Gauntlets in the Grain Aisle - Explicit

[Countryman107]

Rachel had planned to dash into the Ballymoor Farm Co-op for dog feed and oat seed—nothing more. But the October sky cracked open the moment she parked, a hard Irish downpour drumming on the corrugated roof and spattering the gravel like thrown pebbles. Rain bounced off her scarlet Hunter wellies and slicked the sleeves of her waxed jacket as she hurried through the sliding doors.

Inside, fluorescent lights hummed over neat aisles of feed, fertiliser and fencing wire. Yet one display, parked in front of the seed counter, stole the show: a pop-up kiosk. Racks of PVC trench coats in glossy navy, rubberised dungarees the colour of diesel, and—her pulse ticked up—an arm-length pair of black industrial gauntlets resting on a mannequin’s shoulders like armour.

She lifted one glove. Thick, flexible, faintly chemical—like a dark promise.

“Those’ll keep you dry past the elbow and then some,” a voice said behind her.

She turned. A tall woman in olive-green waders, shoulder-length curls damp from her own dash across the yard, leaned on a pallet of barley. The name patch on her chest read Morgan—Field Rep.

Rachel flexed the glove. “I need them for mucking out. Or maybe something more creative.”

Morgan’s brow arched, split by a grin. “Creative is what they’re built for—seam-welded, chemical-rated, unbeatable grip.” She slipped her hand into the other glove, unhurried, letting the rubber squeak over her sleeve. The gesture felt intimate, an invitation disguised as a product demo.

Rain battered the skylights above. The co-op’s dim back hallway—normally a shortcut to the storage loft—beckoned like a shadow in a storm. Morgan saw Rachel glance that direction and tilted her head. “Want to feel the fit with both gloves on? Lighting’s better back there.”

They stepped into the corridor, the clang of the busy shop fading behind a rack of seed brochures. Morgan eased the second glove onto Rachel’s hand, guiding each finger until the cuff sealed high above her elbow. Heat blossomed inside the rubber, a slow captive warmth. Morgan’s own gloved hand slid along Rachel’s forearm, frictionless save for the tremor it left behind.

“You sure these are rated for… sustained pressure?” Rachel asked.

“Tested to forty kilo-pascals,” Morgan murmured, stepping closer. Rain hissed against the tin roof overhead; fluorescent light flickered once, then steadied. They were alone.

Morgan braced an arm on the wall, her rubber sleeve squeaking against painted concrete. With measured calm she ran her gloved thumb across the seam of Rachel’s waxed jacket, tracing up to the collar. Each pass left a faint smudge of moisture and anticipation. Rachel’s breath fogged the cool rubber as she tilted her head, lips parting.

She caught Morgan’s wrist, pressing the heavy glove to her own chest. “Demonstrate durability,” she said—half-command, half-confession.

Morgan complied. Slow circles, deliberate pressure, letting the latex-smooth surface skim Rachel’s waterproof layers. The barrier became catalyst: sensation amplified by the tight seal, the muted drag. Rachel’s back hit the corridor wall, seed-catalogue posters rustling behind her like approving witnesses.

Thunder rolled. She slipped a knee between Morgan’s waders, the rubber-on-rubber friction a low growl. Morgan’s fingers—still gloved—found the zipper at Rachel’s throat and eased it down, centimetre by careful centimetre, until the jacket gaped just enough to reveal the burn-orange lining.

“Colour suits you,” Morgan whispered, voice husky against the rain’s percussion. She slid her hand inside, not reaching bare skin but trapping air and heat between nylon and gauntlet. Rachel gasped—the insulation felt electric.

Their lips met, rain-flavoured and certain. Every move produced a soft squeal of waterproof fabric, the sound crisp in the hush. Rachel’s free hand explored the texture of Morgan’s waders, fingers mapping reinforced knees and thick suspenders. She tugged one strap; it snapped back with a satisfying smack that made Morgan swallow a gasp.

The hallway light flickered again, warning they had minutes, not hours. Rachel drew Morgan’s gloved hand lower, directing pressure with steady sleight until breath hitched and knees softened. The gloves never came off; they were part of the act, a shiny second skin sealing in every flutter.

Release crested like the storm outside—quiet but undeniable, shared in a tight whisper against collarbones. When it passed, the women leaned forehead to forehead, catching their breath while rain eased to a murmur overhead.

Morgan removed one glove and smoothed Rachel’s jacket collar, her touch suddenly tender. “Five-year warranty,” she quipped.

Rachel’s laugh shook loose, bright and shameless. “I’ll take the pair,” she said, “and whatever after-sales service you provide.”

They re-emerged into the shop, cheeks flushed but composure intact. Rachel paid for the gauntlets, plus a glossy sage-green rain cape that Morgan recommended “for full-body coverage—just in case.” They exchanged numbers scribbled on a feed invoice, promise inked between prices for oats and diesel.

Outside, puddles rippled under a shy bit of sun. Rachel pulled the new cape over her shoulders, the black gloves tucked safely in the bag at her elbow, and thought about rainy days to come—how thunder on tin would never sound quite the same.

[Midnight Walker]

What a wonderful story, I hope there is a second part of them meeting back up!!

[Countryman107]

Follow up posted

[hotwilly]

Good well written story

[wetrainwear]

Already read it over and again great story hope there's a follow up.