Fifty More Bales of Hay. Rachael Treasure

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СКАЧАТЬ 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

      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 СКАЧАТЬ