It was one of those slow, golden afternoons where the farm was quiet, the chores were done, and the world felt like it had finally hit pause.

You and Mary Lou were curled up together on her couch—an old, comfy thing that smelled like cedarwood and cinnamon. A half-empty glass of lemonade sat on the coffee table, condensation dripping lazily.

She was draped across your lap, shirt long enough to be decent (barely), and nothing underneath—no pants, no panties, just the soft weight of her warm body pressed close.

You held a magazine in one hand. Your other hand?

Firmly, unapologetically cupping her bare, thick rear.

Her skin was soft, smooth, and she gave little squirmy wiggles every time your fingers squeezed just a bit too tight.

“You’re not even reading,” she mumbled, peeking up at you with a blush on her cheeks.

You grinned. “How can I? My favorite article’s right here in my hand.”

She squeaked and buried her face in a rolled-up magazine, legs curling up tighter against you.

“Don’t say that stuff so smooth,” she muttered, her voice muffled. “It gets me all… stupid-feelin’ inside.”