inside the little cottage, douse her fresh berries with bucketloads of organic cream, top them with a sprinkling of dark chocolate and wash it all down with the strongest of coffees, made from the Moonlight Bay Summerberry Shop’s fancy café machine that had cost her and Zac a bomb. Then she planned on washing her hair, getting properly dressed in something very summery and pretty, and plastering a smile on her face after she’d set the ‘Open’ sign out on the road. She wanted the people to come.
She had to be charming. Maybe they would buy some of her artwork. God knows she needed their money!

As she picked her breakfast berries, she wondered if she’d have enough time to dig her old vibrator out of the bedside drawer, pilfer a few batteries from the TV remote and give herself some orgasm therapy. Maybe
that
would help her transcend her mood. But then Carrie groaned internally, because she knew the vibrator wouldn’t cut it and she’d cry afterwards. No, not just cry. She’d sob, lying there with a piece of no-longer-buzzing plastic in her hand, post-lonely orgasm, wondering why life should be so cruel to a woman. And not just any woman, but a woman as good and as attractive as she was. A woman who was kind. And giving.

Perhaps a little overwrought and pedantic at times … but a goddess nonetheless … on the right days. She could be a touch on the stormy side, she conceded. Like the time she’d been so mad at Zac she had filled one of his Ugg boots with water and chucked it onto the lawn one frosty night.

Her mouth twisted tensely from side to side as she thought of the vibrator again. Best not to go there. It would only underscore her loneliness. It would be like putting a burning match near something flammable.

She’d never really liked Mr Pink, as Zac had called it, anyway. He’d brought the thing home and had thrust the giftwrapped box at her, saying, ‘Now you won’t miss me when I’m away. You’ve got this to do the job. Might ease your tension.’ She’d taken the package and his subtle dig with a giggle at first, but then she had frowned.

‘Where’d you buy it?’

Zac had looked down to the toes of his regulation mining company steel-cap boots. ‘Sex shop,’ he’d mumbled.

‘Where? What were you doing in a sex shop?’ Her voice taking on
that
tone.

‘Perth. You know. The boys.’

Carrie had harrumphed and thrust the box back at him.

‘Jeez, Carrie,’ Zac had said, ‘they’re like supermarkets now. I was shopping for you. Me and the fellas. I thought you’d like something to tickle your fancy.’

‘My fancy?’

And the whole moment had deteriorated from there.

Since that time, Mr Pink had always carried with him the tainted reminder for Carrie that: a) she never really knew what Zac was up to, and b) her quiet inner knowledge that they weren’t suited to each other. He just didn’t ‘get’ her.

Her rumbling of mistrust and their growing differences seemed to feed every kind of trouble between them. Plus, bloody Zac was always blaming her moods on the fact she was ‘a creative type’, or on her menstrual cycle, which was vastly unfair, Carrie had argued. Sure she was artistic, but she could be cranky any time.

Maybe today’s lethargy and depression were to do with the fluctuations of her hormones, but that was only a thin veil covering a volcanic anger that had everything to do with Zac’s leaving. She rubber-rafted her lips with breath, the vibration making a noise like a snorting horse, and tucked a strand of long blonde hair escaping from what was yesterday’s ponytail behind her delicate ear. She was sick
of thinking about it over and over. But she couldn’t help herself.

She couldn’t figure what had turned Zac from being her live-in boyfriend of five years into a receding memory. One moment she had a gorgeous mining man who worked two weeks on and two weeks off, bringing home good bacon; the next she had a man who had worked his two weeks on and then
completely
pissed off. Carrie felt another wave of fury that he’d done a runner.

There was still so much to do on the farm and the income was sporadic and horribly seasonal to say the least. He’d been gone three months now. There was no time for her painting. There was no money for staff, so she had to do everything herself: harvesting, marketing, branding, coffee grinding, ice-cream making …
the works
. It was exhausting. To top it all off, there’d been not a word from him. Only rumours on the wind, from his mates, that (‘maybe’) he’d met some smoking-hot Asian-Aussie woman on his transit through Broome and had fallen passionately in lust.

‘Fuck it all,’ Carrie said as she picked more berries than needed for breakfast. She resolved to use the excess berries tonight after work. She would make herself a stiff raspberry crush vodka or three, get plastered by herself and wonder why a woman as gorgeous as herself was left alone on a very pretty, but very lonely, farm with just a tethered goat, a shitzoodle type of fluffy black dog and five near-wool blind sheep. And acres and acres of goddamned berries!

Down below in the house, she could hear the faint yips of Muppet coming from the laundry. She looked up and heard the rumble of a vehicle approaching along the highway, then a gear change down as the driver turned into the dirt road to her place.

‘Fuck it,’ she said again as she saw flashes of a small white truck through the canopy of the trees that lined the road. She looked down at what she was wearing. Barely anything. Just her little ripped denim mini that hardly covered her arse and the skimpy floral singlet she’d thrown on over her swollen, aching pre-menstrual breasts.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck it!’ She hated visitors arriving before ten in the morning. Especially when she had the shits like this.

‘Double double treble fuck it,’ she said when she saw the truck was from Robertson’s Rural Supplies and was teetering with a load of oddments for the other farms in the district and her order of straw for the raspberries. It wasn’t the time of year to mulch, but the summer had been dry and the dams were looking low, so Carrie thought she ought to do something to help preserve the moisture on the area of the farm where the soil was thinner and less fertile, just above the cottage. A second layer of straw couldn’t hurt. She already had a few bales she’d bought from a roadside stall last week sitting ready to spread on the strawberries too. When she got a moment.

She looked again to what she was wearing. Buggered if she wanted to help old Fred from the rural supply company unload bales in this get-up. She’d basically just rolled out of bed and hadn’t bothered to put on a bra or knickers.
Old Fred would probably crack a fat when he saw her, the blood rushing from his heart to his dick, and he’d have a coronary on the spot. Then she’d have to call an ambulance, give him CPR, which would not be a pleasant thing, all the while having to deal with how inconvenient it was, as she hadn’t yet had a shower, let alone had time to have her fucking breakfast.

Angrily she began to stomp down the hill, wondering why the Robertson’s Rural Supplies bastards couldn’t have had the courtesy to phone before they left the store. How did they know she would be up at this hour of the morning? Didn’t they realise she could still be in bed with some fabulous spunky lover, and not wanting to unload straw at the crack of dawn? Instead, wanting to go down on her lover’s morning crack of fat. She sighed as Zac’s big rubber boots made sloppy slapping sounds against her tanned bare legs while the pitch of the hill began to give her momentum. She gathered speed. Too much speed. She held the bowl on one hip as she angled her feet and body sideways to slow herself. She imagined herself running uncontrollably down the hill and landing, splat, berries and all, at the feet of Fred with her bare arse in the air for the world to see. That would finish off the pervy old bugger.

She had to watch her footing, so it wasn’t until she was on more even ground that Carrie looked again at the truck.

She saw the man, who certainly wasn’t Fred, get out in the berry farm parking area and stand with his hands on his narrow hips, his back to her, looking down the slope of
the hill to the valley below and the view of Moonlight Bay. It would be so nice to go to the beach today, she thought, and no doubt the man was thinking the same. She took in his extremely nice legs running up to denim shorts cupping a very tidy backside that tapered into a thin waist, then out again to perfect Brad Pitt broad shoulders. He began to walk over to the house, where Muppet was going off her tits in the laundry. Behind him Carrie yelled out, ‘Helloooo!’ as she stood in the raspberry patch halfway down the hill.

The bloke spun around and stood with one hand on his hip, the other held above his brow against the morning glare, looked up the hill and gave her a ‘G’day!’ back. He waved and then started untying the ropes on the truck. Muttering, Carrie made her way down to him, wondering where Fred was and how on earth she would get past this new Robertson bloke and into the house without him seeing her beaver since it was practically hanging out below her short, short skirt. She had sadly neglected it since Zac had been gone. It was like a summer raspberry patch itself, left to grow wild. Those Robertson blokes were rude bastards not calling. She tugged down her skirt. The volcano bubbled and stirred…

‘Good morning!’ the bloke said cheerfully, dropping the ropes and walking over to her, his hand extended. ‘Joey,’ he said.

She was trying hard to block out the fact he was one of the most delicious men she had ever seen. He had ‘naughty, but nice’ eyes the same colour as the summertime sea behind him, a classically surfer-boy-cheeky angular face
and blond curling locks that moved when he turned his head and sat tantalisingly long against his smooth neck.

She extended her hand and he clasped her raspberry-pink stained fingertips and looked dreamily into her eyes. For a nanosecond. Then she saw his eyes slide downwards, and without any form of self-consciousness he blatantly drank in the sight of her near to naked body. His eyes slid back up to hers and he tilted his head a little cockily to the side and grinned at her with appreciation.

‘Now it really
is
a good morning,’ he said flirtily. ‘I hope every farmer on this delivery run turns out to look like you!’

She blew a dragon’s breath from her nostrils and rolled her eyes. Boring, she almost said out loud. Since her teenage years, she knew the drill with men. It was so predictable. Her appearance fitted the ideal formula for most of them: long blonde hair, long tanned limbs, biggish norks, slim waist, grabbable arse and big blue eyes. Carrie barely stopped herself from shaking her head. She got it all the time. The wolf whistles. The catcalls. The nudge nudge, wink winks. Didn’t men bloody well realise that, internally, she was more beautiful? Couldn’t they see? No, they just wanted the poster version of her, like Zac had. He didn’t want what was on the inside. He wanted a girl from a
People
magazine. Not a real and rounded woman. A woman with a talent for art, and passion, and willpower. Not a woman with moods and menstrual blood. And this guy was no different. Maybe, she thought, when the Summerberry Farm was closed on Monday, she could go into town and
get her hair cut off. That would fix the bastards. Joey’s smile quickly disappeared once Carrie spoke.

‘You’re frigging early,’ she snapped. ‘Could you
be
any earlier?’

Joey shrugged. ‘Not a morning person, are we?’ he said, going back to the truck and tackling the ropes again.

‘Fred never came before ten,’ Carrie said curtly.

‘Fred never had to chase waves down at the Neck. It’s rolling in. Positively pumping!’

Ah, Carrie thought, he was a surfer. And a cocky shithead one at that, with more attitude loaded in him than was loaded in the tray of his stupidly overstuffed Robertson’s truck. But she noted with admiration his deliciously smooth tanned skin, as if it had been carefully polished by the sand and sea itself. And those curls! They reminded her of the exquisite spiralling patterns that could be found inside seashells. He was completely dreamy-looking.