The field dusk

Harv met me at the gate. He is thirty-nine, from town, not a man I keep. The stop word is gate. If I say it, the chase and the fuck both end. He said it back. The boxes for my work sit on the far side of the property, and I told him we were not going near them. Nothing from that work belongs in the field with us. We stayed by the fence.

Dusk. White shirt, jeans, boots, honey-brown hair loose, sun freckles. I stood at the fence line, clothed, and let him look. That minute in the last light is the one I still see, before I ran. I said catch me. He counted to twenty because I told him to. I ran the fence. The grass hit my knees. I was laughing when he caught my wrist, already wet, not scared. He walked me down onto a jacket he had dropped. We kissed in the grass because the run had been the point.

He got my jeans down and his cock out. I said fuck my cunt. He rubbed his cock on my clit, then fucked his cock into my cunt on the jacket. The sky was still pale. I held the fence with one hand and his shoulder with the other and told him harder. He fucked my cunt in deep strokes, grass in my hair, his mouth on my neck. I get shockingly wet when I have been chased and I wanted the catch. I said so. He rubbed my clit while his cock stayed in my cunt. I came and I squirted, a hot soak over his cock and the jacket and my own thigh, and I kept cumming while he fucked me through it.

He asked where to cum. I said on the shirt tail, not inside. He pulled his cock out and stroked it and came on the tail of the white shirt. I looked at the cum on the cloth and laughed. The stop word had not been said. We lay a minute with the fence at our backs and the field empty of anyone else. He walked to his truck. I walked to the cottage. I did not ask him to stay the week. The boxes stayed on their far side, untouched and uninvolved. I slept well.