Rolling In The Hay

Farm work usually means sun and dust. Today it means two redheads walking into the barn like they own it. Penny Pax and London River, the same pair you watched grind poles last month. They say they came to help clean, but the way they look at the hayloft says otherwise. You close the door. Rope hangs from every beam. You cut lengths, loop wrists, pull arms high until both bodies stretch tight. Their clothes come off quick. You leave the bras, push the soaked panties aside. You kneel between Penny’s spread thighs and taste her first. She tastes like sweat and sugar. Your tongue works slow circles around her clit until her hips start chasing you. You stop. She curses. You move to London, give her the same teasing licks, then pull back again. Each time you edge one, the other watches and strains against the rope. You pick up the flogger. Leather kisses their asses in steady rhythm. Red lines bloom. You switch to the cane, lay thin stripes across the tops of their thighs, counting every strike out loud. Their breathing turns ragged. You go back to the flogger, harder now, until both pairs of cheeks glow. You edge them again. Mouth on one, fingers inside the other, never letting either come. Sweat runs down their bellies. The barn smells like leather, hay, and wet cunt. You keep them strung up, keep them wanting, keep them right on the edge until the only sound left is the slap of the cane and the broken moans you pull out of both of them.