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All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Photo Credit: Doug Winger
Cover Design: D.B. Story
Encounters: Cowgirl © 2009 D.B. Story
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Encounters: Cowgirl
By D.B. Story
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This story is inspired by the Doug Winger illustration xprsuslf.jpg—used here with his permission. A special thanks to Gorgo, Mulligan, and VW for their excellent and much appreciated proofreading.
Croatia is an exceptionally beautiful place of green hills, rich valleys, enchanted forests, majestic castles, and old legends. I’m sorry to say that I appreciated very little of this. As a young man due to enter college in the fall, my parents had shipped me off to spend the summer with my never-seen maternal grandparents in the old country.
“It’s for your own good,” they told me. “You need to connect with your heritage,” I heard. "There’s a whole world outside of the United States for you to experience and explore.” “You should be happy about the collapse of the old political system which opened all this up to the world again.” “Everyone goes to Europe to find themselves.”
So with these words, and too many others like them, I was unceremoniously shipped off to some broken-down, post-Communist country I’d never be able to find on a map to spend the summer on the farm of a couple of relatives I’d never met, couldn’t care less about, and who were too unmotivated to get out of there while they could. It was either this, or pay for college myself when I returned. Unlike most of my friends who ran their parental units in circles, my parents still knew who held the power.
It was a long flight east with three plane changes in foreign airports, every passing minute taking me further away from my friends, from all the hot summer movies, videogames, from any music worth listening to, and from every other modern convenience essential to the minimums of civilized life.
And to put the icing on the cake, the last part of the trip was by train. Can you imagine that? I mean, who in their life travels by train? I was lucky that an older couple who spoke almost intelligible English helped me out. That was necessary, since I couldn’t read any of the signs.
When I finally arrived at the station, my grandfather was waiting. He recognized me immediately. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he commented. “And your father’s chin.”
Then he drove me back to the farm in an actual horse-drawn cart. I knew life had been rough under Communism, but this was a real eye-opener. These people had nothing!
When we got to the farm–if you can call it that (I’ll explain later)–grandma had a surprisingly good dinner waiting. We ate by lamp and candlelight while I answered their polite questions with monosyllables.
Travel is hard and I was exhausted. As soon as dinner was over I sagged in the unexpectedly comfortable chair until they roused me enough to lead me to the softest bed I can ever remember. A mattress of feathers I figured out just before I fell asleep.