| You can lead a to water. . .
By Scribbler [firstname.lastname@example.org] (c)2001 all rights reserved
but you can't make him shoot jets of steaming hot over the spread and already damp and mushy quim of frosty horsewoman. Not unless you give him quite a lot of Lasix. . .which is just what I did.
Now, truth to tell, that will get you permanently banned from the
Jockey Club-- not sporting, and the Steward's Inquiry will call you
out for being a cheat at racing. But this wasn't a race, just a
private little birthday party for Bonnie, who'd grown up around
horses, and was enjoying quite an explosive little cum, trussed in a
trough beneath a thoroughbred.
She loved "Misty of Chincoteague" and "My Friend Flicka" as a girl,
cried at "Black Beauty", and spent her after-school hours at the
stables, teenage hands stroking equine muscle and sinew. Truth
to tell, she'd had her first real orgasm posting on a fine animal--
she found herself rubbing her cleft against the saddle through her
thin jodhpurs. . .
Now she's a country matron, kids to school in the Range Rover, drinks
with friends, grosgrain hairband, french manicure and demure pink
lipstick and legs that can draw a stocbroker's eye from Barron's as
she plays her particular brand of short skirted tennis-cum-
exhibitionism at the country club.
And every so often she comes up to visit me at my farm. . .sometimes
for a roll in hay, sometimes to saddle soap some fine Spanish leather
straps and and be tied down very snuggly for a well deserved whipping.
She's a bit on the feminine hysteric side-- doing the soccer
thing, while hubby the bond trader grows more and more remote; she
needs a good bout of screaming blue murder to bring her humors back
into order. And, me, well, I'm just the to oblige. Though my
editor may complain, I see it as my duty to oblige what the stuffed
shirts can't-- the tornado of submerged desire that runs gooey and
hot beneath Hanro and Talbots' flowered dresses.
"You are a debaucher of preppies" an friend once said to me. And
I didn't argue. I really wouldn't know what to do with a little slut
with ten rings and a tongue piercing. . .I mean what am I going
to do that's going to make her go home and to the sheer
joy that she has given life to a secret desire? I'd have no
idea. . .but a truly hot little suburban wife, all primed and
sexually submerged-- now I'll take a long day off lay such a maid
back on naked butt and watch her cum.
Today is just such a day-- Bonnie lies back in antique copper lined
tub, legs splayed over the edges. I've stripped her nude, and warmed
her wide bottom with a very fine crop. Her skin is very fair, a
redhead's complection, and its inclined to mark quite easily. She's
masturbating quite vigorously now, her manicured fingers working deep
into the mush of her pussy.
"Now darling, you know 'Swann's Daylight', don't you?"
Swann is a magificent beast, muscle sliding easily beneath an ebony
coat, a great pizzle of a cock draggling below him. I tie him beside
the tub and drink in the smell of hay and ordure, the rich peaty
smell of the stable. . .leather and piss, horseflesh and mushy cunt.
Swann whinnies and paws the ground. . .his cock twitches and with a
little drip first, a stream of steamy pungent splashes
out. . .first on the ground.
Bonnie can't abid the thought of it spilling on the ground.
I take hold of the bridle and pull Swann to the left, bringing the
arcing jet of his over the tub. It splashes on Bonnie, dousing
her with the heat. She moans and her hands become a blur as the
pungent gusher slides down her belly to her cunt.
"Say it, you bastard. . ."
I smile. "You are a little stable whore aren't you, my dear? A little
peasant slut who'd spread her legs for any or beast"
Her fingers are a blur, her mouth slack with desire; she archesher
back, pushing herself up to the stream, feeling the gusher on her
She screams quite loudly as she cums. . .I have to warn her not to
frighten the horses.