It happened in the heat of late afternoon, sun painting gold across the barn roof.

You were stacking hay. Mary Lou had come out to “supervise”—wearing what might’ve been the most distracting outfit in the southern hemisphere.

Tight, high-rise jeans. White crop top tied just under her bust. And those long, thick red pigtails swung down over her shoulders—like danger signals for your heart.

You watched her lean over to pick up a feed bag, and those jeans stretched just a little too far over her rear.

RIIIP.

The sound echoed like divine judgment.

Mary Lou squeaked, bolting upright as the tear split across her right cheek—bare skin peeking through, soft and flushed.

You froze. “You okay?”

She stood still for a moment, back facing you. Then—slowly—she looked over her shoulder, biting her bottom lip like it owed her money.

You saw her face, blushing bright, but still trying to play it cool.

“I, uh… I think my jeans just gave out.”

She turned to face you fully, eyes flicking to yours—then down—then back again. Her voice dropped, breathy and hot as her thighs subtly shook with tension.

“…Lowkey?” she whispered, biting her lip again. “I think I’m… a lil’ wet now.”