Tammy's Debatable Journey Chapter 05

Tammy’s Debatable Journey 

Chapter 05

© Cathartico

 

*Premise*

This story was inspired by a reader’s blog about her secret sexual fantasies. The central themes are male dominance and female submission with a focus on sexual humiliation, exhibitionism, and rough sex.
This is a fictional work intended for adult audiences only. All characters are adults, and all sexual interactions are consensual. Any resemblance to real persons or events is coincidental. Non-consensual sexual acts are explicitly excluded.
Always keep in mind that it’s a fantasy set in a heightened reality with over-the-top characters. Therefore, it shouldn't be taken too seriously and should never be extrapolated to real life. Instead, it’s supposed to be an ironic play on clichés. Individual statements and actions of characters in the story aren’t meant as generalizations for groups of people. Always remember to keep it safe, sane, and consensual in real life.

---Gala Glam---

It was a cold autumn day, everything was gray and rainy. But I barely noticed. Today wasn’t the type of day when something so trivial like the weather could mess with my mood. Getting out of the Maybach felt like stepping on a stage. The first time I was walking a red carpet. And it felt like I’d been born for it.

Alistair Vibbert, the CEO of Vibeur, was right at my side as we made our grand entrance into the Museum of Arts and Science. They were opening an haute couture art exhibition about the history of fashion, sponsored by the city's big shots. Vibeur had the honor of putting on a special fashion show for the night's entertainment. And the big boss clearly saw this as the perfect moment to introduce me to the high society. Not that I was complaining - I was the face of the brand after all! In a way, it felt like a reward for all the hard work I’d put in - the tailgate gig, the campus campaign. All that grind finally paid off. And damn, I earned every bit of it!

The museum was serving glam all the way to the ceiling like it was trying to trump the Met Gala. The buffet was all bougie bites - canapés and champagne literally everywhere. And the waiters, in their starched white shirts, bow ties and white gloves, blended right in. The guests were the city's elite - politicians, industrial types, and old money snobs pretending they were experts in abstract art and timeless fashion. Cute!

Front and center, though, was the Vibeur duo – Alistair and me. With his slicked back hair, designer glasses, and lean body wrapped in an expansive black suit, the boss looked every inch the fashion czar – strict, sleek and expensive as hell. Standing right next to him, I looked like the picture you'd find under runway fantasy - long silky hair, angel face, and model body. My evening gown? A gown made of rose-gold silk with an off-the-shoulder neckline and floaty cut. A dream! Leaning into the whole glam thing, I rocked coffin-shaped nails with red polish and a whole ensemble of expensive jewelry. All courtesy of Vibeur. No way in hell could I afford this drip with my student tuition. But hey, modeling comes with perks!

Alistair handed me a champagne flute, and with my arm hooked through his, he steered me through the hall, eager to show off his contract star. The rich ladies were busy strolling through the rooms, examining the exhibits, while the men stood around the buffet in little groups. With surgical precision, the big boss stopped at every snob squad and chick clique, trading small talk. Like a well-oiled team, he did the intro and I turned on the charm. Vibeur for the win!

First up was the courtroom crew - a pack of old white dudes orbiting some guy with graying temples and a stern face. Stanton was the head honcho of the local law firm with his partners Miller and Erickson flanking him. They were deep in a debate with Langston, a retired judge, and barely acknowledged me. Took me all of five seconds to clock it - this was a total power struggle! The big question: who was the alpha in the room? Yikes!

Time to sashay away. Next up was the council crew – Mayor Preston and his staff. Surprisingly, the politico turned out to be an old charmer more interested in my artistic insights than my neckline. See? Miracles happen!

“Art’s basically the same as politics, you know?” I told the men. “It's all 'bout who controls the narrative.”

This was my moment to show I was more than just good looks. Grabbing that chance by the horns, I charmed the politicos’ pants off. And they ate it up! Suddenly, we were knee-deep in a convo about media control and public opinion. Felt like I crash-landed in a competitive debate with some experienced politicians. And guess what? I was holding my own like it was nothing. Vibeur's star model shining brighter than the gala's lights.

But then - plot twist! Alistair swooped in and cut our discussion short. Time for me to do my actual job. Yep, I wasn’t just there to rep the brand, I was headlining the fashion show, presenting special outfits from all sorts of fashion eras.

The first walk was called Gilded Girl. The lights dimmed, and the band kicked up a classic Waltz. A spotlight prowled the runway till it found me. And BAM! I stepped into the light like a Victorian fever dream had come to life. A floor-length gown with a corset so tight it made breathing optional. A champagne-colored base with intricate black lace over it. A strapless sweetheart neckline that highlighted my bare shoulders. Long black gloves and a black fan that added a healthy dose of drama.

The high society gasped in perfect harmony. The posh ladies started gossiping while the rich men ordered absinthe. By the end of the walk, every guest in the museum knew exactly who I was – the new runway star destined to take the fashion world by storm. And of course, the big boss took full advantage, telling me to keep rocking the outfit while he introduced me to the rest of the city’s elite.

Just when I was about to step out of the makeshift dressing room, my phone buzzed. Colton! My man was at some Yamos event, but he’d been super vague about it. What else was new? A lot actually! Full disclosure: we’re officially a couple – off the record for now. But that’s just temporary. The whole playboy act was half the reason why he was frat prez, so he needed to keep it going till he wrapped up college. Brolitics, ugh!

Behind closed doors, though, it was a whole different story. We’ve gotten tight as hell, and I’ve been putting in serious overtime sanding down those fratboy edges - taming that wild stallion one sexventure at a time. Need receipts? My man’s been taking me on real dates - fancy restaurants, movie nights, all the rom-com staples! And since he’s a super senior, graduation’s right around the corner, so he can finally drop the dumb act. Not a second too soon, if you ask me. And after that? I’m locking that boy down for good!

Honestly? That stadium stunt had really bonded us. A secret tying us forever, sparking countless new sexventures. And they were getting hotter and spicier every damn time. Daily sexting was standard now, but my man had leveled up to giving me the occasional ’public order’, telling me how to act outside the dorm. And yep! He’d giving me orders for the gala too. Every hour, I had to sneak off and shoot a sexy selfie for him.

So, I excused myself, telling the boss I needed a quick breather before rejoining him and his posh parade. Nervous as hell, I slinked to the ladies’ room. But jeez! It was packed with trophy wives gossiping about their latest affairs. The young, hot model turning their hubby's heads was the last person they wanted to see, so I decided to slip away before any of those rich bitches spotted me.

Wandering around the museum, I landed in a side gallery where gowns from the New Look era were on display. The room was almost empty, so I ducked behind a mannequin in a turquoise dress. Turns out, shooting sexy selfies in a Victorian gown was kinda tricky. That era wasn’t exactly known for its risky vibe. But the strapless style was working for me. Slipping a finger into the sweetheart neckline, I pulled it down.

Tits out! Good start! Not exactly the wildest motif ever, but the setting was so special it totally made up for it. Still, no time to waste! So, I started snapping away like a maniac.

CLUNK! A noise at the door made me jump, and I dropped my phone. Great way to draw attention! Spinning around, I totally forgot to yank my dress back up. Perfect way to cause a scandal! An older couple was staring straight at the mannequin. Thank the gilded goddess, the corset cinched my waist so tiny I could have hidden behind a lamppost, so the turquoise skirt kept my body hidden. Unholy tin gods!

Frantically, I pulled up the gown before stepping out. Cooed about the New Look cuts while my face burned brighter than my dress, the flush reaching all the way to my bustline. And of course, the old dude clocked it, his eyes dropping down my cleavage like they were searching for a hidden artifact. Good thing I was quick on my feet and babbled something about the exhibits to distract his wife, like I was the damn curator. No way was I sparking a marital dispute in this refined setting. No scandals on my watch!

Eventually, I muttered a half-assed apology before making a quick escape to the main hall. Alistair was already waiting and wasted zero time steering me toward a gaggle of trophy wives. To my surprise, the women were practically fawning over me. They called me the next big thing in the model scene, treating me like a rare diamond they’d just discovered. Couldn’t help but smile at all the praise. This was music to my ears!

Letting the gushfest wash over me, I soaked it up, loving every second of it. I even slipped into a convo about the revolutionary designs that shaped modern fashion. Could have hung there forever, basking in the glory of being the elite’s shiny new star, but Alistair yanked me away.

Time to move on to the next snob squad. Turned out, it was a pair of dudes who didn’t match the posh parade. A bald guy in his early 50s built like a retired bouncer - broad shoulders, big arms, and dad-gut. Next to him, a silverfox in his late 50s - tall, athletic, and radiating major boss energy.

I knew the bald one! Frank von Stein - the owner of Vonderstone. And the silver one? His brother Conrad, the brand-new shareholder. Vonderstone? Cheap wordplay, I know. A local fashion brand trying way too hard to be a competitor to Vibeur. They wanted to play in the same league but weren’t even in the same universe! If Vibeur was haute couture, Vonderstone was straight-up mall glam. Luxurious fabrics and artistic designs versus animal prints and fast fashion. You’d have to be delusional to even compare the two!

But hey, my sister Tia worked there. Naturally, I tried to talk her out of it, but she never listens. Classic! Honestly, though? It suits her vibe. Back in school, she was the queen bee – loud, flashy, and popular. I, on the other hand, was the chill type – lowkey, well-liked but not loud about it. Nowadays, I'm the runway model with long legs and angel face while she's the blonde barbie with a big bust and bigger smile. That's why glitz and glitter suit her better than silk and satin.

For whatever reason, the trash-couture twins decided I’d be the perfect fit for their cheetah-chic campaign. How they came up with that idea was beyond me. Totally absurd! But they basically cornered me by a mannequin, sipping their champagne while grinning at me like a pair of smug lions in suits.

“Tell us, Tam, why you’re wasting your talents here?” Frank started. “You should be seen by millions, not a buncha sad old snobs who need glasses to find their hors d’ouvres.”

“Oh, I’m good where I am, thanks.” I quickly shot him down. “Fashion’s supposed to inspire, not just sell. Face it, Vibeur sets the bar, you just chase us but never catch up.”

BOOM! Mic drop! Felt good, spitting facts into their smug faces and watching them twitch. But Conrad just grinned, not impressed.

“You make frocks for the elite, love. We make ‘em for the people,” he told me in his thick British accent. “Our dresses are worn everywhere, yours are so expensive they can only be seen at galas.”

Oof! The silverfox had a point. Obviously, I hadn’t expected these fast-fashion felons to make such clever arguments. I sipped my champagne to buy some time. Then I tilted my head to give the charming duo my best imitation of a polite smile.

“Well, we’re known for luxury ‘n’ craftmanship,” I argued. “Quality costs! Someone’s gotta pay for it.”

“Sure!” Conrad didn’t let me off the hook. “But that’s the problem right there. You lot bang on ‘bout inclusivity, but you sell a single dress for the price of a Rolls Royce.”

“It’s hypocrisy wrapped in silk.” Frank added, leaning in too close. “‘Do as I say, not as I do. That’s the system. Preaching accessibility while playing gatekeeper.”

Shit! Another point for them. My brain scrambled for a witty comeback, but I was still too high on endorphins from the selfie shoot. My nipples tingled, my pussy pulsed, and my mind fogged up.

“It’s not hypocrisy, it’s tradition.” I snapped. “Haute couture’s all about creating trends.”

“Creating trends or dictating standards?” Conrad smirked. “What exactly is it?”

Ouch! I flinched when the argument hit. And I flinched even more when I clocked their reaction. The budget-store brothers had seen me wavering. Hot damn it! Giving these knockoff kings the satisfaction of being right was the last thing I wanted.

“Face it, Tam,” Frank jumped at the opportunity, smug as hell. “Our fashion’s democratic. We give the people what they want. And the people want more than clothes. They want faces, they want role models.”

“Oi, check this!” Conrad chimed in. “Vonderstone’s gonna plaster your sweet mug on the biggest billboards, love. Proper fame, supermodel premier league. Not just some posh museum bollocks.”

Uff! Nice offer! I just wondered what Tia would say if she ever found out. She’d lose her mind, for sure! My sister was the one who secretly dreamed of being a fashion influencer, not just a design student. Modeling for Vonderstone? That’s her secret dream - not mine.

“So not a clout chaser.” I shot back, crossing my arms to make it clear I wasn’t buying it. “I’m doing this for the artistic expression, not the fame.”

“Look at it like this, love,” Conrad said, still not fazed by my attitude. “The more press you get, the more folks see the art. It’s gotta be out there - not locked up in some rich git’s closet.”

“Picture this, Tam,” Frank gave a full sales pitch. “Your booty up there on a billboard, rocking Vonderstone's patented black wetlook leggings. The ones with the crisscross silver chain laces.”

“Now, that’s a showstopper!” Conrad cheered. “People love a bit o’ shine.”

Wow, fucking wow! What a vivid picture - too vivid for my taste! I laughed it off, trying to stir this convo back to something less spicy. But damn! My mind was hooked, like it had just sampled the gala’s secret truffle sauce and couldn’t stop craving it. Holy caviar munchies!

Images flashed before my eyes: Traffic jams caused by dudes ogling my peachy butt popping out of those wetlook leggings. The visuals were so saucy they made me tremble, and the trash-couture twins saw it. They smelled my hesitation and pounced right on it.

“With us, you’re free to express yourself.” Frank took another stab at my resistance. “No stiff rules, no high society handcuffs!”

“How ‘bout a styles clash?” He threw up his hands, framing me with his fingers like he was already directing the commercial. “You ‘n’ a brick wall backdrop, leopard print tube dress, pink purse ‘n’ pink over-the-knee boots. Now, that’s edgy, artsy, the whole nine yards!”

“Yeah, bit o’ flash, bit o’ grit. That’s what sticks,” Conrad piled it on. “Style with guts, not that spineless tosh they dish up here.”

Oh great! My brain started spinning between pride and panic. I heard my laugh turn into giggles as my pussy started throbbing. More pictures flashed before my eyes: Car crashes caused by dudes leering at my nipples poking through the leopard dress.

“You’d go mad for our new coat line, love,” Conrad pressed on. “Picture this: a dark alley, you leaning on a lamppost, bathed in neon light. Red minidress ‘n’ red stilettos, faux fur bolero jacket ‘n’ matching hat. If that ain’t scream art rebel!”

For fuck’s sake! The silverfox wasn’t pitching a catwalk look. These were straight-up streetwalker vibes. Not art, just sleaze! But still, those words stuck in my head. I could see it: Dudes snapping pics of the billboard, printing them out, spraying cum tributes all over them. Every image made my nipples tingle harder and my pussy thrum stronger. Oh shit! I was rubbing my legs together so much I nearly toppled. Had to grip the guys’ arms to keep standing. Jesus healing by laying on hands!

“Alright, fine.” I finally carved. “You know what? It’d be a riot seeing how people react. You know, real people, like hard-working men, not these silver-spoon snobs.”

Welp! That’s one way to blow it. I’d literally handed these budget-store brothers what they wanted. But I couldn’t help it. The images kept looping in my head. With every replay, they became more specific: workers in overalls jerking off. Garage Gary splashing his spunk over my wetlook ass, Burger Bill spraying his splooge across my leopard-clad tits, Cabby Clay blasting a jizzbomb on my face right under the faux-fur hat.

Fuck, fuck, fuck! I had to get away from these knockoff kings before I did something dumb. Easier said than done! It was already happening. I was splaying my legs, leaning in, pressing my tits against Conrad’s arm. Holy fashion faux pas!

Out of nowhere, Alistair swooped in and scooped me up for the next walk. Right on cue! Talk about dodging a disaster! I’d been this close to doing something I’d totally regret, like signing a sketchy contract with Vonderstone - or worse, grinding my crotch on their legs. If they’d kept pushing, I couldn’t have guaranteed anything. Phew!

Back in the makeshift dressing room, I downed my champagne in one gulp. Closing my eyes, I took a few deep breaths. Needed a moment – or two – before I was ready to dive into the next era. But at least, putting on new clothes helped. As if I could strip off this episode and forget it ever happened.

The second walk was called Flapper Fever. The lights dimmed, and the band played a classic jazz tune. When the sax solo hit, I stepped out in a red fringe dress that screamed Weimar nights at Moulin Rouge. The dress was a scandal of shimmering tassels, swinging with every step. My hair was slicked into a tight bob and a feathered headband sparkled across my forehead. A cigarette holder and sky-high stiletto heels added pure drama. Honestly? I wouldn't have blinked if Gatsby himself had been lurking in the crowd.

When the jazz picked up, I strutted down the runway – floating more than walking. The guests started murmuring about the ’evolution of feminity’. But let’s be real: the men only stared at the tassels teasing my curves. The more skin I flashed, the more those snob squads were interested in getting to know me. Oh joy! The trash-couture twins had been right.

When I stepped off the runway, Alistair told me to keep rocking that scandal of red fringes. Color me surprised! Then he steered me right over to a new snob squad - the golf gang. Carl, a former football pro, and Richard, a retired business owner, were chatting with Bill, the local construction tycoon, and Hank, the owner of the state’s biggest car dealership. Their topic? Investment options. Boring!

“These shows should be geared towards the guys who actually foot the bills.” Carl said, looking down on me like I was just a mannequin, not an actual model.

“Exactly!” Richard cut me off before I could even open my mouth. “We’re the ones sponsoring the whole shebang. Might as well get something worth watching out of it.”

Oh fuck! These guys didn’t even expect me to have my own opinion.

“That Vonderstone show from a while back? So much better!” Hank gushed while I winced.

No way! Not that bargain-bin brand again. I was so done with these knockoff kings.

“Whiskey, roulette, two hot models presenting lingerie. That's what I call real entertainment!” the wheeler dealer continued, not even noticing me rolling my eyes.

“Excuse me!” I scoffed loud enough to finally grasp their attention. “Sounds like you confused adult entertainment with art. Fashion’s all about creativity, rebellion ‘n’ …”

“Yeah… nope!” Bill cut me off. “It’s about presentation for the paying class. The other stuff? That’s just what pretentious designers tell themselves. In the end, they’re just clothes contractors. First pay the bills, then play Picasso.”

“Jeez!” I snapped, my jaw tensing. “You sound like art collectors who only talk ‘bout the price tag of a Picasso, not the artistic merit.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Richard smirked. “Without us there IS no Picasso. Even rebels need someone to fund them. And patrons want returns. It’s called ROI - return on investment.”

Ugh! He actually said the last part out loud, like he was some emeritus and I was a clueless freshman who didn’t get how ‘the real world’ worked.

“Hihi!” I laughed, but it sounded forced. “So you think I’m not an artist?”

“Oh, sweetie, you can feel like an artist all you want. Nowadays, everybody feels some way.” Bill shot me a wink. “But remember – money comes first ‘n’ you earn it as an accessory.”

“Let’s call a spade a spade, dollface,” Hank added with a sleazy smirk. “You’re a human clothes hanger, showing off what men buy for their wives.”

Holy diamond drapes! My laughter caught in my throat while my smile faltered. Accessory? Human clothes hanger? These snobby old sacks couldn’t be serious.

“So you’re saying models are just props?” I muttered, my voice smaller than intended.

Holy sequin spill! I didn’t even clock it, but I was totally playing into their hands, giving them more ammo. Their words hit harder than I’d like to admit and my legs wobbled along with it. Shit!

“Exactly, pretty props peddling pitiful products. Hehehe!” Bill laughed in my face.

And every word struck my clit like lightning. I was getting dangerously close to grabbing the guys’ shoulder, just like I’d done with the budget-store brothers before. Come on, girl! Stop thinking about these fast-fashion felons.

“Well, not just props.” Carl tried to smooth things over. “More like muses! Women eye the clothes, men eye the models. You’re inspiration, sugar.”

“As I said, the hotter the hanger, the higher the sales,” Hank grunted, sticking to his opinion.

What an incorrigible caveman! But damn, the way he spat out those words made my knees buckle and my thighs quiver. Ugh, gross!

“Next time you’re on that runway, sweetie, remember you’re walking for us.” Bill gave me some unsolicited advice. “Let your art speak in OUR language.”

And then he literally waved me away. As if he’d decided the debate was over. They’d dropped their wisdom and didn’t expect me to have a single counterargument. This wasn’t a debate, it was a country club crew mansplaining fashion to a model. Fuck me, that shit pissed me off! I wanted to serve them a savage comeback so bad.

BZZZT! I got interrupted. Time for the next selfie! Already? Gosh, not the right time or place. I was too shaken to keep it lowkey. This would surely escalate. Gulp!

“Oh, the next fit’s gonna sing to you, like literally. Hihi!” I giggled instead of clapping back. “Loud ‘n’ clear!”

Giving the guys a wink that could melt a glacier, I excused myself and bounced. Naturally, their grins followed me all the way through the main room. I felt their eyes sizzling on my ass like laser beams, and it made me shake my booty harder with every step. I barely made it out of the room, could have dropped to the floor any second. Holy ballroom breakdown!

Oh, boy! Panic and lust were literally wrestling for supremacy inside me. I had to make a decision and quick. So, I figured the makeshift dressing room was my best bet to snap some selfies without getting caught. It offered a hint of privacy at least. Using the self-timer, I propped the phone on the makeup table to give me more freedom to pose. Standing next to the clothes rack, I did the over-the-shoulder look. Tried, tested, and approved!

As the self-timer snapped away, I got more courageous with each pic. Leaned forward till the dress slid up and exposed my peachy butt. Reached back and spread my ass cheeks to give a peek at my plum. Bent down till I could peek through my legs while plunging two fingers of each hand into my candy box. Spread my cunt so wide the next shot caught a tunnel view of my candy cone. Cute!

To be honest, it was nearly impossible to pick the best shot. All of them were over-the-top and super slutty. So, I sent my first choice and BAM! Not a minute passed before my phone pinged with a reply. Success, baby! Except – nope! Reading the text, my mouth gaped open. Colton wasn’t done handing out ‘public orders’. Now, he was adding ’fashion orders’ to the mix. Remember the gifts my man had bought me? Yeah, he was still doing that. Only now, the toys were getting more and more outrageous. But that wasn’t all! I had to carry one of his gifts in my purse whenever I left the dorm. Holy goodie bag!

Turns out, the privileged prick had slipped something special into my totebag for the day. And the text told me to wear it for the rest of the night. Shit! Putting it on, my face grimaced while my pussy smiled, like literally. But I was out of time! The selfie session had taken longer than expected. No chance to ease into it. I had to throw on the next dress in a hurry.

A second later, the band started playing a swing number. My cue! The theme was Silver Screen Siren and my outfit nailed it: an iconic cocktail dress straight out of a Marylin Monroe movie. A flirty little halter number with a deep V-neck and a floaty skirt in a crisp white color that totally served horny heaven vibes!

Strutting out, I took a few steps down the runway. And then Colton’s gift hit. Sweet jeez! My foot slipped, my legs wobbled, and I nearly tumbled off the runway face-fucking-first. Barely caught myself. But that was just a small victory. The real problem? That damn thing didn’t stop. Doing what? Tormenting my pussy! It was a crotchless pearl thong - basically a black strap hugging my hips with a bead chain running through my crotch and up my ass crack. The evil genius of it? Those pearls rubbed my clit and split my slit with every move. Like an itch I couldn’t scratch – irritating, distracting, and so delicious it drove my arousal to a whole new stratosphere!

The effect was insane - turned my catwalk into a straight-up streetwalk. My classy strut morphed into a slutty sashay. My composed gaze melted into a flirty smile. By the time, I reached the end of the runway, my brain had officially clocked out. No more thoughts, just vibes. Spinning around, I gave them the over-the-shoulder look, hair whipping through the air as I popped out my ass. And then came the lip grip - tapped a bloody red nail on my lower lip. Holy catwalk catastrophe!

This wasn’t the grimy tunnel, it was the fancy-ass museum. Not a tacky lingerie show at a business club but a high-class fashion show at an art exhibition. My moves were totally out of place. But one quick glance at the golf gang said it all. Those grins were dead giveaways. This was exactly what they wanted to see. And in the end, this was a presentation for the paying class, right? The customer always comes first!

No surprise, the rest of the walk didn’t get any better. Every single step was total torture and pure pleasure, all wrapped up in one wild feeling. My pussy was basically screaming and creaming. Gosh! I thought I might leave a slime trail across the runway. Jesus walking over muddy water!

When I finally stumbled back into the makeshift dressing room, I was a total mess. No way around it, I needed to touch my cunt and bad. I’d just slipped a hand under the white halter dress when Alistair barged in. Almost caught me red-handed. Another close call. Phew!

Not that the CEO gave a single damn. He was in full networking mode, grabbing my hand and steering me to another chick clique. I was bracing for more applause, expecting to be heaped with praise, maybe another gushfest. But nope, not even remotely.

“I must say, one can immediately tell when a woman’s accustomed to attracting attention by rather… simple means,” a typical trophy wife muttered to her bestie under her breath.

“Oh, honey,” she said a beat later, right to my face. “It must be so hard to move in a dress like that ‘n’ make it look elegant.”

What a bitch! The smile she flashed was almost as fake as her words. Jeez Louise!

“Looks like she learned how to please long before she learned how to pose,” another gold digger in a way too flashy dress whispered to the women beside her.

“Must have taken years to master posing like that ‘n’ make it look effortless,” she said to my face, all too sweetly.

Wow! The hypocrisy was too thick to cut. I genuinely didn't know how to feel about these back-handed jabs - angry or disappointed. Mostly, though, they made me feel excited ‘cause they made me painfully aware of the bead chain. Still, this was pure envy talking - nothing else!

Before I could spiral, Alistair swooped back in, steering me toward the golf gang. Said something about how the men wanted to congratulate me on the show. That sounded way better. I could use some compliments now. And sure enough, I could already see their grins from across the room. The second I stepped in front of them, they erupted in praise. Carl let out a low whistle, and Richard hit me with an approving nod.

“Gotta correct myself,” Hank said. “You’re more than a human clothes hanger, dollface. You’re a sashay specialist.”

Umph! I couldn’t help myself and put my hand right on the wheeler dealer’s shoulder, slowly letting it slide down his arm. Gosh, no, stop it girl! This was sending the wrong message.

“More like a strut-and-pout specialist,” Bill chimed in, always having to one-up the others. “That lip grip was top-notch. C’mon, sweetie, give it to us again.”

Wow, fucking wow! That’s all they got from the walk? The fucking lip grip? I should have called out their sexist asses right then and there. But nope! Instead, I gave them pure drama. Tapping my bloody red nail on my lower lip, I pulled the biggest pout known to mankind.

Fuck me! I didn’t know if I should cheer or cry, so I did the easy thing. After those back-handed jabs from the chick clique, I basked in the attention, loving the way they adored me for being shameless, I mean rebellious. Deep inside, though, I felt like I was betraying every hard-walking runway queen out there. So how did I react? I giggled! It just popped out of my mouth like a gum bubble. Jeez! I hated it, but it totally matched my candy-cotton brain.

“Now, that you’ve walked like a good model, we’ve even noticed the dress,” Richard leaned in, his voice low. “Why don’t you show us the real tricks this lil number can do?”

Oh, so they had clocked the special dress. I leaned forward, ready to school these brazen blowhards on the historical value of this iconic fit. Before I could drop my artistic analysis, however, the motion drove those evil pearls deeper into my slit, splitting my sopping snatchflaps and rubbing against my sensitive clit.

“Oh my gosh! It’s sooo cute,” I blurted out, taking my finger off my lip and twirling a strand of chestnut hair instead. “And the fabric feels sooo sexy.”

Holy silver screen shambles! I sounded more like a ditzy bimbo than Marylin Monroe ever did. But too late! No more saving this. Historical context? Dead! Artistic merit? Unimportant! All I could think about was teasing and pleasing the golf gang. So, I twirled on the spot, voice giggling, letting the dress float.

“See!” I gushed as I spun around. “Look at the way it swishes. Sooo dreamy!”

“Oh, dollface, I know you’re young ‘n’ dumb,” Hank chided me, killing my vibe. “But that’s not how I remember that movie.”

“Here, sweetie, let us show you.” Richard chimed in, grabbing my hand.

And just like that, the golf gang paraded me out of the museum - not like a classy runway model but like a damn prop. Every step had me squirming and my pussy pulsing, so the brazen blowhards practically had to drag me along in my stilettos. They didn’t even pilot me out of the fancy front entrance. Nope! They steered me straight through the back exit. Bye-bye, marble floors and champagne flutes. Hello, rancid backyard. Trash cans on one side, heaps of junk on the other, and a lonely air grate in the middle. Ugh!

“Stand over there, sweetie,” Richard nudged me forward. “Trust me!”

And I did. My heels clicked on the grimy concrete as I posed where he pointed. At first, nothing happened. But then I felt it. WHOOSH! A gust shot up from the grate and my dress ballooned like a white parachute. I yelped, my hands clutching the hem. Total movie moment!

Oh joy! I squealed in mock scandal but didn’t even try to keep the dress down. Instead, I splayed my legs, letting the breeze rush under the skirt. The fabric whipped around, revealing everything: my long model limbs, my flawless skin, my smooth shaved snatch.

“Yeah, man! History in the making!” the snobby old sacks clapped, cracking jokes.

Shit! This was more fun than it should have been. So, I waited for the next blast, remaining bent over. When the air hit me, the gust flipped the skirt over, fully baring my butt. And the pearl thong showed! A split sec later, the golf gang spotted it. Carl gasped, Richard let out a wolf whistle, Bill clapped.

“That’s not the panties I recall from the move,” Hank chided me. “You tampered with a piece of history, dollface?”

Oh fuck! What the hell was this? Now, they were playing fashion police? I dug through my cotton-candy brain, reaching for words like modern reinterpretation or artistsic freedom, but I didn’t find them. Only bubblegum babble spilled out.

“Oh, you know, boys, that’s the deal with fashion.” I tried to brush it off. “Gotta keep it fresh for today’s crowd.”

Mic drop! That sounded deep, real intellectual, right?

“You can’t alter historical records, they’re sacred.” Bill quickly set me straight. “If anyone can mess with it, maybe it wasn’t worth squat to begin with.”

Oof! He had me there. I’d contradicted myself and got roasted by a blowhard boomer.

“Fine, maybe it ain’t that big a deal.” I gushed, shaking my ass and flipping my hair to sell my argument. “But it looks sooo sexy, don’t it?”

Good effort! But I’d dug myself a hole and these snobby old sacks weren’t letting me climb out easily. WHOOSH! The next gust shot up from the grate, ballooning my dress. And out of the blue, Hank shot down any more arguments. Grabbing the black strap, he yanked the bead chain up.

“Eeegh!” I squealed.

Oh fuck! I barely managed to stay upright. The feeling of those evil pearls slamming against my clit and digging deep into my delicate slit was so intense it basically imploded every thought in my head. But it made the priorities clear once and for all. The golf gang wasn’t interested in the debate queen, just the show pony. As if I even cared at this point! I almost came on the spot. Almost! I was teetering on the edge of an orgasm. Just needed one more push, one more rub, one more tug. But I didn’t get any of that.

BZZZT! Suddenly, the timer went off again. Shit! The next selfie. What the hell was I gonna do? How the fuck was I supposed to pull it off? Panic bubbled up inside me. I had to ditch the old dudes, snap a bunch of pictures, and report back to the Vibeur boss. All before anybody noticed what I was doing. Impossible!

Only solution? Mash it all together. Two-in-one, cum-and-go! Seemed like the only viable option, so I whipped my phone out of my totebag and handed it to the wheeler dealer. Open invite, baby! But we missed the first gust ‘cause Hank needed Carl’s help just to open the damn camera app. Ugh, digital muggles!

When the vid finally rolled, I reenacted the famous scene once more. Every time a gust puffed up the skirt, I bent over to flash my two puffed-up marshmallows with the wrinkled wrappers peeking out and the white pearls covering my pink donuthole.

“Oh my gosh!” I babbled away. “Rocking this iconic fit for the patriarchy. That’s like amazeballs. I totally gotta snag it, like, for eternity.”

“But I oop!” I pulled a big pout. “I’m just a hole model. I’m, like, young, dumb ‘n’ starved for cum. I know zilch ‘bout historical accuracy ‘n’ stuff like that. So, I made a change ‘n’ ruined it. Sooo sorry!”

“Guess, I gotta get punished to learn my lesson,” I sulked even harder.

Oh, terrific! That just slipped out. Not planned! Total spur of the moment! But of course, I didn’t need to spell it out for the guys. The hint was enough to get the old dudes going. With Hank playing cameraman, Bill stepped up.

“Looks like the patriarchy’s gotta show this strut-and-pout specialist how we used to teach stupid dress-up dolls a lesson back in the day.” The big steel bloke said right into the camera.

SPANK! SPANK!

I gasped as my butt cheeks wobbled. But not for long, ‘cause the gust stopped and the dress floated down like a veil, covering my ass. The vid kept rolling and then came the next gust. Carl's turn! I held my breath, bracing for the next blow. But there was no slap. Instead, he grabbed the bead chain and pushed it through my pussy. I was quaking! The ex-pro kept yanking, making me dance on the edge. As if he were flossing my folds!

“Oh, phew!” I kept pushing when I got the next break. “Give me a real reminder.”

SPANK! SPANK! and SPANK! SPANK!

New gust, next guy. Richard’s turn! And he heard my plea. Let me feel his hand every time my dress ballooned up and my ass flashed. Like a twisted game of whack-a-mole! I didn’t think, I just acted. Grabbing the bead chain, I did it myself, sliding the evil pearls through my sopping slit. And that pushed me over the edge. I climaxed - hard and fierce - my cuntflaps clamping around the pearls.

Black dots danced in front of my eyes as my body got wrecked by pleasure. I zoned in and out – and in and out - till the orgasm faded. Just then I noticed I was kneeling on the grate and Bill had filmed the whole thing. Damnit! I felt so slutty - but also kinda satisfied.

“See,” Hank praised my hard work. “You can speak our language after all, lil hole model.”

And with that, Bill stopped the video. Only when he handed me back my phone, I realized he hadn’t taken a swing at my ass. But sure enough, he fixed that fast. While I was still bent over, he snagged the bead chain. And then I gasped! He shoved a fucking pearl up my butt, straight past my snuck pucker. And then another! After all, no outfit ever slayed with just one sleeve, right? Made sense but still shortened the chain, driving me up on my toes and pushing the beads deeper into my sloppy snatch.

“Now, I’m ready to grab my wife, take her home ‘n’ fuck the shit outta her. Ain’t felt this fired up in ages.” Carl hollered from behind me.

And the rest of the golf gang nodded along. Sweet mercy! They didn’t even make a move to fuck me. They just used me as a pretty little prop to get themselves worked up, like the centerfold of some smut mag. Objectifying as hell - but also kinda flattering! Anyway, the golf gang was done with their hole model, so Hank landed a final smack on my ass that sent me lurching forward and back into the museum.

---Bimbos, Boundaries ‘n’ Booze 101---

Returning to the makeshift dressing room was pure torturous bliss. I had to stop every few steps while another miniclimax ripped through me. No chance at thinking straight, let alone speaking clear. If Alistair had dragged me to another snob squad right now, it would have been an intellectual disaster – or straight-up adult entertainment. Depends on your perspective, I suppose.

Anyway, I staggered from one exhibit to the next like a tipsy show pony, hitting every cliché about models. Almost knocked over a mannequin when another mini-peak hit me. Thank the glam gods, the gala was winding down and the guests were clearing out, so I stayed under the radar for once.

Reaching the buffet, I took a break, clinging to the table and eating a truffle lobster role. But of course, my return didn’t remain unnoticed. Out of nowhere, Mayor Preston slid up beside me. Fantastic, just what I needed. Somehow, though, we veered into talking about tariffs. Something I had tons of opinions about – or so I thought till I heard myself giggling.

“Wait, I thought those tariffs were gonna make LV move their production here,” I said, twirling the mayor’s tie. “They’re, like, taxes on purses, right?

Welp! That made an impression, just not the one I’d intended. Preston blinked, confused, while I blushed, embarrassed. My brain was pure cotton candy - pink, fluffy, and fucking useless. I knew it, and now he knew it too. Game over! I scrambled to get out of this mess but only made it worse. Fuck! I needed an excuse to ditch the politico before I embarrassed myself into high society exile.

BZZZT! My phone pinged again. A new text from Colton. My golden ticket out! I hauled my ass to the makeshift dressing room as fast as my wobbly model legs could carry me, dodging every snob squad on the way. I’d hit my quota of elitist debates for the day. Couldn’t risk embarrassing myself one more time. Right then and there, I swore I’d drag my ass back to debate club training next week. Needed to feel like my usual smart self again. But first, I had to deal with the new text. New direction, new disaster in waiting.

‘Time to ditch that gala, Candy,’ the text said. ’We’re about to leave that boring-ass kegger. Taking my lady to a concert instead.’

Oh wow, what a curveball! Didn’t see that one coming. But it was more than welcome. After the night I’d just survived, I could use some dance and music to lift my spirits. Hold on, though! What concert? Where and when? So many questions. I needed to know, so I tried to call Colton. But instead of my cocky jock, Hunter picked up. Ugh! What did that fuckwit want? Remember the fratboy with the frosted tips? Yeah, him. My least favorite Yamos bro. He said Colton was in some ’important meeting with some alumni’. Frat biz, as he called it. Apparently, phones were banned. Weird! But whatever, he had more important news.

“Listen, bitch, concert’s got a dress code. Fit’s in the ladies’ room. Stall three,” he said as sweet as ever. “Get changed ‘n’ wait for the prez in the back alley.”

And that was it! He just hung up. What a strange info drop, leaving me with more questions than answers. First: Why the backyard? Didn’t need a sequel. Second: What about the outfit? How the hell had Colton managed to sneak into a black-tie gala and stash some clothes in the restroom? No clue!

Didn’t matter. I decided to check it out anyway. Better safe than sorry. And damn, there it was right in front of me - a bag waiting in stall three. Pulling it out, I peeked inside. And gasped! What the hell was that? The smug jerk couldn’t be serious. What kinda concert was he taking me to?

The outfit? Blue denim hot pants so short my ass cheeks peeked right out, and a pink plaid crop top tied right under my tits. But the cherry on top? Pink cowboy boots and a pink cowboy hat. What was this - some kinda daisy dukes cosplay contest?

My heart was racing. This was so not me – the runway model and Vibeur contract star. But I was too buzzed to call it a night, and I definitely didn’t want to end up at some fancy afterparty with Alistair and more snob squads. I’d just make an ass of myself! Didn’t want to risk my standing with the boss. This whole concert thing looked like simple, brainless fun in comparison.

While I was still weighing my options, I was already slipping into the clothes. I shook my head when I stuffed my thousand-buck designer gown into the bag, but I still swapped it for a hundred-buck bargain-bin cowgirl outfit. This felt like I was shedding my skin.

But wait! There was another problem. On my way out the backdoor, I still had to get through the museum. What if the CEO saw me rocking these tacky threads? What if I ran into another country club crew? It would totally destroy my image as the face of Vibeur. So, yeah, I had to activate stealth mode. At least, the hat was somewhat obscuring my face. Still, I kept my head down when I left the ladies’ room. Sneaked through the side galleries to dodge the remaining gala guests. But I’d cheered to soon. A few rich bitches caught sight of me. And they wrinkled their noses when they clocked my hot pants and cowboy boots. Big surprise!

“Is that the cleaning lady?” one lady whispered to her fancy friend.

Not that she waited for a response. Instead, she handed me her empty champagne flute before riding out of the museum on her high horse. I just stood there, struck like lightning. Frankly? I’d expected a lot, but not this. Any sense of glamour was gone.

But it was the wake-up call I didn’t know I needed. Face burning, I bolted out the backdoor. For a moment, my eyes lingered on the air grate. But then I crossed the backyard and slipped out into the dark alley. I just prayed none of those snooty old sleazebags would drive by in their luxury limos. One look and they’d peg me as a streetwalker. Hard pass on that kinda drama!

Thank the glam gods, the mucky mouth-breathers didn't hang out in this fancy part of town. They would have loved this look – pure hick chic. No idea what I would have done if I’d actually bumped into them. But I swear nothing good would have come out of it.

Too late! It happened. Headlights hit me. A car rolled up. There I was, dead-center in the spotlight, a tacky cowgirl tramp on a grimy urban runway. I wanted to bolt, but my legs were frozen to the spot. The car came closer and closer till I saw it: not an executive car but a pick-up truck. Correction! The Yamos hybrid truck.

It stopped right in front of me, and I clocked three guys inside. Bummer! Colton wasn’t flying solo - two fratbros were tagging along. And of course, they were my absolute favorites: Hunter, the frosted fuckwit who’d picked up the phone, and Brandon, his best bud with bangs.

When I saw the truck, a whole reel of memories flashed before my eyes - the kinda flashbacks I wished I could blink away but couldn’t. I only snapped out of it when Colton climbed out. For a second, he stood there, looking shocked. His eyes ran down my body from head to toe and he frowned, like he hadn’t expected this get-up. But then he flicked his hand toward the back of the truck. And more memories came flooding back. My man dropped the tailgate, and I didn’t even wait for directions. Bent right over the truck bed, my lil lovelies squished against the dusty metal. Yup, I stuck out my ass till the denim rode way up, revealing my full butt cheeks. Talk about history repeating!

“Nice fucking surprise! My couture crusader asking the patriarchy for help. Loved that,” Colton chuckled when he saw the fading handprints on my butt. “Did the patriarchy get a reward for its efforts?”

“Well, you know, they got to play with a human clothes hanger,” I responded meekly. “Oh, and they got to watch the hole model cum. Oops!”

Holy couture catastrophe! I was using Hank’s flattering nickname without thinking about it. Just happened automatically.

“They didn’t wanna fuck me, though,” I sulked. “Didn’t even cum on me. Said they’d save their seed for their wives.”

Ugh! The fear of missing out on the geezers’ rancid goo made me pout. So absurd! As if I couldn't get any guy I wanted with my model face. Get a grip, greedy girl!

“Good! What we got - it ain’t ‘bout fucking randos when the significant other ain’t around,” my man chided me.

It sounded like a rebuke, but all I heard was significant other. Yeah! My heart melted and I beamed like a fool. I’d been waiting for him to say the words, and this was a good start.

“We do these things together or not at all,” he emphasized. “Right?”

And I nodded hard. I’d invested way too much in this cocky jock. I was too close to turning him into an actual gentleman. He just needed a few more nudges. No way was I giving up this close to the finish line - not even for a quick spunk snack. Nope!

“Then show me you’re a good girl who can follow orders,” Colton wrapped up our little téte-à-téte.

Happy hormones surged through my veins as he yanked my hotpants up, driving the fabric deep into my ass crack. Didn’t stop till the denim had turned into a thin strap. My marshmallow meatflaps popped out left and right, all puffed and pink. Next came a quick silver glint, accompanied by a soft chime. And that was enough to satisfy the smug jerk.

“Truck, now!” he barked, sounding angry for some reason.

Yes, sir. Gladly, sir! A second later, I was parked on the back bench. The whole truck reeked of booze and cheap cologne. Brandon and Hunter boxed me in like terrible frat twins. Since the last time I’d seen them, their attitude was the same but their hair had grown into full-on mullets. Now, they looked even more like backwoods bumpkins although they'd always been the Yamos yokels. Tragic!

Another blink later, I was getting the full ’guest of honor’ routine. Legs draped over the fratboys’ thighs, denim pressed against my crotch. I sighed when I felt the silver thing against my cunt. No more special treatment for the runway model. To the Yamos bros, I was just the night’s joytoy - another interchangeable campus cum dump.

Try again, dipshits! I was the face of Vibeur. No way was I folding that easy. Just minutes ago, the city's elite were eating out of my palm. And now I was supposed to bow down to a bunch of fratboys? Please! I wasn’t about to roll over without putting up a fight. They wished they could handle me.

“Did you two sleep through every seminar?” I called them out. “Ever heard of showing respect to women on campus.”

“Aw, we respect women,” Brandon drawled, putting his arm around my shoulders, flexing for absolutely no reason. “We just ain’t out here worshippin’ every gal who breathes. Sorry, we ain’t kissin’ the ground just ‘cause a chick walked over it.”

“Hell yeah!” Hunter’s drawl was even thicker. “Respect’s somethin’ earned, not somethin’ given out in them fancy-ass seminars. Who in tarnation even listens to that stuff anyhow?”

Oh, hell no! These douchebags weren’t gonna fratsplain feminism to me like they were brofessors at Hicksville U. Not on my watch!

“Excuse me?” I snapped. “It ain’t ‘bout worship, it’s ‘bout basic decency. Like, don’t catcall, don’t grope…”

“Grope like this?” Hunter cut me off.

And suddenly, his grimy paw was on my cutie cup, kneading my padding like he was testing the cushion on some bargain-bin couch he’d just bought. He mauled my titty meat so hard my pink plaid top shifted and the nipple popped out. Fuck! I should have slapped the frosted fuckwit right there, but I didn’t even call him out, just moaned softly in response. Gosh! It felt too good to stop it so soon. Just a few more squeezes before I’d roast his dumb ass with a comeback that would make him cry.

“City chica likes it rough, huh?” Hunter slurred, giving my tit another hard pinch.

“Keep dreaming, boy!” I fired back, but it came out as a purr.

“See, darlin’ doll,” Brandon pointed out. “We’d never pull that on a proper coed. There’s a code.”

“And we stick to that code. We’re strict ‘bout that,” Colton cut in from the front. “Anyone crossing lines gets kicked out. Just ask Ben ‘n’ Ryan.”

Okay! Those words weren’t really meant for me – or at least not just for me. The frat prez was warning his bros. For a split sec, our eyes locked in the rearview mirror, and I could tell he was paying close attention, always ready to intervene. Good! Made me feel safe.

Hold on, though! The names rang a bell. I’d never actually met them, but I was pretty sure my sister Tia had dropped the names before. It figures! Her boyfriend Matt was a Yamos alum after all.

“Sure as a hog in slop!” Brandon kept fratsplaining. “But if ye’re a bro bunny, ya sign up for a special rulebook. Every campus chick knows that!”

Oh, I’d heard about those special frat sluts who were basically freeuse floozies whenever they stepped into the Yamos house.

“I ain’t no bro bunny!” I quickly spat out. “Never have been, never will be. Bet your ass on that!”

Big talk! Sure, it felt good to clap back, but it didn’t change a damn thing. Hunter’s hand stayed on my tit like it was his personal stress ball. And when I made no move to swat it off, the terrible frat twins took it as an invitation. Next thing I knew, Brandon’s grabby paw was in my crop top, yanking out my other perky pear.

“Yeah, we know, ya ain’t no bro bunny… yet!” Hunter drawled. “Ain’t no free passes from Yamos. Gotta make it through the ass-essment first. Lemme tell ya that bootycamp’s a real meat grinder. Hehehe!”

“But hey, darlin’ doll, ya get a pass as frat rat for the day,” Brandon jumped in, squeezing my tit like it was a hand gripper. “Y’know, prospects hangin’ ‘round the frathouse. Everybody knows ya been doin’ more than just hangin’ at Yamos.”

Oh, fuckity fuck! They had me there. These moonshine morons knew about the kegger last summer. Had Colton spilled the tea? I shot a quick gaze to the rearview mirror, but he looked just as shocked as me.

“That doesn’t mean shit!” I called out their nonsense. “I can do whatever I want, wherever I want. None of your fucking business.”

“Oh, dang sure!” Brandon agreed, smug as fuck. “Like I done said, we respect every proper coed. But tell me, darlin’ doll, why’d ya sign yerself up for the bootycamp then?”

Please, what? My jaw dropped. I did no such thing. Definitely not!

“Hell yeah, today’s kegger was the audition,” Hunter hooted. “Looks like ya done got them dress code right - cowgirl getup.”

“Giddy up, darlin’ doll!” Brandon hollered. “Don’t go tellin’ us ye’re wearin’ them boots by accident.”

Oh, shit! That was news to me. Another glance at the rearview mirror, and Colton just shrugged back, like saying ’You made your bed, now you gotta get out of it yourself’. What the fuck was going on?

“Told you to stay away from today’s keggers,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “Sure as shit didn’t tell you to dress like a daisy duke doll.”

For fuck’s sake! Finally, it clicked. Hunter! The dixie douche had played me like a fiddle. There was no dress code at the concert. It had been him – not Colton – who’d stashed the outfit in the toilet stall. He’d set the trap, and I’d sashayed right into it. How the hell was I ever gonna wiggle out of this? Did I even want to get out of it, though? Definitely not as long as these hogwild hicksters kept working my tits like they had a VIP pass. Their special attention made my pussy pulse nonstop. I damn near begged them to crank it up. Holy hazing ritual!

Maybe, just maybe, I could play along – just for the night. I hadn’t signed a contract, hadn’t agreed to shit. So, technically, I didn’t owe them anything. See? Two could play this game. I’d make these backwoods bumpkins look like idiots when I didn’t show up for their stupid bootycamp. That would teach them a lesson about respecting a woman!

“But it looks sooo cute on me, don’t you think?” I blurted out, batting my lashes. “You ever had a real model as a prospect? Bet no cowgirl at your kegger was this hot.”

“See,” I continued bragging. “I can strut a runway while studying for sociology. But you, boys? You wouldn’t last an hour in gender studies, no matter what you wear.”

Oh, fantastic! The buckshot bros had literally groped the debate queen out of me. All that was left was a greedy gal pouting for a pounding.

“Oh, city chica, dressed like that, you could give a guest talk at Yamos any day.” Hunter wheezed, slapping his stress balls instead of clapping his hands. “Call it ‘Bimbos, Boundaries ‘n’ Booze 101’. Hehehe!”

Oh, get outta here! Even Colton cracked up at the title. And me? I opened my mouth to clap back, but all that came out was a helpless giggle. Gosh, I could feel the denim soaking with my liquid lust. Jesus cruising in a frat truck!

--- Thirsty Filly Vibes---

By then we’d reached the edge of the city. No more gala glamour out here, just gas stations, pawn shops, and those sad little strip plazas. But we kept rolling till the pavement got cracked and the road signs started tilting. I saw open fields and literally smelled wet grass mixed with cow dung. Cute!

The moonshine morons kept groping my snuggle pups till we reached the next podunk cow town where Colton pulled into a parking lot - a gravel pitch, fringed with stubby weeds and packed with pick-ups. The lot wrapped close to a T-shaped building – a low-slung barn marked by aged wooden siding and a big neon sign above the door: The Thirsty Filly. Reading the sign, I couldn’t help but snicker. Sounded a lot like me, didn’t it?

So, this was the concert? Definitely not what I expected. This was a hillbilly honky-tonk! I’d never set foot in a country saloon before, so I wasn’t an expert, but this one definitely delivered what it promised. Sawdust on the floor, country band on stage, dudes in cowboy hats. And then there was the air - filled with a smell of booze, sweat, and something like hay.

The bar took up one side, a neon sign on the wall: Whiskey – Wenches – Whup-Ass. Across the room was the stage, another neon sign above it: Drafts – Dance – Derrieres. Classy!

Turns out, Hunter and Brandon were locals, knowing half the damn bar. The upside? Even with the place packed, they’d saved a table for us. Small miracle! At least, we could sit ‘cause my poor feet were screaming after that runway marathon.

Before we even made it to the table, though, the buckshot bros had already disappeared to fetch some beers. Shocker! Anyway, I used the timeout for a quick glow-up session in the restroom. Ran into some girls and guys on the way - mostly farmhands and ranch cowboys. And guess what? They were super chill and friendly. Total contrast to Hunter and Brandon! Turns out, the moonshine morons were the exception, not the rule.

Oh, and I stumbled on a total bombshell: the buckshot bros weren’t just random fratboys, they were real brothers - part of an old-ass country clan. No wonder they'd always struck me as different from the rest of the preppy bros. And now it clicked why I couldn’t stand them the least. The other Yamos bros were basic and shallow – dumb but harmless. Hunter and Brandon, on the other hand, were obnoxious and closed-minded – rude, crude and fucking proud of it. Yikes!

But there was more! Colton was their cousin. For the love of all things unholy! What kind of family fuckery was this? Too bad, I didn’t get to grill the smug jerk about it. When I got to the table, the hogwild hicksters were still at the bar, so it was just me and my man. But he had other things on his mind.

“Yo, Tammy!” he confronted me. “I tried keeping you outta this mess ‘n’ what d’you do? You dive right in headfirst. What the fuck?”

Oh, whoops! What should I say to that? Couldn’t exactly confess to the frat prez that I’d been chatting with Hunter behind his back. And spilling that the dixie douche had screwed me over? Yeah, totally out of the question! I was way too proud to admit I’d royally fucked up.

And nope! I didn't want to give him the impression I was undermining him in front of his frat bros. I had this sneaky feeling the frosted fuckwit was scheming to dethrone Colton and take the Yamos crown for himself. Had to dig deeper into this fratspiracy. And the best way to do it? Stick close to the mullet meathead.

“What’s your plan, huh?” my man asked, sounding fed up. “You wanna bring my bros into our thing? Want them to watch us? Join us? Don’t you think you’re moving a bit too fast?”

Oh, whoopsie daisy! Didn’t think that far ahead. Not my plan. But I could see how it looked from his angle. So, I quickly reassured him. Swore up and down I only wanted Colt. Still a single-cock slut, okay? No other frat prick mattered to me. But making these moonshine morons watch? Not a bad idea? Great way to rub it in their faces what they’d be missing out on at that silly bootycamp while making them jealous too. Knock their egos down a peg. They deserved that!

And that’s how we got into our first ever argument. Hadn’t happened before. Getting emotional, I even threw out that I was already rocking the cowgirl getup, making me a freeuse frat rat. Hard to back out of that without losing face. No clue why I even said that! Definitely didn’t smooth things with Colton.

Anyway, we didn’t get to settle the matter before the buckshot bros came back with beers in hand. Of course, they brought bottles. What a difference from the champagne flutes at the gala. Could anything scream uncultured any louder? As if the guys gave a fuck. Hunter simply shoved the beer into my hand - even though he caught my offended glare.

“So,” he drawled with a nod toward the barn. “Whaddya think ‘bout country life?”

Um, what a question! Totally blindsided me. I wasn’t prepared to dive into a debate with this dixie douche, not in this backwater booze barn. But of course, I couldn’t resist.

“Well, it’s… peaceful, I guess,” I tried to be evasive at first.

“Kinda small ‘n’ simple, though, don’t you think?” I got into a flow. “You know, culture ‘n’ art, it changes you. Gives you new ideas. Makes you think.”

Hunter squinted at me like he was trying to see if I was serious. Then he hawked a big ole gob of tobacco juice into the sawdust. As if to show me what he thought of it. Ugh, gross!

“Simple, huh?” He spat out a hot take next. “If workin’ hard, keepin’ our word ‘n’ mindin’ our own dang business is simple, then yeah.”

Okay, this mullet meathead really wanted to throw down. Fine, let’s dance! Puffing out my chest, I went into a full-blown rant.

“Oh, boy!” I snorted, brandishing the bottle like a scepter. “Culture ‘n’ art give you a whole new perspective. In the city, you get to know diversity. You meet people from all over - different countries, different backgrounds, different walks of life. There’s a whole world out there, you know?”

“Ain’t need no fancy art tellin’ me how to live my life!” the frosted fuckwit sneered, less than impressed. “Out here, we trust our kin, protect our land ‘n’ stick to what works. That’s loyalty, baby!”

“Loyalty?” I shot back. “People in the city are loyal too. But we’re also open to experience things bigger than barbecues ‘n’ bonfires.”

Holy creekside camp! The smugness on his face was enough to piss me off. Seeing the dixie douche celebrate his narrow-mindedness made me want to strangle him. This was beyond stupid!

“Yeah… no!” Hunter smirked like he’d been waiting for this argument. “Y’all city chicas wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit ya in the ass. Y’all gentrified golddiggers only help folks if ya get somethin’ outa it.”

Oh wow! The redneck audacity was a red rag to me! I took a sip, preparing to spit real facts. But somehow, I sucked on the bottleneck way too long.

“Don’t even start with all that woke hogwash, metro missy!” Hunter was quicker than me. “That fancy-pants bullshit done made folks too scared to lift a damn finger. Ain’t nothin’ like that ‘round here. Country folks ain’t scared. We look out for each other ‘cause we give a damn, not ‘cause some highfalutin’ lecture told us to.”

Wow, fucking wow! I gave a dramatic eyeroll. He couldn’t be serious!

“Oh, please!” I snorted. “At least, us city chicas do something. We’re trying to make the world a better place. Not hiding in our little farm bubble. You’re the ones scared – scared to step outside your comfort zone, scared to evolve.”

BAM! The frosted fuckwit had no answer to that. He didn’t even notice that I’d started calling myself a city chica. Ugh! Bless the hillbilly heavens, the dixie douche was way too intellectually inferior to make this debate competitive.

He scratched at his mullet, trying to scrape together a comeback. My opening! Time to finish him off. But instead, I took another sip. Pushing my luscious lips over the neck, I sucked on the glass before I let my tongue twirl around it. What the hell was I doing? Sucking on the bottle like it was a dick. The same move I pulled with the lollipop in the tunnel. Talk about tried and tested!

“Evolvin’, huh?” Hunter finally leaned forward, eyes narrow. “Is that what ya doin’? Runnin’ ‘round in heels, sippin’ on fuckin’ matcha lattes, screamin’ ‘bout yer feelings.”

Wait! That was his grand comeback? So weak! I could counter that with ease. But why was I still sucking on that damn beer bottle?

“Is that part of evolvin’ too, latte lass?” Hunter asked, cocking an eyebrow when he caught me mid-suck. “Next step in yer lady evolution: slurpin’ on any stick in sight, huh?”

Holy campsite confessions! The mullet meathead had me there. He’d noticed my sucking before me. What an epic fail!

“It’s… um…” I stammered, “like a model thing… you know. Good for jawline toning.”

Shit! I heard the fratboys laughing before I fully realized what I’d said. This was absurd – even for the most insta-ignorama living in her champagne bubble.

“Oh, it’s also a meditation thing,” I quickly added. “Mindfulness – ever heard of that? Guess you hicksters wouldn’t know ‘bout woke stuff like that.”

Fuck me sideways! Not helping. Only making it worse. Now, the moonshine morons were cackling loud and proud.

“Don’t reckon you’ll mind if we train that jaw a bit, ya know for tonin’.” Hunter jumped at the assist. “A little unwindin’ ‘n’ relaxin’ wouldn’t hurt now, would it?”

Holy kickback in the hay! How the hell should I respond to that. I’d dug that grave all by myself, didn’t I? No clue how to wiggle out. Too late anyway. The dixie douche had already snatched the bottle opener from the table. Holding it in front of my face, he didn’t even wait for me to open my mouth. He simply shoved the handle through my plump, red lips - despite my offended glare.

And I let him have his way with me. Once again, I didn’t like it, but I loved the way he made me like it. Ugh! Couldn't help myself - pursed my lips to look extra seductive. Got carried away, sucking with so much enthusiasm my pink cowboy hat fell right off my head. And of course, none of the bros bothered to pick it up. So much for staying lowkey. As if anyone would recognize me in this backwater booze barn! I wasn't some clickbait clout chaser but a fashion-circle favorite. Champagne fame, not energy-drink fame!

Of course, Hunter noticed my resistance melting away, so he kept pushing - harder, faster, deeper - till it turned into a full-on slurpfest. Squelchy, sloppy sounds echoed around the barn, so loud even the next table noticed. And not just that! The cowboy hats started staring, watching every push and shove.

Holy mudslide! Hunter and Brandon loved the spectacle while Colton looked a little wary. But only at first. He caught on fast. After all, the frat prez had to lead the way. Couldn't let a rival steal the spotlight. And me? I’m a model. People watch me work my magic all the time. Duh!

The mullet meathead was going all in with that damn church key, fucking my face till I gagged hard and loud. Turned it into a real mess. More and more eyes turned our way. And that’s when things became too hot for Colton. Had to protect the Yamos name! Out of nowhere, he challenged Brandon to a game of pool. Guess, he wanted to switch spots and get somewhere more private. Clever move!

---Honky-Tonk Hoedown---

Naturally, every head turned the moment we got up. All those gazes followed me across the barn, eyes glued to my ass. No wonder! My buns were basically spilling out of those denim hotpants. Not that there was much spilling going on. My gym-toned glutes were way too perky for that. I swear you could legit bounce a coin off them. But there was something else. With every step, there was a tiny little chime. Thank the country band, the music was so loud no one heard it.

Trailing the Yamos bros, I followed them into a separate area of the barn. Finally, some peace and quiet! On one side, a bunch of pool tables, neon sign on the wall: Cues – Cowgirls - Carnage. On the other side, an electric bull right under another neon sign: Beer – Bulls – Babes. How cliché - but also kinda perfect!

While Colton and Brandon got their game on, I was stuck standing by the table, feeling kinda awkward. Nothing to do but look cute. As a passionate darts player, I knew a thing or two about bar games, including cue sports. When the two started rambling about billiards versus snooker, I couldn’t help myself. They were so wrong, I just had to step in and school their ignorant asses.

“Howdy, y’all! Long time no see!” someone rudely cut me off mid-sentence. “Well, butter my biscuit, Bran. Still lookin’ handsome as hell, just like high school.”

Before I could blink, this blonde woman latched onto the bro-with-bangs. Turns out, he was a total redneck romeo around these parts. Didn’t even matter we were deep in a convo – that women didn’t notice or just didn't give a damn.

“Aw, look at your friends,” she kept going, as if she hadn’t even seen me. “Findin’ men this handsome, that’s like findin’ a diamond in a goat’s behind. But here are two of them!”

Holy hell! This woman had zero concept of personal space. She stomped in and took up the whole room, throwing herself at the fratboys without hesitating for a second. Hello? Girlfriend present? Blondie didn’t give a fuck, obviously. This honky-tonk hoochie was on a mission!

I stood there unnoticed, almost bursting with rage! From the second she opened those over-glossed lips, this farmville femme fatale was on my nerves. It wasn’t just her blunt manner, but also her appearance. Turns out, she was Ainsley - Brandon's ex. Back in high school, he was QB1 and she was the homecoming queen.

“Oh, honey, it was pretty much a given,” Ainsley slutsplained country life to me. “When you look like me, you date the QB or no one at all.”

Apparently, Brandon had made it to college while she’d stayed back in the sticks. Judging by those store-bought silicone balloons and rubber lips, she must have spent the last few years between waitressing and visiting the plastic surgeon. Those overpumped bolt-ons were rounder than the pool balls and almost as big as her head. Those overinflated lips were pumped up more than the tires of her truck. And of course, her hair was blond and her cowboy boots pink. Tacky perfection!

But wait! Those boots looked exactly like mine. And the rest was suspiciously close to my daisy dukes getup too. What a ridiculous coincidence! As if rocking the same look made as equals. We were nothing alike. She screamed honky-tonk hoedown while I was all high-fashion heartbreak. We couldn’t have been any more different - the classy runway model and the backwater budget barbie.

In a way, she reminded me of my sister – same glam gal vibe, same queen bee attitude. Only difference? Tia was a natural beauty while Ainsley was a plastic princess. Anyway, I’d always butted heads with my sister ‘cause we were basically opposites – the highbrow diva and the clout chaser. And that's why this botox bimbo had me so riled up.

The worst part, though? Ainsley had her eyes all over my Colt. While Hunter went to grab another round, she started laying it on thick – batting her lashes, leaning in close, totally playing the blonde belle. I opened my mouth a dozen times to say something, but I held back. Didn't want to look petty or jealous. My man knew what he had in me. No need to make a scene. I was actually happy when Hunter returned from the bar.

“All that waitin’ must be stressful, my matchafucker!” the dixie douche chuckled, sly as hell. “Here, lemme help you loosen up.”

And all of a sudden, I had a slim black carton in my hand - a push-up tube with a big white SUCKIT label slapped right on it. Whatever the hell was inside, it was cold and hard. I stared at the mullet meathead totally baffled. He must have lost his mind! But then my confusion doubled when I saw him hand the exact same thing to Ainsley.

“Don’t want that jawline gettin’ slack now, do we?” Hunter mocked me. “That pretty face is all ya got, yer moneymaker, right my city chica?”

Oh, fuck! I was shooting daggers at the frosted fuckwit, daring him to see what happened when he kept pushing my buttons. But then, I heard Ainsley laughing with the bros.

“Boys, you know these big city babes,” she chirped. “They need special workouts for everythin’ - like strong jawlines, fake tans, the whole shebang. Us country girls just chase cattle, earnin’ our muscles ‘n’ tan. Ain’t no yoga or matcha latte gonna match ropin’ steers or haulin’ hay.”

Holy cattle drive! My jaw practically hit the floor. This biscuit barbie was talking about fake tans? Seriously? Had she ever looked in a mirror? There was nothing fake about me, but a whole lot about her. I opened my mouth to clap back, but the honky-tonk hoochie was faster than me.

“You’re a model, right?” she kept going, her smile as fake as her tan. “All that prancin’ ‘n’ posin’ sounds like fluff to me. Out here, we don’t just look strong, we are strong. We work it while y’all just play pretend!” 

Oh my god! This was beyond extra. The drama I didn’t know I needed. How the hell did I get suckered into an argument with this botox bimbo? I didn't want to deal with her, but the bros clearly loved watching us getting into a bitchfight. Brandon and Colton were pretending to play pool when they were actually listening to us, big grins on their faces. Shouldn't be hard to put this Ainsley airhead in her place. I was the sophisticated debate queen, she was the tacky rodeo tramp.

“You love talking big, don’t you?” I challenged her, provocative as hell. “But can you back it up?”

Next thing, I ripped the lid off the popsicle. Wrapped both hands around the tube to warm it up. Made it look extra sexy, stroking the ice pop like a real cock. Jerking the tube with my hands, I coaxed the yellow ice cream out. And then I let my tongue swirl around the fizzy cocktail, literally making love to a popsicle. Holy slurping symphony!

Challenge accepted! Ainsley didn't need a second invitation. And just like that, we were head-to-head in a suck-off showdown. The biscuit barbie went to town on her ice pop like she was starving. We were spurring each other on till slurping sounds filled the room and melted ice cream dribbled down our chins. I smacked my lips while I lapped up the creamy soup. Not to be outdone, the barnyard barbie shoved her whole cream stick out of the tube and deepthroated it till her eyes watered and mascara streaked her cheeks.

Guess we got a little too hyped, ‘cause Hunter had to put the brakes on. Laying down the law, he set some ground rules, so the bros could savor the slurp show to the fullest. And from then on, I could only suck on my popsicle when Colton sank a ball while Ainsley only got her turn when Brandon scored. Totally unfair! Especially since the redneck romeo was way better at the game.

So, I had to make up for it. Whenever it was my turn, I went all in, sucking harder, faster, and deeper. Totally committed, like it was my personal mission! But the biscuit barbie held her own, keeping it a close race.

No matter how hard we sucked, the ice cream was melting faster, turning things into a real mess. Sticky slush dripped onto boobs and trickled into tit slits. Didn’t even think about it. Just cupped my lil lovelies from below and hoisted them up. The pink plaid crop top was barely hanging onto my rock-hard nipples, dangerously flirting with a nip slip. But I didn’t stop. Licked the sweet cream off my perky peaks, slow and seductive.

Not missing a beat, the honky-tonk hoochie wedged her cream stick right between her big fake bimbo balloons. Those silicone showstoppers were so massive, she didn’t even need to press them together. Sliding the popsicle up and down, she gave it a proper titfuck. Damnit! Those titty torpedoes melted that ice cream faster than I could suck it down.

When the fizzy cocktail had completely melted, Ainsley’s airbags were glazed over with cherry slush. She slurped it up loud and proud while I was still busy sucking. Damnit, the trashy rodeo tramp had won. What a fail! Should have stuck to talking.

“Told y’all,” Ainsley whooped in triumph. “Country gals get it done. Poundin’ posts or tamin’ fillies, don’t make no difference!”

God! I basically inhaled the rest of the cream stick, I was so fired up and pissed off. Deepthroating the popsicle, rivulets of sticky slush dribbled over my lips and splattered into my heaving tit slit till I was rocking some killer whorepaint. Proudly gazing around, I clocked the bros gawking at the smeared-up sluts, pool cues totally forgotten.

“Your pancake poser tried, bless her heart,” Ainsley drawled to Colton, a smug grin curling on her overpumped lips. “But she’s too fancy to get down ‘n’ dirty. When you get tired of Little Miss Flattie, you ring me up, sugar. I’ll show you what a real woman can do.”

Woah, the nerve on this backwater bitch! Those names she gave me? Totally absurd! Already forgotten them. Still, I was ready to slap the collagen right out of her face. But no chance! As soon as she’d slipped Colton her number, she sashayed out of the room. Always leave them wanting more – the biscuit barbie knew her game.

What a barnburner – and not the good kind! I would have given anything to scrub that episode from my brain with bleach. But of course, the fratboys weren’t about to let it slide, like ever.

“Tough loss!” Hunter shrugged.

“That’s what happens when a trendslutter picks a fight with a country gal.” Brandon chuckled, obviously proud of his ex.

GRRR! I nearly hissed at the cornfield clown. As if I needed these buckshot bros to remind me of my failure! That fiasco hit harder than a bottom-shelf tequila on an empty stomach.

“Hey, babe!” Colton addressed me. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up. That was fun ‘n’ all, but we don’t need a scene. Don’t want these farmville folks chasing us out with pitchforks, right?”

Well, look at that! Surprisingly considerate. And a good idea on top of it, so I nodded like it was the best suggestion ever. Getting to the restrooms unnoticed, though, wasn’t so easy. First, there were those soft little chimes. And second, it had become totally unusual for me. Ever since I’d started modeling, I was used to being the center of attention. But not here, not with this whorepaint on my face.

Thank the whiskey spirits, I almost bumped into a big ole bear of a grizzled redneck when I stepped into the main room. At first, I thought hulk’s hillbilly cousin had wandered into the backwater booze barn. But shocker! He didn’t even blink at my smeared face.

“Hey, matchafucker, ya hittin’ on our old man now?” Hunter barked from behind. “Lost once ‘n’ already needs an ego boost. Typical city chica!”

Oh my god! The ole grizz was Daddy Duncum? The father of the buckshot bros and Colton's uncle? Sweet jeez, this was too country. But then again, this was so raw and primal it gave my pussy a throb. Stop it, greedy girl! I was a model with standards. No way in hell would I ever touch this backwoods bruiser with a cattle pole.

Apparently, the dixie dad needed a piss, so we were headed to the restroom together. At least, he was good for something! Walking next to him, I could hide behind those broad shoulders, big beard, and bigger gut. Turns out, all that cattle-driving and haymaking had a purpose after all. Big problem? Every step brought a tug and a chime down below. Ugh, I just hoped he didn’t hear it. Yikes!

To make matters worse, the band was on a break, so the saloon was quieter than ever. Even if the ole grizz heard it, he didn’t let on. Still, I'm pretty sure some of the cowboy hats we passed noticed. Trying to distract myself, I kept looking for the honky-tonk hoochie and found her at the bar, flirting with the singer. Could it get any more cliché? Probably not! But hey, she could have that band leader as long as she kept her manicured paws off my Colt.

When we got to the restroom, the big ole bear turned to me. Bulldozing his gut out of the way, he hooked his thumbs behind his big belt buckle. His eyes roamed over my mussed-up mounds as he spat a gob of tobacco chew into the sawdust. Ugh, way too familiar. Big yikes!

“You sure you can fix that?” He asked, nodding at my glopped-up glosshole. “I mean, you gentrified golddiggers can’t tell mud from makeup. Both come in lil jars at your fancy-ass wellness markets, right?”

No freaking way! Daddy Duncum sounded just like his sons. I clenched my fists, ready to slap the smug out of his redneck mug. With that long, messy hair and beard, he was the last person on earth to ask me that.

But damn! The move caused a tug down below that had me trembling. I shivered so hard I had to clutch his shoulder. Jeez Louise, that did not just happen! But it did. And it only encouraged the redneck rhino. His grin widened as his eyes roamed over me. And then he grabbed his crotch, tapping the bulge in his pants.

“Bless yer heart, princess,” he chuckled with a low grow. “Ya look like ya love yer bubbly so much, ya don’t even care where it’s from, right? Could be champagne, bog brew, or somethin’ else entirely – as long as it fizzes, ye’re happy, huh?”

What? For a moment, I was too stunned to get what he meant. Then it dawned on me, making my cheeks burn. Hell no, hard pass! Never gonna happen. I wrinkled my nose to show my disgust. But then I ran my hand along his arm. Just a little brush as a thank-you-for-the-offer gesture before I bolted into the ladies' room.

---Redneck Rodeo---

With a fresh glow-up, I was back to turning that dusty barn floor into my personal runway – heels clicking, hips swinging. Every cowboy hat and farmhand in sight did a double-take. No wonder! They’d never seen a fashion model in the flesh. Strutting through the barn, I was looking for the Yamos bros. At least, they weren’t hovering around that Ainsley airhead at the bar. Good! They weren’t two-stepping on the dancefloor either. Very good!

I finally tracked them down in the back area, all huddled around the mechanical bull - totally busted. Some kinda electrical problem. Not that I cared! Nothing in the world was getting me anywhere near that thing. I was born to strut on catwalks, not buck on bulls. The buckshot bros had other plans, though. They’d offered to get it running again. Ugh! Turns out, they could fix anything with a motor. Guess that's why they were studying engineering. Made sense!

“Hey there, Candy Cattlequeen,” Colton greeted me. “Perfect timing! Why don’t you help my bros with their bull problem? Seems right up your alley. You did such a bang-up job as a cheer queen.”

“Yeah, our trendslutter’s one flexible frat rat.” Brandon agreed. “She can cheer on athletes ‘n’ barflies, cuntry boys ‘n’ cuntstruction folks - take your pick.”

Welp! Wasn’t it nice to know they thought so highly of me? Whatever! Suddenly, the redneck romeo was right beside me. Grabbing the hem of my hotpants, he tugged me toward him till my head bumped into his muscular chest.

“That knob gobblin’ was some real slobber-knockin’,” he praised my performance with the popsicle. “Never been more fired up to play with balls. Hehehe!”

Gulp! The cornfield clown slid his hand under my chin. Almost gently, he tilted my head up. Staring down at me, he looked me right in the eyes, like he was talking straight to my guilty conscience. Made me feel so small and vulnerable. No room for sass!

“Could do with another guzzle game, y’know, to motivate me,” he made his wishes clear. “Ya keep workin’ on that jawline ‘n’ I get this bull fixed up quick. Deal?”

Okay, message received. As if I were in any position to object! Couldn't get much worse than the mess I’d already made. But damn it, why’d I even bothered cleaning up then? Could have saved myself the trouble. The problem? I didn't see any ice pops left, and the hillbilly horndog was getting impatient.

“Just stop thinkin’ ‘n’ start suckin’, darlin’ doll!” He scoffed.

And then he grabbed me by the tits. The fringed fuckhead reached into the neckline of my crop top like it was the most natural thing to haul out my snuggle pups whenever and wherever he liked. As he squeezed my titty meat, I held my breath. But he didn’t spend much time kneading my perky pears. Bummer!

Instead, he shoved me forward. What the hell? Out of the blue, I found myself standing next to the mechanical bull, or more specifically next to the saddle. But the cornfield clown didn’t stop there. He kept squeezing and pushing, bending me over till my head hovered above the saddle.

Umph! I gasped, but it got smothered fast. Cupping my head, Brandon steered my lips to the saddle horn till my soft mouth closed around the vinyl knob. Holy redneck rodeo!

With their frat rat in position, Brandon let go. Heading back to the control box, he left me standing there. This couldn’t be real. No way! Reality could never be this unhinged. Bent over the bull, I was sucking a saddle horn. My juicy buns spilled out of my denim hotpants while the chimes rang in rhythm with my bobbing head. This was so wild, even my butt cheeks flinched.

But nope! I didn’t stop. Didn’t straighten up and bolt either. After losing to that backwater bimbo, I was more motivated than ever to prove I could get down and dirty. So, I did my part, dutifully giving the guys a suck-and-slurp spectacle that literally blew them away.

Every time the vinyl knob slipped down my throat, it triggered my booty bounce, like pressing a button. Clasping my arms behind my back, I gave the pommel the best no-hands blowie it ever had. Only ever lifted my head to show the fratboys the thick ribbons of slime connecting my luscious lips with the saddle horn. Ugh, so crude – but also kinda cool!

And then I heard the moonshine morons high fiving after shutting the control box. Done! The bull was running again, so my work was finished. Still, I kept sucking till a man said otherwise. A second later, I felt a tug on my chestnut hair, lifting my mouth off the horn. Like two love-drunks, we couldn’t let go of each other. But we weren’t holding hands, we were connected by a viscid web of slathering slobber. Yikes!

“Wanna test it out, trendslutter?” Brandon asked. “Think ya got what it takes to be a rodeo queen?”

“If ye’re ain’t up for it, I can always call Ainsley,” the fringed fuckhead added. “She knows how to handle a bull. Betcha!”

Oh, woah, hold up, boys! No need to go low. I could do anything that biscuit barbie could – only better! Of course, the buckshot bros meant it as a dare. And naturally, I took the bait. I was a model and debate queen - I did not back down from a honky-tonk hoochie.

A quick nod, and the hillbilly horndog hoisted me into the saddle. Never rode a bull before, never done any rodeo nonsense. So not my scene! But hey, there’s a first for everything, right? As if I’d get to ask questions. Brandon just gave me a wink, like saying ’good luck, penthouse princess’ and then he hit the button.

I shrieked out loud as the bull lurched to life, clinging tight like my life depended on it. Mostly, though, it was my dignity hanging in the balance. Felt the cold leather against my thighs and heard the chiming as my butt slid back and forth.

Lurch back - tug on my twat. Lurch forward – push on my pussy. My chestnut hair whipped, my tits bounced, and my pink plaid crop strained.

The bull bucked – head down, hinds up. I slid forward and yelped. My crotch hit the horn, rubbing my major meatflaps. A shockwave surged through my core, making me grunt.

The bull bucked again – head up, hinds down. I slid back and squealed. A tug on my clit, pulling and pinching. A jolt shot through me, making me twitch like I’d touched a livewire. Unholy hokey pokey!

The bull kept lurching, wilder and wilder. My ass kept sliding, faster and faster. The chimes kept ringing, louder and louder. The tugging and rubbing kept going, rougher and rougher.

And then I went flying. A climax erupted, electric jolts exploded in my cunt, rampaging up my spine. With a thud, I landed in the sawdust and another mini-peak ripped through me. Holy dirt bath!

Scrambling to my knees, hoots and hollers hit me from every side. A crowd had gathered! The band was still on break, so the booze brigade was watching the penthouse princess riding the bull. So not my scene! At runway shows, I got watched by sophisticated socialites and elegant elites. Here, I was watched by rowdy rednecks and horny hillbillies. Ugh, vile!

But then the hollers turned into whistles. I looked around, totally confused, till I saw why - my crop had slipped, both nipples flashing the crowd. Shit! Yanked the pink plaid back into place. But I tugged so hard, the knot gave way and my charming cherries popped into freedom. Fuck! My cheeks burned hot, but the hoots burned hotter. I’d been literally caught with my britches down. Folks were gonna talk about it forever. What a nipplegate!

When the booze brigade wandered off for fresh beers, my hair was mussed and my knees dusty, but my pride was bigger than ever. Despite flashing my tits - or maybe, precisely ‘cause of it. Either way, I’d proven once and for all I could get down and dirty. Take that honky-tonk hoochie!

---Rectal Rodeo---

Finally, a win for me. Hallelujah! That deserved a proper celebration, so I treated myself to a cocktail. After that SUCKITpopsicle, I was craving the real thing - a cosmo.

When I came back, the Yamos bros were talking to the security guards. Turns out some guests had complained about things getting raunchy in the backroom. There was talk of public exposure and lewd conduct. Couldn't be the booze brigade. All those cowboy hats and farmhands had eaten up my bull-riding. And it wasn't Ainsley either. She’d vanished backstage with the band leader. Must have been some of those trailer tramps seeing their chances with the men slipping away. No wonder, when a runway model was taking up the spotlight!

All the talking and groveling didn't help. In the end, the decision was clear: I had to leave while the guys could stay. Excuse me? What kinda redneck injustice was that? Unreal! I was ready to make a scene. Gasped so hard I almost inhaled my drama to spit it back in the security guards’ faces. But Colton stopped me. As a good frat prez, he kept a level head. Taking the lead, he cut a deal. We could keep our cocktails and stay on the outdoor patio. Since it was autumn, it was officially closed. But they made an exception just for us. Fucking fabulous!

So, I left the barn with my head held high. Outside, it was dark as a swamp, but the big neon sign lit up enough of the gravel lot to see all its sightseeing landmarks - beat-up pickups, battered asphalt, puddles of rain, and stubby weeds. The buckshot bros knew the place best, so they steered us around the base of the t-shaped building to the other side of the barn. The patio itself was a dingy slab of rough concrete, littered with cigarette butts and ringed by a low rickety wooden fence. A chain of bare bulbs dangled from the overhang, buzzing low. A bunch of cheap plastic chairs scattered around a few warped picnic tables and a couple of worn-out bar stools lined the fence.

Hunter whipped out a deck of luckies and all three guys lit up a cig. That was new! Hadn’t seen Colton smoke before, but it totally worked with the country energy. Guess what didn’t fit the vibe. The runway model sipping on her cosmo, duh!

“Haha! That thing’s so pink, yer boots are gettin’ jealous,” Hunter snorted while blowing smoke in my direction.

And naturally, the bros cracked up. They surely didn’t blow smoke up my ass. To be honest, though, I’d done this to myself. Practically begged for it, didn’t I?

“Shoot! That’s what happens when ya let a bimbo roam the bar alone in a saloon,” Brandon cackled. “Next thing ya know, she orders avocado toast. Hehehe!”

“Oh, Candy Cowgirl,” Colton snorted. “You know, sipping a cosmo, that’s basically asking for sex in the city.”

Welp! The cocky jock knew me too well. I was sucking on the straw just as filthy as I’d done with the popsicle. Who could blame me, though? After all that teasing and bull riding, my brain and body were revolving around one thing only. I was beyond hot and horny. I needed relief and bad! Felt like a balloon packed full of lust. All it took was a small prick to make it burst. But let’s be real, I’d prefer a big prick, obviously.

“Good thing there’s no city ‘round here,” I shot back, keeping it playful. “Just farmland ‘n’ cowpies.”

Gosh! I was dying to see how the buckshot bros would react to all my innuendos. I’d given them a nudge, now it was their turn to hustle the rest of the way. Leaning against the fence, I stretched out my legs all saucy and seductive.

CLANK! I froze when I heard the sound – a sharp metallic chime. Out here, it wasn’t getting drowned out by music anymore. Holding my breath, I just hoped the moonshine morons didn't clock it.

“What's that jingle-jangle? Ya hear that too?” Hunter asked, squashing my hopes.

“Didn't hear shit! But I'm getting blinded by all that sparkle,” Colton replied, nodding at my arms. “Damn, Candy Cattlequeen! Those jewels shine brighter than all the chrome on those trucks.”

Clamping my mouth shut, I stayed still like a statue at the museum gala. Where the hell was the smug jerk taking this? Better to nip it in the bud before it went too far. But did I want to stop it? Nope! The thrill was too good, so I went with the flow.

“C’mon Candy Cowgirl, show us what makes you shine like a diamond,” the entitled idiot goaded me.

Seeing his eyes light up, I knew exactly what he wanted me to do. And I couldn't complain. I’d started this whole thing, pushed him to rope in his bros, so now I had to deal with the consequences. My knees were weak, but my excitement was stronger. New thrill, next-level danger. What a combo!

Gulping hard, I practically choked on my anticipation. I was stilled decked out in all the special pieces from the art show. The bling had turned heads at the gala but was totally out of place at this hillbilly honky-tonk. Hadn't ditched it when I slipped into my cowgirl getup. Rookie mistake – or maybe, horny-brained intent? Take your pick!

Anyway, I started with the safe stuff. Pulling my slick chestnut hair back, I swiveled my head left and right, letting the chandelier earrings catch the light. The dangling diamonds flickered like tiny lightning bolts under the neon glow. Good start!

“All bling, no bang!” Brandon wasn’t impressed. “Our trendslutter looks like a million bucks but couldn’t handle bouncin’ on the haybale. Betcha!”

Not a good response! These moonshine morons didn't think I was capable of anything, which pissed me off so much I had to prove them wrong. Couldn’t wait to see their dumb faces when I showed them what a filthy filly I could be. So, I moved on to my wrists.

Usually, I wasn’t a bling bitch. Never wore any jewelry on campus. But today was an exception. Vibeur had hooked me up with diamonds to match my gala gown. And duh, like I was ever gonna resist the temptation of dripping ice - five thin bracelets on each arm, three rings per hand. Shaking my arms, the bracelets jingled like wind chimes while the rings flashed like shooting stars. This should do it!

“All gloss, no grit!” Hunter snorted, not impressed either. “Bet cha ass, our cosmopolitramp thinks, roughin’ it means wi-fi’s down for five minutes. Ain’t no way she could handle knockin’ boots in the bar, country style.”

Not enough! The raised brows said it all: ’Want our approval? Better keep going, frat rat.’ So, that’s exactly what I did, shaking my shoulders and swaying my hips. The necklace charm flipped over my perky pears like a blinking buoy in a stormy sea while the belly ring swung side to side, sparkling brighter than the bulbs above.

“More shine than sense!” Brandon whooped. “Our trendslutter’s gonna be squealin’ louder than a hog when the mud smacks her bling as I plow her south field. Mark my words!”

Still, not enough! The bros expected more. Only one ace left in my deck - the final piece of my collection. The one thing I’d been trying to avoid at all costs. At this point, though, there was no way around it. Time to pull it out.

Shaking my booty, I turned around. Ever so slowly, I hooked my fingers into the waistband and eased the hotpants down. Bending forward, I straddled my legs. Set my hands on my buns and spread my ass cheeks open. I literally offered up my pussy like a dazzling crown when it was actually the rough concrete of a grimy patio. The irony!

For a second, the buckshot bros went silent. Just the faint strum of the country band in the background. Then - BAM! - laughter erupted. The cackling washed over me, making me tremble in my pink cowboy boots. It even set my lady lips fluttering, causing a full-on glockenspiel. And the fratboys laughed even harder when they saw my sparkling slut spoilers shimmy. What a mudhole merry-go-round!

The reason for their amusement? A delicate silver clip - u-shaped at the top, arms flaring open at the bottom, little silver bells jingling on each end. Clipped right onto my smooth shaved slot, it pushed my meaty mudflaps outward, squeezed my minor meatcurtains together, and pinched my clit. What a tragic trifecta!

The effect? My outer lips had bloated up like a pair of fat, shiny shock-batons. My inner lips were yanked open, smooth as a pink tarp without a single crease left. That cursed glinting clip was the reason for all my problems. The endless rubbing and tugging had turned my brain into cotton candy while driving me insane with lust. Meanwhile, those bells rang out like sirens, telling the whole booze brigade I was open for business. A total torture device, no question. I despised it and I loved every second of despising it.

“Hell, lookit that!” Hunter was the first to find his voice. “Bet that bling costs more than my truck.”

Well, it was a gift from Colton, so I doubted it. But great if it looked expensive and high-class.

“Shit chimes louder than your truck can honk. That’s for sure!” the smug jerk responded for me.

“I’ll be damned!” Brandon drawled after another round of laughter. “Darlin’ doll’s got her own cowbell! Ya tryin’ to summon any ranchhand in a mile radius?”

Cowbell? Seriously? The sheer devaluation sent a full-body shiver down my spine.

“Aww, real cute!” I fired back. “You sure you can show me real country life, cowboy? You don’t even know how to plant seeds.”

For some reason, I felt the need to drive my point home, shaking my ass cheeky as fuck. Side effect? Those bells jingled with every syllable, making that cowbell crack hit way closer than I liked. And the moonshine morons answered with whistles and roars. They were more than ready to answer the call and teach me how to work a stick shift - country style.

“You told a city chica to dress as a cowgirl,” Colton chimed in. “What did you expect? Ask a glam tramp to put on lipstick ‘n’ she shoots a whole damn makeup tutorial.”

Oh my god! I was drowning in a cocktail of humiliation and lapped up every damn drop. My booty kept shaking so hard I was practically twerking, and the bells kept chiming louder than a stomp-and-shake one-woman band.

“What them bells mean, darlin’ doll? Truth or trouble?” The fringed fuckhead drawled once the laughter died down again. “They chirpin’ when ye’re callin’ for a fillin’ of that feed trough or when ya askin’ for someone to come wrangle ya?”

Feed trough? Excuse me? This was getting worse with every damn word.

“Only one way to find out,” I still fired back. “But who we’re kidding? For you hicksters, roughing it means trying another position than mish.”

“Uh, feisty filly! Let’s see what happens if I pull it then.” Hunter was the first to take charge. “Win a prize or a kick in the face? What’s your guess, bros?”

Oh fuck! I hated it when the guys were betting on my ass. But I loved the idea of their hands on me - touching, pinching, slapping, whatever. Just do it, boys! But the mullet meathead stayed put, waiting for Colton to give the green light. Apparently, my little slut show had cemented his status as Yamos prez. Turning a runway model into a frat rat could do wonders for your frat cred, I guess. Totally silly – but also made me kinda proud. That’s what you do for your man, right?

“You still wanna do this?” Colton whispered in my ear. “No going back after this. Your call. You pull up your pants, we bounce. You ring the bells, we keep going.”

Holy carillon catastrophe! He was dead serious. This was important to him. But I was just as serious. Right then, my orgasm was the most important thing to me. So, I bent over the fence, stuck my ass out, and wriggled my booty. RING! RING!

“You make me cum, you get a prize. You fail, you get a kick. Easy as that.” I announced.

And BOOM! That got them going. Colton gave the nod and Hunter stepped up to the plate, flicking the clip right off the bat. The intensity literally swooped me off my feet. My ass jiggled and my arms flailed. Had to grip the fence to stay upright. No stopping it! My body acted on its own while I moaned my head off. Almost came right there.

Another flick and another rush of pure ecstasy. I was hopping on the spot, my ass bouncing all over the place. Every jerk yanked the clip, ripping through my slut spoilers. And I came without warning! Out of nowhere, a climax exploded in my core like fireworks. Every muscle strained, every nerve fired. But damn, it fizzled out way too quick.

Not enough! I needed more. So, I got back into position, bending over. Spread my ass cheeks wide, wiggling my butt like begging for more. And Brandon more than delivered. Twanged that clip like a guitar side. My major meatflaps got spread, my small slutwings got pulled, and my love button got whipped. Had to grab one of those wooden posts holding up the overhang. Danced around it like a stripper pole while I came hard. And the jolts of ecstasy became so strong I nearly blacked out.

BAM! Another twang from the mullet meathead. BOOM! Another pluck from the hillbilly horndog. The moonshine morons strummed that clip like they were shredding a thrash metal riff, turning me into their human slutocaster. My whole body quaked as my moans drowned out the bells. I was gone, lost in a haze of bliss and bucking, bliss and bucking.

When they finally stopped, I was hanging over the fence like a sad sack of laundry - feet dangling on one side, tits swinging on the other. I was panting harder than after the last campus run. Honestly, though, this had been a marathon of mini-eruptions. Cute, but not mind-blowing! I was still chasing that one knockout moment – a climax so massive it would tear me away and quench the fire burning in my loins for good. Lucky for me, I knew exactly how to get there. I’d ridden two paths to cloud-nine before. And I was more than ready to go down both roads to hit that peak again.

“C’mon, Colt, show them,” I gazed at my frat daddy. “Show them what you can do with that cornhole cleaver.”

That hint should have been blindingly obvious. Could I have spelled it out any clearer? Absolutely not! But the cocky jock just stood there, staring deep into my eyes, like he was double-checking if I actually meant it.

Uh, excuse me? I knew exactly what I was doing! My gaze didn’t flinch, not even a little. So, he finally shrugged, like saying, ’your call, babe, you deal with the fallout.’ And yeah, that was exactly the vibe I wanted. I was craving those long-lasting aftershocks all over again. Couldn’t wait another fucking second. Definitely sick and twisted – but also kinda hot and iconic.

Thank the frat overlords, Colton couldn’t risk looking soft in front of his wolfpack. So, he took the bait and went to town. No more restraint, no more brakes, just raw power. Grabbing my long chestnut hair, he hauled me off the wooden fence, which creaked like it was about to collapse. Dragging me to a barstool, he parked my ass on the seat, my butt cheeks spilling over the rear edge, my chest draped over the fence, my cowboy boots dangling just off the ground. Oh gulp! The pose left me totally exposed. And I was here for it!

“Hell yeah! We’re goin’ big right outta the gate! The famous barstool buttfuck!” Brandon hollered, like he knew something I didn’t.

“Uhhh, the final challenge of bootycamp. The ultimate ass-essment from ole Mr. Asspert,” Hunter added with a click of his tongue. “You tryin’ to skip the line, matchafucker? What happens tonight, sure ain’t countin’ tomorrow!”

“Hehehe! Y’all remember that last ass-essment with that blonde fashion chick?” the fringed fuckhead laughed. “Prez gave her a proper workout. Bet that bitch still can’t sit straight after that ass trainin’. Not a model, but close enough - sold clothes or somethin’. Same dang shit!”

“Nah,” the frosted fuckwit snorted. “That one was a big-tit bimbo. This here’s a pancake poser. Our wannabe fashion queen’s gotta work twice as hard if she wants somethin’ more than a participation trophy.”

Oh my god! What in the ever-lasting hell was this? Why wasn’t I the main attraction anymore? First that Ainsley airhead, and now some random bro bunny. Like, excuse me? I was way out of their league. And yet here I was - just another meatbag with conveniently entertaining holes for the fratboys. They were straight-up trophy hunters, and I was just another notch in their belt – totally interchangeable, totally replaceable. But honestly? That was the whole damn rush. I wasn’t out here for a five-star dinner date - I wanted a hardcore dickdown.

“Hey, boys, little favor,” I cooed, batting my lashes at the moonshine morons. “Got this habit of screaming the whole roof off. Not trying to summon the neighborhood watch, though. Think you can help a loudmouth lady out?”

Oh, mercy me! Their condescending words lit a fire under my ass, making me crank this thing up to the next level. Never planned to go that far! But I’d blurted it out now, and it was way too wicked to take it back. Definitely risky and dangerous – but also kinda nasty and epic!

As if I even got the chance to say anything else! Colt was already knocking on my backdoor, making my eyes clamp shut. I let out a grunt just from the anticipation alone. No matter how many times I dealt with that wrist-sized wrecker, it hit different every single time. Not my first rectal rodeo, sure, but the colossal cock still made me feel like an anal virgin. And that was exactly what made it so intense! The thrill ride that would send me over the edge once and for all.

Whatever! I’d taken the biggest girth on earth before and survived – loved it actually. I wanted to feel the rush again, no matter how rough or intense. The bonus? My clamped cunt had leaked so much liquid lust my whole crack was drenched, and my tight ringpiece had practically prelubed itself. The downside? This was a whole different position, perched on that wonky barstool!

Leaning forward, my tits dangled over the fence while my ass tilted high. The stool forced my hips to jut out, presenting my pink pucker like a goddamn target. The narrow seat dug into my cheeks, spreading my buns naturally - no hands needed. Holy roped calf!

I finally got it – the meaning behind the ’famous barstool buttfuck’. The position was tailor-made for some serious anal plumbing. Folded like that, my turd tube was compressed and extra tight while my defenseless dirtstar sat right at hip height. Made banging my butt ten times easier while letting me feel it a million times harder. My breath got all choppy as the fat fuckbat poked and prodded at my stink ring. My grunts climbed an octave. And then they froze completely when Colton breached my gutter gate, like literally.

SCHLORP! With a wet, raw stab he slammed his colossal cock up my tight ass. The barstool creaked. My jaw dropped. My eyes popped open. My hips slid forward. The clip got squished against the edge. My scream got stuck in my throat. No sound came out. Nada! Jolts of ecstasy surged through me as my body began bucking. The barstool teetered while my snuck pucker danced around the fat fuckpole.

The humping drove me wild. But here’s the twist: I did it to myself! My body bucked so hard I rammed the cornhole cleaver up my butt while I tugged on my clamped cunt. Pleasure surged from my pussy and exploded like a thousand shooting stars before my eyes, burying every twinge of pain from the brutal ass stretching. My mouth hung open, no sound yet. My eyes were wide, not focus yet. A primal scream was loading in my lungs, ready to shake the whole patio. Any second, it would burst out. Holy bronco buster!

THWACK! Colton’s loins clashed with my buns. The entitled idiot started reaming my ass pipe, and every slam ended with a wet, vulgar slap against my cheeks. Every jab squished the silver clip against the seat’s edge. The barstool wobbled under the force, dangerously teetering like a rocking horse. My cowboy boots whipped back and forth like two wrecking balls. Had to grip the fence to keep myself steady while I felt my bunghole stretching grotesquely. My ass ring puckered and strained around the glorious girth like it was trying to take over the screaming.

The scream! It was coming. Another thump up my rump and a bump against the bling. The stool nearly tipped over, my cowboy boots kicking uselessly in the air. Another thump up my rump and a bump against the bling. My eyes finally focused. The buckshot bros were lined up in front of me like two mopes at a barn bukkake – cocks out, hands jerking. Last chance to stifle the yell. Another thump up my rump and a bump against the bling. The barstool tilted forward, and I shoved my mouth on Hunter’s manhammer.

The scream erupted! But it got muffled by the rattling of the fence and the chiming of the bells. I was self-drilling my dirtpipe. But not just that! I was also self-fucking my facehole. Holy self-made sass!

While I showed off my big-city boss-mode, the mullet meathead just stood there, hands on his hips, crotch pushed out. As if he were taking a piss in the woods. He didn’t move an inch, letting me do all the work. And I did! His redneck rod was sweaty and unwashed, making me suck it clean that much harder. But the results spoke for themselves. No screams, just wet gurgling gags came out.

“Our cosmopolitramp’s out here gaggin’ when she ain’t even close to a cowpie,” Brandon cracked another dumb joke. “Wanna see how the trendslutter sounds when she gets a whiff of a pig pen?”

Um, thanks, no thanks! But of course, I didn’t have a say in the matter. Instead, the fringed fuckhead grabbed a fistful of my chestnut hair and pulled my head right over to his cock. I barely got a breath in before my luscious lips got stuffed with his pork spur. In contrast to Hunter, he was a diy-dickhead, ramming my mouth up and down his stiff shaft till I was gagging and choking a thousand times harder and a million times louder than before. And the result was clear to see. Thick spit gushed from my lips, spraying against the fence like pouring rain.

THUMP and BUMP! and THUMP and BUMP! The barstool buttfucking battered my bunghole into submission. When Colton pulled out his rectal rooter, he told me to spread my ass to give his bros a proper wink. Lightning fast, I reached back. Hands on my buns, my blood-red coffin nails popped against my bronzed skin like danger signs. And then the cocky jock gave the stool a push. I squealed as I spun around. Only stopped when my ass faced the moonshine morons. And of course, they inspected my gape like it was some kinda science project. Holy lab-rat lunacy!

“The asspert’s back at work!” The dixie douche hollered.

And then he high-fived his frat prez right over my back. As if I weren’t consciously present! It totally reinforced the impression that I was nothing but a freeuse frat rat with three entertaining fuckholes.

“Hehehe! Darlin’ doll wanted the full country ass-perience,” the hillbilly hickster cackled. “Betcha didn’t reckon on gettin’ a colonoscopy in the country.”

“What’s she say ‘bout cornhole cleavin’?” Hunter asked, sly has hell. “No more billboard dummy, just a dummy board with a gapin’ cornhole. Anybody wanna play a lil sack toss?”

I wanted to scoff at that dumb-ass metaphor, but a shocked gasp slipped out of my mouth instead. The mullet meathead caught me off-guard when he crammed his balls up my bunghole. Lord have mercy! The shame alone was enough to make me buck on the barstool. But hell, he only managed to wedge one nut up my stretched-out sinkhole. Left him disappointed, and he made sure to let me know.

“Yer gapin’ game sucks, city chica. Ain’t primed for some real country cornholin’!” he ragged on me after he lit my ass up with a stinging round of slaps. “Ain’t leavin’ this joint without gettin’ my balls tossed.”

Gulp! That sounded nasty as hell. And that’s exactly why my pussy twitched like it got zapped. Not that I got a chance to voice my opinion on the matter.

“Naw, that ain’t no crisp gape, that’s a wrecked crater,” the redneck romeo cut me off. “Shithole’s so slack it don’t even look like a tailpipe no more. Looks like my truck done got a flatfoot.”

Ugh, gross! I couldn’t even decide which insult was worse - getting compared to a flat board or a flat tire. Didn’t matter anyway! The buckshot bros stood there arguing about the shape of my gape while they spun the stool and started passing my head around like cowboy coffee at a campfire. They didn’t even look down! Their casual vibe had me fuming while they took turns grabbing my head and shoving my lips over their dicks, like it was no big deal. Holy redneck rotation!

Head right! Thrust – throat - urgh! Thrust – throat - gurgh! Thrust – throat - urrrh!

“Man, that ass is clean open.” Hunter argued. “Ya could toss a matcha tea in there ‘n’ lose it. Hehehe!”

Umph! It felt more like you could toss my dignity in there and it would never see daylight again. But the trash-talk made my pussy throb so hard it almost launched the cunt clip into orbit.

Head left! Thrust – throat - urgh! Thrust – throat - gurgh! Thrust – throat - urrrh!

“Looks like the Thirsty Filly done got itself a tourist attraction.” Brandon cracked. “Got us a whole volcano on the patio. Too bad it’s dormant – all puff, no kaboom! Hehehe!”

Good grief! I was the debate queen and I didn’t even get to participate in the discussion. I was just the sideshow slut - my mouth wasn’t here to voice opinions, it was here to serve as a cock holster. But wait! Colton didn’t join in the debate. Instead, he went right back to doing what he did best.

“That asshole’s pulsing like it’s begging for more stabbing,” the privileged prick stated.

And with that, he plunged his fucking fencepost up my butt again. Even with his cousins arguing, you could hear the squelches – loud, wet, and nasty – as he reamed out my rearhole. His wrist-sized wrecker pistoned in and out like churning my guts. His rectal rooter stretched my anal canal to its limits, the glorious girth splitting my cheeks wide, the length bullying deep into my bowels.

But hot damn! The cornhole cleaver didn’t just stuff my shithole, it filled a void in me. I felt filled and fulfilled. Finally, the fire in my loins was getting quenched. And I loved every second of it, embracing every part – the plugging, the pain, the pleasure. And it showed!

My face did a full-on emotional catwalk. First came the pain – my mouth twisted and my brows scrunched while my eyes went wide like a damsel in distress. Followed by the shock - my eyes popped open, my jaw dropped, and my lashes fluttered like they’d seen a miracle. It ended with the blissful finale - my mouth hung open, tongue pushed out, my eyes rolled halfway to heaven, and my brows arched high. Total aheago energy!

“Look at that mug!” Hunter was the first to catch it, ending the bros’ debate. “Just a sec ago, it was all scrunched up like our matchafucker stubbed her toe ‘n’ now them eyes are wide as saucers like she just sniffed a chicken coup for the first time.”

“Holy fuck!” Brandon hollered as my face twisted. “Tongue out, eyes to the sky. What is this? A hound in a boneyard or a hog rollin’ in the mud? Our trendslutter’s trippin’ her ass off.”

Mean but true! I didn’t even think about clapping back. I was way too focused on enjoying the shit out of this. By then, I’d lost count on the number of orgasms. It was one long rush of euphoria. Once again, though, I heard no comment from Colton. He left the trash talk to his cousins, focusing on the ass pumping. And apparently, he was reaching the end of the road.

Hold up, though! The cocky jock couldn’t cum - not yet. First, I had to make sure it went down the right way. Remember the two paths to cloud nine? Taking the hershey highway had been a full success. To make it a total triumph, he had to use the right gateway. The memory of the crayon-eating cretins shot through my head. Feeling their spunk blasting up my baby chute had launched me to a whole new stratosphere of ecstasy. The ultimate rush! Especially since I’d forgotten the pill. And yeah, I’d taken Plan B afterwards. But since then, I’d ditched that lame-ass, old-school contraception method. I was a modern woman, so I was using an app to track my fertility window. So much more convenient!

“Oh my gosh, do it!” I blurted out. “Do it, frat daddy! Load me up with a bro army. Gimme your frat babies.”

Mmm, so delicious! I actually meant every word I said, leaving me hornier than ever. This was unhinged! And that’s why I loved it. But wait! I’d totally forgotten about my clamped cunt. Too late! Following my request, the smug jerk slid the clip off my small slutlips.

“Oooh my gosh!” I yelped. “Fuck, oh fuck! Oooh my gawwwd!”

I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. The constant squeeze was over. But in exchange, blood rushed back into my puffed-up pussylips, causing a tingling that was driving me crazy. I opened my mouth to start screaming, but Brandon was faster, plugging my glosshole. He drilled his pork spur deep down my throat while Colton drove his cunt cleaver right through my twitching folds. At long last, my tight twat was getting stuffed! My cunt walls clamped down on the stiff shaft like a velvet glove, literally milking the goo right out of him.

I felt his glorious girth throbbing. The pulsing started at the base of his boner and grew stronger till his delicious dick erupted. He let out a deep, guttural grunt when his sack sauce splashed out. The burst was so forceful I felt the baby batter hit my cervix. My toes curled in my boots as several spurts followed. It was an incredibly satisfying feeling when the warmth flooded me. But hot damn, it was over way too fast. I needed more, so much more! Good thing, the buckshot bros were getting ready to blow their moonshine marinade.

“Out here, you don’t let anything go to waste, don’t you? Gotta be efficient!” I talked before I thought. “C’mon, cowboys! Every drop’s gotta hit the baby factory. Else, it ain’t count, right?”

Welp! Of course, the hogwild hicksters didn’t need to be asked twice. Before I even realized what I’d triggered, they were already rushing around the wooden fence. Brandon grabbed me by my chestnut hair and pulled me off the barstool. Next thing I knew, my back hit the wonky picnic table, almost making it collapse. Like a good country cunt, I instantly spread my legs and pulled them back to my head. Just in time to offer my greedy gash to the redneck romeo.

“Still a single-cock slut!” I reminded Colton’s cousins in between heavy pants. “Cream my cunt but don’t stick it in. Okay?”

That was my deal with my man. Didn’t forget it – even in my emotional high! Didn't want the frat prez to lose face in front of his Yamos bros, didn't want to damage our relationship either. This was our version of ’you can look, but you can't touch’ - you can fill the jar, but you can't sink the bar!

Big surprise! The moonshine morons actually followed. Brandon put his pork spur right between my pink folds. He rubbed the tip up and down, teasing my tingling twatflaps till I was going mad. My body jerked so hard I nearly toppled off the creaking table.

But then the hillbilly horndog held still, letting the tip of his dick rest at the sloppy entrance to my baby factory. The first spurt sprayed out. I grunted as I threw my head back. The satisfying feeling of getting inseminated spread through my body again. I felt the spunky shots splashing against my inner walls, the comforting warmth filling me.

A second later, the fringed fella stepped away and the frosted fuckwit took his place. But he didn’t slip his redneck rod between my puffed-up pussylips. Instead, he shoved his balls up my bunghole again, like he was checking if I was finally ready for double duty. This time my rectum was so reamed out it was gaping big enough to gobble up both nuts at once. I was horrified – but also kinda proud!

“C’mon, cosmopolitramp, give my nuts a massage till I bust a sack-full,” the dixie douche barked.

And I obeyed without hesitation. Felt awkward, but I started contracting and relaxing my ass muscles. I can’t even! Basically turned my ass pipe into a vibration sleeve. This was beyond extra! But it worked. Hunter’s manhammer started straining and he yanked his sack from my stretched-out shithole. Next thing I knew, the mullet meathead filled my baby hatch up to the brim. My human starter tunnel became so hot I felt like I was literally baking those liquid bros in my oven. Holy sperm bank scandal!

---Filthy Filly Vibes ---

The fratboys were spent, their balls empty, their lust quenched. Unlike most men, though, they didn’t pack up their stuff and leave right away. Not even close!

“Said it yerself, matchafucker,” Hunter drawled. “Gotta be efficient out here. Ain’t waistin’ no cowboy chowder!”

And with that, Colton put the silver clip back on my swollen slutlips. I bit my lip to keep from screaming while I bucked around like I was back on the mechanical bull. I felt the squeeze and tug on my clit while I heard the spunk sloshing around inside me. Guess that backwoods baby-brew wasn’t coming out till I’d baked the Yamos frat their own human terracotta army. Fuck me sideways!

I didn’t even get a moment to readjust to the pressure on my pussy. Even knowing the sensation, it was still an acquired taste. As if anybody gave a damn about my feelings! Instead, the cocky jock pulled me off the rickety picnic table and led me off the patio.

Gasp! I let out a shocked grunt when my belly got pressed onto wood. There was an old whiskey barrel standing in front of the fence and the entitled idiot bent me right over it.

“You drained us, Candy Cattlequeen!” he told me. “Need some beers. Too bad you’re banned from the bar.”

“But hey, you brought all that bling. Would be a shame if it went to waste, right?” the brash bastard added with a chuckle. “Let’s see if that sparkle snatch can outshine the beer signs.”

“What you say, bros?” he asked his cousins. “You think she’s gonna catch some bar flies?”

And with that, the Yamos bros started betting again. Damnit, I hated that! Made me feel so interchangeable and replaceable. I was just another selection in an extensive range of options. But then the fratboys decided to raise the stakes. As if the risk wasn’t high enough already!

I gasped when Colton stepped up to my head. He had a freedom rag in his hand. Wherever that star-spangled bandana was coming from. Guess it was a country essential, just like lip balm in a woman’s bag. But now, the privileged prick was using it to blindfold me. Fuck no! Suddenly, there was only darkness around me. I couldn’t see shit!

“Be a good hole model ‘n’ hold your pose till we return. That’s what you’re good at, right?” the smug jerk instructed me. “Make sure that blingboard’s front ‘n’ center! The Thirsty Filly needs all the big city buzz it can get. Haha!”

TWANG! Before walking away, Colton snapped the fucking clip and my pussy jolted into a spasm storm. Bent over the barrel, my legs kicked and my booty bounced. I had to clung to the cask to keep it from toppling over. Once I’d calmed down, I heard a spit and a splash. Tobacco chew hitting the gravel. Ugh! And then It was followed by footsteps, three pairs walking away. They were doing it! They were actually leaving me. Somebody pinch my ass ‘cause this level of crazy couldn’t be right.

Suddenly, there was silence - only the buzz of the bulbs above my head and the crackle of the neon signs in the distance. Oh, wait! There was also darkness, obviously. But that only made it worse. The uncertainty was killing me! But the choice was clear. Rip that fucking freedom rag off my eyes and wait in the Yamos truck till the fratboys returned.

But where was the fun in that? I was still high on endorphins, which probably warped my judgement. Honestly? I already missed the intensity of the ass stretching and the rush of the cream filling. So, I started stalling for time, coming up with every excuse I could think of. Nobody knew me in this podunk cow town, so this was a golden opportunity. If not here, then where? If not now, then when?

Still, silence. Still, darkness. My sense of smell kicked in. Not good, not here! The reek of manure and motor oil hit my nostrils, but I just pretended it was rustic charm. Then I heard it! Some crickets chirped outside the lot. A car rumbled down the distant road.

Wait! What was that? A new sound. The door creaked. Gravel crunched under boots. People were leaving the saloon. I held my breath. At the same time, though, I spread my legs, letting that silver clip shine. I heard voices. Getting closer or moving away? I was too nervous to tell. But then an engine roared, a car drove off the lot. They were gone. I got lucky - or maybe, not?

More waiting. More silence. More darkness. I caught myself rubbing my thighs together, tugging at the clip while shaking my ass to feel that hickseed harvest sloshing around inside me. It distracted me - till boots crunched on the gravel again. Close, real close! Someone was heading for the patio. Too soon – or maybe, just in time? No clue! My pussy said first and my head second.

Meanwhile, every step made my heart hammer faster and the gravel crunch louder - till it stopped. Silence again. My heart skipped a beat. The person had to be standing right next to me, probably checking me out. Definitely admiring my bling. But who knew for sure? Ignorance wasn’t bliss, it was sweet torture.

Suddenly, the gravel crunched again. The person moved on. Why? Where? A few steps later, the footsteps stopped again. A zipper, a splash. What the hell? I gasped as it hit me. Some dude was watering the wilderness like those bushes were his personal urinal. I swear, I heard the trickle before my brain processed the audacity! There I was, standing in full glow-up, while a random redneck gave the forest a golden shower special.

Was this reality or a country fever dream? No way this was actually happening! No one could be this presumptuous! I shook in my pink cowboy boots when I realized this rude redneck didn’t see me as a woman - he saw me as décor, as the blingboard. Just another part of the patio. Holy marquee madness!

I couldn’t see it, but I heard it all! The hiss of the stream hitting the weeds sent shivers down my spine. The dribble when he shook it off made me skin crawl. The zip as he tucked his dick away had my hair standing on end. Can you believe it? This backwoods bumpkin acted like it was just another Wednesday in the sticks.

“What?” he asked with a drawl that was thicker than Hunter’s and Brandon’s combined. “The plants ain’t mind a lil rain. Just doin’ my part to save the planet.”

Woah! That left me too stunned to respond. Some crunching later, the rude redneck was standing next to me again. I could smell the sweat and piss, making me scrunch my nose.

“Shit’s called markin’ my territory. Ever heard of that?” he had the nerve to mansplain bodily functions to me. “By the looks of it, you know a thang or two ‘bout gettin’ marked, huh?”

Ugh, vile! I can’t even say how disgusted I felt. My mouth stood open like my brain couldn’t process this level of audacity. Meanwhile, my body responded to the raw display of masculinity. It was so primal, so country – for a lack of a better word! Totally triggered my submissive side. So, how did I react? By doing something stupid!

“Don’t you see?” I blurted out. “I’m a fixture here. Duh!”

Oh shit! Did I just pull a big pout, like I was sulking? I did! As if I were offended that he hadn't noticed himself.

“You wanna mark the territory?” I wasn’t done with my rant. “You gotta bless the bushes AND plug the potty mouth.”

What the fuck was I doing? This felt like an out-of-body experience. I was saying one thing while my brain was thinking the opposite. The temptation was too big. That cock was right in front of me. Couldn't let it go to waste.

“That’s a helluva offer, sugar,” the man drawled. “But the prime-time game’s in overtime. They’re givin’ free beer if we win. Can’t miss that!”

Holy mannequin meltdown! Was he for real? This hillbilly halfwit was letting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip away. And for what? For football! No way in hell was another runway model ever gonna set foot in this giddy-up gutter bar. It was now or never! But I already heard the gravel crunching. The dude was really walking back to the barn. Football and free booze was more tempting than a flashy fashion queen. You’d have to see it to believe it!

That stung like hell! I’d never been brushed off like that. Usually, men hovered around me, praying for a shot they’d never get. I could be picky and I’ve always been. But this? This was a whole new level. I’d never been so insulted, and I hadn't even seen the guy.

Back to silence and darkness. In the distance, I caught the faint sound of cheering. Must have been the fucking football game. A cool breeze across my bare butt, reminding me my cunt was still dripping and my whole crotch was drenched with lady lust. The sour stink from the piss puddle drifted over and curled into my nostrils. Yikes!

Eventually, the door creaked open again. Voices! I didn’t even flinch, though. No point spiraling into a tizzy. The odds of anyone wandering all the way around the building to the patio were practically zero. And guess what? That’s exactly what happened! The chatter faded, an engine revved, and a car rolled off the lot. This shit was frustrating as hell!

More silence, more darkness. But then, out of nowhere, I jerked so hard I nearly rocked the whole barrel. Once again, the door creaked opened – but not the front entrance, the one leading straight out to the patio. Footsteps on the concrete. And before I knew it, someone was next to me. I gasped when something cold touched my back. Whoever it was, he’d set a glass on my lower spine. Judging by the weight, it must have been a whiskey tumbler.

Holy serving-tray shambles! Another rude redneck reducing me to nothing more than an object. But at least, this backwater bozo was fully focused on me – no football, no free booze, just the bling bitch. I shivered when his gross breath hit my ass cheeks. He was leaning over my butt, inspecting my cunt clip like it was a freshly dug-up treasure from Hicksland Mountain. I should have roasted the cornbread cowboy right then and there, but instead I just opened my mouth and waited. Totally dumb – but also exactly what I needed!

Ewww! His soft dick slapped against my plump lips, and a sour taste cut right through my disappointment. This mudfucker must have come straight from the restroom. He hadn’t wiped, hadn’t even shaken. He was basically using my lips as a rag. Oh fantastic, I was gagged, bagged, and emotionally dragged. Yikes!

My reaction? I clung to the barrel tighter than ever. Had to keep my body from twitching and trembling, ‘cause I was balancing the glass on my back. Couldn’t risk knocking it down. Instead, my lips pouted bigger than ever. And that gave the backwater bozo the perfect target for his salty shake-off. Big yikes!

Side effect? Slapping my sassy smuckers made his rattlesnake grow into a bad-ass boner. Once it was stiff and clean, he dropped his hand on my head. Like a bear claw, it palmed my whole skull. With next to no effort, the cornbread cowboy shoved my face forward and drove his haymaker through my dick pillows, plunging it right down my throat. The sudden intrusion made me choke, but he didn’t give a damn. Instead, he started working my head like a pump handle till my kisser bopped up and down the whole length of his single-wide stick.

And then the mudfucker stunned the shit out of me. He took the whiskey glass off my back. What the heck? I’d been so proud I’d managed to balance the tumbler without dropping it. To make matters worse, I heard him sip the drink while using my mouth as a holster for his single-barreled shotgun.

Bob, bob, bob! Slurp, slurp, slurp! The backwater bozo kept pumping my posh pleasure pouch, taking his sweet time to jerk off. Like he wasn’t planning to cum till the glass was empty. My model mouth was just a side act to his drink. Holy dixie drama!

“Lord, hope ya didn’t blow as much cash on that skanky-ass street hoe as I flushed on that sorry-ass game!” a rough voice tore us out of our little moment.

Shit! One of the patrons had spotted us. Game must have ended, and he was heading out. Except, it didn't sound like he was leaving. Instead, he strolled over to the patio. And then I heard the familiar zip. Next thing I knew, he let loose right there. What the hell was going on here? Were the saloon pipes clogged? Was there a drought and the guys felt the sudden urge to water the plants?

Making matters worse, the filthy farmhand didn’t even bother walking to the end of the patio. Nope! He stopped right behind me, hosing the fence. Guess he wanted to check out the blingboard while taking a leak. His bladder brew splashed against the boards, running down in stinking rivulets. The reek hit like a punch, making me gag on the padlock pole in my mouth. Ugh, gross!

“Man, ya best be squeezin’ every nickel outta that lot lizard,” the rude ranchhand felt the need to interrupt us again.

“Lookit all that fake glitter crap,” he kept giving the play-by-play nobody asked for. “A backroad bitch like that? Gotta light a fire under her backside. That kinda half-hearted cocksmokin’ ain’t nothin’ ya can’t get in yer own trailer for free.”

Hello? Talk is silver, silence is golden. Ever heard of that? The audacity pissed me off way more than the pig act. What a sleazy slob! And yet, his words lit a fire under the mudfucker. Downing the last slug of whiskey, he put some grease behind the pumping, turning his haymaker into a hicksaw.

Bob, bob, bob! Urgh, glurrk, hurrrgh Suddenly, I was glugging and spluttering as the backwater bozo went to town, fucking my face. And then I kicked and jerked as the farmhand fucker twanged the cunt clip. The cornbread cowboy used the moment to drive his dick all the way down my throat till my nose pressed into his hairy hickory hedge. I gagged so hard slobber splattered from my lips, slopping up my chin and dripping down in thick ribbons. Fired up by the rude ranchhand, the mudfucker kept his padlock pole buried down my gullet till I’d stopped thrashing. Just then he started pumping my princess pout till it was a sloppy satchmo.

TWANG! I kicked up another storm when the filthy farmhand plugged the clip. He strummed it over and over while I bucked on the barrel like I was trying to turn the casket into a blender. Holy barrel racing!

TWANG! TWANG! TWANG! It was too much! I was cumming, my screams muffled by the dick. Plugged and pinned, the backwater bozo held me in place, but I still tossed and turned wild as fuck. My lips buzzed, my throat spasmed. And it did the trick, pushing the mudfucker over the edge.

“Not so fast, old man!” a familiar drawl stopped him. “Just one spot to mark this hole model as the official Filthy Filly.”

Brandon! The buckshot bros were back. Totally forgot I was only hanging out on the patio ‘cause I was waiting for the fratboys.

“Ain’t reckon ya mind our pops slippin’ his genes into that petri dish ya got bakin’ in yer baby factory, huh?” Hunter asked rhetorically. “It’s a whole dang family reunion in there. Hehehe!”

Holy redneck ruckus! The cornbread cowboy was Daddy Duncum? No way! I was sucking off Colton’s uncle? This couldn’t be. But then again, this was so raw and primal, it was electric. Just thinking about it gave me another orgasm.

No time to think anyway. Hunter had already slid behind me and grabbed the silver clip. Holding my breath, I braced for anything. You never knew with these moonshine morons. But the dixie douche just eased it off my cunt. And it triggered a reflex. My hands shot back, driving right into my quivering cunt to pry my breedhole open. And a heartbeat later, Daddy Duncum was behind me.

“You can fill the jar, but you can't sink the bar, grizz daddy!” I hastily reminded Colton’s uncle.

Oh fuck! Did I really call him that? No intention there! Just a spur-of-the-moment slip. Somehow, though, it fit perfectly. Whatever! A second later, I felt the tip of his dick splitting my bronze wrappers. Holding his cockhead right there, he gave his padlock pole a few quick jerks before it erupted.

I let out a long, deep groan when I got flooded with breed batter. For the third time today! It was one long stream of family formula slopping down my mama-drama cabana. But it didn’t just fill up my baby oven, it also hit me with an incredibly fulfilling feeling. Girl, what’s with all those emotions? I should have been grossed out, getting sloshed with bloodline brew from this cowpoke cartel. But nope! I felt the opposite. Holy slumming it in the sticks!

When the hillbilly hulk was done dumping his country gravy into his cum trough, he stepped back in front of me and yanked the freedom rag off my head. First clear look at Daddy Duncum in all his natural glory. Ugh, a visual I didn’t order! It would haunt me in my dreams for sure. Looming over me, he looked down with a satisfied grin. Meanwhile, I gazed up, feeling small and tamed.

And then my view got blocked by his hairy gut. Moving in close, the gruff ole grizz slapped his softening dick against my princess pout, the salty taste of redneck relish cutting right through my arousal. Even when he stopped, I was still suckling the last blobs of biscuit batter off his cockhead.

“Next time ya drag this big-city broad back ‘round our parts, ya make sure ya holler at me first,” the dixie dad told his sons. “Yer cousins wanna take a stab at this rodeo rattletail too.”

Ungh! Not gonna happen! I’d met more than enough members of the Duncum Dynasty to last me a lifetime. Besides, I was never gonna come back to this Hicksville, and I was never setting foot in the ’Thirsty Filly’ ever again.

“Well now, sugar, how ya like a taste of real horsepower?” the big ole bear drawled, slapping my cheeks with his rattlesnake before stepping away. “Betcha come crawlin’ back for more. They all do.”

“Fertility runs in the family,” he added with a deep belly chuckle. “Got more branches on my family tree than fruit on it. But I ain’t done yet. One more young’un ‘n’ the Duncums can field a whole baseball team!”

What a kick in the teeth! That thought alone sent a whole ice-bath of shivers down my spine, so cold I almost froze. No way in hell would I ever add anything to that backwoods bloodline! Anyway, now that he’d spread his seed, the dixie dad instantly lost interest in me and wandered off toward his truck. Just then I realized the filthy farmhand was long gone, and the buckshot bros were starting to get antsy.

“So?” Colton asked when he put the clip back on my pussy, locking up my jam-packed cum trough. “Was it as imagined, little slut?”

“Gotta say, watching Uncle Dipspit handle your holes was hot as hell,” he let out a whistle while he handed me my denim hotpants. “Letting that Chewbubba dump his seed in that model body of yours? Guess you’re a real slut now.”

Jeez! Hearing him say it like that was even hotter and way nastier. Naturally, that’s exactly why my pussy throbbed with some aftershocks, so I gave my man some slow, lingering kisses. Real sensual, real greedy!

“Always remember!” I winked at my man as I let go off his lips. “Single-cock slut!”

Gotta admit, though, I felt like a total slut. But I’d still stuck to my deal with Colton. My funholes remained exclusive to him. I just paid some lip service. Nothing more, nothing less. Even better, the memory of this sexventure was gonna provide endless fodder for our next roleplays.

And that was it! Redressed and stuffed full of cum, I followed the guys to the Yamos truck. Time to leave this podunk cow town.

*to be continued*