Trish

This time they're NOT spatulas!

Trish looked at Vincent Bruno and saw that he had quite a muscular physique. She reckoned he could lift one-hundred, perhaps one-hundred ten pounds right up over his head. She thought, If I had been but a poor farm girl, as I’ve often daydreamed, such a physique would have been both a practical and attractive trait in a farmhand.

           
She approached Vincent Bruno and asked him if he was at all adroit with any farming implements, such as plows, hoes, or wheelbarrows. Speechlessly, Vincent Bruno produced a pitchfork and began to bale hay. He baled it recklessly and fluently at once, like a rabid seal nonetheless maintaining expert control over its ball.

 

Trish watched with longing eyes as the sweat rolled off Vincent Bruno’s bare back. Suddenly, Vincent Bruno met her stare. He saw that she was quite comely, being nice and thin in some bits but also not very thin at all in other bits. Vincent Bruno liked inconsistent thicknesses; sometimes he would spend a full twenty minutes simply gazing at a crookneck squash.

 

Trish could hold back her lust no longer. She rushed toward Vincent Bruno and embraced him. Vincent Bruno was not bothered by the hindrance to his pitchfork work, but instead tossed the tool aside and kissed Trish sweetly (which was the wrong way to kiss her in this context, but Vincent Bruno was really paying more attention to the whole pitchfork thing, since it had lethal potential and all).

 

Trish’s fingers flitted up and down his glistening bare chest. She even commented on its bareness, but Vincent Bruno pointed out that Trish was wearing two shirts, and that this fact meant that, statistically, neither of them was topless; they averaged one shirt apiece. Trish responded by removing one of her two shirts, allowing one of them to be mathematically topless.

 

She then cupped Vincent Bruno’s heaving bosom. It wasn’t long, however, before she realized that Vincent Bruno didn’t have a heaving bosom, and that she was, in fact, cupping her own breast. As it happened, Vincent Bruno was, quite congruently, cupping his own pectoral muscle. It appeared as though they were reciting the Pledge of Allegiance—but they weren’t pledging allegiance to any flag. They were pledging allegiance to passion.

 

They fell gently to the ground – not in the way a leaf falls gently to the ground, but more like how two people go through a series of positions that grow incrementally closer to being completely horizontal. Really, there wasn’t any actual falling so much as there was measured and controlled manipulation of the effect of gravity on their bodies. But in the end, they lay together on the grass, safely out of the way of the pitchfork thanks to Vincent Bruno’s conscientious pitchfork-safety practices.

 

Their lips were locked tightly, as though with a heavy-duty combination lock. Neither of them knew the combination, but they were too rapt with passion to care; in their intimacy, each knew that, when the time finally arrived, the combination could be supplied by the assistant principal of passion.

 

Despite the unending kiss, Trish managed to pull her remaining shirt up over her head and fling it aside. Vincent Bruno briefly wondered how this was possible, but quickly decided that the current understanding of the physical laws of the universe was neither exhaustive nor infallible, and that sooner or later some German physicist was bound to come up with a mathematically sound explanation for anomalous disrobing, so he might as well stop worrying about it and enjoy Trish’s toplessness.

 

Trish, rapt with the kind of lust that only surfaces in the longing embrace of a pseudo-farmhand, deftly lowered Vincent Bruno’s pants and wrapped her fingers around his throbbing manhood. It exhilarated her, but she quickly decided that it was too abstract and moved her hand to his penis instead.