She rode off, every day, about the same time. The sorrel quarter horse waited for her, anxiously. He was gelded, but he still smelled her as a female. He’d paw the ground and look toward the house, flare his nostrils and whip his tail. When the sun was high, and the air lightly dusted, the smells in the air were more acute. The sharpness of her scent was strong on those days. When the back door screen snapped shut, his breathing quickened with anticipation.
“Hey, Buddy,” she’d call out. “Let’s go for a ride.” She almost ran to him, but didn’t want to seem too obvious in her motions. Her mother might be watching, or her older brother. Her work jeans rubbed against her skin, and her brown boots scuffed through the dirt, hay chaff and pebbles of the yard as she walked with purpose toward the corral. Buddy held his head high and waited for her touch. She would open the gate, reach out and touch his face. Then, in a deft move, she’d swing onto his broad back and, clutching his mane in one hand, lead him out into the field.
“Buddy, how ya doin’,” she’d purr. “Let’s go have some fun.” She’d ride him to the end of the field, out over the rise and into the swale. Once out of sight of the house, she’d stop Buddy and get off. He stood, patiently, as she took off her dusty boots and tucked them into the hollowed out trunk of the old oak. The sweat-soaked socks followed, and then the oily jeans. It only took her about a minute before she leaped naked onto Buddy’s back, grabbed his mane and “clucked” into his ears.
The warm Wyoming sun fell down her back and across her bare thighs. Her long, ropey, hair swished in the dry air in rhythm with Buddy’s lazy gait. The hair on the horse’s back tickled her between her legs. She knew what was hidden, at the far reaches of the ranch, and that only heightened the sensation. She took her time, feeling. The arches of her feet brushed the coarse fur of Buddy’s belly, his muscles seemed to flow like molten liquid under her bronzed buttocks. She felt her anxious desire building like a turning tide, flooding the inlets and deltas and estuarine flats of her shoreline. Soon, she knew, she would be the inexorable force and power of the ocean.
She didn’t know where he came from, or what his name was. Until just a few weeks ago, she’d never seen him. In this sparse and bare and all-knowing land, it was difficult to hide. But, she had found him in her hiding spot. She had discovered him on a ride such as this. He was down by the spring, lying in the moss and ferns, sleeping. Naked as she, he was like a golden god in the garden. His thighs were long and muscular, like Buddy’s. His hair was a dark, matted, mane. His solid chest appeared as a barely moving block of flesh in the dappled light of the poplar copse. She sat on Buddy and watched the expansion of his body with each breath and noticed how it made the magnificent emblem of his sex roll along the inner margins of a motionless leg. She was not afraid of this man.
When he awoke, it was calmly. She had dismounted by then, and was crouching next to him, wanting to trace the arch of his ribcage with her fingers. His eyelids fluttered and he filled his lungs with the sweetness of the fecund air. He looked at her as if she was an expected vision and, without movement or sound, he offered himself to her. To prodigious proportions his member grew, the balls drawing close to him in locked and ready position. She watched in amazement and greed and, when she could no longer contain her curiosity, she ran a tentative finger along the length of his muscle, to the expanding tip. It lurched beneath her touch like an animal. It was what she’d always wanted between her legs, and she straddled it and caressed it and buried it and drove it and fucked it, madly and repeatedly, until she fell beside him against the damp earth, a thin whiteness flowing out of her.
It was like this. Each day she would come to him. No words were spoken. He was always naked and waiting. She was always naked and wanting. The emerald glade absorbed her passionate wailing as the soft forest carpet absorbed the energy of his thrusts. When she left, she left him as she had found him, sleeping. She rode across the dusty fields, to the old oak, drew the scratchy fabric onto her still hungry skin, and trotted home, thinking of the treasure waiting for her the next day.
She rode to him, day after day, into the late summer, until the grasses rattled in the constant wind and the ground was hard to the hoof. Each day, she hid her sweat-dampened ranch clothes in the oak hollow. Each day, she rode to his waiting cock and brown hips and solid chest. Each day, her head spun into the clouds after weaving through the silent emotions of the forest. When he filled her for the last time, it was as if it was the last time. His eyes, wide and blue, searched her own and he cried out as if he was being eviscerated, his innards being poured out upon the forest floor. It was the first time she had heard his voice resonating above her own. They swam in muscular contractions and jetting sperm, thrashing in the agony of ecstatic release until she fell upon his breast, joined to him forever. When she awoke, he was sleeping as when she first came upon him in the spring. She left him that way, and never returned.
Sunday Sex Reads: Best of the Week - “On the first cover, a nude man (credited as “Eldon”) sat cross-legged, his modesty preserved by shadows, as an amorous woman (credited as “Lorelei”) nuz...
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