cinch jeans


Spotted this hot DILF at a farm show.  Dam near cummed in my jeans!  Can we say 100% American beef!  Tight Cinch jeans, belt buckle,  and cowboy boots.  Dam love to spend a night in bed with him!

Your name: submit What is this?

The first thing Sam noticed about you was your lean, athletic legs sheathed in black skinny jeans and cinched black boots.

The first thing Dean noticed about you was your 1965 Mustang Fastback and the way its black body gleamed in the dim sunlight.

“Agents,” you called to the boys as you crossed the dewy grass toward their suddenly frozen forms. As you approached, you continued, “I wasn’t aware the Bureau was sending the two of you.” You flashed a bright smile toward the local cop who was watching your interaction, oblivious of the effect it had on the brothers, who gulped nervously in unison. Sam shot Dean a confused glance and Dean shook his head in response; neither of them recognized you.

Soon, you were only inches away from them, forming a tight circle, not wanting to be heard by anyone else.

“Pack up, boys, I got this,” you whispered, cracking a small smile. You were just starting to back away when Dean found his voice.

“H-hold on,” he said, unable to stop the slight stutter in his voice. “What do—who the hell are you?”

You laughed, your chuckle further stunning the two men before you. “Name’s Y/N. And you’re the Winchesters.” You chuckled again at their open-mouthed gazes. “Now that we’re done with the pleasantries, I’ll handle this case and you two can scurry on home. This is my jurisdiction.”

You began to walk away, toward the local LEO, intent on questioning him.

“Your juris—” stammered Sam.

“Bye,” you cut him off with a smile and a wave, turning to face the cop and listen to his story.

Sam and Dean watched you interact for a moment, Sam with wide, incredulous eyes and Dean’s lips in a slight frowny pout.

“She’s…” Dean began, leaving the sentence hanging.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, eyes still on you as you bent to examine the body.

“Dibs,” Sam and Dean said at the exact same time, turning to stare at each other.

“She’s not your type, Dean,” Sam broke the silence, rolling his eyes.

“Like hell she isn’t,” argued Dean, “Did you see her car? I’d say it’s meant to be.”

“Please,” scoffed Sam, glancing back at you questioning the witnesses. When he looked back at his brother, Dean had his right fist aloft in his left hand, his face set in determination. “Oh, come on, Dean, quit being so immature,” Sam continued.

“Fine, then I’m sure you won’t mind if I go over and ask her out right now,” challenged Dean. Sam frowned at him and huffed, squaring his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said, “On three.”

After three counts, Dean’s fingers formed scissors while Sam’s remained in a fist.  Dean cursed violently, while Sam smiled triumphantly, grabbing Dean’s shoulders.

“Always the scissors, Dean,” Sam said, chuckling and shaking his head, before turning on his heel and making his way toward you.