Mechanical Bull Ride

The water turned the gauze dress into liquid silk against Emily's skin, clinging to every curve with an intimacy that made her breath catch. As she surfaced, she instinctively pressed her arms against her sides—only realizing too late that the motion squeezed her breasts together, the wet fabric tightening across her nipples in a way that drew audible gasps from the crowd. Maggie reacted first, snatching a picnic blanket from a nearby family and throwing it around Emily's shoulders with a protective glare.

Kevin, though—Kevin was staring at the donation jar overflowing with crumpled bills. His throat worked visibly before he croaked, "We're... uh, we're up to two grand already." His gaze flickered to Emily, then away, then back again like he couldn't help it. "People really love... the kids' ward."

Maggie rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful. "Bullshit." She jerked her chin toward a group of men elbowing each other near the ticket booth. "They love *her*." Emily's flush deepened, but something warm and unexpected uncoiled in her stomach at the realization.

Kevin cleared his throat, stepping closer under the pretense of adjusting the blanket around her shoulders. His fingers brushed the side of her neck—accidentally?—and Emily shivered despite the Texas heat. "Listen," he murmured, so low only she could hear, "there's a... a *special* outfit in the tent. One Maggie doesn't know about." His Adam's apple bobbed. "It'd triple the donations. But only if you—"

"I'll do it." The words tumbled out before Emily could think, surprising them both. The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she turned toward the tent, aware of dozens of eyes tracking her every movement. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, whispers following her—*Did you see how those tits—* *—wet enough to—*—that should've made her cringe but instead sent a jolt straight to her core.

Inside the tent, the "special" outfit turned out to be less outfit and more concept—a single strip of sequined fabric with spaghetti straps that looked like it belonged on a Vegas showgirl. Emily held it up against her body and nearly dropped it when she realized the front plunged to her navel while the back was just... absent. The dressing curtain rustled. Kevin's voice came through the canvas, strained: "Need help with the... uh... ties?"

Her fingers trembled as she fastened the microscopic halter top, the sequins cool against her overheated skin. The "skirt"—if it could be called that—was barely wider than a belt. She inhaled sharply, catching her reflection in a makeshift mirror propped against a chair: all long legs, golden tan lines, and the scandalous swell of cleavage threatening to escape the sequined triangle holding it in.

The crowd's roar when she stepped out made the Ferris wheel operator pause mid-operation. Even Maggie's jaw dropped. Kevin's clipboard hit the dirt again.

"Five *thousand* to see her ride the mechanical bull!" someone shouted from the back. The chant spread like wildfire until Kevin, visibly sweating, held up a hand.

Emily's stomach flipped as he leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. "It's right over there. And... well." His chuckle was nervous. "That skirt's not exactly bull-proof."

The mechanical bull stood in the center of a sawdust-strewn corral, its black leather saddle gleaming under the harsh fairground lights. Emily eyed it warily, the sequined "skirt" of her outfit doing absolutely nothing to preserve her dignity as she climbed over the fence.

The bull operator—a grizzled man with tobacco stains on his shirt pocket—grinned as he handed her a waiver to sign. "Ain't liable for wardrobe malfunctions, darlin'," he drawled, nodding pointedly at her microscopic outfit.

Something electric crackled under her skin as she gripped the bull's handle, the crowd's anticipation pressing in like a physical ****. Kevin's Adam's apple bobbed as he stepped back, muttering something to the operator that made the old man chuckle and dial the control panel to "BEGINNER."

The mechanical bull jerked to life beneath Emily with a pneumatic hiss, its slow circular motion making her thighs clamp instinctively around the leather. The sequined scrap of fabric she'd optimistically called a skirt rode up immediately, leaving the heated vinyl saddle to press directly against her bare skin. A gasp escaped her lips—part shock, part something else entirely—as the bull's rhythmic swaying created a friction that sent sparks up her spine.

"Easy now, city girl," the operator drawled, but his rheumy eyes widened when he noticed how the bull's movement made Emily's hips rock forward. The crowd's murmurs crescendoed into whoops as her thighs squeezed tighter, the sequined halter top straining with each jolt. Someone threw a twenty into the donation bucket. Then a fifty. Then Kevin, looking simultaneously horrified and transfixed, had to physically intercept a hundred-dollar bill aimed straight for Emily's cleavage.

The bull's speed increased incrementally, its movements growing jerkier. Emily's fingers slipped on the handle, her body sliding forward just enough that the saddle's raised ridge found the exact spot between her legs that made her toes curl in the borrowed cowboy boots. A bead of sweat traced down her temple as she realized—with dawning horror and impossible arousal—that she was getting *wet*. The more the saddle rubbed against her, the more her body responded, until she could feel slickness making the vinyl gleam under the stadium lights.