Page 9 of Dirty Cowboys
I reach for my phone, expecting the usual Instagram likes and comments, but there’s something different... a notification from my private blog. Someone has commented on my latest post.
Username: RoughRider
If you consent to being chased again, your safe word is “mercy.” Use it, and everything stops immediately. Tonight, same place, same time.
My breath catches in my throat. Holy fuck—they found my blog. Someone actually found it. And they’re asking for consent, which makes this even hotter somehow. They’ve thought about my safety, about giving me control even in a fantasy about relinquishing it. Why did I have to move halfway across the country to have someone find me and want to indulge my fantasies in a safe way?
I read the comment three more times, my pulse hammering. RoughRider must be one ofthem, right? How many men were in the bar that night and could have overheard me talking to Marge?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Do I respond, or just show up tonight?
Every rational part of my brain screams that this is insane—I barely know these men, and this could go wrong in a million different ways. Except this is what I want—to be chased by strangers, manhandled. I want something more.
The rest of the day drags. I try to focus on content, editing photos from the rodeo, and responding to comments, but I can’t concentrate.
I spend an hour picking out what to wear, which is ridiculous because it’s not like we’re going on a date. Still, I want to look good while I’m being chased. I settle on my dark jeans, a black tank top, and my boots.
By six o’clock, I’m pacing around the farmhouselike a fox locked out of a henhouse. The sun still has not set, and I need the darkness. The daylight seems too personal, while the darkness conceals my lingering thoughts. I forgo dinner, as my stomach is in knots. Instead, I pour myself a glass of vodka and sit on the porch, watching the sun as it sets and snapping pictures. I can see the appeal; it’s serene. Growing old and watching the sunset together with someone would be perfect.
Finally, darkness creeps over the paddocks. The stars are visible in the sky; they are so bright here, like nothing I have seen before. It’s almost magical. I grab my phone and head toward the back of the property, following the same path I took last night. I keep glancing over my shoulder, and the anticipation has me ready to run at a moment’s notice.
I’m a bundle of nerves—anxious and scared and excited—because I have been dreaming of this moment for such a long time, never thinking it would become a reality. I once told an ex I wanted to rough our sex life up a little. His idea was wrapping his hand around my throat, and while that has its merits, it’s not the version I wanted. And don’t get me started on dirty talk.
I reach the spot where they first appeared and pause, turning in a slow circle. Then I focus on the direction they came from last time, waiting and wondering what they have in store for me tonight.
The first mask appears near the tree line, then another off to my right. Finally, the third completes the triangle just like last night, but this time, something’s different. As they move toward me, I can just make out one of them carrying something.
A rope.
My knees nearly buckle. Holy fuck, they’re really going to do this! They’re going to rope me like cattle.
Wetness soaks my panties, and I could combust from the mere thought of what is about to happen. My nipples harden beneath the soft material of the bralette I am wearing tonight. It’s not great to run in, but sexy as hell.
The one with the rope swings it in slow circles above his head.
I take a step back, then another.
They move faster tonight, as they know I want it.
When the masked man with the rope is about fifty feet away, he lets go of the loop, and it sails through the air toward me.
I watch in awe. It doesn’t hit me; I don’t think it was supposed to. But it lands close enough that I can see exactly how skilled he is with that rope.
And now it’s time to run.
This time I don’t head for the house. Instead, I veer left, trying to stop them from trapping me between them—except they’re ready for me. Of course they are;this is what they do. One five-foot-six woman is no challenge for them when they wrangle herds of cattle every day.
One of them uses his horse to cut me off, blocking my path and causing me to spin.
Another is there, moving me back toward where we came from. They’re controlling exactly where I go.
The one with the rope swings it again, and this time it drops over one of my shoulders. But as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone again.
My legs almost give out, and arousal blazes through me. This is everything I wrote about, but so much more intense than I ever imagined. It’s also unexpectedly exhausting. Who knew how unfit I really was? I exercise, but this is not what I’m used to—this is no uptown yoga studio.
They herd me in a wide circle, taking their time, letting me tire. Every time I try to break free, one of them is there to move me back where they want.
The rope flies toward me again, and this time it drops over my head and tightens around my waist. I’m pulled backward, and I collapse onto the ground. My breathing is ragged, partly from running, but also from all the emotions shooting through me. I can feel how wet I am, how badly I want them to touch my sensitive skin with their calloused hands.
