Chapter 13: The Farmer's Wife
The heavy wooden door of Felicity’s hay barn groaned open, releasing a wave of thick, sweet-sour air – sun-baked hay, damp earth, animal musk, and underneath it all, a surprising hint of something floral, maybe lavender soap. Felicity stood silhouetted against the dusty golden light filtering through the high slats. Sweat gleamed on her strong forearms and the curve of her neck where her work shirt hung open. Strands of hay clung to her faded overalls and tangled in her dark, practical braid.
"Right on time," she rasped, her voice rough like gravel under tractor tires. No preamble. Her eyes, sharp and assessing beneath sun-bleached brows, scanned Hector head to toe. "Dorothy reckoned you’d know how to handle a fertile field." A quick, humourless grin flashed. "Hope she weren’t exaggerating. Time’s tight."
Before Hector could muster a greeting, her earth-stained hand shot out, grabbing the front of his shirt. She hauled him inside with surprising strength. The door slammed shut behind them, plunging them into shadowy warmth punctuated only by the single, flickering lantern hanging from a beam. Dust motes swirled in its narrow beam.
Her fingers were already at his belt buckle, fumbling with practiced urgency. The brass felt cold against his stomach through the thin cotton. "Been thinking about this since she showed me that bloody calendar," Felicity muttered, her breath hot against his ear. She smelled of honest sweat, barley chaff, and that faint, incongruous lavender. "Me, sprawled among the bloody barley like some pin-up." She snorted, the buckle finally yielding. "Reckoned I deserved a proper ploughing after that indignity."
Her hands shoved his trousers and underwear down his hips in one rough motion. Cool air hit his skin, followed immediately by the press of her body. Her overalls straps were already slipping off her shoulders. She wriggled, pushing the heavy denim down over her hips, revealing sturdy thighs and plain cotton knickers damp at the gusset. She kicked them off impatiently, the fabric landing somewhere in the shadows.
"Hay bale," she ordered, nodding towards a towering stack near the lantern light. "Now." She pushed him backwards. He stumbled, the rough straw pricking his bare calves. She followed, shedding her shirt, her breasts heavy and pale in the dim light, nipples dark and tight. Without ceremony, she climbed onto the nearest bale, positioning herself on hands and knees facing away from him. "Sixty-nine," she stated flatly, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes held no seduction, only a fierce, practical hunger. "Need something proper to take the edge off. Been weeks."
Hector obeyed, the strangeness of the command eclipsed by the raw urgency radiating from her. He knelt behind her on the scratchy hay, the scent of her arousal, musky and deep, mingling powerfully with the barn smells. He leaned forward, burying his face between her thighs. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, then groaned, low and guttural, pushing back against him immediately. Her taste was earthy, potent, utterly unlike Agnes’s floral neatness or Elizabeth’s expensive perfume. It was primal. Real.
Above him, she bent her head, her mouth finding him. Her technique wasn’t refined; it was efficient, demanding, her tongue working with the same focused intensity she probably used to mend a fence or birth a lamb. The scratch of hay on his knees, the overwhelming smells, the sheer physicality of her – it was overwhelming. He heard her muffled moans vibrating against him as he worked, her hips bucking rhythmically. Her hands gripped his thighs, nails digging in. The hay prickled his skin. Dust coated his tongue. Her groan deepened, became a ragged cry that echoed slightly in the cavernous barn, startling a pigeon roosting high in the rafters. He felt her shudder violently against his mouth, her thighs clamping tight around his head for a moment.
She pulled away abruptly, panting, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Right," she gasped, rolling off the bale and landing on her feet with surprising agility. Sweat slicked her skin, catching the lantern light. She grabbed his hand, her grip calloused and strong. "Barn’s stuffy. Need air."
She pulled him, naked, towards a smaller side door Hector hadn’t noticed. She shoved it open. Bright afternoon sunlight flooded in, momentarily blinding. Beyond lay a small, muddy enclosure, churned by hooves, smelling pungently of wet earth and manure. A few curious chickens scattered, clucking indignantly.
"Here," Felicity declared, stepping out into the ankle-deep muck without hesitation. The cool mud oozed between her toes. She turned, grinning properly now, a flash of white teeth in her dirt-smudged face. "Proper farm fuck, this." She reached for him, pulling him out into the mud. It was shockingly cold and thick, sucking at his feet.
She didn’t wait. She pushed him backwards. He landed with a wet splat, the mud cool and yielding beneath his back, instantly coating his skin. Felicity laughed, a genuine, throaty sound, and straddled him, sinking down onto him in one smooth, decisive motion. She was hot and tight inside, a stark contrast to the cool mud enveloping his legs and back.
"Bloody hell, that’s better," she sighed, rolling her hips, her hands braced on his muddy chest. Her eyes closed briefly in pure, uncomplicated relief. "Forgot how good a proper shag feels." She began to move, a strong, rhythmic rocking, her breath coming in short bursts. Mud splattered her thighs, her belly, her breasts as she rode him. Her braid came loose, dark hair falling around her face.
Hector gripped her hips, the mud making everything slick. The absurdity hit him – naked in a pig pen? – but it was drowned out by the sheer physical sensation: the cool mud, the warm sun on his face, the incredible friction of her body, the earthy smell, the sound of her ragged breathing mingling with distant farm noises – a tractor coughing to life somewhere, a dog barking. Felicity threw her head back, exposing her throat, a smear of mud across her collarbone. "Come on then, accountant," she grunted, increasing her pace, her thighs tightening. "Plough it deep. Earn your bloody keep."
He did. The release was powerful, almost painful in its intensity, washing over him as he thrust upwards into her welcoming heat. Felicity cried out again, a sharp, triumphant sound, her body clenching around him, shuddering. She collapsed forward onto his chest, her breath hot and fast against his muddy skin, her own body slick with sweat and dirt. They lay tangled in the mud, breathing hard, the sun warm on their backs. A curious chicken ventured closer, pecking at the mud near Hector’s elbow.
Felicity lifted her head, her face smeared, her eyes bright with exertion and satisfaction. She chuckled, a low rumble in her chest. "Messy bugger, aren’t you?" She patted his muddy cheek. "Good job." She pushed herself up, mud dripping from her thighs and belly. She offered him a muddy hand. "Right. Wash trough’s round the corner. Quick splash before you go. Dorothy’ll have my hide if I send you back caked like a prize hog." She glanced down at herself, then at the sticky mess between her legs, a thoughtful look crossing her face. "Suppose she’ll be wanting proof, won’t she? Like the others." She shrugged, a practical acceptance. "Tell her she owes me a jar of that plum chutney. And tell her…" Felicity grinned, wiping mud from her forearm, "...tell her the field got properly ploughed. Deep." She turned and sloshed towards the barn door, leaving Hector lying in the cooling mud, the scent of earth and sex thick in the air, the reality of Dorothy’s waiting zip-lock bag suddenly, vividly clear.