Hay Fever's Heatwave

The late August air hung thick and heavy, saturated with the scent of damp earth and the promise of a storm. My wife, Sarah, had just finished her shift at the diner, her denim jacket still clinging to her curves as she stepped into the kitchen. We’d been discussing our plans for the day – a daunting task of baling sixty bales of hay from our second cutting. The tractor, a rusted Farmall Super C, stood patiently in the barn, a relic of simpler times, holding a strange, nostalgic significance for both of us. It was the same tractor I’d driven as a boy, the one I’d first learned about the intimacy of touch on. Sarah, ever observant, had remembered our “couple’s course” from decades ago, where we’d chosen unusual names for our bodies – she, “the garden,” and I, “the Super C.” The memory always brought a smile to my lips, a shared secret between us.

As I checked the DTN for the impending rain, a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. The radar showed a serious system moving in from the west, promising a downpour that would quickly ruin the freshly cut hay. It meant a race against time, a frantic scramble to get the job done before the heavens opened up. I could spare about three hours for raking and another three for milking the fifty cows, but not both. My mind raced, weighing the options, desperate to find a solution.

“Let’s wait until Monday,” I suggested, hoping the weather would hold. But Sarah, with her pragmatic nature, immediately stepped in. “Don’t be silly, darling. We can do it now. You rake the hay, and I’ll take care of the chores.” It was a relief, a welcome reprieve from the mounting pressure. With a grateful smile, I grabbed the rake and headed out to the field, eager to get started.

As I wrestled with the cumbersome rake, I noticed Sarah already hard at work, her denim jeans clinging to her legs as she expertly navigated the field on the Super C. The old tractor groaned and sputtered, its engine struggling to keep pace with her determination. The rhythmic swish of the rake filled the air, a primal soundtrack to our shared labor.

When I finished my chores, my stomach rumbled with hunger. I quickly assembled a simple supper – cold fried chicken, potato salad, carrot sticks, and a couple of sodas – and grabbed it all, eager to refuel before returning to the field. Finding Sarah in the back corner of the farm, amidst a pile of newly raked hay, I rushed over, my heart pounding with anticipation.

A passionate kiss ignited the moment, a desperate need to connect, to lose ourselves in the shared experience. Her touch was electric, sending shivers down my spine. Without a word, I pulled a couple of bales off the wagon, her attention immediately drawn to my action. She quickly removed any distractions, laying down on the sharp, dry hay, her body a perfect curve in the golden expanse.

"These are too scratchy," she murmured, her voice a soft plea. I quickly scanned our surroundings, finding a piece of kraft paper twine from the baler, and laid it down over the exposed stems, creating a makeshift cushion. Then, with a playful grin, I untied my pants, pushing them down before settling back into position between her legs. The familiar scent of sweat and hay filled the air, a heady mix of exertion and desire.

As I slowly entered her, her body tensed, anticipating the pleasure to come. She arched her back, inviting my touch. The first time, she responded with a gasp, her muscles contracting as she came, almost immediately after my entry. The second time, she paused, her breath ragged, just moments before I unloaded the last bale. As I stood, I watched with a mixture of pleasure and shame as her love juice and my cum slowly seeped out, pooling on the kraft paper. The warmth spread through our bodies, a tangible manifestation of our shared passion.

We cleaned up the mess as best we could, changing into clean clothes, then embracing each other, our bodies intertwined in a silent conversation of desire. As we ate the simple supper, we reminisced about our first meeting, our awkward attempts at intimacy, and the gradual blossoming of our love. It felt like coming home, a return to the comfort and familiarity of our shared past.

With a satisfied sigh, Sarah headed back to the house on the Super C, her wagon filled with the fragrant hay. I finished the last two loads, my muscles aching, my senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the experience. As the rain finally began to fall, a gentle drizzle at first, then a full-blown deluge, I hurried back to the shed, securing the last bales just as the heavens opened up.

Returning inside, I found Sarah already in bed, her eyes closed, a peaceful expression on her face. The kraft paper, bearing the unmistakable imprint of our encounter, lay on the bed beside her, a testament to our shared passion. A circle had been drawn around the wet spot, highlighting the evidence of our intimate moment. The heading read: “The Farmall Super C created the problem. The Farmer’s Super C took care of it.”

The next morning, Sarah recounted the sensations she’d experienced on the Super C, describing the vibrations, the uneven seat, and the feeling of being intimately connected to the machine. "It was like three hours of intense fingering," she said, her voice filled with a mixture of embarrassment and excitement. “So what did you expect when you got there? I was a very horny 61-year-old woman.” Her words hung in the air, a playful challenge, a reminder of the depths of our shared desires. The memory of that night, the rain, the tractor, and the primal connection we forged in the heart of the field, would forever be etched in our minds, a testament to the enduring power of love and lust. The Farmall Super C, once a symbol of simpler times, had become a vessel of passion, a silent witness to our unforgettable encounter, and a reminder that even the most mundane moments can hold extraordinary pleasures.

Did you like this story? Hay Fever's Heatwave look, but like these, here Hot hot sex story.