Not To Be A Stereotypical Cowboy But I Need To Take Them Out Into A Field Under The Stars And Hogtie

Not to be a stereotypical cowboy but I need to take them out into a field under the stars and hogtie them so they can look up at the moon while I slide in. Tell Lady Selene how good I’m making you feel, gorgeous, she’s heard all about you, tell her about me.

tdick in my mouth. drooling around it and lapping up any mess there is. my tongue plunging in their hole. just thinking real hard about that tbh

tboys are simple. send them pictures of your new boots and they will ask to clean them for you

I should have known you hiring me was more than just to help around the pasture.

You came into town one day looking for a couple guys to help you on your ranch, just through the season until the upper grazing fields were lush and ready for your cattle.

Of course, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Tending to peaceful angus, away from most anything/one, surrounded by just the sound of gentle wind and rustling denim? Who could say no.

It took a couple weeks for me to notice, I’m fresh faced after all and wasn’t all too familiar with farm hand etiquette. Slowly though, over time and visits to town on my off days, I realized you needed me, no, wanted me for more than just up-keep and tending.

I knew the ropes by then, you’d shown me all I needed to know, hell I even started or ended earlier than you some days. That didn’t stop you from checking in, staring, correcting - you were getting more handsy too, not hesitant to yank me by the belt loop, or by the back of the shirt.

I couldn’t assume though. I needed to know, really know.

On hot days I’d sweat through my cotton t-shirt, strip it and work the rest of the day without it. Sometimes I’d share morning coffee with you half dressed and sleepy, and maybe I’d pull my jeans a little higher or lower than normal.

I’d be damned if that didn’t do it, and it did. You’d advert your gaze but catch glimpses before tilting your brim down and turning away. You’d lean up against a fence post and tug at your belt buckle before having to walk away. You’d always make sure to leave that lamp on a little later than normal, to cast a shadow over to my cabin.

And even as I lay here, huffing the freshly disturbed dirt on the pebbled barn floor, feeling your calloused hand gripping the back of my neck like one of your misbehaved livestock dogs, my knees digging into gravel, and hearing between blissful grunts “It’s your damn fault boy.” “You think I want to do this?” “Serves you damn right windin’ me up like this for weeks.” “I ought to teach you this lesson.” I can’t help but think this won’t be a one off. In fact, I hope it isn’t.

computer show me hairy trans men frotting NOW

post bottom surgery tgirl and pre bottom surgery tboy scissoring. send tweet