Filbrick thinks he's getting the job done, but it's more like some heavy grunting in Fiddleford's ear and no pay off. So Fiddleford flips them, displaying some Farm Brand(TM) strength that is not apparent from his frame, and rides him.
Filbrick clutches the sheets in both hands, legs bending and toes curling as his eyes get huge and his mouth drops. Feels good to get some while technically giving some, apparently.
Fiddleford smirks and rides him like a jockey. Bent low and bouncing wildly. His hands curl into chest hair and pull tight, and Filbrick yells, into it and a little out of it.
Fiddleford pulls this way and that, tweaking sensitive nipples like reins and still riding him hard to his finish line.
Filbrick comes first, overwhelmed, but Fiddleford isn't done. There's still the home stretch.
And he rides that pony for all he's worth. Until white confetti splatters over Filbricks chest. Declaring the winner.