Fifty Bales of Hay (6 page)

‘Well, I won’t keep you from your morning,’ he said with a hint of amusement at her grumpy mood. ‘Where do you want your fifty bales of hay?’

‘Fifty bales of hay?’ Carrie asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking at his clipboard. ‘Fifty bales of hay.’ She made a low, angry, frustrated noise, like the rumble of a bull trying to draw a fight with his paddock mate.

‘You’re new, aren’t you?’ she said, her eyes narrowing accusingly.

‘Yes. It’s my first week.’

‘New and incompetent,’ Carrie said angrily, the volcano delivering up its first dollop of lava into the serene, still air.
She folded her arms across her breasts. ‘I ordered fifty bales of
straw
. Not fifty bales of
hay
! There’s a big difference, you know? Or don’t you? Have you come straight from the fries counter at the local fast-food joint and this is your first proper job?’

‘Look, Ms…’ Joey surveyed his delivery sheet, ‘Ms
Bone
, I might be new at this job, but I didn’t come down in the last shower. I know the difference between hay and straw. Same as I know the difference between manners and rudeness. Fred and Nathaniel packed the truck yesterday. I just picked it up this morning. Not my mistake, but I am sorry for it. Very sorry.’

‘Passing the buck, are we? This is not good enough. I’ve been pouring my money into that business for years. I expect better customer service…’

Joey flashed her a smile. A cheeky, soothing, sexy smile.

‘Chill, dude! What’s eating you, man? It’s a beautiful day!’ he said in a surfer tone that only made Carrie flush with more fury.

‘What’s eating me?
What’s eating me? Dude?
’ Carrie set the bowl down at her feet, feeling as if smoke was actually coming out of her ears and she could make entire beehives drowsy with it.

‘It’s only hay instead of straw. Same diff.’ Joey shrugged his broad shoulders. Shoulders that Carrie couldn’t help but notice looked divinely toned and strong beneath the thin cotton of his Robertson’s blue work shirt. She shook the thought from her mind. For the moment, Carrie only
wanted to see red. She’d had enough of men treating her as if she was a dumb, pretty little blonde. She had an entire farm and café business to run. On her own … because her boyfriend had buggered off with some kind of Yoko Ono woman!

‘Same diff? It is
not
. I wanted straw! Not hay! Straw! I can’t mulch with hay — it will bring weeds to my patch.’

He grinned at her. ‘Well, we can’t have weeds in your patch, Ms Bone. It’s cool. We can rectify things. Jeez, dude. Keep your knickers on.’

She flushed red. ‘Really. My knickers. And what do you suggest I do today when this fucking sun frazzles my bushes. You are the rudest rep I’ve ever had. I’m going to report you.’

‘Report me! For what?’ He shrugged and began retying the load of hay. ‘Gee, I could lose my job. Great, then I can go back to surfing. I’m sorry about your weedy patch and your frazzled bush.’ He started to snigger, dipping his head up and down like a seabird as he laughed at his wit and innuendo.

‘Is this your version of customer care? It’s a disgrace,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. She saw Joey’s eyes roam over her body again, her long summer-tanned legs, and perky breasts that could be seen through the gauzy fabric of her skimpy singlet.

‘Look, lady, I don’t know what’s up with you today, but take a look around. It’s a corker of a day. There is nothing we can’t fix. Calm down. I can bring you straw this arvo. I’ll even help you spread it. I’m coming back this way for my surf.’

‘No! No! No!’ Carrie’s voice rose in tone like a squealing three-year-old about to fly into a tantrum. She bounced on the spot and briefly clenched her eyes and fists shut in frustration.

‘Jeez! You on your rags or something? Look, lady, I’m only trying to help.’

A wave of indignation at what the man had said swamped Carrie. Temper fired in her like a Mack truck engine. The hurt from Zac’s leaving rose up inside her when she heard the same masculine reasoning for her mood that Zac had constantly thrown at her. Fury swamped her.

‘As a matter of fact, I just might be on my rags and you picked the wrong day, buddy! And you picked the wrong woman.’ She grabbed for her raspberry bowl, twisted the end of Joey’s sleeve into her fist, and tugged it hard so he had no choice but to follow her towards the small pile of straw bales that she’d loaded by herself from the roadside stall last week. They were nestled between the rows of raspberry canes that were clearly suffering from the extremely hot summer and the reduced waterings.

‘This,’ she said, angrily pointing, ‘is
straw
.
That
,’ she said, casting an arm to the truck, ‘is hay! Look.’ She set the raspberries down and began to reef at the bale twine, busting it open. Yellow stems and a sweet smell erupted into the morning air. She grabbed a fistful of the stuff and waved it in his face. ‘See! See! Straw! Stalky! No seed heads. Same colour as my fucking hair!’ Then she stooped and began to cast thick slabs of golden straw over the ground.
‘This is straw. Totally different to hay. Get it? I didn’t order fifty fucking bales of hay! I ordered straw!’

Joey reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘Stop,’ he said.

‘Why should I?’ she said, her voice breaking.

‘Because you’re upset and…’ he paused, ‘…and also because every time you bend down I can see you aren’t wearing any undies.’ She looked at him, shocked, and he looked back at her with a friendly, sympathetic twinkle in his eyes. He did not let go of her.

‘It’s all good, sister. Just chill.’

Her brow furrowed. Tears came. ‘I’m … I’m…’ she stammered, the emotions rising, unstoppable, like a southerly swell. Joey pulled her towards him and hugged her. She felt his hands travel up and down her back, soothingly.

‘Shush,’ he said, ‘trust me. I’m good at this. I have five sisters. I can see you are mega-stressed. And I was being a bit of a git. Believe me, I know how to tease girls.’

‘No … I … I was being angry. Not at you … at…’

‘Hey, chill, girl,’ he said. ‘I can see you need help about the place. You just say how you’d like to be helped and I can help. Weeding, digging? Harvesting? I can come up after work, after my surf.’

Carrie drew back from him so she was looking into his blue-sea eyes. She didn’t say a word, but Joey read the look on her face. Suddenly he knew exactly how she wanted help. And she wanted it now.

Slowly he began to run his brown hands over her bare shoulders more firmly. His touch transitioned from one
of comfort to a touch of desire. She felt goosebumps rise, and the relief from his touch broke in a rhythmic wash throughout her body with his every slow, solid caress.

‘Shush, you,’ he said quietly to her. ‘Whatever it is, it isn’t that bad.’

She looked up at him, tears pooling in her eyes, and then she reached up to suddenly kiss him, drinking in the warm moisture of his generous mouth.

Next moment she was inviting him down onto the bed of straw, soaking up the blissful feeling of the weight of his masculine body on hers, the prickle of the stalks deliciously scratching her shoulder blades. His hands roamed under her singlet to her breasts, then slowly down between her legs. He murmured something deeply when his hands met with her wetness and she felt his desire build even more.

She shut her eyes and sighed with pleasure as he moved his body downwards, his face pressing against her inner thighs as he kissed and tenderly bit her skin there, his hands gently compelling her to spread her legs. Her miniskirt rose up and she watched as he grabbed a fistful of raspberries from the bowl. Next he began to smear them on her skin, starting with her inner thigh, working his way along until the wet flesh of the berries met with her sex. The pressure of his fingers and hands and the warmth of the fruit caused her to moan.

His long slender fingers moistened by berry juices began working in and out of her. Then, as she lay back, melting into the moment in a dreamy wash of pleasure, he began to eat, his lips sucking at her and the berries. Bright
red juices smeared around his mouth, and in the gentle place of her vagina, the sensational melding of secretions from flesh and fruit. She felt his tongue probe inside her, then up and over her clitoris. He slid another finger deep inside her and with his mouth and hands, he pulsed movements up and down.

Carrie threw her head back, her eyes seeing electric blue as she took in the divinity of the moment and the feeling of what this man was doing to her. A butterfly drifted into her line of vision, then away on the soft breeze. Beneath her bed of straw she could sense the fecundity of the earth, the scent of the summer raspberry patch drifting over her bare skin.

As she came in a wash of sexual release and rapture, she cried out to the solo white cloud drifting above. Then Joey was on top of her and gently coaxing off her singlet top. The sight of her naked rounded breasts prompted a gasp of wanting from him and a renewed vigour of desire. He began coating her nipples with raspberry red, kissing the stain of the berries onto her body and then delivering the taste deep into her mouth. He tore off his shirt, slid down his shorts, his breath coming fast. Grabbing another fistful, Joey smeared raspberries across her breasts, then lay his bare torso on hers, the moist berries sliding across skin. Then he placed his cock deep inside her and began to slowly drive his way into her tight warmth and wetness. He reached beneath her, cupped her backside and pushed himself deeper into her. The feeling was exquisite for her. Carrie found herself lost in a lush green forest of raspberry canes and ripe berries, her mind barely registering she was being taken by a sea god.
He kneaded her flesh with fingertips and ground into her until a stellar orgasm unfolded and flowed throughout her body and took her somewhere away, up into the electric blue of summer. Her pussy clenched tightly and he felt her give way to the pleasures he had provided, just as the clamping around his cock caused him to thrust one last thrust, so he creamed into her with a moan.

They lay still for a time in the dappling of shade from the canes, looking into each other’s eyes with amusement at what had just occurred. They began smearing patterns on each other’s bodies with their fingers, using the berries like red henna or paint. Joey drew love hearts on her belly. She drew the word ‘hay’ on his. Crossed it out, then wrote ‘straw’. They giggled together and tried to wipe away each other’s clown-red mouths. Eventually they sat up on their soft bed of straw and he held her hand.

‘You’ll need a shower,’ Carrie said, looking at his torso and then his Robertson’s work shirt bloodied with the juice of the fruit. ‘That stuff will stain like blood. You’d better come inside for a bit.’

Joey grinned at her. ‘Sure. I’d love a shower. Then can I have some more raspberry tart, please?’

‘Hey!’ pouted Carrie. ‘Are you implying I’m a tart?’

‘No,’ he said, cheekiness written over his face, ‘I think you are berry, berry nice.’ Then he kissed her deeply until Carrie got the giggles. ‘Berry nice!’

And for the first time in months Carrie Bone laughed upwards from her belly and could not stop.

T
here were now only fifty maiden heifers left to weigh, drench and fat-score in the lead-up to joining on Carnegie Downs. These girls were the last of the stragglers out of the scrub. The small herd had come in tonguing with hot breath from the run of the chopper muster, big Brahman crosses with ears drooping downwards like bloodhounds. The folds of their soft caramel-coloured hides swayed as they trotted towards their thousand compliant mates, who were already yarded up next to the bulls.

Bronwyn Hayden, better known as ‘Beanbag’ to her mates, hadn’t been long at the ringer’s job, but she was enjoying the clang and clatter of the young heifers moving through the yards. And the thrill of the muster in 4-wheelers and on horses beneath the chopper today was still zinging through her tired body. Bronwyn closed the gate of the forcing yard on the last heifer as she counted it through, and the fiftieth heifer joined the rest of the stragglers milling about. Further confined, the animals in the bugle yard that led to the draft area and the cattle crush dropped their heads, looking for an escape, and bunted each other with frustration.

‘Fifty!’ she called out to her workmate, Tommy.

‘How many?’ Tommy yelled back. He was standing near the weigh-scales, busily prepping the drench gun and rebooting the computer at the work station beside the race. The rest of the team had gone home to wash down the horses, leaving Tommy and Bronwyn to mop up the last few head of cattle.

‘Fifty!’ she yelled again over the mooing of the heifers, a sound this morning that came as constantly as the droning of bees, but now, thankfully, the herd had settled somewhat and patches of silence sometimes ensued about the working yards. Tommy stooped over the computer and found the data program and the file for the herd.

‘You sure it wasn’t sixty-nine?’ he said, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, his head cocked to one side, eyes on Bronwyn.

‘No, fifty!’ she yelled from the back of the crush.

‘What you say? Sixty-nine?’ Tommy asked again.

‘No! Frig you, Tommy. Not
sixty-nine
. I bloody said
fifty
!’

‘Cwoor,’ Tommy said, doing a swivelling happy dance with a twist of his hips. ‘My favourite number!’ He grinned at her from beneath his sweat-stained hat. ‘I actually heard you the first time, but I wanted to hear you say sixty-nine out loud. Coz I like picturing you sittin’ on me face.’

‘Oh, grow up! Der!’ Bronwyn rolled her eyes and laughed at how gullible she’d just been. Tommy was like that. Always catching her out on a joke, making her laugh. She shook her head and held her wry smile.

‘Carn, Beanbag, we’re a perfect match. Your face, my dick?’

‘In your dreams, Tommy, ya dirty bugger,’ Bronwyn said, pretending to be cranky. She poked her tongue out at him.

‘Oi! Bring that tongue over here, Beanbag, and I’ll find a use for it,’ Tommy flirted.

‘I bet you would too, ya feral.’ She picked up a piece of poly pipe and whacked the railing hard. ‘Bring your bum over here, Mr Head Stockman, and I’ll give you what-for.’

‘Oh, you just said head! Is that a promise?’

As she went to move the toey heifers into the forcing yard, a smile crinkled Bronwyn’s eyes. Tommy was good fun to work with and she enjoyed his teasing.

When she’d first left school a couple of years back, she’d done a short stint in the city, temping, where she’d lasted two months in a government office. From that job, she knew about ‘inappropriate behaviour in the workplace’ because posters about it had been plastered over the walls and she’d had to do a course and fill out a question sheet. She giggled now when she thought of the place and the dorky people in it. Yep, she sighed, things were nicely different out here, in the outback, thank god. Both she and Tommy would have been done for sexual harassment fifty times over by now, if they were in that office in the big smoke. They’d practically be in gaol.

Bronwyn slipped her large frame through a side gate and slid open the back gate of the cattle crush. A scattering of galahs took flight from a battle-scarred bottle tree. The
tree offered thin shade in the giant holding yard, yet most of the thousand-head herd were still trying to cluster under it.

The heifers mustered earlier that morning had settled and were now bored and hungry. A couple of the maidens who were cycling were curiously hanging around the fence near to where, beyond, the bulls waited. Some of the bull fellas sat chewing cud, one front foot cast out, the other hooves tucked under their beefy bodies, their giant balls drooping in the dust, eyes half closed in the sun. Their skin twitched and tails snapped the air at bothersome flies. The younger bulls stood bellowing to the girls at the fence and thrusting their heads low, tussling each other with long drawn-out head butts and throwing up dust with their pawing front hooves.

Bronwyn laughed at the young guns. She noticed the older bulls with the blue ear tags knew what the go was. They were the ones who were waiting patiently for the cows to be moved to their fresh paddock. The old boys knew, when the gate swung open, they would be free to amble their way to a six-week bonkfest frenzy. In the yard to Bronwyn’s right were the other cows. The poor girls there were too skinny to bother with. In a drought year there was nothing to fatten them on, so it was off to the abattoir for them. No doubt Tommy would insist Bronwyn come with him in the double-decker on the trip to Rocky. She smiled at what the trip would be. A laugh and a half for sure. And maybe more?

Bronwyn looked up to the dusty sky where the setting sun hung in a big yellow ball. It was hard to believe she
was here on Carnegie. The massive, beautiful stretch of a station was a far cry from the backyard where she had grown up in Drouin and her first job pulling tits for a dirty old perv of a dairy farmer on the outskirts of town. She jutted out her chin and puffed away a cluster of flies from her face with a sudden upward breath.

‘Ready to roll, Tom?’ she asked.

‘Go for it,’ he said, as she went to let the first heifer up. Yes, she thought, satisfied, she was glad she had gone outback. She stepped away a little from the railing and the first heifer ambled up. Bronwyn waited for the exact moment to pull the lever and catch the heifer’s head in the crush. The vertical bars came down either side of the heifer’s neck. The beast tried to push forward, then pull back. Realising she was trapped, the caramel-coloured heifer scrabbled her hooves a little against the rough, stone-rubble concrete, but then settled. Tommy arrived at the head bale with the drench gun and stooped at the head of the beast.

‘Better late than never, darlin’,’ he said to the heifer as he stretched to press his thick fingers onto her rump. The heifer bucked a little.

‘She’s a keeper. I’d score her a three,’ he said, then hooked the metal nozzle into the animal’s mouth and gave her a shot of drench. Bronwyn typed the heifer’s tag number into the computer and recorded the weight showing in the digital box on the scales.

‘Congratulations, you have just scored a date with Mr Bully Boy,’ Bronwyn said, watching as Tommy drafted the cow into the yard on the left.

‘Not like you,’ Tommy said, eyeing the next beast that Bronwyn had just pinned in the crush. ‘You don’t get a date. Sorry, darlin’. You score a two. Too skinny to make you a breeder.’

It was hard to see cattle in this condition, but it had been hellishly dry and now there was only room for the good doers of the herd, the ones that could hold their weight in tough times. Bronwyn noted the beast’s tag number in the system as a cull before she let her go. She was getting the hang of working the Queensland beef cattle. More so still, she was getting the hang of Tommy Reynolds. He had been a total flirt with her from the start. Been at her for three months since she’d first arrived, saying she had, ‘real pretty eyes. Like a collie-dog bitch.’ He’d started this morning at the yards, slapping her on her broad arse and winking as he said, ‘I’d like to fat-score you, Beanbag baby.’

She’d grinned back at him. ‘Too much there for you to handle, mate. Most men don’t even bother to try. They go for the skinny ones. Not ones like me.’

‘I ain’t most men.’ He’d pointed at the heifers. ‘We’re fat-scorin’ these, coz the skinny ones are out the gate to the meat works … it’s the fatter ones we want for joining with the bulls. Better to get a calf out of them ones. And I’m after the same for meself. I like the fuller types,’ he’d said with another wink as he ambled away, whacking a piece of poly pipe against his thigh. Loudly he began to sing a somewhat toneless version of Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ then let out a hollering whoop up to the big wide sky. She watched as his chunky form receded into the dust of the cattle in the
yard so all she could see was his R.M. Williams, Big Men’s size, blue work shirt.

Bronwyn had always liked big fellas. Tommy looked good in Dogger boots and she liked the way his sideburns emerged from beneath his hat, like a cowboy version of Elvis after he’d eaten all those burgers and fries. As she’d watched Tommy dodge a toey beast and leap for the rail, she suddenly realised she’d like to know what tools he had hiding beneath that big verandah of his. She’d been through a bit of a dry spell with men. Some were none too keen on her size, but not Tommy. He’d been trying to get into her pants for weeks with his constant flirting. She’d been holding off for Tank, the grader driver, but he’d been gone now for over a month. And, she had realised, he wasn’t as much fun as Tommy.

As the hot dusty days rolled by, Bronwyn had begun to look forward to Tommy’s company and his stirring. Like last Saturday’s bore run when he’d flicked water at her from the trough, shouting, ‘Wet T-shirt! Wet T-shirt!’ Or how he sat far too close to her in the truck on the way to the top yards on Tuesday. She liked the way he smelled of rollie tobacco, Lynx deodorant and proper man’s sweat. The other night, round the Laminex table in the crib room, Bronwyn had thought for a moment he would kiss her, but instead, even though he was well lubricated on Bundy Red, he’d shyly said, ‘Goodnight, beautiful bouncy Beanbag,’ and stooped to kiss her hand. Then he’d walked away, wobbling a little in his boots, disturbing the cane toads that sat like stones on the buffalo grass.

Now, as she eyed Tommy’s strong hands and sexy tanned forearms, Bronwyn resolved it was time to open the gate for Tommy. In the same way she would open the gate at the bulls paddock this evening. Subtly she turned away from him, made sure he wasn’t looking, then undid one extra button on her work shirt. She shuffled her big tits upwards a little more in her bra, tugged her shirt even lower, then got about working the cows through the yard. She had a plan. She wanted Tommy. And she would have him.

The last of the cattle flowed through the yard easy-peasy, their weights recorded on the computer, the drench pack just lasting the distance until the final heifer pulled back from the release of the crush. The heifer saw her chance at the opened head bale and tumbled forward, jogging over to her mates.

‘Job well done, Beanbag girl,’ Tommy said, clapping her on the shoulder. She felt his big thick fingers press into the flesh of her upper arm. She saw his eyes brush over her deep, tanned cleavage. She felt a buzz. She knew she had him, if she wanted him. She chewed her lip for a second.

‘You missed one,’ she said.

Tommy’s eyes scanned the forcing yard, his head tilted to the side, puzzled. There were no cattle left there.

‘What about me? You didn’t fat-score me,’ she said, jutting out her hip, turning her backside to him and slapping her own rump hard with the flat of her hand.

‘Oh, I’ll score you alright,’ Tommy said, grinning at her.

‘I’m serious,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a serious crush on you.’

‘You have?’

She nodded, jerking open the side gate of the cattle crush and stepping in. She stood waiting at the head bale, eyeing him with her big brown collie-dog eyes, hungry for a feed. She bent forward.

‘Go on. Dare you,’ she said, wiggling her ample rump at him, running her hands on her thick and meaty thighs. ‘Pin me in.’

Tommy swallowed, his eyes darting from the head bale lever to her. He hesitated.

‘Quick, or I’ll get away,’ Bronwyn said. She turned to him, her voice low, like the bulls droning to be let in with the cows. ‘I want you, Tommy. I want you bad. From behind.’

‘Oh, jeez, woman,’ Tommy breathed. ‘You sure?’

She nodded and smiled.

Tommy sucked in a breath. ‘I want you too,’ he said huskily.

Tommy reached for the lever. He pulled gently down so the metal ratchet clanked and the bale closed in around Bronwyn’s shoulders. With her head caught in the cattle crush, Bronwyn felt her pulse quicken and her horniness glimmer across her skin, making her giant nipples rise to two hard lumps. She felt a desperation, she felt she wanted to be filled up by Tommy, to be slammed by him, to be utterly taken. How long had it been?

Hastily, with her breath coming fast, she began to undo her belt buckle. She heard Tommy step into the crush behind her. She heard his rodeo buckle clank a little as he undid it. Then when she felt his touch on the skin of her
back, wetness soaked into her panties. Giving him a helping hand, they both began to tug her dusty jeans over the curves of her buttocks. Stripped bare from the waist down, with her arse pointed roundly to the man who stood before it, Bronwyn thought she would scream out in frustration if he didn’t plunge into her there and then.

‘Oh, god, that’s beautiful,’ she heard him murmur. Suddenly she felt the rough skin of his hands roving gently up and over her giant rump and heard his quavering sigh, as if this delivery into his life was something like an answered prayer. She felt his hot sweating cheek pressed against the white dome of one of her arse cheeks, his sideburns prickling just a little.

‘Oh, god, that’s beautiful,’ he said again, his fingers palpitating her dimpled flesh. His touch got firmer. Her desire ran thickly in her. Then he bit her. Her cry was sudden. The pain speared through her, delightfully. His mouth warm and wet, his teeth sharp, but the bite gentle enough so the pain and pleasure blended into bliss. She jolted.