The milkmaid’s lips part against yours, all hunger now, her tongue sharp with defiance. She drops to her knees in the hay, fingers already at your belt, the clink of the buckle drowning in the rush of your pulse. Her eyes lock on yours, dark as the soil beneath the stalls, as she drags your pants down. The air bites your exposed skin—cold, then scalding as her hand wraps your cock. 

“Gods,” she hisses, breath hot on the tip before her mouth takes you like a vow. You groan, grip the stall’s beam as she works you deeper, her tongue a rough velvet you want to ruin. Hay prickles your calves; her braid unravels over your thigh. She hums, the vibration rattling your spine, her nails digging into your hips like she’s marking territory. 

You yank her head back by her hair. “*Look at me.*” 

She does. Milky drool glistens on her chin as she sucks harder, hollowing her cheeks, throat swallowing you whole. Her free hand slips between her own legs, rocking into her palm as she chokes on you. The slap of skin and her muffled whimpers fuse with the creak of the barn. You thrust, cursing, and she pulls off with a gasp. 

“Not yet,” she rasps, wiping her mouth. Her breasts heave as she rips open her blouse. Linen splits, buttons pinging into the straw. Heavy and slick with sweat, they spill free, nipples pebbled tight. She smirks at your stare. “Here—*here’s* your sweeter thing.”  

You shove her against the stall, your cock sliding between her flesh. She grips herself tight around you, milk still sticky on her skin. The heat is savage—her tits pillowing your length, her breath jagged as you thrust. She licks the head each time you pull back, teeth grazing, her lips swollen red. 

“Faster,” she demands, arching so her tits strain higher. You obey, rutting into that slick cradle, her moans climbing. One hand claws at your thigh, the other fingers her clit in quick, ruthless circles. “Gonna make me come,” she pants, “just from—*fuck*—watching you use me.” 

The claim unravels you. You spill hard across her collarbone, her throat, her still-moving hand. She keens, back bowing as her own release hits, dripping down her wrist. For a heartbeat, the barn stills—nothing but echoes and the *drip* of your spend on straw. 

She licks her fingers, eyes slitted. “Bull in a barn,” she taunts, breathless. “Predictable.” 

You drag your thumb through the mess on her chest, paint her nipple with it. “You taste like victory.”  

Her laugh is low, dangerous. She leans in, her sticky mouth at your ear. “Next time, I ride you.”