Playin' Around

Vanessa had been around enough barns to know when someone was putting lipstick on a pig. The price tag on that palomino made her snort even before the saddle sores started pinching on the drive home. Eric kept prattling about bloodlines, oblivious that every bounce in the saddle had lit her glutes on fire. Turns out the horse needed more schooling than a grad student with a drinking problem. Instead of admitting the old boy might be past his prime, Eric leaned on the one credential he liked flashing: his sports-medicine license. Said he could knead the knots right out of her, no funny business. She cocked an eyebrow but figured if the two of them played nice, maybe the sticker price would soften. He showed her to a spare room already set up with a table and oils. She stripped, belly-down, and shouted for him to come on in. His hands were warm and careful at first, gliding over the sunburn on her shoulders, then drifting lower. When his knuckles brushed the underside of her cheeks, she twitched. He pretended not to notice, circles getting smaller until his fingers hovered just above her folds. Then he changed the rhythm altogether. She felt the table shift, heard his belt, and caught a shadow on the wall—his stiff cock pointing her way like a compass needle that had only one direction in mind. Vanessa craned her neck and rolled her eyes, but business was business. She slid forward, took him to the back of her throat in one practiced gulp, spit running, gag reflex giving a half-hearted cough. He let her suck until spit trailed from her chin, but his smile said that wasn’t the payment he had in mind. One quick yank and she was flipped, knees planted, hips hauled back until he sank home with a single thrust that jarred the breath out of her. Every stroke questioned whether a discount was still on the table—or if she’d just paid full price with interest.