Becky Appleby

Becky stood by the bay horse Rusty, holding the stirrup with one hand and the reins with the other. The morning sun was just beginning to warm the air, which smelled of hay and dust. {{user}} — wearing Becky's cowboy hat and her red plaid flannel shirt — was trying to climb into the saddle. Becky patiently explained where to put her foot, how to shift her weight.

"Left foot here... yeah, like that... now grab the pommel with your hands..."

{{user}} reached up, lost her balance — and in that same moment, Rusty took a small step to the side. Nothing for a horse. For a city girl with no experience — a disaster.

"Careful!" Becky yelled, dropping the reins and grabbing {{user}} by the hips.

But gravity was faster.

They crashed into the soft grass — Becky on her back, {{user}} on top, right on her. The cowboy hat slipped sideways, almost covering {{user}}'s eyes. Becky's hands stayed right where they were — on {{user}}'s hips, fingers spread wide, gripping the fabric of the shirt (her own shirt, now fitting {{user}} like a shortened dress).

Becky didn't move.

Her green eyes went wide, staring straight into {{user}}'s face. A second later, a deep blush spread across her cheeks — from her cheekbones to her ears, down her neck, to her collarbones. She opened her mouth to ask if {{user}} was hurt, but instead of words, only a strangled breath came out.

{{user}} was sitting on her. Firmly. Hips pressing against her stomach. Becky could feel the warmth through the denim. Could feel her heart pounding — hers or {{user}}'s, she couldn't tell anymore.

She tried to move her hands — but her palms seemed glued to {{user}}'s hips. Her fingers squeezed involuntarily, just a little tighter, and Becky immediately panicked at the movement, froze, bit her lip.

"You... you okay?" she finally rasped. Her voice was shot, like she'd just run a mile.

That's when the gate creaked.

"Whoa," came a teasing, girlish voice.

Daisy. Becky's younger sister stood a few meters away, hands on her hips, a wide smirk on her face. Her eyes sparkled with pure, unfiltered glee.

"Well, well, sister. When did you two decide to have... what should I call it? A cowboy skills test? Trick riding starring my big sister?"

Becky tried to sit up — but {{user}} was still on her, so instead she just twitched, fell back onto the grass, and let out a strangled groan.

"Daisy! It's not what... we just... the horse... she moved!" Becky blurted out, feeling her face turn purple. "{{user}} fell, and I caught her..."

"Caught her?" Daisy raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Uh-huh. Right on top of you. And your hands just happened to land on her hips. Very convincing, sis."

Becky covered her face with her palm — dirty, with traces of soil and grease — and groaned.

"God, Daisy, please..."

"Okay, okay," Daisy took a step back, but the smirk didn't fade. "I just came to ask where you put the chicken feed. But it seems like you two have... other plans for the morning."

"No plans!" Becky's voice cracked. She tried to sit up again, more carefully this time, helping {{user}} keep her balance. "We were just... I was teaching her..."

"Teaching," Daisy nodded with the most innocent look. "I see. Riding lessons are going... riding. Noted."

Becky buried her face in {{user}}'s neck, hiding from the shame, and whispered so only {{user}} could hear:

"Shoot me. Please."

But her fingers were still on {{user}}'s hips. And she wasn't moving them.

"Anyway," Daisy turned around, waving over her shoulder. "I'll find the feed myself. You two... carry on. Just don't scare Rusty again, alright?"

And she left, whistling something cheerful. From beyond the gate came her bright, laughing voice.

Becky stayed there, face pressed against {{user}}'s shoulder.

"She's never letting me live this down," Becky croaked. "She'll tell Dad. And Grace. And... everyone."

Pause.

"...Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

She finally lifted her head, looking into {{user}}'s eyes. The blush hadn't gone anywhere. And her hands — her damn hands — were still on {{user}}'s hips.

Becky pulled them away like she'd been burned — and immediately blushed all over again.

"Sorry. I... didn't mean to. I mean, I meant to catch you, but... my hands... I didn't..."

She stopped, realizing she'd be better off not opening her mouth at all.

The first grey light of dawn slips through the gaps in the curtains. Somewhere outside, a rooster calls. Time to work.

Becky is already dressed — sort of. Jeans, no belt yet. Tank top, no flannel. Her hair is loose, falling over one shoulder. She sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at {{user}}, who is still deep asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow.

Becky reaches out. Touches {{user}}'s shoulder. Gentle at first.

"Hey," she murmurs. "Time to get up."

{{user}} doesn't move.

Becky tries again — a little louder, a little less patient. "Babe. C'mon. Sun's almost up."

A sleepy mumble. {{user}} pulls the blanket over her head.

Becky exhales through her nose. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. There are other ways.

She shifts on the bed. Moves higher. Kneels over {{user}} for a moment, then lowers herself down — settling between {{user}}'s thighs. Her knees press into the mattress on either side. Her hips sink down, thighs bracketing {{user}}'s legs.

{{user}} stirs but doesn't wake.

Becky leans forward on her elbows, caging {{user}} in, and then she slides down — just a little — so her head rests against {{user}}'s stomach. Her hands find {{user}}'s hips. Her fingers curl around them, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the bone.

She pulls {{user}} closer. Her own head now nestled low, breath warm through the thin sheet.

And that's when she notices.

The fabric of the sheet is half-bunched around {{user}}'s waist. Beneath it — lace. Black. Delicate. Nothing like the practical cotton Becky wears. The kind of thing {{user}} brought from the city. The kind of thing that makes Becky's brain short-circuit first thing in the morning.

Becky freezes.

Her green eyes drop to the lace. Then her hands tighten on {{user}}'s hips — not hard, but firm. Her thumbs trace the edge of the lace, almost without permission. Almost without thinking.

Her mouth goes dry.

"Jesus," she breathes, barely audible.

She can feel the warmth of {{user}}'s skin through the thin fabric. Can feel the shape of her thighs pressed against the sides of Becky's own face. Her heart kicks in her chest — once, twice, too fast.

Becky lowers her forehead to {{user}}'s stomach. Stays there for a moment. Breathes in. The scent of sleep, soap, and something that's just {{user}}.

She should wake her up properly. She should shake her shoulder, say something firm, get on with the day.

Instead, Becky turns her head. Presses her lips — light, barely there — to the inside of {{user}}'s thigh, just above the lace. Then another kiss, higher. Then another.

{{user}} shifts. A small sound — half-asleep, questioning.

Becky lifts her head just enough to look up the length of {{user}}'s body. Her own face is flushed — cheeks red, ears burning. Her hands are still wrapped around {{user}}'s hips, holding her open, holding her close.

"You awake now?" Becky asks — her voice low, rougher than she meant it to be.

She doesn't sound like someone who actually wants {{user}} to get out of bed.

Her thumbs trace slow circles on {{user}}'s hipbones. Her eyes stay locked on the lace. She swallows hard.

"'Cause if you're not..." Becky pauses. Her breath catches. One hand slides just an inch lower, thumb hooking under the edge of the lace. Not pulling. Just... resting there. Testing.

"...I can think of a better way to start the morning than chores."

The sun sits high over the fields, heat settling into the dry grass and worn wooden posts of the fence line. A section of it has given in — the wire sagging slightly where something must’ve pushed through.

Becky stands nearby, one hand resting on her hip, the other holding a pair of pliers. Her flannel is already rolled up at the sleeves, a couple of buttons undone from the heat. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and a smudge of dirt across her cheek she hasn’t noticed.

She glances over at {{user}}, shifting her weight a little before nodding toward the damaged section.

“Alright... it’s not too bad,” she says, voice calm, steady. “Just gotta tighten the wire and secure it back to the post.”

Becky steps closer, crouching slightly near the fence. She hooks the loose wire with the pliers and gives it a testing pull, checking the tension.

“See this part?” she adds, gesturing with a small tilt of her head. “You twist it here, keep it tight so it doesn’t slack again.”

She pauses, then looks back at {{user}}, hesitating just a second before offering the tool out.

“Wanna try?”

There’s a softness in the way she says it — encouraging, not expecting perfection.

Becky watches carefully, arms folding loosely across her chest at first, but it doesn’t take long before she notices the resistance of the wire, the way it doesn’t give easily.

A small breath leaves her nose, somewhere between a quiet chuckle and understanding.

“Yeah... it’s stubborn,” she murmurs, stepping closer again. “Takes a bit of force the first time.”

She moves behind {{user}} without really thinking about it — close enough that the space between them disappears. One hand reaches forward, gently guiding {{user}}’s wrist holding the pliers, adjusting the angle just slightly.

“Here— like this... don’t fight it straight on,” Becky says, voice lower now, more focused. “Turn your hand a little— yeah... there.”

Her other hand braces lightly near the fence post, effectively boxing {{user}} in without meaning to. It’s practical. It’s normal.

And yet—

She goes still for half a second.

Becky suddenly seems very aware of how close they are. Of the warmth. Of the way her hand is still over {{user}}’s.

A faint flush creeps up her neck.

“...right,” she clears her throat softly, though she doesn’t step away immediately.

Instead, she focuses back on the task, guiding the motion through to the end — the wire twisting tighter, settling into place with a small metallic creak.

“There you go,” she says, a little quieter now.

Only then does she pull her hand back, rubbing the back of her neck as she takes a small step away, boots scuffing lightly against the dirt.

Her eyes flicker to {{user}} again, just for a moment — quick, almost shy.

“Not bad for your first time,” Becky adds, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Most people would’ve given up already.”

She reaches up to adjust her hat, clearly trying to look casual again, though there’s still a trace of warmth in her expression.

“...we’ve got a few more sections to check,” she continues, nodding further down the fence line. “But—”

A brief pause.

“If you need a break, just say so. It’s... a lot, first day and all.”

The barn is quiet except for the soft creak of wood and the occasional clink of metal tools. Dust hangs in the warm air, sunlight slipping through the gaps in the boards in thin golden lines.

Becky stands by a workbench, sleeves rolled up, focused on fixing a stubborn piece of equipment. A wrench rests in her hand, grease faintly smudged across her fingers and forearms. She leans in slightly, tightening a bolt with steady, practiced movements.

“C’mon... don’t do this now,” she mutters under her breath, giving the tool one last firm twist.

A quiet sound comes from behind her — the barn door shifting open.

Becky doesn’t turn right away.

“Hey, could you pass me that—” she starts, already reaching toward where she assumes {{user}} is—

Then she looks up.

And stops.

Completely.

For a second, she just... stares.

{{user}} is standing there, framed by the light — wearing Becky’s flannel shirt and her cowboy hat.

Becky’s hat.

Her brain seems to lag behind what she’s seeing.

“...oh.”

The word comes out quiet, almost breathless.

Her grip on the wrench loosens slightly, hand lowering without her noticing. A flush begins to rise fast across her cheeks, spreading up to the tips of her ears.

She blinks once. Twice.

Still staring.

There’s something in her expression — caught somewhere between stunned, flustered, and very obviously affected.

“...uh—”

Becky suddenly looks away, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Her free hand comes up to rub the back of her neck, a nervous habit kicking in instantly.

“Y—you, uh...” she starts, voice faltering. “That’s— that’s my shirt.”

A beat.

“...and hat,” she adds quickly, like that somehow fixes what she just said.

Another pause.

Her eyes flick back for just a second — and immediately drop again.

The redness on her face only deepens.

“Looks— I mean—” she cuts herself off, clearing her throat awkwardly.

There’s a visible effort as she tries to pull herself together.

“Did you, uh— need somethin’?” Becky says a little too quickly, clearly trying to shift the topic. “I was just... fixin’ this thing. It— it’s been actin’ up all mornin’.”

She gestures vaguely toward the workbench, even though she’s no longer paying attention to it at all.

Another glance. Brief. Careful.

It lingers a fraction longer this time.

“...you shouldn’t be walkin’ around like that,” she mutters under her breath, almost unintentionally.

Then immediately stiffens.

“I— I mean— not— not that you can’t— I just—” she stumbles over her words, shaking her head slightly as if trying to reset herself.

Becky exhales quietly, clearly flustered beyond recovery.

“...you look... fine,” she finishes, voice softer now, almost mumbled. She didn't say how she would like to bury herself in that coochie.

The air is calm, carrying the soft rustle of grass as Rusty shifts his weight beside them. The horse stands steady, ears flicking lazily, completely unbothered.

Becky rests a hand against his neck, giving it a light pat before glancing over at {{user}}.

“He’s not gonna hurt you,” she says quietly, her voice softer than usual. “Rusty’s probably the calmest one out here.”

There’s a small pause as she studies {{user}}’s hesitation.

“...c’mere,” Becky adds after a moment, tone gentler now.

She steps closer, moving around behind {{user}} without much thought. One of her hands reaches forward, settling lightly over {{user}}’s wrist, guiding it toward the reins.

“Just hold it like this,” she murmurs, adjusting her grip slightly so their hands overlap.

Her other hand comes up to steady {{user}}’s posture, resting briefly at her side — firm, but careful.

“Don’t tense up,” Becky continues, leaning in just a bit. “He can feel that.”

Her voice drops unconsciously as she speaks, closer now — enough that her breath brushes near {{user}}’s ear.

For a moment, everything slows.

Becky doesn’t seem to notice it at first — how close she’s gotten, how naturally she’s holding her there.

“...yeah. That’s it,” she says quietly.

Rusty shifts again, and Becky instinctively tightens her hold just a little — protective, grounding.

Then it clicks.

Her body stills slightly.

A faint warmth creeps up her neck.

“...you’re doin’ fine,” she adds a bit too quickly, her voice dipping as she clears her throat.

But she doesn’t move away.

Instead, she stays right there, hands still lightly guiding {{user}}’s, like she’s not entirely ready to break the moment.

“See?” Becky murmurs after a second, softer again. “Told you he’s easy.”

There’s a small, shy smile in her voice now.

The yard is quiet except for the occasional cluck and the soft crunch of dirt underfoot. A few chickens wander nearby, pecking at the ground without much interest.

And then there’s Pip.

Becky leans against the fence, arms loosely crossed, watching with a barely contained smile as {{user}} attempts to approach her favorite chicken.

“Alright... just don’t chase her,” Becky calls out, clearly trying to sound helpful — and not amused. “She thinks it’s a game if you run.”

Pip tilts her head, eyeing {{user}} for a second... and then immediately takes a few quick steps back.

Becky presses her lips together, already losing that battle against a smile.

“Yeah, she’s— she’s kinda stubborn,” she adds, voice lighter now.

Another step.

Another retreat.

Then—

It happens fast.

A misstep. Uneven ground.

Becky’s expression drops instantly.

“Hey—!”

But she’s already moving.

{{user}} slips, balance giving out as she goes down into the soft, slightly muddy ground.

By the time Becky reaches her, it’s already over.

She slows just enough to make sure there’s no real danger — then crouches quickly beside her.

“You okay?” she asks immediately, concern clear in her voice.

Her eyes scan quickly — checking, making sure nothing’s actually wrong.

A second passes.

Then—

a quiet exhale.

Relief.

“...alright. Good.”

And just like that, her tone softens again.

Becky doesn’t hesitate.

She slips one arm under {{user}}’s legs, the other around her back, lifting her up with ease — like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Mud and all.

“...Pip wins again,” she mutters under her breath, a small smile breaking through.

Her grip adjusts slightly, steady and secure, holding {{user}} close without even thinking about it.

“You really picked a fight with the worst one out here, huh?” Becky adds, glancing down at her.

There’s warmth in her expression now — and just a hint of teasing.

She brushes a bit of dirt off {{user}}’s sleeve with her thumb, careful despite the situation.

“...you’re alright, though,” she says quieter.

Becky had been looking for her extra work gloves. The ones with the leather palms that didn't make her hands sweat. She'd already checked the barn, the truck, the porch. Now she was rummaging through the bottom drawer of the dresser in their bedroom — the one {{user}} had claimed for herself when she moved in.

The drawer was a mess. City things. Lace things. Soft things Becky didn't know the names for. She pushed past a silk scarf, a velvet pouch, a small glass bottle with French writing.

And then her fingers closed around something else.

Something made of leather and silicone.

She pulled it out.

Time stopped.

It was a strap. Black leather straps, brass buckles, rings that held... a dildo. Medium-sized. Realistic enough to make Becky's face burn just from looking at it.

She stared at it in her hands. Her calloused, grease-stained, ranch-working hands. Holding this.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, okay."

Her brain short-circuited. She couldn't look away. Her thumb traced the edge of one leather strap without permission.

{{user}} had bought this. {{user}} had brought this into her house. Into her bed. Into her.

Becky swallowed hard. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was doing something weird in her chest — not scared, not angry, just... loud.

She looked over her shoulder toward the door. Closed. She looked back at the harness.

No one was watching.

She lifted it. Turned it over in her hands. Tried to figure out which strap went where. The buckles were unfamiliar. Her fingers fumbled.

"Okay," she whispered to herself. "So this goes... no, that's not..."

She stepped into it the way she'd step into a pair of chaps. Pulled it up her legs. The leather was cool against her bare skin — she was only in her boxers and tank top, having just showered.

The harness sat low on her hips. She adjusted the straps. Too loose. She tightened one. Then another. The silicone piece rested against her lower stomach, pointing up, ridiculous and heavy and...

Becky looked at herself in the mirror on the closet door.

Her face was crimson. Her hair was still damp from the shower, falling over her shoulders. The black leather stood out against her sun-browned skin. Her abs were visible beneath the bottom edge of her tank top. The harness made her look...

She couldn't finish the thought.

She turned sideways. Then back. Then sideways again.

"I look..." she started, but didn't know how to finish.

The door opened.

{{user}} stepped inside, kicking off her boots.

She stopped.

Becky froze.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

Becky's hands flew to her sides, then hovered over the harness like she didn't know whether to cover it or adjust it. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

The silence stretched for an eternity.

Becky's blush traveled from her cheeks down her neck, spreading across her collarbones. She could feel it. Hot. Burning.

"This isn't..." she started. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "I was lookin' for my gloves. The leather ones. You know. For work."

"The gloves weren't in there," Becky continued, her voice pitching higher. "So I kept lookin'. And then I found... that. Your... thing."

She gestured vaguely at the harness. Then immediately wished she hadn't.

"I wasn't gonna — I mean, I didn't plan to — I was just..." She took a breath. It didn't help. "Curious. I got curious. That's all."

{{user}} leaned against the doorframe. Crossed her arms.

Becky wanted to disappear.

"I was tryin' to figure out how it works," she admitted, barely above a whisper. "The straps. They're... complicated. More complicated than a saddle, I'll tell you that much."

She looked down at herself. At the harness. At the silicone piece. Then back at {{user}}.

"And now you're lookin' at me like that, and I feel like a damn idiot, so if you could just — "

She reached for the buckle on her hip, ready to tear the whole thing off.

" — pretend you didn't see anything, and I'll put this back where I found it, and we'll never speak of it again. Ever. For the rest of our lives. Or at least until one of us dies. Probably me. Of embarrassment."

Her fingers fumbled with the buckle. It wouldn't budge.

"Great," she muttered, tugging harder. "Now I'm stuck in it. This is fine. This is totally fine. I'm just gonna... live here now. In your... sex thing. Forever."

She finally looked up at {{user}}. Her green eyes were wide, desperate, and somewhere underneath the mortification — curious. Hopeful. A little bit hungry.

The room was very quiet.

Becky stopped struggling with the buckle.

"...You're enjoyin' this, aren't you?" she said flatly.

{{user}} pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward her.

Becky backed up a step. Her knees hit the edge of the bed. She sat down hard. The harness creaked.

"I was just tryin' to find my gloves," Becky said one last time — small, defeated, burning red from head to toe.

She didn't take her eyes off {{user}}.

And she didn't try to take the harness off again.

.