Ranch Water

You sling the last few bales of hay onto the tractor, and they land with a satisfying ‘thud’ on the loading bed. Wiping your hands of the alfalfa, you feel a slight buzz tingle the left pocket on your tight, bootcut jeans — it’s your phone. Hoping it’s that strawberry blonde chick you met at the local watering hole the other night, you take a lot less time brushing your rippled arms of hay before reaching into your pocket to read the notification.

Damn. It’s just an update from your operations manager, Amber-May.

“Looks like our suppliers just dropped our deal and are going with a more secure approach to domestic distribution. I’ll work something out elsewhere.”

“Fucking wusses,” you hastily reply back, the emotions of a transactional relationship certainly getting the better of you. But it’s somewhat justified. You have the capacity to handle a large-scale order and receive out of New Austin without the middlemen to suck up potential profit — why don’t they understand that?

A message blips back to you, “Haha, exactly my thoughts, boss woman. They can go fuck themselves. Or, you could do it yourself with your raging boner, lol.”

That’s the kind of fire that made you hire A.M. in the first place. And, something about her message just… gets you going. Makes you feel…

Powerful.

Your breath picks up as you reread her message again, almost like it’s an invitation to turn you on. Your hand streaks down to your crotch, where you can feel your dick getting harder, the length beginning to pour out of its sheath, but- wait, not in these pants… not yet, at least.

You hired Amber-May not just a couple months ago, and that was over a Teams Meeting. All this online meeting shit, devoid of faces or formality… you don’t even know what she looks like. Though you’re sure you’d spend a lot of time thinking about that, the tractor fires up and starts to go to the offhaul location at the barns, breaking your train of thought.

And then your phone buzzes, and you look down to see your original plan come through.

It’s Liza: “Hey there cowgirl, how's about you wrangle up a naughty thing like me — tonight for dinner at the ranch steak joint, then maybe for dessert… me?”

Another ping shakes your screen, followed by a picture of little Liza Summers in a front-knotted plaid shirt, Daisy Dukes, and way much more ass and cleavage than would be acceptable on the front of even Centerfold. And her cute little bulge in front — damn, she’s got it all.

You reply back, “I’ll definitely consider that offer, I’m just trying to remember where I put my lasso and Stetson… I’ve been known to tame a few.”

She keeps playing with you, “Good. I like someone experienced and big. I’m told I buck. A lot. Hope to see you soon, stud.”

Fuck, now you can’t hold it in any longer. What started as a stifled erection from Amber-May’s heartthrob message to this, the snake in your pants is quickly becoming a boa constrictor, throbbing and pulsing its way down your leg as it thickens, tearing at your new jeans. Soon, the seams start to creak, popping and