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Fifty More Bales of Hay
Rachael Treasure
A further collection of sexy stories set in the surprisingly racy world of farm life that will have you reaching for the riding crop.A second helping of steamy stories celebrating the sexy side of rural life that will have you longing for a roll in the hay with a sturdy saddle-hand.Rachael Treasures sexy tales are guaranteed to get your tractor revving, FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY is an honest and imaginative exploration of everyday men and women getting down and dirty on the land.From the dairy shed to the stables, Treasure's cheeky satirical humour and wicked imagination offers up a dozen fun-filled, and sometimes thought-provoking, tales of dirt, dust and lust.
FIFTY MORE BALES OF HAY
RACHAEL TREASURE
Dedication (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
For ordinary everyday goddesses like you and me
Contents
Title Page (#ub2f45ace-76f1-5a42-9cd6-badfbd46dd99)
Dedication
Letter to Reader
Rodeo Clown
The Joining
Showtime Line-up
Milking Time
Branded
The Ride-on Serviceman
About the Author
Other Books by Rachael Treasure
The Farmer’s Wife
Copyright
About the Publisher
Letter to Reader (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
Hello dear reader,
Can I please take a moment to let you know in real life I am a nerd? I am more likely to be found in bed with a thesaurus than with an actual bloke, so I must stress … these stories are fiction. Because of this I haven’t bored the reader with all the safe sex practices needed to get you through life to a healthy age without your private bits falling off. Therefore, I stress, to young and old, in real life practise safe sex and while you are at it, practise love, respect and kindness with the one you’re with!
Remember, no balloon, no party.
Rachael
Rodeo Clown (#u8b79da3d-cce7-5346-a13d-ab138c01a326)
Driving her little green bubble car, Anne Boxright turned into the Tunbamboola Twilight Rodeo grounds and stopped at the gate, where one of two rather frumpy-looking women in high-vis vests trundled over from the shade of a canopy tent.
Anne jabbed off the air-conditioning, turned down her favourite indie rock band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, who were playing from her iPhone through the car stereo, and wound the window down.
‘Fifty dollars for the weekend,’ one of the women said in a broad accent, ‘or fifteen dollars just for this arvo and the band tonight.’
‘Fifty bucks!’ answered Anne. ‘That’s a bit steep. I’m here on a uni assignment. I’m a student. Can I get in for free?’ Anne had barely had enough money for fuel for the drive here. She’d blown her last student payment buying some eccy at a nightclub and was still paying for it in other ways. After her all-nighter and the buzz she no longer remembered, the world still seemed a little weird and she felt a whole lot poorer in every way.
The high-vis woman turned to her mate. ‘Shirl, this here’s a uni student. Can she come in for free?’
The woman, who Anne now knew as Shirl, waddled over in her sensible navy shoes and lavender tracksuit and top. The woman surveyed Anne’s pale skinny arms and her bobbed black hair and fringe that was cut in a dead-straight line across her pixie-like serious face. Shirl then took time to stare at her cream, see-through, draped-crepe top with black sailor-boy collar and matching black buttons.
‘A student, eh? I can see you’re not from round here. What are you studyin’, darl?’
Anne almost rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to get stuck here talking to two old crones who couldn’t apply lipstick properly, had haircuts like road workers, and clothes that looked as if they were bought from the specials racks at Best & Less. She sighed.
‘Sociology, anthropology and environmentalism. You know,’ Anne said with boredom in her tone.
‘Is that right?’ said Shirl. ‘In-ter-esting. And what brings you to the Tunbamboola Rodeo?’
‘Oh, just the assignment.’
‘And what assignment would that be, darl?’
‘An anthropological study on male aggression.’
‘Male aggression?’ Shirl looked perplexed. ‘Bull males? Or human males?’
‘It’s anthropology,’ Anne said as if spelling the word out to a simple person. ‘Human male aggression.’
‘You won’t find much human male aggression round here, but anyways suit yourself. If you want in, you can have in.’ Then the woman paused, narrowed her eyes and said slowly, ‘You’re not from one of those animal activity mobs, are you, sweetheart? Coz if you are, the rodeo folk said if any one of youse turn up, they’re happy to give you a cuppa and a tour of the back chutes and a chance to meet the riders and animals. Bulls and all. I’m not that into rodeos meself, just here for the Ladies Guild, but I do love animals. I’m very good to my animals … in fact, my dog—’
‘No! I’m not here about animals!’ Anne interrupted. ‘I’m just doing an anthropological assignment, like I told you. I’ve got an interview with…’ Anne looked across to her notes that were sitting on the passenger seat of the car, ‘a … Randy Carter from the Rodeo Association.’
The older women exchanged knowing glances.
‘Ooh! Randy!’ Both of them chuckled and nodded in what looked like appreciation and admiration for the man.
‘He’ll be happy to chat to a pretty little thing like you.’ Shirl grinned with her badly capped teeth. Then the other woman piped up.
‘Randy’s working flat out, darling, with the rodeo. And he won’t be done till dark. Then he’s got to water and feed his horses and all. You’d best get the weekend ticket, if I was you. Catch up with him first thing in the morning, before the Professional Bareback.’ She shook her head. ‘Tonight’ll be too noisy when the band’s on, to interview anyone. Those Wolfe Brothers really do crank it up for us.’
Still offended by being called ‘a pretty little thing’, Anne shook her head and sighed. These women truly were simple.
‘Fine. So, how much for my entry?’ Anne asked.
Shirl scratched her jagged short grey hair with thick, chunky fingers.
‘Well, dear, the proceeds of the gate fees go to the local respite care … if you’d like to make a contribution, just a donation, we can let you in on student rates.’
‘And how much would that be?’ Anne said, getting really hot under her sailor’s collar.
‘Whatever you can spare, duck.’
Anne fished around in the ashtray of her car and passed the lady a couple of two-dollar coins, then looked distastefully at the program that the woman handed her. It had the silhouette of a cowboy riding a bucking horse.
‘Thank you for your generosity,’ the woman said, smiling but with a hint of piss-take in her tone. ‘You’ve missed the broncs, darl. But you may be in time for the roping. Enjoy yourself and your studyin’.’
‘Right. Thanks,’ Anne said, wondering if all country people were that slow. She accelerated away, driving on to where rows and rows of country cars and utes were parked. Her little car lumped and thumped its way over the rough-mown, clumpy pasture. Anne grimaced with each jolt. Then she grimaced some more when she saw some redneck rodeo patrons passing by in frayed jeans and shorts, boots and checked shirts and cowboy hats. It was all so predictable. The people looked hostile. Like fringe-dwellers.
‘So uncool,’ she muttered to herself.
She really wished her roommate, Sally, had come with her, but Sally was living it up at a rave somewhere out on the eastern side of the city. Sally didn’t like the country. It was too uncouth for her. Even Anne’s boyfriend, Simon, had passed on coming with her on the trip, despite her offering to pay for a motel room. He had said he was busy with his computer networking thesis, but Anne knew he would be going to see Eddie, and his housemates, to spend the weekend drinking beers and playing stupid computer games.
She could picture (and smell) the wobbly-gutted Eddie now, sitting in his tip of a bedroom, while her pale, thin boyfriend, Simon, would be plugged into his laptop in the lounge room, blinking behind his glasses. The other housemates, Skeet and Thommo, would be in on it too, isolated in their own rooms, but linked into the same virtual reality game via wi-fi. They were games involving warriors and bomb making and the boys were obsessed with them.
Early in their relationship, Anne would go with Simon to Eddie’s and sit at Simon’s feet reading her books while he played on the computer. But the male testosterone that lurked in the house, the smell of boy farts and lack of sunlight started to get to her. She discovered early on it was best to leave Simon to it when he was gaming.
As she got out of her car, she felt the heat of the afternoon wrap around her. She tugged down her high-waisted black pencil skirt and kicked a grass seed off the top of her dainty little foot, which was encased by delicate red cloth-covered flats, trimmed with tiny black bows. She grabbed for her natural-fibre woven overseas-aid bag from the front seat, which contained her pad and pen, and picked up her iPhone so as to record this so-called ‘U.S. rodeo star’. As she locked her car, she felt apprehension gather in her. She was about to throw herself into this very male and brutish domain of animal cruelty and machismo.
As Anne walked around a big corrugated shed, she was met with a sight she hadn’t been expecting. The rodeo ground was shaded by large leafy trees and beneath them sat groups of people on beautiful green lawns. Mostly families on picnic blankets. There were cowboy-type dads pushing strollers, young girls lying in the sun in cut-off jeans and kids running about, their faces painted, balloons in hand. Mums sat chatting or passing food to their kids. Up in the stand were more clusters of families, all wearing hats against the brightness and heat of the summer afternoon, watching the dusty space of the arena that lay before them surrounded by high metal railings.
Gingerly Anne sidestepped up the scaffold seating in her rather restrictive skirt and sat. With a sudden burst, gates clanged open below. A calf sprang from nowhere. Two riders pelted out twirling ropes and within seconds, before the dust even had time to rise, they had lassoed a little horned steer the colour of caramel slice. The horses stood stock-still, keeping the ropes taut, the cowboys leaping off and hitching the calf, the crowd thundering applause like rain and the commentator revving the show along with an excited twang.
Anne wasn’t sure what she had just seen, but as the men let the little calf up again, she watched as it shook the dust from its coat. It instantly cast its ears forward to the gate where its friends were waiting. Calmly the calf trotted back from whence it had come. The men ambled back over to their horses, took up the split reins, smoothed grateful gloved hands down the perfectly muscled necks of their well-trained mounts, stepped back into their saddles and, like the calf, calmly walked their horses from the arena. As the announcer introduced the next roping pair, Anne looked about. She wondered which of the cowboys around the ground might be Randy Carter.
‘Hat, love?’ came a voice beside her.
She turned to see a middle-aged woman with two freckled redhead kids sitting beside her. ‘Pardon?’
‘Would you like a hat? I’ve got a spare,’ the woman said, offering up a cap with Darren’s Stock Transport embroidered on it. ‘Wouldn’t want to see that pretty little face of yours get burnt.’
Anne frowned. What was it with these people and the ‘pretty little’ line? She shook her head. ‘No. I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Not in an hour you won’t be. I suggest you sit in the shade, if you’re not gunna wear a hat. This sun will sting that lovely pale skin of yours.’
Anne tugged the skirt down over her white knees and looked at the woman as if she was an irritating insect. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know where I’d find Randy Carter, would you?’
The woman laughed. ‘Randy Carter! Ha! Why sure I know where to find him. Every woman knows where to find Randy.’
‘Yes, but where would I find him?’ Anne asked, hot and irritated.
The woman looked at Anne for a moment, her head tilted quizzically to the side, as if she was reading something about her. Eventually she said, after a subtle lift of her eyebrows, ‘Round the back of the bull chutes, I expect. But he’s on after this. He won’t be done until at least after five. I reckon you’re gunna have to wait.’
Anne sighed and stood up. She had to find some water. As she went to leave, the woman called after her, ‘My pleasure, love. No worries.’
Bull riding was the last event of the day and Anne, who was now lobster pink, stood beneath one of the giant elms, feeling her skin pulling taut painfully from sunburn. The noise from the bar was lifting. She was hoping to witness some rodeo male aggression there, but so far the lads and older men stood chatting in a friendly manner, stopping every now and then to watch the arena events. A buzz seemed to rise when the bulls were let up into the chutes and cowboys in white hats and tight safety vests emerged on the rail.
Anne couldn’t help but notice the fitness of the men. Their fringed leather chaps opened up to denim in the crutch area at the front, and at the back highlighted perfect denim-clad backsides. Every one of the cowboys seemed to have on a colourful shirt with Wrangler written on the sleeve or back. And each had spurs and dusty white hats that curved upwards at the sides. She had to swallow down a feeling that the men looked sexy. Really sexy. But in an aggressive over-the-top masculine way. Not like Simon who wore slip-on shoes, with long shorts and, mostly pilling, polo tops he bought from the op shop. He preferred to spend his money on computer games than clothing.
Over the loudspeaker, country rock music cranked loudly, the strains of a maniac harmonica blared and deep thumping drums kicked out a Garth Brooks tune as the first gate was swung and a bull rocked from the crush. On the giant black beast’s back sat the most athletic man Anne had ever seen. He was flung this way and that, one arm cast back high in the air, the other clutching a rope around the bull’s neck. She wondered for a moment if that was Randy Carter. She hadn’t caught the commentator’s call. She was feeling a little giddy. Then she heard a bell ring and a cheer rise up from the crowd. She watched as a man who had been standing behind a colourful barrel sprinted towards the beast and leaped in front of the big horned bull. He was dressed as a clown and darted this way and that as another clown dived in to help unhook the rider who was clearly stuck fast to the binding on the bull’s rigging and was getting tossed about like a rag doll. It looked rough. It looked dangerous. It looked … and it was at that point, Anne fainted.
When she woke, Anne found herself on a St John Ambulance stretcher bed, with the doors of the cab wide open, revealing the leafy canopy of the shady trees. Above her was a red-faced man and a pimply young woman.
‘Where’s your hat, young lady?’ said the man.
‘What?’
‘Heatstroke.’
‘But…’
‘Don’t worry, love. Someone’s gone to find Randy. They said he was a friend of yours.’
‘Randy?’ Anne said, sitting up and feeling woozy, knowing that it was more than just heatstroke that had caused her to faint. After another fight with Simon she’d partied pretty hard this week. Memories of her drug-fuelled rave came back to haunt her. She was still toxed. She knew it.
At that moment, at the back of the vehicle, the rodeo clown she saw earlier appeared. He wore runners, bright red skins that showed off perfectly formed legs, big oversized denim shorts held up with yellow braces and a pink shirt with large stars of various colours splashed over it. Rags of green, yellow and red hung from his belt and beneath his dusty cowboy hat was a riotous red curling wig. His face was painted, smeared with white, a big red clown mouth turned upwards and he had the signature black smudges above and below the white circles of his clown eyes.
‘Randy, hi!’ said the pimply girl in the tone of an airhead, Anne thought.
‘Why hello, Darlene,’ he said in a slow southern American accent.
‘Thanks for visiting my brother in hospital last week,’ the spotty St John volunteer said, her eyes illuminated with an obvious display of girlie crush.
‘My pleasure. He’s a cute kid. I hope he’s feelin’ better.’ Randy turned to look at Anne. ‘So, they tell me you’re the lass from the uni, come to grill me?’
‘I…?’ Anne began, embarrassed to be found in an ambulance by her interviewee. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, just as the St John man stepped forward with a rehydration drink for her.
‘Sit up slowly, young lady. We don’t want you cracking your scone if you faint again.’
Randy surveyed her from behind his clown make-up and shook his head. ‘No point you interviewing me in your present state. You’d better come back to my camp. Have a bit of a rest. Thank you, Darlene, thank you, Frank. I can take the little lady from here.’
A while later Anne found herself with a thumping headache at Randy’s ‘camp’, which was an extremely long horse trailer he called a Gooseneck. Inside were angled bays for the horses, where a big palomino stood munching on hay. Randy had sat her in a deck chair and showed her where he cooked, ate, slept and showered, which was basically in the back of the truck with the horses.
‘It’s charming,’ she said sarcastically. ‘And why isn’t this poor horse out in the yards with the others? Why is he shut in here?’ Anne turned to look at the strangely dressed man before her. It was hard to tell his age through the face paint. It was hard to tell his body shape. He had protective gear under his shirt and just looked boxy and square.
‘Mostly coz he likes it in here with me. We’re pretty good mates and because he’s a bull.’
‘A bull? But he’s a horse,’ Anne said.
Randy laughed. ‘I mean he’s a bull. He’s a stallion,’ he said. ‘You want to know about male aggression, little lady? He’ll kill another male that gets between him and his girls.’
Anne looked at the placid horse with the golden mane that looked as if it belonged in a Disney video. ‘Really?’
‘Ma’am, with all due respect, you don’t know much about animals and men, do ya?’
