Cowgirl

My dreams curdle the night, the heavy, wet November night. Outside, the rustle of corn in the fields, silage of dreams, of a man’s want. And inside, my boner poking up against the sheet. Lightening far off, breaking out the night. The whispering of the house, conversations of ghosts. And the howls. That pack of dogs is come sniffing around the barn again. They always know when I got me another girl. I got me two of them a couple days ago, their pussies ripe and glittery-wet like jewels, nipples as tight and hard as nuggets, cold enough to ripple the skin. November’s got a chill around these parts. When a girl shivers it bones me up fat and hard, strong enough to squirt. Ripe pussy. Oh yes. You got to ripen a cunt. You don’t pick a cunt from the vine till it’s bursting, till it’s just perfect, young and tender and wide-eyed, with silky breasts and smooth white ass and oh those cold, tight tits that are enough to make you piss your pants. You grab that piece of pussy when she’s not looking, and stuff her mouth, and tape a plastic bag over her head. Then you tie her arms and legs so tight that pussy can’t wiggle a toe or twitch a finger. You make her hurt with rope. Then you got to improve the flavor. You got to hang that pussy in the barn a day or two, let the ropes do their work. You tie your new pussy spread-eagle wide and tight, then cane her ass and those bulbous pale drupes, those pussy boobs. You spank and slap. You soften that pussy up. Yep. That first night when I was lying here in bed, I could hear them both a-sobbing and moaning. That brought the dogs nosing the barn door, whining and clawing the padlock, scaring them two girls enough to make them cream, was my guess. I left the two of them up in the hay mow, one tied down on her back to a corn crib, the other dangling above so’s she’d piss the face of that younger brat. Oh she was a fighter, that one. But I wrung it out of her.