Country (Af)fair

This story is set in Australia, and for the sake of clarity, Australians do not file joint taxes.

~~~~~~~

'I really think Kelsey's got what it takes to win,' my sister Amber remarked confidently as we walked through the fairgrounds to the show pavilion. 'She's beautiful, she has a great smile, she's a large B cup - big enough to be attractive, but not big enough to make her look trashy - and her jeans fit her like a glove. You should see her on a horse. If you saw her ride, there'd be no doubt she deserved to win.'

We were at a country fair for the whole and sole purpose of supporting my sister's latest protégé in her quest to become Miss Showgirl.

At thirty-two Amber was still a beauty herself. Tall and slender with flaxen blonde hair and green eyes, she has the sort of figure most women can only dream of having before kids, let alone after two of them, and she's always immaculately presented. As we strode towards our destination a number of men (and one or two women) gazed at her admiringly.

Nobody noticed me. I'm three years my sister's senior and at five foot ten I'm a good two inches taller than a woman should be. Tits? What tits? I'm an A-cup all the way. My facial features could best be described as 'strong' and my hair as 'brown'. I have nice legs, but that's about it, and when I stand next to my sibling I fade into obscurity.

'I thought Miss Showgirl was supposed to be someone who's going to empower women in regional and rural areas?' I remarked.

'Young girls don't identify with overweight feminists, Paige,' Amber replied.

'What about underweight feminists? Do they identify with those?'

Amber rolled her eyes. 'Now you're being stupid. Sometimes I think you're just jealous that you didn't learn to ride.'

'What, so I could join you in training the next generation of Rodeo Queens?'

'One of my girls is on the US circuit and doing very, very well,' Amber said, either ignoring or missing my sarcasm. 'And it's never too late to learn to ride. I could teach you in no time at all.'

I rolled my eyes. 'I don't want to ride a horse. We're in the country. I want to ride a cowboy or better yet, a woodchopper. You ever see those guys' arms? They have serious muscles. I could definitely do a woodchopper.'

'You must be after me,' a cheerful male voice announced. 'I'm a woodchopper.'

Amber and I turned around and came face to face with three men in their early twenties. I could immediately tell who the woodchopper was because of the cheeky grin he wore on his face. He was a country boy, the kind who can only make an overture towards a woman when they're either drunk or can pretend that their advance was nothing more than a joke.

All the same, I immediately liked him. He had friendly hazel eyes, a mop of dark hair and a solid build. He stood at least six foot which is generally my minimum for men. Any shorter and they get insecure when standing next to a tall woman. I can deal with many things, but not insecurity.

'Are you just?' I asked with a smile.

'He's competing at eleven in the main arena,' one of his mates told me.

I kept my gaze fixed on the woodchopper. 'Then I guess I'll see you at eleven,' I said.

The woodchopper seemed equal parts pleased and embarrassed.

'I won't win,' he muttered gruffly.

'I'll buy you a beer to cry into if you lose,' I offered.

'What will you get him if he wins?' the mate who'd spoken earlier inquired.

'What does he pay you for your wingman services?' I countered.

The friend laughed. He ignored my question and instead said 'so you'll get him a bourbon and Coke?'

I turned to the woodchopper. 'You win, you get bourbon, anything less, beer.'

I'm not going to lie; the expression on the woodchopper's face amused me to no end. Sometimes you can just tell when a man is attracted to you, and that was how it was with him. For all of my sister's beauty, I was the one he was interested in.

'See you at eleven,' I said, turning around.

Amber and I continued our walk towards the pavilion. When we were a suitable distance away from the men, and my sister had checked that they weren't within earshot, she elbowed me sharply in the ribs.

'What's that for?' I demanded.

'You! Flirting with some ugly bogan who looks like he only stopped breastfeeding three years ago.'

'He wasn't that young,' I lied. 'Had to be thirty at least.'

Amber snorted. 'More like twenty, Paige and now we are going to have to avoid him and his mates for the rest of the day unless you want to be hassled about why you didn't watch the woodchopping.'

'Why wouldn't I watch the woodchopping?' I asked.

'Oh my God.' She stopped and buried her face in her hands. 'No, Paige. No.'

I mentally debated how far I should torment my sister. Eh, fuck it. Go for gold. This was, after all, the woman who thought beauty pageants were an important measure of a woman's beauty.

'I've been remembering how much I loved growing up in the country,' I said, trying to keep a straight face. 'If I could find myself a new husband, I'd have the perfect excuse to live here again.'

'You hated living out here,' Amber said incredulously. 'Remember you used to always complain that the men were either skinny or fat? I remember you saying, and I quote 'why can't I have a regular sized one?''

The woodchopper was on the heavier side of things, so I replied 'I've decided I like the fat ones.'

'This isn't Ipswich,' Amber said, her voice taking on a pleading tone. 'If you flirt with him, everyone will remember. I'll be the girl whose sister flirted with the butcher.'

'He's a butcher? You know him?'

My sister pursed her lips.

I tried to make a dirty comment about men and meat, but started spluttering with laughter mid-way through the sentence.

'You fucking bitch,' Amber said, pushing me as hard as she could. 'I thought you were serious.'

There was some effort to her push and I nearly wiped out a mother and her pram. I apologised profusely as I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes and tried to stop laughing.

'Oh my God,' Amber said. 'I seriously thought you were going to go and watch the woodchopping.'

'I am,' I replied truthfully. 'I love the woodchopping.'

'No! He's going to think you like him. Go and buy some fucking jam or something. Go and look at the cattle hall.'

'Jam and cows?' I repeated. 'Are you kidding?'

Amber was mad. Not even mad, she was steaming. She couldn't believe that her older sister was going to embarrass her by flirting with a man ten years' her junior.

'You're married,' she said flatly.

'Yes,' I agreed. 'More's the pity.'

'You're not even trying to hold onto your husband.'

'No,' I replied, becoming deathly serious. 'I'm not. I've had enough.'

'Come on Paige,' she hissed. 'If that stupid woman had never told you, you never would have found out. You were happy before you knew, so there's no reason you can't be happy now.'

'Don't care, Amber. If Kevin can have his fun, so can I.' I turned around and went to walk towards the food stalls. I wanted a drink.

'This isn't right!' my sister yelled. 'You made a promise.'

I didn't reply. I didn't care what she thought. She could go and watch her latest princess smile and prim and preen for the crowd for all I fucking cared, I wanted to see men in white pants chop wood.

~~~~~~~~~~

The woodchopping followed on from the sheepdog trials, and as I like both events, I made my way to the area a little after ten and found a seat.

It was nice to sit in the winter sun and not think about much at all. I was tired of being stressed. Amber had been incorrect when she'd asserted that I'd been happy before I learned my husband's secret. I hadn't been 'happy' before I knew what my husband had been up to, I'd merely been ignorant. You could maybe even say I'd been hopeful and naïve, but I certainly hadn't been happy in the ordinary sense of the word.

It would be easy to give in, to say 'I made it ten years with Kevin, eight of which we've been married', but I couldn't continue on this way. Two weeks ago I'd started sleeping in the spare bedroom. I'd told him it was because he was snoring, but I think we both knew the truth because with the move had come the removal of my wedding rings. I'd been pushed to my limit with his latest escapade, a small wrongdoing in the scheme of things, sure, but the lies that he'd told to try and hide it from me showed me he wasn't prepared to change. His only regret was that I'd found out.

The woodchopper's two mates spotted me and came over. One of them, the wingman, had his wife and infant son with him. I have a hard time being in the vicinity of babies. As with most women who desperately want a child but can't have one for one reason or another, it's hard for me to quell the unreasonable jealousy and anger I feel when I see a mother and child. I made a conscious effort not to look in the pram and to quiet the feelings of rage.

All three seemed amused that I'd actually made my way to the arena to watch the woodchopping, but they were all polite and friendly. They told me the woodchopper's name was Floyd. The wingman introduced himself as Neal, his wife was Claire, and the other friend was Ryan. Claire had bought several jars of jam and they were straining against a white plastic carrier bag attached to her baby's pram.

'What are Floyd's chances like?' I asked.

'He's entered into the underhand and the standing block comps,' Ryan told me. 'He'll come second or third in each. The current national champion is here, and entered into both, so Floyd won't stand a chance at winning.'

Ryan was correct and Floyd didn't win either category. He came third and second respectively, and made his way over after the events with two cheques for nominal amounts. This was a country show and both the entry fees and the prizes were modest.

'Good work,' I said, smiling at him.

'Hah, thanks,' he said with a wry smile of his own. 'Was I pitiful enough for a beer?'

'No, but you were good enough for a Jim Beam or two,' I replied.

His friends said something about wanting to go and get lunch, and told Floyd they'd catch up with him later. Floyd seemed keen for them to go, which meant only one thing; he wanted to be alone with me.

I wondered if having a few drinks with Floyd would be tantamount to cheating. Six months ago, if I'd caught Kevin buying a twenty-something year old woman a bourbon and Coke, I would have flipped my lid. But if Kevin were to do it now? It would be a relief. It would be an excuse. It would give me all the ammunition I needed to not merely move to the spare bedroom, but to tell my husband we were selling our house and getting a divorce.

'Where's the best place to get a bourbon?' I asked. 'At the show? Or would you rather go to a local pub and have lunch while we're at it?'

Dangerous, Paige. Dangerous. Why suggest leaving the show and going to a pub? Because you don't want to run into Amber? Because you don't want your sister telling Floyd you have a husband?

'Let's go have lunch at a pub,' he suggested.

I sent Amber a text to let her know I was going home. She didn't respond. Good. I didn't want her to ask questions.

As we drove to the pub in our respective cars, I found myself wondering what Kevin would think of my actions. Would he feel betrayed? Hurt? With something of a shock, I realised I hoped the answer was 'yes'. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to feel betrayed. I wanted him to know what I'd been through. I wanted to smash his head in until he was dazed enough to listen, to actually listen to me and comprehend what his actions had done to me.

We arrived at the pub. Floyd paid for our lunches, I paid for our drinks. We sat in the bistro garden with our bourbon and began to talk about the show, the wood-chopping, and our jobs. Neither of us had children, and we both claimed to be single but unlike me, I knew Floyd was telling the truth. There was no woman in his life.

At some point he began to awkwardly flirt with me, and I returned the favour just as awkwardly. I found myself leaning over the table and touching his arms and hands. He was physically very different from my husband, who was tall and thin. I knew he liked me, and I knew he wanted more than just quick sex.

Some people believe in a one true love. I don't. I've met a handful of people over the course of my life who I've known I could easily have married. Mostly they were men, but one was a woman, and that shocked me. Maybe sexuality was more fluid than I'd thought? I'd been already spoken for on each occasion, or the other person had been partnered, so nothing had come of our interactions but all the same, I'd understood that they were people I connected with.

Floyd was also someone I connected with. Despite the age difference, and despite my marital status, I was enchanted by his little tales, his facial expressions, and his bright hazel eyes.

'Do you live nearby?' I asked.

'Not really, I'm really about half an hour away,' he said. 'I just came here for the show.'

'Do you live alone?'

'I have a housemate, but he's working today. His shift doesn't finish until six.'

'Would you like to take me to your house?' I asked.

The penny dropped. Floyd tapped his teeth together nervously.

'Are you sure?' he asked.

'Definitely sure.'

He nodded slowly. 'Okay. Tell me if you change your mind when we get there.'

'I won't.' I leant across the table and brushed my lips against his. 'Will you?"

Floyd shook his head. 'No,' he replied quietly. He brushed a calloused finger against my cheek. He went to speak, but then thought better of it and kept quiet.

'What is it?' I asked curiously.

He shook his head again and smiled, embarrassed. 'It was going to be a silly question.'

I went to the bathroom before we left the pub. I was hoping there might be a condom vending machine inside, but there wasn't. There was only one vending machine, and it dispensed terrifyingly archaic looking sanitary pads. I was on the pill so it wasn't a baby I was worried about so much as a STD. I hoped Floyd had condoms. If not... Well, if not, I'd fuck him anyway.

My hands were shaking as I washed and dried them. I was about to break my wedding vows and although I knew it wasn't too late to go back to the show and retain my chastity, I knew that wasn't a choice I was willing to make.

My pussy was already aching with longing. I needed to feel Floyd's cock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Floyd and his housemate rented a rambling old low-set house on fifteen acres of uncleared land. The house was in a state of disrepair, and the fencing was terrible even by rural standards.

He led me through a wood-panelled living room and into a nineteen sixties era kitchen and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I asked him for a drink of water and he duly fetched it.

We stood in the kitchen and drank our water. I could tell he was nervous, but so was I. Who, other than a practiced Casanova, wouldn't be? It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and the air was so clear I could smell a campfire on the breeze that swept in through the casement windows that had been left open.

'Would you like to just hang out?' Floyd asked.

It was one last opportunity to not have sex with him. One last chance to avoid marital infidelity. An afternoon spent watching television and drinking beer with a man over ten years my junior wasn't exactly an admirable for a married woman, but it didn't provide grounds for divorce, either.

Fuck it. We both knew what I was here for.

'No, no,' I replied. 'You?'

'No. Just wishing I'd worn a better pair of underpants.'

'I hear you on that one,' I agreed. 'I also could have shaved. Apologies in advance.'

We looked at each other and laughed at the absurdity of our situation. Who the hell meets at a country show and decides to go home for a fuck with a fellow fairgoer who they've just met? This was the sort of shit that happens in nightclubs and bars.

'I cleaned the bathroom this morning,' Floyd said. 'I've got some spare razors. Do you want me to shave you?'

'Have you done this before?'

'Nope, but I'm a butcher, so I'm pretty reliable with my hands.'

'Okay. Why not?'

We went to the old, blue tiled bathroom and Floyd ran hot water. While we were waiting for the tub to fill up I leant over and kissed him. He didn't object, so I pressed my tongue into his mouth and batted it against his. He let out an involuntary groan and drew me into a hug.

He was a big, solid boy. The woodchopping regulation uniform of white pants and singlet had given me an idea of that, but feeling him in my arms made it apparent that he was easily over a hundred kilos, making him more than double my weight.

Floyd's hands slipped under my shirt and settled on my waist as we continued to kiss. The bathroom began to fill with steam but it wasn't the only hot, moist thing around. There was already a damp patch in the gusset of my panties. Floyd was being mindful to keep his groin from pressing against mine, which tended to suggest that he was both erect and trying to avoid poking me with his prick.

The bath was now half full. I started to unbutton Floyd's shirt. He stopped kissing me to help me, and when all the buttons were undone, I slipped it over his shoulders. He had a magnificent chest, broad and strong and covered in hair. I went to reach for his belt but before I could grab it, Floyd was tugging at my shirt. I pulled it over my head then quickly removed my bra.

Floyd leant down and sucked on my nipples. Despite the hot environment, both quickly stiffened under his ministrations. I cradled his head in my hands and kissed his hair, clutching him to me like he was an overgrown infant. He slipped to his knees and kissed my stomach as he unbuttoned my jeans. I had a damn good stomach for a woman my age; smooth and almost entirely flat, testament to the fact that I'd never been pregnant.

'I wouldn't pull my jeans or undies any lower,' I said, holding onto the waistband. 'We're in sasquatch territory from the waist down.'

The sex with Kevin had all but dried up after I'd learned what he was hiding and confronted him. I didn't want to have sex with him. He wanted to have sex with me; every argument ended with a plea to make love, but the last thing I'd wanted to do was be intimate with someone who'd betrayed me. I'd stopped shaving. My once tidy pussy was now a forest and because it was winter, my legs were no better.

Floyd slowly stood, kissing my belly, breasts, neck and face as he got to his feet. He peered at the bathtub and remarked it was full. He turned off the taps and opened the chipped melamine vanity cabinet and retrieved a razor, shaving cream, and a shaving cream brush. As I watched, he replaced the old blade in the razor with a fresh one.

I made a joke about it being 'show time' and leant down to unzip my boots.

'Those are really sexy boots,' Floyd remarked as removed his own boots and socks.

'Thanks,' I said, removing one knee high black leather boot and then getting to work on the other. 'You're not half bad yourself.'

We quickly shucked off our clothes and were soon standing next to each other in all our nude, unshaven glory. He seemed quite embarrassed about his erection, even though he had a respectably sized cock and it would be far more embarrassing if he couldn't get hard.

Without realising I was going to do it, I pushed him against the wall and dropped to my knees. I nuzzled his hips and thighs and consciously stopped swallowing to let the saliva in my mouth build up.

Floyd backed himself hard up against the wall, put his hands on my shoulders and gently put pressure on them as he tried to push me away. He asked me to stop, explaining that he hadn't had more than a cursory shower at the showgrounds after the woodchopping and he probably wasn't too clean. As it was, he'd been worried all through lunch that he smelt.