Chapter 5: Barnyard Brat
The late afternoon sun bled gold through the leaves of the sprawling oak tree, painting Colt’s weathered porch in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Honeysuckle, thick and sweet, hung heavy in the warm air, mingling with the scent of dry earth and the distant, rhythmic drone of cicadas. The only other sound was the low, protesting groan of rusty chains as the porch swing moved with their weight. Colt sprawled back, boots planted wide on the dusty floorboards, his faded denim shirt open to reveal the hard planes of his chest. Rae perched on his lap, straddling him, but they weren't moving. Not yet.
She traced the fading purple smudges on her hips – souvenirs from the truck, souvenirs he’d admired. Her throat still felt raw, a tender reminder with every swallow. But that ache, that brutal claiming, had unlocked something else. A hunger that pulsed low and insistent, stronger than the soreness. Her green eyes, wide and dark in the dappled light, studied his face. The relaxed set of his jaw, the way his calloused thumb absently rubbed the inside of her knee where her ripped fishnets ended. He looked like a king surveying his land. His. The thought sent a fresh jolt through her core.
Without preamble, she shifted, grinding her denim-clad pelvis down against the thick ridge of his cock, already rigid beneath his worn jeans. His breath hitched, a faint exhalation through his nose. His eyes, that unsettling denim-blue, snapped open and fixed on her, sharp and assessing.
"Somethin’ you need, darlin’?" he drawled, the words lazy, but the intensity in his gaze was anything but. A challenge.
Rae didn’t answer with words. Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling only slightly before pushing the rough fabric aside, baring more of his sun-warmed skin. Then, her fingers flew to her own waistband, popping the button, yanking the zipper down. The rasp was loud in the quiet. She wriggled, pushing her shorts and the lace scrap beneath down just far enough, freeing herself. Cool air kissed her wetness. She saw the flare in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw.
She didn’t ask permission. She braced her hands on his shoulders, lifted her hips, and guided him to her entrance. The blunt, thick head pressed against her slick folds. She was drenched, the arousal slicking her thighs a stark contrast to the dusty denim bunched around them. She sank down slowly at first, gasping as he stretched her, filled her, the familiar ache blooming into a deep, consuming pressure. Her inner walls fluttered, already clenching, adjusting to the invasion she’d craved since she first slid across the truck seat.
"Oh, fuck, Colt," she breathed, her head tipping back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat where his fingerprints might still linger. "So deep."
He watched her, his large hands settling heavily on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the bruises. He didn’t thrust. He just held her there, impaled, letting her feel every inch, letting the stretch burn. "That’s it," he rumbled, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones. "Take it. All of it. Greedy little cunt."
The vulgarity, the ownership, ignited her. She began to move. Not tentatively, not gently. She lifted herself almost off him, until only the swollen crown remained sheathed, then slammed back down, taking him to the hilt with a wet, obscene smack. The swing groaned in protest. A sharp cry tore from her lips.
Again. Up, the cool air shocking her wetness. Down, spearing herself on his rigid cock, the force jolting through her, making her tits bounce sharply against her thin camisole. Her nails, short and painted chipped black, raked across his exposed chest, scoring the skin. She found a rhythm – savage, desperate. Her hips pistoned, driving herself onto him again and again, the slap of flesh on flesh echoing the swing’s rhythmic creak. Sweat beaded on her forehead, plastering strands of dark blue-streaked hair to her temple.
"Harder!" she panted, her voice high, whining, stripped of anything but raw need. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lips. "Please, Colt! Fuck me harder! Need it!" She ground her clit down against the rough denim covering his pelvis with frantic, circular motions, seeking friction, her body demanding more, always more.
He obliged. His grip on her hips became steel, hauling her down onto him with brutal force each time she rose. He met her downward plunge with a powerful upward thrust of his own, driving impossibly deeper. The swing bucked violently. Rae’s cries turned into sharp, breathless shrieks. "Yes! Fuck! Like that! Use me! Use this slutty hole!" The words spilled out, filthy and true, fueled by the relentless pounding. She was his. His fucktoy. His property. The realization, instead of shaming her, sent a flood of scalding heat through her core, tightening everything.
His control fractured. A guttural snarl ripped from him. "That’s right, bitch," he ground out, his hips pistoning up, no longer letting her set the pace, dominating her movements completely. "Ride it like the fuckin’ whore you are. Take my cock! Milk it!" He slammed her down, crushing her clit against his jeans as he buried himself to the root, grinding hard. "Come on! Squirt all over it, you filthy slut. Do it!"
The command, the brutal pressure, the overwhelming fullness – it detonated her. Her back arched violently, her scream splitting the golden air. White-hot lightning seared through her, centered on where they were joined. Her cunt spasmed wildly, clenching and fluttering around his thick cock in frantic, uncontrollable pulses. Wetness gushed, soaking his jeans, dripping onto the weathered wood of the swing. She collapsed forward, her forehead thudding against his shoulder, her entire body trembling, shuddering through wave after wave of the most intense, mind-blanking orgasm she’d ever experienced. It felt like being unmade.
Colt didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, his thrusts turning jagged, desperate. Her spasming channel milked him relentlessly. With a roar that seemed torn from his chest, he slammed her down one final time, pinning her hips as he jerked violently beneath her. She felt him swell, pulse, and then the hot, thick jets of his release flooded her depths, filling the space her climax had hollowed out, claiming her all over again. He held her there, impaled and trembling, for long seconds, his breathing ragged against her ear.
Slowly, the tremors subsided. The swing’s creak was the loudest sound now, apart from their harsh breathing. The scent of sex and sweat overpowered the honeysuckle. Colt’s hands slid up her spine, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back so he could look into her glazed, satiated eyes. His thumb brushed her swollen lower lip.
"Good girl, learning your place”
Colt’s thumb lingered on her bruised lip, the calloused pad scraping lightly. "Good girl, learning your place,” he murmured, the southern drawl thick with satisfaction. His other hand still gripped the back of her neck possessively.
"Place feels like a puddle," Rae mumbled against his skin, her voice thick and exhausted, her limbs boneless from the brutal climax.
Colt huffed, a sound almost like a laugh. Without warning, his arms tightened under her thighs and back. He stood, lifting her easily despite her dead weight, his cock still buried deep inside her. Her legs instinctively locked around his waist as he took her full length, a fresh jolt of sore fullness making her gasp. Her shorts and panties remained tangled around one ankle, the ripped fishnet snagging on his belt buckle.
He carried her across the porch, ignoring the creak of the swing chains settling. The screen door protested as he shoved it open with his boot heel. Inside, the air was cooler, thick with the lingering smell of old coffee grounds and engine grease from the worn kitchen beyond the cramped living area. Dust motes danced in the fading sunbeams slicing through grimy windows. He didn’t pause for the couch or the rumpled bed visible down a short hallway.
He walked straight to the cluttered kitchen counter. Empty cans, a greasy toolbox, and scattered wrenches clattered as he swept them aside with one rough arm. Rae felt the cool, chipped Formica against her bare ass as he planted her there. Her legs fell open, dangling off the edge, her soaked cunt exposed, dripping his come onto the cracked linoleum floor.
"Colt—" she started, a shiver running through her.
"Shut it," he cut her off, already unbuckling his belt with sharp, efficient movements. His jeans hung low, revealing the hard V of his hips and the thick, semi-hard length of him, glistening wet with her arousal and his seed. He didn’t remove them. He just shoved them further down his thighs, freeing himself completely. His eyes, denim-blue chips of ice, raked over her splayed body on the counter.
He stepped between her thighs, the rough denim of his jeans abrasively scraping her inner skin. One large hand pressed hard on her sternum, pinning her upper body back against the cold countertop. The other grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking her head back, arching her throat. The soreness flared hotly.
"Look at you," he growled, his gaze fixed on her stretched, swollen entrance. "Still drip-fuckin’ wet. Didn’t get enough on the porch, whore?" He spat the word, leaning close, his whiskey breath hot on her face. "Got a greedy fuckin’ hole, ain’t ya?"
He didn’t wait for an answer. Positioning himself, he drove forward. The thick, blunt head speared into her tender, overstimulated flesh without preamble. Rae cried out, her back arching off the counter, nails scraping uselessly on the Formica. He filled her again, the raw intrusion a sharp counterpoint to the deep, lingering ache. Her inner walls, raw and sensitive, clenched violently around the invasion.
"Fuck yes," Colt hissed, his hand tightening painfully in her hair. "Still grippin' like a fuckin' vice. Perfect little cocksleeve." He pulled back almost completely, leaving just the head lodged inside her stretched rim. Then slammed home again, the heavy slap of his hips against her bare thighs echoing in the small kitchen. "Take it! Take every goddamn inch!"
He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm, his hips pistoning. Each brutal thrust hammered her cervix, forcing choked gasps from her throat. His balls slapped against her ass with every forward surge. The counter rattled, tools clinking. He fucked her with pure, selfish force, focused solely on the friction, the tight wet heat choking his cock. His eyes were fixed on the place they joined, watching her stretched lips cling to him, watching his length disappear into her slick, abused channel.
"Whose slutty hole is this?" he demanded, punctuating each word with a sharp, deep grind that made her whine. The hand on her sternum slid down, rough fingers finding her nipple through the thin camisole and lace. He pinched hard, twisting.
"Yours!" she gasped, the pain sparking through her, mixing with the overwhelming fullness. "Yours, Colt! Your fucktoy!"
He grunted approval. "Damn right." His thrusts grew faster, more erratic, slamming into her with bone-jarring force. "Gonna fuck this cunt raw. Gonna breed it full. Make sure you remember who owns it." He leaned over her, his weight pressing her harder into the counter, his mouth near her ear. "Feel it? Feel how deep I own you?"
Rae could only nod frantically, tears pricking her eyes from the intensity, the violation, the terrifying thrill of being so thoroughly used. Her body responded treacherously, coiling tight again despite the soreness, despite the lack of direct clit touch. The sheer force, the degrading words, the absolute loss of control – it stoked the embers.
Colt’s rhythm stuttered. A harsh groan tore from his chest. He buried himself to the root, grinding, his cock pulsing violently within her. Scalding jets of come erupted deep inside, flooding her already filled channel, adding to the slick mess between her thighs. He held himself there, rigid, shuddering, his face buried in the crook of her neck, teeth scraping her skin.
Rae trembled beneath him, pinned and impaled, feeling the hot spill, the rhythmic throb of him emptying into her core. A weaker, secondary climax rippled through her, a mere echo of the porch, born purely from the overwhelming sensation of being completely claimed.
He stayed buried for long moments, catching his breath. Then, with a final, possessive grind that made her whimper, he pulled out. A thick trickle of their combined fluids escaped her stretched entrance, running down her inner thigh. He stepped back, tucking his softening cock back into his jeans with a grimace of discomfort, the denim scraping sensitive skin. He zipped up, buckled his belt, movements economical.
She lay sprawled on the counter, breathing raggedly, staring at the cracked ceiling, sticky and aching. The scent of sex, sweat, and whiskey overpowered the kitchen’s usual smells. Her fishnets were ripped beyond repair, bunched around her ankle. Her shorts were still down past her knees.
Colt snagged a mostly empty bottle of bourbon from beside the sink. He took a long, deep swallow, the liquid glinting amber in the dying light. He lowered the bottle, his gaze sweeping over her wrecked form on the countertop. A slow, satisfied smirk touched his lips. He reached out, not gently, and swiped a thick finger through the mess glistening on her inner thigh. He brought it to her lips.
"Clean it," he commanded flatly, his eyes locking onto hers. "Clean your mess, slut."
Rae hesitated for only a second, the vulnerability warring with the ingrained need to obey, to please him. Then, eyes never leaving his, she opened her mouth. Her tongue flicked out, tentative at first, then more firmly, licking his finger clean of their combined taste – salt, musk, and his essence. He watched, the intensity in his gaze unwavering.
"Good," he rumbled.