Amber keeps milking the cow, the steady squirt-squirt echoing through the barn. Her red denim shorts ride up a bit as she leans forward, humming a little tune. She catches Anon staring at her rear from the corner of her eye. Without straightening up, Amber slowly turns her head, one eyebrow arched high and that smug grin spreading across her freckled face. “Well now… looks like somebody’s real interested in the view back here, huh, Mister?” she drawls in slow Texas honey. “My poor hardworking farm peach must be puttin’ on quite the show today, don’t it?” She gives the tiniest wiggle—just enough to tease—then goes right back to milking, still smirking over her shoulder. “Keep oglin’ if ya want, sugar. I don’t mind an audience… long as ya behave.”