Chapter One

 

Molly Cooper didn't go to the gym. She didn't exercise at all. The very concept of exercising confused her when she first heard about it. She remembered being dumbfounded when Mrs. Sellers, her Math teacher in Grade Six told her how she'd bought a treadmill.

The idea people would pay money - a lot of money, apparently - for a machine they could walk on without going anywhere was not something she really understood. Molly grew up and lived on her father's farm. She walked and biked everywhere, and when she wasn't doing that she was doing her chores.

Since her older sisters, Shauna and Leslie had the inside chores pretty much covered, Molly helped with the horses and chickens, and goats. Fetching bales of hay which often weighed over fifty pounds down from the loft, moving them around, and forking the hay out for the horses was strenuous work. As was cleaning up the horse leavings afterward.

She learned to drive a jitney - which was a cut-down old pickup with no sides and a flat wooden bed behind, when she was Eight. But that was the only motorized transport she ever usually rode in except when she got on the bus for school or her dad or mom drove her into town.

She rode horses around the farm when walking would take too long or the jitney wasn't available. And she helped load baskets of apples, cranberries, peaches, and plums onto the jitney and then off again after the hired laborers had picked it. She also worked a hundred other jobs which required her to work her body physically hard enough she didn't need to exercise.

By the time she graduated from high school her long, slender body was lithe and fit as an athlete. And the only fat on it were the two annoyingly large lumps on her chest - lumps which seemed to her to be only good for getting in the way and attracting all-too-much notice from men of all ages.

Working on the farm is hard work, and sweaty work in the summer, and like the rest of her family Molly didn't worry too much about how she dressed except at harvest time when she'd be around the Hispanic laborers who journeyed from town to town for temporary help.

The way those men looked at her when she was wearing her usual short cutoffs and midriff-baring tank top made her feel like a sheep around a pack of hungry wolves. She didn't understand what they said to each other while looking at her but had a pretty good notion it was the wrong kind of flattering.

But that late spring morning there was no one on the farm but family. It was unseasonably hot so she was dressed in short, low-riding jean shorts and a checked blue cotton shirt. She reckoned she didn't need a bra since she only buttoned a couple of buttons between her breasts, and pulled the rest up to tie off just below them. The fabric hugged her breasts almost as well as a bra and let a lot more air through.

Aside from that, she wore a straw cowboy hat that morning as she drove the jitney out into the north field. It was just a tad early for the horses to feed well on the grass here in Oklahoma, so she was driving some hay out to them.

She drove up the dirt road that fronted the fruit trees then out along the two-wheel ruts which went further north. Things got kind of bouncy there, but the springs on the old jitney were pretty good, and the seat springs were even better.

She slowed down as her breasts started to bounce a bit too much. It seemed the blouse wasn't quite as strong at containing them as her bra was, at least not when she was moving so energetically. And wasn't that annoying?

She remembered when she'd driven the foreman of one of the work gangs out to the trees the previous fall and caught him staring at her chest. He hadn't blushed at her glare the way boys at school would. Instead, he'd said, "I wish you'd bounce on my lap like that, Blondie."

Her older brother Tom had a talk with the man later and that had been the last time he'd gotten a ride with her or spoken to her.

She'd always been kind of self-conscious about her breasts. They weren't good for anything, so far as she could see, and had gotten her far more attention, and subjected her to far more crude humor than they were worth. And even when she'd started allowing boys to touch them all that did was make her wince since they tended to squeeze them like they were trying to squeeze all the water out of a sponge.

She reached the north pasture and could see the horses gathered at one end. They tended to stay clumped together around the lead mare, Sally-Ann. She drove over to them and they headed for her at once, knowing full well what she was doing there.

She stopped the jitney and got out to say hello to Sally-Ann and a few others, then climbed up back and shoved the bales over the side. She got down and took her pocket knife out of her pocket to cut them loose, then used a fork to spread it around some.

Which was all entirely normal. Right up until a big truck drove slowly up to the fence line and stopped. Molly hadn't lived her whole life in Oklahoma without recognizing a drilling truck when she saw one and frowned as two men got out of the truck and looked to be setting up shop.

She finished what she was doing, said goodbye to Sally-Ann, and got back in the jitney, then sat there a long minute watching the men as they slowly raised the big drilling rig. She was both confused and annoyed as she started the jitney and drove over to the edge of her family's farm, which was bordered by a line of barbed wire fencing.

She got out and walked over to the fence line, and one of the men saw her, then nudged the other. They both abandoned whatever they were doing and came over to the other side of the fence. That was when she was reminded of and irritated by the fixation men had with breasts.

"What are you all doing over there on the Foster farm?" she asked.

"Why, sweetheart, we're prospecting," one of them said.

"For black gold," the other replied.

She couldn't say she really liked the look of either. There was a reason such people had the nickname 'roughnecks'. These two were big and strong and rough-looking. One wore a dirty t-shirt and another a shirt like hers, only hanging loose. And both of them were clearly appreciating her breasts more than was polite.

"Since when did anyone think there was oil around here?" she demanded.

"Could be oil anywhere, honey. We go where we're sent," the older one said.

He reached across the fence, extending his hand.

"I'm Al Spencer," he said.

Molly didn't want to touch him but it would have been far too rude to refuse so she reluctantly took his hand.

"What's your name, beautiful?" the other asked.

"Molly. This is my daddy's farm," she replied in annoyance, tugging her hand back.

"I'm Paul," the younger one in the dirty t-shirt said, thrusting his hand at her.

She pursed her lips but felt she had to shake it.

He needed a shave and had bloodshot eyes. The older one at least looked cleaner.

"I love farm girls," he replied, staring at her chest as he jerked her closer.

She ignored him except to yank her hand free.

"So how come you're drilling way out at the far end of the Foster place?"
The older one shrugged and smiled. "We drill wherever on the map the geologists tell us to drill," he said.

"I know where I'd like to drill," the younger one said, sliding his tongue along his lower lip.

"Yeah? Maybe you ought to think about getting a dentist to drill into all those brown teeth," she suggested, turning and striding back to her jitney.

"Yeah? Well maybe you'd like to suck my dick!" he called after her as the older one laughed.

She thrust her middle finger up above her shoulder, not even looking back. She got into her jitney, started the engine, and gave one final look to see the younger one making grinding and pumping motions with his hips. She shook her head and spun the wheel to turn and ride away.

It was awfully weird they'd drill so close to the fence line. Molly was young but as a native Oklahoman, she knew quite a bit about oil drilling. And about how unethical some of the drillers could be. The most likely reason to drill so near the fence-line, she figured, was to drill diagonally so the drill slid under someone else's property. Namely her family's.

She drove back to the house, a large pale yellow two-story wood-frame house built before her parents were born. She parked the jitney out back, jumped out and threw back the screen door, then stalked inside.

"Ma!" she called.

She wandered into the kitchen where her mother was cutting ham. She was in her early fifties, slightly plump, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing an apron.

"Don't shout, dear."

"Where's dad?"

"He went into town to get some things."

She tsked in annoyance and propped herself heavily against the counter.

"Did you know the Fosters let someone drill for oil on their land?" she asked.

"No, did they?"

"Yes, and they're doing it right next to our northern fence."

"Really? I wonder if that means there might be oil under our north pasture."

"I wonder if they might be wondering that too," she said sourly.

"Well, it wouldn't be a bad thing, dear."

"It would be if they stole it out from under us!"

"Now why would they do that?"

"Because they're no-good thieves!"

"You don't know that, dear."

"Well, why would they go all the way to the south end of their property right up near our fence-line?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

Her sister Shauna came into the kitchen as she was describing the way slant drilling could drill into oil on someone else's land. Shauna was a redhead, in her early twenties, and already married.

"Whatever are you talking about?" she demanded.

Molly explained about the drilling and Shauna tsked and rolled her eyes.

"And you talked to them dressed like that?"

"What's wrong with how I'm dressed?" she demanded.

Shauna shook her head and rolled her eyes as if to emphasize the depths of her disapproval.

"You're not even wearing a brassiere."

"So what?"

"Well if you don't mind putting on a show for men."

"First of all there wasn't supposed to be anyone around. Second of all I'm perfectly decently covered. You're just an old prude."

"No woman is decently dressed without a bra, not when she's as big as you."

"What's that supposed to mean? You saying I'm fat!?"

"Girls," her mother sighed, still cutting ham.

"You're a thirty-eight C-cup, Molly! You can't go around without bras!"

"I didn't think I'd have to worry about getting the horses all excited!"

"Molly can dress however she likes on our property," her mother said, eyeing Shauna.

"Unless someone's visiting, of course," she said, eyeing Molly.

"Well, no one was supposed to be visiting! And they weren't even on our property."

"But she - ."

"But I'm - ."

"Molly go and park the jitney in the barn. You know it doesn't go there. Shauna go and get the laundry from the washer. It should be ready now."

Molly glared at her sister but sniffed and pushed her way out through the screen door and got in the jitney. She backed it up and then turned and spun the wheels, heading around the dirt path and then out to the barn. Well, one of the barns. They had two.

She drove in through the wide-open doors and almost knocked Jacob over. He jumped back with a curse, then glowered at her.

"What's the matter with you driving into the barn that fast!?" he demanded.

"Well, I didn't know you was here!" she exclaimed.

He stalked over to the side of the jitney and then his right hand shot out and wrapped itself around her throat.

Molly's eyes bulged a little and she gasped as she pressed her back across the low seat, but she didn't fight him. Jacob was six foot five, and a powerfully built man. He was the only permanent hired hand on the farm, and Molly and he had a ... thing. It wasn't a romantic thing. It wasn't even a friendly thing. The truth was she didn't really like Jacob and thought he was kind of dumb and mean.

But she definitely found his brute strength and powerful body deeply attractive.

"You almost ran me over, you brainless bimbo!" he growled.

His left hand came down and roughly cupped her breasts through the thin top, then he jerked the knot untied to spill her breasts into the shadowy light and ran his hands over them.

Molly could feel her nipples had already hardened, and they tingled hotly as his fingers rolled them. There was a reason why Jacob excited her the way the boys she occasionally dated didn't, but she wasn't sure what it was. Just that he was so much more exciting.

"Thought I'd taught you proper behavior already," he said darkly.

Jacob was, Molly thought, a bully, and a jerk. He was in his early thirties, and so far older than her, but he was currently unmarried, his third wife having decided she didn't want any more of his nastiness.

Molly drew in air in long, slow gasps as his fingers held her by the throat. Then she moaned as his left hand slid down her taut, arched body, undid the clasp of her shorts, and thrust down inside. She felt her hips already flaring with heat as his fingers found her naked sex and rubbed against her swelling clitoris.

She would have slugged a boy who got rough with her like this. Why did it make her body burn to let him do it!? Was it just because he was so big and strong? Was it because he was old? A real man, not boys like her friends?

He pulled her forward and to the side of the jitney by the throat, and still she held her arms at her sides, gasping, face red. He shoved her shorts and panties down, then used his other hand to shove the open shirt back over her shoulders and pull it off.

"Hot blonde slut," he growled.

He pulled her out of the jitney, his massive hand still curled around her throat, and Molly stumbled on her feet as he drew her forward and forced her around. Then he released her throat, quickly transferring his grip to her long, blonde hair. He jerked her head back sharply enough to make her cry out, then shoved her roughly forward, bending her across the low front hood of the jitney.

Molly's heart was pounding, and her pulse racing as she sucked in deep, ragged breaths of air. Her soft breasts felt hot and swollen as they were pressed down against the warm metal hood of the truck.

Then the belt hit.

She gasped as it slashed across her buttocks and she felt a line of fire.

Crack!

"Tell me you're sorry, bitch."

"I-I'm sorry, Jacob!" she gasped.

Crack!

"Tell me you'll make it up to me."

Crack!

"Uhgh! I'll make it up to you!" she gasped.

Crack!

"Tell me you're sorry for being a blonde airhead."

Crack!

"I'm s-sorry for -." Crack! " - being a blonde airhead! Ahh!"

Crack!

"Raise that ass higher, slut!"

Crack!

Moaning, Molly obeyed, shifting her feet forward and rising on the balls of her feet.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Each blow from the belt sent a sharp explosion of pain through her buttocks, which morphed into a strange, dark echo of sensation through her lower belly all the way to her groin. It was an echo which made her pussy throb and pulse.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

She cried out weakly, rolling and mashing her soft breasts against the hood of the jitney as the belt came down on her bare buttocks.

"Beg me for it, slut."

Crack! Crack!

"Please fuck me, Jacob!" she cried.

Crack! Crack!

"Louder, slut."

"Please fuck me, Jacob!" she cried.

Crack!

"Spread your legs, slut."