She would make him keep the hat on. Lose the oddly erotic dirty jacket. Lose the perfectly-fit dusted pants. Even the enticing bandana he had carefully tied around his neck. As soon as she saw him in the outfit of an old vaquero, she would make him take it all off.
The rope bound at her waist made it easier for him to thrust into her, pulling her ass into his hips over and over. If desired, he would hold the two loose ends in one hand and free the other to smack bruises into her thick cheeks. With her face slammed into the dirt ground, her arms fallen to her sides, it was just the right angle to make him shiver. She would scream his name, choking on moans that were conjured by his rough cock and rough touch.
He wouldn't slow down. Wouldn't give her respite even after her second orgasm, mouth running dry. Voice rasping. He would flip her over, fuck her harder, let her know the true buck of a vaquero. She'd suck the striking red muscles of his throat and the small patches of uneven skin on his shoulders. She would dig her nails into his ruined torso and brace herself for every impact. She would make him keep the hat on. He'd stare at her devilishly with hard glassy eyes. He wouldn't let her break eye contact. He wanted her to see every decaying piece of his body, no matter how useless and old he felt sometimes. She would stare back, inviting his eager grin.
She would be exhausted by the third time she came, shuddering and collapsing beneath him. He'd keep going. Wouldn't slow down. He fucked her like an object. Not that she minded. She had practically begged him to.
"Fuck me til you come. Fuck me even if I can't take it anymore."
So he did. Whatever you say, Boss. Even if his knees said no, he'd keep going. Because he liked to give her what she wanted. Especially when it was what he wanted, too. She would make him keep the hat on.
They never fucked in a bed. Beds were for sleeping. The floor, the desk, the dining room table—those were for fucking. Those were for using and abusing. Ancient machinery and old world leftovers—those were for fucking. It was something to hold onto, lean up against, use as leverage. It took a little extra to find the right angle sometimes. Find a new angle and new trigger point.
When he came, he'd reach clarity. A level of enlightenment and understanding that can only be reached with a smiling sweating tired woman still holding your dick inside of her.
"I'm going to be sore for the next two days, Raul."
"I'm sure we can find something to do, Boss."