Author: Naughty Gaffer brndtag at mcn.net
Keywords: M/F, rom, married
Summary: A hayloft is a lovely trysting place for two wranglers

Chuck and Darcy watched the boss's truck rattle down the road as snow sifted softly from the leaden sky. On a December day on the Montana prairie, there wasn't a lot for the hands to do on a horse ranch after the morning chores. At this season, there were only the two of them: Darcy and Chuck Payson, the only husband-and-wife team of drifters the boss had ever met. Darcy still laughed when she remembered their first interview at the Flying V.
"You two are married?" Tom Valdez had asked.
"That's right. We're a package deal. We only work together," Chuck had answered. "We've been doin' it this way for ten years now."
"Drifting for ten years? What about kids?"
"If we have a little 'un, we'll think on settlin'. For now, we like things this way." Chuck didn't mention the child who had died years ago; he never did.
"Well, I don't know that I need a cook or a housekeeper," the owner had said. Darcy had set him straight.
"You'd have to keep lookin', if you wanted one. I don't even cook for Mr. Payson, sir. And he takes care of the motor home."
"So you're a wrangler?"
"Yes, sir, since I was six. I wasn't much good then, but I've caught on since."
The owner had looked at them speculatively. "I bet you have, both of you. All right, I need a couple of hands for the winter. We'll see how it goes, and maybe you'll want to stay on in the spring."
"We might, Mr. Valdez, but we mostly don't. I don't think we've ever spent more than five months on a place," Chuck had answered. There had been a little haggling over salaries and the Paysons had set up winter housekeeping by the horse barn.
They throve on the rough life they'd chosen. Up early most mornings, feeding and watering the quarter horses that the Flying V sold to buyers in seven Western states. There were mares in foal and horses of all ages, some needing a little training through the winter, all of them needing exercise and care. The winter winds - the bitter snow of blizzards or the moist warmth of the Chinook -- swept the ranch and the nearly silent couple who did most of its work.  Tom gave them their assignments, paid their wages and tried to provide a few comforts for them.  They were proud folk, though, as he'd learned when he would offer a juicy ham or venison from a hunting trip.
The morning's work was complete and the barn was filled with the warmth and the strong smell of the horses. Chuck looked at his beloved Darcy and a knowing grin spread across his face. She looked up from the colt she was currying and saw the look on his face; she smiled and said, "Now, what's on that cowpoke mind of yours?"
"I was just thinkin' that the bunk in our rig is kinda small."
"I like it well enough. We sleep pretty good," she answered. She knew what he meant, but it was more fun to act as if she didn't.
"I could sleep on a rock after a day's work, Darcy. But it's real small for anythin' else."
"So what would be better?" she asked, finishing the colt's brushing and walking over to him. She had her hands in her belt, swaggering like the cowpoke she was.
"The hayloft ought to be pretty big," he said slowly, winking as he took her hand. The barn had skylights and a couple of electric lamps; it had enough light for work, but it was dark enough to be very cozy.
"Let's go see if it's big enough for you," Darcy answered. She scooted up the ladder first; Chuck watched from below. He loved to see her like this, in tight jeans, her legs and hips working. It always drove him wild. "Man, don't you know my size by now?" she asked, every time he bought her jeans that were a shade tight. "Of course I do," he'd answer.
Darcy looked around and saw that this wasn't quite as sudden as Chuck had let on. A space heater sat on a bare area of the floor that Chuck had cleared; a large quilt was spread across the soft billows of hay that scented the loft. "This is a lot like the first place we done it, isn't it?" she said.
"I keep tryin' to make that day happen again. I guess that after fifteen years it'd be awful hard to do it, but it's fun to try." He unbuttoned his flannel shirt, and Darcy pulled his red long undershirt off over his head. He pulled her close and they kissed, just brushing their lips. He sat down on the quilt, pulling her with him, and she leaned back as he pulled off her boots and then his own.
Darcy shook her head and ran her hands through her hair, fluffing it out on the sides. Tom Valdez -- and a dozen other bosses and a hundred cowboys -- would have nearly fainted if they could have seen how she preened herself, how her face softened as she looked at her husband and the trysting place he'd made for them. Her long, severe braids had given way to a halo of blond hair that reached her waist. Her hands were soft and delicate, a secret she kept hidden under her gloves most of the time. In the half-light of the hayloft, the wrangler was again a willowy woman, tender and sweet like a sapling. Chuck was not a hulking, silent cowhand; he was a carven image, muscled and solid, a statue built to protect an ancient village. 
His woman pulled her sweatshirt over her head. Like him, she was wearing a long undershirt -- a necessity of their work and the harsh landscape they'd chosen.  Somehow, on her, it was unexpectedly seductive. Her stocking feet were curled under her, and she looked delicate and girlish even though she was six feet tall. Chuck sat next to her on the quilt, holding her hands, touching his lips to her face and neck, darting his tongue along her throat. This was their favorite kind of game. He lifted the bottom of Darcy's shirt, and she pulled it off suddenly. Her skin was a smooth, milky expanse that seemed to glow next to his copper-colored chest.
Chuck stretched out on the quilt and pulled Darcy on top of himself. He reached behind her and let his fingers play across the fastening of her bra. She kissed him, her tongue roaming around his lips and entwining with his tongue, exploring his teeth, tasting him deeply and satisfyingly. Her skin tingled on her back where his fingers brushed her above and below the band of her bra. He was having a little trouble with it and his frustration -- delighted frustration -- was increasing his urgency. She could feel his hard-on through both pairs of their jeans, pressing against her lower belly. His abdominal muscles were flat, hard, rugged as a rail fence. 
Darcy sat up and spread her hands across his stomach, feeling the thin spray of hair that radiated from his navel. Her hands took on a life of their own as they rose to caress Chuck's chest. He held her waist in a tight grip that made his muscles rise, chest and shoulders in magnificent symmetry and proportion. She put one hand on his throat while the other hand ran lightly up and down his side. Chuck was ticklish and he fought not to laugh or wriggle as she brushed her fingertips up and down, along the ribs and then down the center of his chest. 
Darcy reached behind -- the motion of her arms pulled her breasts taut and she was rewarded with the hiss of Chuck's breath -- and she released the bra. She draped it over a bucket that was handy. Her back was cool, almost cold, and her breasts rose in response to the gooseflesh on her shoulders. Chuck had gooseflesh rising, too, especially on his stomach. He stroked her thighs through her jeans, and the warm flesh suddenly tingled as if he'd used an ice cube -- an ice cube that was on fire. Warmth spread behind the tingling sensation, reaching to her feet and up into her belly. She drew just as much heat from her man's stare. His dark eyes drank in the sight of her, the firm breasts and flat waist, the curve of the muscles around her navel, the swell of her hips still concealed by her clothing. "Woman, you look like a Playboy girl, do you know that?" he muttered in a husky voice.
"You were supposed to throw those pictures away, you no-account drifter," she laughed. Her hair was falling down her back and forward to conceal her breasts. Chuck gasped when she brushed the long tresses across his chest and belly, each hair tracing its own path of flame across his skin. The flames sank through his skin and into his belly, into his loins, and he felt his thighs grow tight with desire for his mate.
The scent of hay was driving Darcy nearly mad, as it always did when they made love this way.
That first time, she had started the morning a virgin.  Chuck had spent the morning teaching her some of the tricks of breaking a horse to saddle. Chuck Payson had never actually "broken" a horse; he always made the horse think it was the horse's idea to carry a saddle and a rider. No one was sure how he did it, least of all Chuck, but he was very good. Darcy had been drifting for a year then, leaving behind a family that had fallen apart. Chuck normally wouldn't have paid much notice to a scrawny 17-year-old, male or female. But he could tell that this one was different.
She watched him closely as he worked an unruly Palomino stallion. After an hour, he had the saddle on a horse that no one else would touch. Darcy came forward to see how he did it, to listen as he spoke ancient words to soothe the horse. "What language is that?" she asked.
"Ojibway," he said. "We're Canadian Indians, those of us who are left."
"I know a little about the Ojibway," she said. She had taken the bridle then, muttering in the same tone that Chuck used, and he had swung into the saddle. The stallion had stood there, trembling but not fighting, as Darcy whispered to him and walked him around the corral. Finally Chuck had taken the reins and the horse responded as if by magic. Right then, Chuck knew he'd found a work partner like no other.
That night, in the barn, they had met by the Palomino's stall. Darcy wondered later who had spoken first, who had touched first, but she would always recall it as a night of glory, of mysteries revealed, of joy shared and shared again. They married a few months later, at another ranch, on her eighteenth birthday.
Memories of that day were flooding back to her, as warm and as beautiful as they had been the next morning. Memories of warmth and beauty, but also of heat and passion, and she breathed hard as she stretched her frame along Chuck's body. She opened his belt and his trousers then, running her hand under his waistband. He answered her with a soft grunt and she felt his hands go under her own jeans. She finished opening his fly as he rolled her to her side and onto her back. It was his turn for a few minutes.
Chuck licked Darcy's throat with flicks of his tongue and she arched her neck. A whimper of delight slipped from her as his tongue and then his moustache tickled along her throat and between her breasts. She was warmer in this position, Chuck's handsome body acting like a blanket over her exposed skin. His hand went to her breast, feathering along it, circling her tight nipple and drawing it even tighter than the cool air had done. His other arm was around her neck, drawing her to him and pillowing her head on his biceps. His free hand continued to roam her body, and she threw one thigh across his legs as he pleasured his hand along her side and her ribs.
His hand went to her waist then, and she trembled and wiggled as he pulled the snap loose on her jeans. His own jeans were open and Darcy put one hand inside them.  The bulge of his cock was hot and quivering in her hand. Chuck's hand was inside her pants now, under the long johns, brushing the silk panties that only he knew she owned. He pulled her jeans over her hips, and she sat up.
"Damn these clothes," Chuck muttered. "It's fun to get you out of them, but it does take time."
"You never could wait, once you were in the mood," Darcy answered. She stood up; it was a lot easier to strip this way. She pulled off her jeans and her long johns, stepping out of her socks as she did. Now she stood before him in only her panties, a glowing figure of beauty that he never quite believed was for him. Chuck struggled out of his own clothing, until he was stretched on the quilt naked. His powerful figure called out Darcy's fiercest needs and she threw herself onto him. They kissed some more. Darcy reveled in the raggedness of Chuck's breathing. She liked to break through his Native American reserve, to make him acknowledge his helplessness in her hands. 
Chuck's fire was all-consuming now. He pulled his lover against his chest, his legs twining with hers, his body's urgency throbbing against her belly and the silk of her panties. With one motion he made her naked, set her as free as he was, and made her ready for him.
Darcy looked up into his eyes and breathed in the hay smell. "Chuck," she gasped, the hayloft beginning to turn in slow circles. Her desire was an overwhelming, beautiful ache. His body was the cure that would ease the ache, that would overwhelm the beauty of her need with joy. His love was the anchor of her world, and hers was the rock that held his world in place as well. 
Darcy had waited long enough, endured enough of Chuck’s pleasing touch. She wanted his cock in her pussy and she wanted it now. She pushed him onto his back and lay along his body. She loved the feel of his hard-on against her pubic hair and her pussy lips.
When she felt a drop form on his penis, she spread her bare legs across his waist. Rising up, she helped Chuck aim his cock into her wet pussy folds. When she had his glans in place, she easer herself down to feel all of his cock in her vagina.
She was the real thing, a cowgirl in life as well as love. She worked up and down, firmly in control with her lover underneath her weight. Chuck strained to push into her, but she and her vagina had him where they wanted him. 
Their release was sudden and explosive, a last gust that dizzied them and made the barn spin like a tornado. "Damn," cried Chuck, "we better not set the hay on fire!"
"I want to! Let it burn!" Darcy gasped. Her back arched as she reached for all her man could give her, reached to give him all she had. Hay was in her hair, on her face, under her feet when they touched the floor. The quilt had nearly rolled up from their exertions. She gasped her pleasure as they peaked and began to glide down, gasped and then cried out as it pulled her into itself.
Tom Valdez paused below them, not breathing, trying to be soundless. His truck had slid into a ditch -- no harm done, but he was going to need help to get it back on the road. He had come into the barn expecting to find the Paysons, but not up in the loft! He heard their gasps, heard the boards rattle, and his mouth fell open. Then he listened for a moment longer and he decided the truck would be all right for a while.
Tom crossed the yard and kicked the snow off his boots as he stepped into the kitchen. "Maria!" he called. "I hope you're not doing anything very important!"  He swarmed into the kitchen like a band of Vikings and swept her upstairs to the bed.