Girls at the barn

Girls flock to barns for good reason—hay bales for a bed, soft horses nickering in the next stall, and tall, handsome handlers who know how to handle a filly. Sophie and Zafira aren’t interested in the men today. After hours spent pressed against saddles, they slip away together, thirsty for skin instead of denim. Sophie hits the hay first, Zafira already straddling her, knee between her thighs. They wrestle each other out of boots and damp shirts until bare flesh slaps bare flesh and the scent of hay mixes with wet heat. Sophie’s fingers twist deep while Zafira rocks, hips piston-smooth, then she swings around and they grind in opposite directions, slick lips sliding until two thighs glisten. They flip and press, breasts soft against hard bellies, mouths tasting each other’s sweet and sour salt. The rhythm rides them both until their backs arch at the same time and low, long cries break the barn’s hush. Afterward they lie legs tangled, shiny skin cooling under the high slats of sunlight, listening to the horses stamp once and settle, as spent as the two of them.