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Even the cows sensed a shift in my focus. The last forty or so were restless, X19 and M354 released milk into the gullies even before they’d been prepped. The very last of my girls, M210, always a reluctant milker, shambled into the exit alley in her own sweet time, playing to the crowds. The gate chimed a long warning note as it closed behind her.
Out of chores, I headed to Evan. He hadn’t moved from his seat. My dick hung heavy against my thigh, hard as a post and dribbling for him. As I peeled off my gloves and reached for a water bottle, Evan twisted the pipe around his fingers.
“Thirsty work,” he observed with a slight upwards curve of his lips. I glugged a third of the water standing in front of him.
“Can be. I should probably take a shower.” I wiped off my mouth with the hem of my grimy vest.
He tapped the pipe with his fingertips. “Yeah, probably.” There was a raw edge to his voice. “But I like you sweaty and filthy like this.” Very deliberately, he brought a hand up and tugged on my belt, bringing me closer, positioning me between his open thighs. His fingers trailed down the side of my jeans as his hooded green eyes, the colour of fresh pea shoots, greedily raked over me.
“Has Bill gone home?”
I glanced at my watch, my mouth dry despite the water. “Yeah, he should have done by now.”
“Good.”
Even a well-cut suit couldn’t hide his intent. One-handed, he began unfastening my belt. “Take off that vest.”
Part of me wondered what the fuck I thought I was doing. Obeying his orders. Being bossed around on my own farm. But I carried on stripping anyhow, because from the moment he picked up that damned pipe and twirled it between his nimble fingers, he’d been touching me and tasting me and showing me what he wanted to do under that buttoned-up starchiness with nothing more than a heated gaze. Telling me what my body craved without ever moving his lips.
A cool breeze dried the sweat on my skin, making each individual hair on my chest and arms stand to attention. I gave a violent shiver. Or maybe it was due to the slither of my belt as he pulled it free, the dull thunking sound as he worked his way through each button. As my jeans sagged over my hips, I looked down at myself and smirked. I bet the bossy surgeon hadn’t accounted for thermal long johns.
“Keeping it toasty for me?” My breath hitched in my throat as he brushed the back of his hand up the soft cotton placket, already damp. “I reckon I could fry an egg on there, Rob.”
He gave my covered dick another casual flyby with his knuckles, a hardly there tease. Then, in one swift movement, he yanked my jeans and long johns down to sit tightly just below my buttocks. “I know how we can cool you down.”
He pressed the metal pipe against my shaft, an icy coolness that couldn’t be measured in degrees, and a hoarse cry escaped my throat. He stroked it lightly up and down, grinning at my appreciative noise. Like a ragged fingernail, the cut rim of the pipe scratched my tender flesh, the bitter pain sweetening the cool relief.
Evan licked his lips, his tongue running over the sharp edge of his teeth. “Tell me what you want, Rob?” That fucking voice did strange things to me. Stolid, measured, patient. And so at odds with the words.
Almost experimentally, he swirled a fingertip in the wetness pooled at my tip, bringing a finger up to his mouth to taste the musky salt, then leaned forwards and swiped it with his tongue. His lips moved against my skin, peppering the sensitive head. Not kissing, not licking, not sucking, just…fucking seducing me into wanting….
“I want you to fuck me.”
There, I’d said it. I turned my request over, testing it for cracks, for fault lines, and not finding any. My mouth watered for him, my cock dripped for him, and as usual, my arse fucking ached to be filled with him.
He boxed me in against the parlour door, attacking my mouth with his, a steadying hand at my jaw. The other unbuckled, unzipped, unbuttoned, unwrapped, undid. I couldn’t see him stripping, but Christ, if they weren’t the most fucking heated noises I’d ever heard.
After that, he spun me around and dragged his cool fingertip up my arse. Hot breath landed close to my ear. “Do you want it hard or soft?”
Softly spoken words with a hard edge. A hard metal pipe in soft hands. A spit-wet finger rubbing softly over my taint, circling my hole. Moist breath in short staccato bursts at my ear.
“Hard.”
“Hard what? Ask me nicely.”
I could smell myself, the animal filth after twelve hours of hard graft. The salt of my sweat, stale milk, the leathery musk of my herd. I could smell Evan too, the soapy freshness, warm like cowhide and as fragrant as the honeysuckle framing the cottage door.
“Hard, please.”
Lubed fingers, two of them together, roughly scissored my hole. Evan’s tongue scorched the back of my neck, licking up the salt and grime of the day. “Did I hear, 'please fuck me, Mr Richardson?'”
His fingers scissored again, curled upwards and he added a third. My sensitive tissues screamed in protest even as I thrust out my arse, trying to spread thighs yoked together by the waistband of my long johns. He twisted his fingers, and a hoarse, broken voice—my voice—begged for more. Because his clever surgeon’s fingers had found it, the precious, exquisite hidden treasure, the holy grail that men like me would sell their grandmothers for, if it meant men like Evan would do this.
Oh God, yes. Anything. “Please fuck me, Mr Richardson.”
Cool breath gusted across my cheek in a sigh. “Mr Langford,” Evan whispered tenderly, “it would be my absolute pleasure.”
THE END
