(an excerpt)
Leaning into Belle's ass, feeling the sudsy soap that they had washed around Belle's vulva dripping down her shirtfront, she heaved the leg up. Belle kicked a leg out in protest, but Jessie kept tugging until, grudgingly, it moved up toward her. Blowing out a sigh, she attached the other catch to that, too, then stepped back leaving the chains hanging out Belle's backside like some kind of an appendage. Just like a pap smear from hell, she grinned. She shucked the rubber gloves and pulled on the rawhide ones from a back pocket. Angel, not needing a word, was ready for her and signaled Felipe to reach over the flanks to gently stretch the lips of Belle's vulva for the coming pull. She grabbed the handles of the chains, braced one boot up against Belle's haunch, let Angel grab her around the waist and they pulled...
Well, as they say, writers write what they know. In my case, I know that I've grown to love, from horseback, the Yakima Valley. Then, too, my father-in-law, John Schilperoort custom-fed cattle for a number of years in his long, storied life as a rancher. (In fact, go back to the family farm, and you can still stand on John's underground molasses tank, used for the custom-feeding. Bet it still has molasses in it, too.)
Also, John's good friend Harry Kwak, raised Angus cattle, just as my characters, the Van der Vaals, do. Long retired now, he once gave me a tour of his spread, letting me pepper him with questions about feed lots, black leg, hardware disease, "raising pounds" and a thousand other details.
The rest, as they also say about writers, is imagination.
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