She looked up at Buford. He always drove a hard bargain with city folk, who he felt looked down on him; and reflecting back on it now, she thought that perhaps she had looked down on him when she had first met him. She certainly didn’t look down on him now. After a year of helping out on his chicken farm in return for chicken “feed”, as he liked to put it, the city girl felt practically in awe of him.
Further, she had always been impressed by the way this backwoods farmer communed with Nature, as if he understood what the hills and lakes were saying to him, and the plants and animals too; and he had just confessed to her that her nether lips spoke to him as well; and she had to admit, a bit ruefully, that when they were so utterly exposed as they were in Buford’s depiction of them, especially in front of a man like Buford, well, they really were just begging to be abused, and even deserved to be, since she couldn’t really fault him for giving in to their entreaties.