Sunny Goldmelons

Sunny didn't really plan for Tuesdays to open like this. One minute she's swatting flies on the barnyard porch, the next, her boyfriend's hat doffing goodbye as he mutters something about how rodeo girls aren’t made for settling. So she’s left with one card left: rich Uncle Tommy. He’s a lot older than memory, but his fortune winks like dew on a ripe melon, especially when he kicks the office door shut behind them. Clothes hit floor faster than poker chips at a saloon. Sunny ends up bent over his leather chair, legs shaking while he takes his time, fucking her slow then rough like he’s signing paperwork. She’s slick around him, moaning his name soft then loud, and he grins every time her pussy flutters and grips. When the condom lands in the trash like a trophy, he slides cash into her jeans pocket like pocket change. By sunset Sunny’s wheels whine up the highway with the wind in her hair, his money feeling heavy in her back pocket, and her belly full of an uncle’s appetite she never exactly guessed at. New place, new sheets, same sunny good-luck face.