Pat pushed slowly forwards.
She felt her entrance stretching, yielding, but then at the last moment, he angled so that it slipped free, skating the full length over her clitoris. Sam groaned in what felt like a very unwomanly fashion. Her clit sang with pleasure, but her aching pussy clenched, expecting to close wetly around his thick manhood and coming up empty instead. Her nostrils flared. “Pat Caldwell, screw me right now.”
Pat repositioned, and then after a short moment for them both to mentally snapshot the erotic perfection of their almost-coupling, he slid firmly into her burning core. In a single slow thrust, the thick, dangerous slab of man-meat squeezed past her entrance into the silky cauldron of her vagina.
Sam gasped. There was some pain, but only for a moment; she was so wet, so ready. Deliciously filled by that first stroke, she wrongly imagined that she had it all, and her twitching pussy muscles adjusting to his girth made it feel farther in, perhaps, than it really was. The second, deeper thrust knocked the breath from her, and when on the third, Pat drove it all the way home, Sam exploded in a shower of ecstatic sparks. “Oh fuck, I’m coming already.” The words came as a squeak through her pursed lips. “Hold me.”
“It’s all right,” Pat closed his arms around her trembling body and whispered his reassurance. “I’ve got you.”
Sam clung to his hips, forcing him deeper and riding that over-stuffed wave of climactic passion. Whimpering with each peak, she pumped her hips spasmodically, grinding her soft pussy lips against his root. The orgasmic waves of pleasure crested and finally ebbed, and her hips slowed to gentle circles, stirring, swirling his length inside her. “Holy smokes.” She squeezed with her core muscles. “That’s never happened so quickly. Was I awful?”
“You were incredible.” He stroked her hair back from one temple and kissed her there. “Do you want to keep going?”
“Hell, yes.”
Pat cradled her in his arms and kissed the curve of her neck. While moving his cock with Sam’s heels locked behind his back was hard, he lifted her body, fucking her slowly up and down on his rampant shaft like an oversized sex toy.
Wanting more, Sam loosened her hold, and Pat sat her back onto the table, using the new freedom to pump her in long, luxurious strokes.
“Oh. God. Yes.” Each word was a euphoric cry, driven physically from her chest by the heavy shaft pounding from below. Sam’s tortured labia bulged out around his root. It felt like not just his cock, but his balls as well, were squeezing through her opening. Thighs quivering, breasts lolling against his chest, she had never been so thoroughly reamed. She wanted to give some back, to drive herself down onto Pat’s rampant dick, but she had all she could do to simply cling on and take what she was given.
With Pat’s words of encouragement in her ear—“That’s it, lift your legs. God yes!”—Sam felt another climax building. Arching like a gymnast, she just needed a little... just a...
“Please,” she husked, pressing her lips into his ear. “I want to feel you come.”
Pat ploughed his big, swollen cock all the way home, lifting her backside off the table. Faster and harder, he pistoned upwards into Sam’s yearning cunt, making her cry out in one long, plaintive syllable. And then he was there. Jerking abruptly, he buried his dick inside her and ground against her clitoris. With the cords in his neck taut and his lips peeled back from his teeth, he uttered a final, stuttering, “F-f-f-fuck.”
Sam worked for her reward, circling her hips and tightening her sex, anticipating the moment from his rising gasps. His balls were snugged up close, and she felt them nestle even tighter in her cleft, preparing to deliver their creamy load. His cockhead swelled prodigiously, and then exquisite heat bloomed inside—white, liquid fire erupted in powerful sprays, straight to her most intimate core.
The sensation was beyond anything in Sam’s safe-sex experience. So hot, so vital—to be connected with such elemental perfection. Their bond was complete. The work, the emotional conflict, the exhaustion, they all fell away and showed her the truth hidden underneath. The truth was she was falling in love, and with that realisation, Sam herself finally melted into an ecstatic, searing orgasm.
Night followed day, as it is wont to do. A nighttime of talking and dreaming and sweet lovemaking in Pat’s caravan. Their first night. Maybe their last.
Following his Hilux back to the caravan park, those Queensland numberplates burned an image on Sam’s retinas. Spring shearing was done, and no more shearing meant no more shearers. Pat would be off to follow the work, and she wouldn’t see him again until after Christmas, assuming Dad hired him back for the lambs.
She woke with her naked body folded into Pat’s.
“What do you want to do today?” he asked.
She craned her neck to kiss him without breaking body contact. “You mean you don’t want to just stay in bed?” Sam could think of worse ways to spend the day.
“Let’s go out,” he said. “I’ve only seen you shear and make love—you’re really good at one of those, by the way—”
Sam smiled.
“—but I want to see you…”
“See me, what?”
Pat craned to see her face, perhaps to check if she was making fun of him. “I want to see you in the sunshine,” he said. “If I don’t see you ag—” He swallowed audibly. “—for a while, then I want to remember you with sunshine in your hair, not with sleep in your eyes and morning breath.”
“That’s not morning on my breath.” Sam pinched him on the thigh, down near where her face had been earlier.
“Touché.”
One more day. “Let’s go back to the farm. I’ll show you around. And I can pick up my toothbrush.”
Pat laughed. “Oh, so you’re staying another night?”
“Try to stop me.”
That interlude was two months ago. They talked most evenings, and sent photos, but Sam preferred the ones they took that day. In those, they were together.
She was outside putting up Christmas lights around the veranda when she heard the V8 turn onto the long farmhouse driveway. “Mum, Dad. It’s Pat!” She dropped the fairy lights and bolted for the front yard, almost getting herself run over as Pat aimed for the shade of the cypress grove. She tore open the driver’s door and pulled him out by the lapels. “Come here,” she ordered, dragging him close for a kiss. “You’re supposed to be in Griffith.”
“Finished a day early,” Pat said. “The cocky got this flash lady shearer in yesterday to show us how it’s done.”
Sam kissed him again with the ferocity of a slap in the face. “You’re a terrible liar, Pat Caldwell.”
“You’re one of a kind, Sam Robinson.”
She hugged him around the waist. “Sun’s over the yard arm. Fancy a beer?”
“Yeah, grab two. And one for yourself if you’re thirsty.” He plopped into an old sofa on the porch.
Sam floated inside into the kitchen on a cushion of air.
“Pat’s here, is he?” Mum said. She was hiding a big smile.
“Are you making fun of me, Mum?”
“Never in a million years, love. I’m happy for you.”
Sam went back outside and sat next to Pat. They held hands and took the first mouthful of beer in silence, looking out on the winding driveway where the dust was still settling from Pat’s arrival.
He looked down at her hand, their fingers intertwined. “Can’t stay long,” he said. “Got to head back to Toowoomba to see some solicitors.”
“The law finally caught up with you, huh?”
Pat didn’t rise to the joke. “Nah. I’m selling the house. I need the money for a business I’m looking at.”
He seemed serious, sober, and his grip on Sam’s hand was tight. This was it, then. Goodbye? Falling in love with a shearer was bad enough, but at least the work took him all the way up and down the country, sometimes to Mudgiboora, and sometimes just close enough for a visit. Sam felt sick. “So, what’s this new business?”
“Shea
ring supplies. My numbers guy reckons it’s a goer. Reckons I could convert it to a drop-ship and triple my margins.”
“That’s nice.” Sam couldn’t swallow. Her mouth had gone dry, and the beer tasted bitter and stale.
“Yeah. It’s right near the Pioneer Settlement. The guy who owns it now does shearing demos in there for the tourists at lunchtimes. He reckons he could get me the same gig.”
Pioneer Settlement? Sam had been to Toowoomba a couple of times. “Do you mean the Cobb and Co. Museum?”
“No. You know, the Pioneer Settlement,” Pat said, as though everybody knew it. “Swan Hill.”
Swan Hill.
She turned her head slowly to look at him, not quite ready to believe her ears. Pat was buying a business … just an hour away.
“Swan Hill is close,” she said, her eyes filming. “Close enough for a day trip.”
“Geez, I hope so.” Pat was obviously enjoying having surprised her. “’Specially if I have to do it every day...living in Mudgiboora, that is.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. Her lips were shaking, so maybe whatever she wanted to say wouldn’t have come out properly anyway.
Pat was scratching her between the knuckles with a sharp fingernail, drawing her attention to their clasped hands. Except it wasn’t a fingernail, it was a ring. And it wasn’t just sharp, it was a diamond point.
Where did he pull that from? “Pat, what is this?”
“Did he ask you yet?”
Dad was looking out through the fly-screen door.
“Go away, Dad.”
“What did she say? Has he asked her?” Now Mum was crowding behind him, looking over his shoulder.
“Fella can undress a hundred and sixty ewes in a day. Reckon he’d be done with this one a bit sooner.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Will you two please, for the love of God, go back inside.”
Pat squeezed her hands. “Sam?” he said, drawing her attention back where it belonged.
“Pat?”
“You haven’t known me long, but I’m not the kind of bloke who mucks about when making a decision.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That doesn’t mean I make bad ones. I work out what I want, then I go do it, instead of just thinking about doing it.”
“Yes.”
“When I first saw you outside the shop, I decided I’d talk to you. That was just ʼcause you were pretty, but...”
“Yes, Pat?”
“Then when you showed up at the shed, I thought you were...geez, I don’t know, like some kid playing farmer—”
“I see.”
“But when you crutched that fly-struck ewe without chundering, and you ripped me a new one for shearing your sheep, I reckon I knew everything I needed to.”
Did you really? Sam hadn’t warmed up to him until after that—after he’d apologized.
“I fell in love with you in the shearing shed, Sam. I only needed to work next to you for a morning to know I wanted you beside me for the rest of my life.”
Excitement made her belly quiver. “Yes.”
“I want to move to Mudgiboora. I want to work in Swan Hill, and you can stay here on the farm. Working, that is. Not living in this house. I want you to live with me. Will you marry me, Sam?”
“Fuck’s sake, Pat. Girl said ‘Yes’ half a dozen times already.”
“Dad!”
Dad came outside with Mum holding a short, galvanised rod with a small horseshoe attached to the end. It had a red bow tied around the middle, and it was obviously a gift, whatever it was.
“Sam?” Pat was trying to get her attention back, and the sparkly ring he was holding didn’t hurt his cause one bit. “Will you?”
Sam kissed him loudly on the lips. “You bet I will.” She offered her left hand, fingers waggling, eager beyond description to see what the ring looked like on her finger.
Pat slipped it on.
Mum came for a closer look, taking brief ownership of Sam’s hand while she tried to get it in the sweet spot of her vision. “Ooh, it’s lovely, Pat.”
“How did you two know about this? And why am I the last to find out?”
“Pat asked for our blessing,” Dad said. “I told him he didn’t need it, but if it made any difference then he ought to know we were both thrilled.”
Sam took her gaze off the ring long enough to look at Pat. “You’re a sneak.” What a sweetie. Who would have thought he was so old fashioned? Pat was maybe getting some dust in his eye, so Sam shifted back to Dad to give him a moment to wipe it clear. “What is that thing, Dad?”
Dad held up the little horseshoe stick. “This? It’s your new paint brand, you goose. You’ll need to re-brand your own mob of ewes next spring, assuming you can find a decent shearer, of course.”
Sam tilted her head to the side. Ohhh. It was a letter C, for branding sheep.
Mrs. Samantha Robinson-C-for-Caldwell.
Pfft, yeah, right.
Sam Caldwell.
“Thanks, Dad.” Sam took the gift. She couldn’t remember ever being this happy. She was literally giddy. She pretended to brand Pat’s chest. “You’re mine.”
They kissed again, and when Sam came up for air, Mum and Dad had gone back inside. She stood and pulled Pat to his feet as well, handing him the paint brand. “Let’s take this up to the shearing shed. You get the car started.”
“Where are you going?”
“Changing into a dress,” she said, giving him a wink. “You took the whole day to get my pants off last time. I’m not making that mistake again.”
Sam ran inside. She couldn’t take her gaze off that ring, and she knew she’d still be looking at it when Pat sent her to heaven again—and again—on the classing table.
Roll on the summer shearing season. Roll on.
The Traffic Stop
Kalissa Wayne
Sarah flew down the empty road, heedless of the speed limit. Darkness encroached on the country road, but the headlights on her Jeep were on bright, dispelling the shadows, at least to the edges of the road. The full moon cast a soft glow over the vast pastures and fields as she flew by. Stars twinkled and mocked her bad mood.
Freakin’ City Council meetings, she thought as she shifted gears. She hated attending, because they were nothing but small-town ego maniacs griping about petty differences and what should be done to draw more money to the county. Nothing ever got done, because no one would agree with anyone else. Why she ever agreed to take the position of arbiter she’d never know. She sighed, letting the wind whip over her from the open top. She just wanted to get home, take a nice long soak in the hot tub and go to bed.
She knew she’d jinxed herself when, in her rear-view mirror, red lights flashed, and she heard a siren strobe a couple times. Sarah debated whether to pull over or just keep going, but the siren turned on and stayed on. Taking a deep breath, she pulled off onto the side of the empty county road, put her Jeep in Park and cut the engine.
She closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten, then twenty, as the siren suddenly went quiet. Listening to the silence of the night and the radio traffic coming from the Sheriff’s SUV behind her, she decided to just keep counting.
She heard the snick of a door opening then closing, followed by the soft tread of boots on the blacktop, loud even above the night sounds that were returning to normal. At least he turned off the siren. When the footsteps stopped, she cracked open her left eye and looked sideways.
A massive chest covered in a black bulletproof vest filled her vision, the uniform’s short sleeves straining to contain equally massive biceps. Opening both eyes, and turning her head, she followed the impressive chest as it continued down into snug, form-fitting uniform pants interrupted only by a utility belt around his waist. Between all the gadget pockets, a radio and a Glock 45, the belt added some inches to his waistline, but it still looked narrower than his massive chest.
“Registration and ID please, ma’am.”
The deep baritone sent shivers down
her spine. “Seriously? This is how you’re going to play this? You…”
“Ma’am. I need to see your registration and ID. I clocked you doing 75 in a 50 miles per hour speed zone. Even though I know who you are, I must do my duty.” The big officer leaned over, looking into the Jeep.
For the first time, Sarah wished she’d left her doors on the Jeep instead of taking them off for the summer.
The man was drop-dead handsome. Short, black curly hair peeked out from under his Stetson. Eyes so dark they looked black gazed from under the black hat brim. Under his eyes, a straight nose led down to a wide mouth. She tried not to stare, but his lips, even firmed up, as they were now, looked soft and kissable.
“Ms. Smith, if you don’t produce your identification and registration immediately, I’ll be forced to arrest you not only for excessive speed, but also for operating a vehicle without a license and possible possession of stolen property.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped, and she just stared into the dark eyes of the sheriff.
“Sheriff Carson, with all due respect, you can kiss my ass. You’ve known me for how many years? And you know I own this vehicle! Eeeep!”
Even before she finished the bleated word, the sheriff reached in and unlatched her seatbelt. As she tried to fight off his hands, he pulled her from the seat and turned her to face the Jeep.
“Put your hands on the roll bar now.” Even as he made the statement, his big hands shackled her wrists and moved her hands toward the bar.
As she started cussing him, she gripped the bar. “You are an asshole! You know damn well…” Sarah started to turn her head.
“Face forward!” he barked. When she faced back into the Jeep, he ran his hands down her arms to begin patting her down. “If you say one more word, I’ll have to read you your rights and charge you with verbal abuse of a peace officer.”
Sarah silently fumed as he continued running his hands down over her shoulders, then along her sides. She tried to ignore the fact that he was feeling his way around her body, and tried to ignore that her girly parts were starting to tingle.
Blue Collar (A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology Book 2) Page 13
