Chapter 4: The Barnyard Defilement
The taste of him lingered for days. It lived in the back of her throat, a ghost of salt and musk that no amount of mint tea could scrub away. Maggie tried to write, staring at the blinking cursor on her blank document. The tranquility she’d sought felt like a mockery now, the quiet of the countryside amplifying the riot in her head.
John noticed her distance. “You okay, Mags? You’ve been spacey.”
“Just blocked,” she’d say, forcing a smile. “The novel’s fighting me.”
She avoided the kitchen window. But her eyes were drawn to the property line, to the new, stout fence Bobby had built. A monument to what happened. She both feared and feverishly anticipated seeing his shambling form.
John then said he needed to fly to the main office for a couple days, no way he could get out of it. Maggie begged him to take her with him, but he couldn't justify it, besides she'd be by herself most of the time anyway. The he said, "Don't worry I know you are disgusted by Bobby, but I'll ask him to look after you and I'm sure he'll take good care of you."
Shortly after John left the next morning while hanging laundry in the backyard, the morning sun warm on her neck. He simply appeared at the break in the hedgerow, overalls stained, his eyes pinning her from across the lawn.
“Barn door’s off its track,” he said, his voice carrying on the still air. No greeting. “Two-person job.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons. Her hands, holding a damp sheet, trembled. She nodded, a short, jerky motion.
The walk to his property was a silent procession. The barn stood behind his house, a leaning structure of weathered grey wood. He pulled the creaking door open just enough to slip inside, into the gloom.
It smelled of dry rot, ancient hay, and engine oil. Dust motes danced in the few spears of sunlight stabbing through cracks in the walls. The floor was packed dirt littered with straw.
He didn’t speak of the door. He turned to face her, his bulk blocking the faint light from the entrance. His gaze traveled over her—her simple cotton dress, her bare legs, her face which felt instantly hot.
“You think about it?” he asked, his voice low in the dusty quiet.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Her mouth went dry. She nodded.
“What part?”
She swallowed. “All of it.”
A grunt. He unclasped the big metal hooks of his overalls. The sound was deafening. He pushed the heavy denim down to his knees, his cock already thick and heavy, rising from a thatch of grey hair. It was half-hard, but its sheer mass was devastating.
“Kneel in the hay,” he said.
Her legs carried her to a pile of brittle straw. It prickled through her dress. She looked up at him, at the monstrous thing aimed at her face. The animal scent of him, of sweat and earth, filled her nostrils.
“You know what to do,” he said. “Get it ready.”
She leaned forward, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her lips parted. The first touch of her tongue to his soft, uncut head was an electric jolt of forbidden reality. He was real. This was happening. Again.
She licked, tentatively at first, then with a growing, shameful hunger. She circled the broad crown, tasting the distinct, musky pre-cum that already beaded there. She took him into her mouth, her jaw protesting immediately at the stretch.
“Yeah,” he breathed, a hand coming down to cradle the back of her head. Not forcing, yet. “Use that pretty mouth. Get it nice and wet.”
She obeyed, bobbing her head, slurping, letting saliva soak him. The act felt both degrading and intensely focused, a singular purpose that silenced the screaming world. He hardened fully in her mouth, becoming an impossible, rigid weight.
“Good girl,” he rumbled. His fingers threaded into her hair, fisting. “Now take it.”
He pulled her forward as he thrust. He fucked her mouth with no preamble, no gentle testing. Deep, driving strokes that buried his entire length down her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, her nose mashed against his pubic bone.
“Uh-huh, choke on it,” he growled, his hips pistoning. “Sounds so fuckin’ filthy.” The wet, rhythmic gagging echoed in the barn. Spittle ran in rivulets down her chin, soaking the front of her dress. She could barely breathe, taking shallow, desperate snorts through her nose when he briefly pulled back.
“You love this, you proper little bitch,” he spat, his composure cracking. “Love having your throat ruined by an old man’s dick. Don’t you?”
She couldn’t speak. She made a mewling sound around his girth. Her hands, which had been limp at her sides, rose to cling weakly to his hairy thighs. The submission was total. It was awful. It was all she wanted.
He was breathing in ragged gasps now, his thrusts becoming wild, uncoordinated. “Gonna come. Gonna paint that sweet, married face.”
With a raw, guttural sound, he ripped himself from her mouth. Her lips were swollen, slack. She gasped for air, dizzy, her mind blank.
His fist was around his cock, pumping. “Look at it,” he commanded, his voice thick. “Look at what you did.”
She looked. The engorged, purplish head, slick from her mouth, pulsed in his rough hand.
The first thick rope of cum lashed across her cheekbone, hot and startling. The next hit her lips. She flinched, but didn’t look away. Rope after rope followed, splattering across her nose, her chin, her forehead. It dripped from her eyelashes, warm and sticky, the smell aggressively intimate, wilder than the watery cry with conjures definition wand dignity.
It was a branding.
He finished, spent, his cock slowly softening in his hand. He looked down at her, his chest heaving. Maggie knelt, painted with him, tears cutting clean tracks through the streaks of white on her flushed, freckled skin.