“I don’t understand…”
“No, I don’t understand either…”
His eyes wander from her hazel gaze, over the green fields dappled with spring sunlight to the blue green vale of woodland in the distance. A murder of crows caw at each other; squabbling noisily.
Over the hills and far away…he hears the monotonous, low moan of a chain saw. He should leave; he knows it, but what will he go back to?
Slowly, the darkness will stir him; the fantasy that has haunted his dreams, waking and sleeping since childhood, will creep up on him and he will weep that he hadn’t embraced the sweet vision of it when he’d had the chance.
These things he knows; fact.
This was the closest he’d ever been; before her, he’d been limited to Internet porn. Images that lacked finesse; images that turned, what should be akin to a spiritual experience, into something dirty, crude; shabby. Images that pushed him to the point of urgent arousal, but did not satisfy; something and nothing that would stir into a messy, lonely ejaculation.
Very few human beings are truly solitary and he wanted, needed the emotional contact to share.
“You’re not going to chicken out on me, are you?”
“No, no, not that at all, it’s just that it’s finally going to happen, well, there’s no going back; is there?”
She lets out a long breath. “But it’s not you, is it, crossing the line? It’s going to be me, doing this thing. You’re just going to watch.”
Now that he is faced with the overwhelming, intense urgency in her eyes he is scared. His sudden case of nerves is irrational; he knows that. He’s had years to think this through; the dark, primal demands of his fantasy.
But the notion of taboo is strong and has a compelling grip on the human mind. It isn’t as if it is something he can talk to others about; indeed, his Priest had shrank from his Confession. He had needed Absolution, Reconciliation; he was given neither.
“You’ll need assistance…you’re not going to manage this on your own.”
She was silent.
He knows how desperately she wants this to happen. They’d talked about it on the Forum, in their emails, then on the phone and later, by video link; they’d both felt an erotic thrill that they’d found each other.
They’d teased and aroused each other with tales of what it would actually be like to experience that first painful thrust.
Once the depravity had begun there would be no way of stopping it and that had excited them both. They’d had phone sex, titillated by tales that grew darker with each electronic encounter and for them both resulted in primal, shattering, orgasmic bliss.
And at last, at last, the time was right and they’d planned their meeting.
“I thought it’s what you wanted…”
“It was…it is…it is…”
But he is flaccid; emotionally and physically. The reality of breaking the taboo has castrated him, rendering him a eunuch. The jitters had begun on the long drive to her home; he could have turned back at any time…could have, should have…
A quick phone call, or even a text message, and it would be as if it had never been. Disappearing is easy these days with cyber technology. A simple change of email address; a new identity for Social Media and there, it is done. No fumbling explanations, no embarrassing confrontations; no quarrels or demands for explanations. That person never existed and you reinvent yourself.
Despite the bright sunlight her pupils are dilated; dark and huge with arousal.
She stands and walks away from him; her hands in the pockets of her green trousers. Something about the way garment has been cut makes the silky fabric flatter the outline of her hips. The silk fabric flutters in the breeze.
She is not conventionally beautiful; but there is an inner grace. A sort of pale Pre-Raphaelite style with delicately carved features and a mess of tumbling auburn curls.
She rests her arms upon a white painted fence. A brown and white pony snickers and approaches to nuzzle her hand. A small, pretty woman, little more than a girl; a blue silk knotted shirt emphasises breasts that are too large for her slight frame.
Green trousers, blue shirt. Blue and green should never be seen…
She feels him watching her; she turns her head and glances back at him. He’s a big man, yet given the doubts that he has just expressed she can see that his strength is just a veneer. His tall, dark good looks now make him appear strangely vulnerable. He looks a little out of place in the rural setting; his clothes are pristine, a Burberry coat, polished, expensive shoes already covered in mud. His image suggests a fashion designer’s idea of country life, not the reality.
He has never been fond of the countryside; he’d told her so in one of their early telephone conversations. She’d laughed, and told him that she would change his mind.
She pets the pony, pulling its ears, making the creature toss its head.
They walk hand in hand to the stable block. A tall man; his longish dark hair is whipped up by the breeze. The midday sun shines in his eyes, making flashes of colour across his vision.
Small talk is unnecessary; each knows what the other is thinking.
They enter a large stone built barn. Within the barn there are timber partitions dividing the area into smaller rooms. She tells him that the rooms are referred to as loose-boxes, so called because the ponies are not tethered. Each pony can roam freely within the space of the loosebox. The doors to the loose-boxes are in two sections enabling the pony to see out into the main barn area. He’d been expecting the area where the ponies were kept to stink, but it doesn’t; he inhales the sweet smell of hay and straw bedding.
A black pony stallion greets them.
She has already piled the bales of straw.
“Will two be enough?” he asks.
“For support, yes…”
She loops her arms around his neck and they kiss. The intimacy is sweetly shy; a lover’s first endearment.
Her tongue is slippery, dancing; cool in his mouth.
“I have to be naked,” she whispers, her breath warm against his ear.
And so, he undresses her, folding each piece of clothing carefully.
He’d been right about her intention to disrobe quickly.
She was naked beneath the blue silk blouse and green silk trousers.
He stoops and unties the laces on her boots. She caresses his head as he kneels at her feet, running her fingers through his long hair, separating the strands.
From his position between her legs he can scent her wet, swollen arousal.
The black pony stallion is there; tethered, watching; waiting.
When my father had his first heart attack, the running of the stud farm fell to me. It had been touch and go for six months or so, my mother running herself ragged, forever either driving to the hospital, or driving away from it. Having grown up here, I am familiar with the business side of things and to a certain extent, the day to day running of the farm, the care of the ponies, the breeding programme, and the mares that are brought in for our two pony stallions to service. Luckily, I have a good body of workers; Joe, the head groom, is responsible for hiring and firing, and he has recruited a formidable team; guys, and girls too. The imperative is that they must love horses, and it works; the rest just falls into place.
The summer months are a period of calm; Joe cuts the work force down to about four or five, and that suited my purpose. It was the second day of the Three Counties Show; normally, I would attend, but I had other things on my mind. I gave the guys a day off, with pay, and with my parents far away on the other side of the world for my father’s convalescence, the farm was empty; Noah and I had the place to ourselves.
I had my first orgasm when I was three years old. Noah was amazed when I told him – not just that I’d had an orgasm at such a young age, but surprised that I had memories going right back to the age of three. He says that the earliest he can remember is his first day at school, around the age of five. But I know that I am correct because of the date; the eighth of May nineteen ninety two, my third birthday and my gift from my mother and father was my beautiful palomino pony, Meg.
Daddy lifted me onto Meg’s saddle and with Daddy leading Meg we walked the edge of the orchard.
Meg’s gentle, rhythmic walking motion and the leather saddle pressing onto my tiny clitoris made the golden feeling happen. It was special, I knew that; I knew not to tell anyone. It was my very own secret. I wouldn’t have had the words to explain had I wanted to.
I still struggle, even now, as an adult; how do you describe something as profound as an orgasm? You can talk about the physical release; you can compare it to the spiritually divine and how it makes you laugh and weep at the same time. Some talk about colours flashing across their vision and the tinkling sounds of a harp; others talk of the sweet perfume of roses. There are those who can describe the taste of honeydew. You can talk about how all of these sensations become muddled and confused; a sort of momentary synesthesia when you can hear colours. You can taste them too.
It sometimes surprises me, when I rewind to the day when the golden feeling came, that I wasn’t frightened; but I knew no fear.
And I have a photograph of that third birthday; me astride Meg, Daddy and Mummy either side of Meg’s head. I’m holding onto the reins and we are all smiling. I am dressed in a silly pink fairy dress; hardly suitable for pony riding. I am tiny, my little tennis shooed feet only reaching halfway down Meg’s sides.
I have vague memories of a birthday party, when there was pink cake and lots of noise and other children, but I became sleepy and fractious and Mummy put me in my bed.
The photograph is a happy memory. The trees in the apple orchard are festooned with white blossoms; they are like brides. There is blossom covering the ground too; virgin white brides in the white, white virgin snow.
I didn’t know the word ‘profound’ then; but that’s what the golden feeling was. Profound, yes profound. And as I was one day to realise; profane too.
She’d been right to trust him; right to give him the time to silence his shattered, screaming nerves. She would have done it, he knows it, really done it, even if he’d walked away, back to his car, back to wherever it was he’d driven from.
The time is right.
He caresses her breasts, running his thumbs over the hard nipples. She gasps a surge of moaning arousal when he lowers his head to suckle.
She takes his hand and leads him to the straw bales; she lowers herself to all fours, spreading her limbs giving him access to minister to her. A crude, ugly pose; her breasts full, large and hanging like udders; he is attentive to her needs, anointing her thighs and buttocks with a flannel used usually to wipe clean the genital organs of the mares in season. She tells him that from now on, until it’s over, he must think of her as an animal. She tells him to pay particular attention to her sexual organs.
The scent needs to be right.
He pushes two fingers into her cunt to make sure that she is well lubricated.
She gasps; she hadn’t expected that. Her clitoris pounds a rhythm.
It all has to be right.
She crawls beneath the regal black pony stallion. She wraps her fingers around his penis and begins to masturbate him.
He is erect before she even touches his penis – hormones rage through him. He can scent a mare in season a mile away and he is frustrated and ready to copulate. He’s serviced all of the fertile mares brought to him and it is days since his last ejaculate.
And here is a female, ready and willing to capitulate. She squats; the pose is ugly, like a chimpanzee at the zoo. She really is becoming an animal. She grasps the cock and pushes back the thick, leathery foreskin, exposing a length about the size of a large man. The bulbous, fat head glistens.
The stallion is quiet, permitting her to attend to his needs. She raises her body, crouching like a glutinous goblin and takes him into her mouth lapping at the head of his penis.
She closes her eyes, allowing herself to just be; to fully experience the sensation.
The sound of her sucking, slurping, slobbering, gobbling; attempting to deep throat the creature’s cock is repulsive; yet Noah wants to join her in the depravity. He wonders if she suckled the stallion through to ejaculation how much semen there would be. A lot, probably; enough to make a woman choke.
A harsh, meaty flavour; a musky scent, a slick texture. He imagines her jaw aching, stretched around the thickness of his girth. The stallion makes little snickering sounds of approval; he stamps a hoof, as if in annoyance, when she takes her mouth away.
She meets Noah’s eyes. Her mouth drools saliva.
He untethers the pony and leads him to where she has displayed herself across the supporting straw bales.
All thoughts of Sin and Retribution are now far from Noah’s mind. Watching her lips stretched, almost splitting at the corners, around the animal’s thick cock has been the most erotic thing he’s seen in his life.
Her courage has the air of nobility about it; she is a sacrifice to the earthy gods, the old gods of old, ancient religions.
He sees her, driven by a carnal compulsion.
He sits; his erection is unbearable. He takes out his cock and plays; rubbing his thumb over the weeping head.
He does not take his eyes from the pornography displayed before him.
Drums beat a rhythm in his head.
She is stretched out over the bales of straw; she must have measured the necessary height for the stallion to mount her. Probably, she’d watched him impregnating a mare, noting the height she’d need to be to engage in a successful copulation.
The stallion raises his head and whinnies, announcing his presence to the world; the presence of the Male.
He pauses to sniff his mate’s genitals. Satisfied, the Stallion mounts her, his knees bent on the uppermost bale. He threshes around but his cock cannot find his way in; at one point he attempts to pierce her anus and the woman shrieks her denial. Noah plays the part of Acolyte performing ceremonial duties; she needs help and he shuffles beneath the stallion’s belly, taking hold of the cock with one hand and opening her up with his fingers of other, he feeds the cock slowly into her cunt.
Noah sees the Rite from beneath; cock and cunt.
The two bodies have become one in a profane, depraved, sacrilegious imitation of a biblical marriage. They are but of one flesh. The lips of her cunt are stretched wide; right to their limit. The thick cock pounds into her, filling her.
It is a savage, potent copulation. As the stallion thrusts into her he sinks his teeth into the back of her neck.
Noah crawls out from beneath the stallion’s hooves.
The stable block is filled with the screams and hot breath of rutting animals. The image of her face, contorted into a snarl, he knows will stay with him forever. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a grotesque parody of a smile as she celebrates her release from suffocating convention.
The world that she has entered has no place for morality; this world is primal, carnal, feral; amoral.
A world where ancient laws hold sway.
Judge her if you dare.
Her hips find the rhythm of his thrusts and the two pump in unison. Noah masturbates his cock never taking his eyes away from the fucking – and as the stallion cums, Noah stops – his cock is still erect.
The creature is spent; finished. Daisy lays battered and bruised, her breasts flattened against the straw bales.
The pony stallion snorts and moves away to his manger; he’s hungry and he’s lost interest in his mate.
Noah walks to where Daisy sprawls; he carries her back to the piled straw. There is something else he must do.
Daisy groans as Noah turns her over to lay her on her back. Her breasts flop to her sides. She is barely conscious and seems incapable of moving of her own volition.
Noah spreads her thighs and kneels into the space.
He thrusts his erection into her cunt, cumming within a second. It’s a jerky, powerful cum, emptying, shriveling his ball sacs.
His softened cock flops from her hole -- he stands and pisses on her face, a dog marking its territory. He shakes the last dribble of urine onto her Pre-Raphaelite curls.
He kneels once more and lowers his mouth to her entrance.
Blood and the seed of two creatures mingle.
It’s a heady cocktail.
Noah laps, swallows, drinks.
At last, it is done. At last the world slips into focus. Noah’s tongue is lapping in between my labial lips. He flicks over my clitoris, making me gasp, just a little. He glances up from where he is positioned between my thighs. Our eyes meet. We smile.
“You were wonderful,” he says. He resumes lapping; I am too exhausted to move.
The lapping tongue is soothing; a fitting end to an unholy Rite.
I sprawl on my bed of straw. I close my eyes and give myself up to sensation; my mind wants to replay the thing that we have done, but I won’t let it. There is time enough for that later.
His fingers hold my labial lips open, his tongue worms; wriggles into my cunt. It was painful, what the stallion did to me; Noah’s soft tongue is soothing. The cock was thick and I felt the walls of my cunt stretching to accommodate him.
The cock filled me, the cock bruising my cervix. The cum lasted a few minutes, maybe longer, a series of powerful spasms pumping the spunk in short and long bursts, flooding my womb.
But I had known it would hurt and I had done my best to prepare my body for the moment. I am no virgin; if anything, I am a beat away from promiscuity. I’d been a good girl and done my homework; I had to be stretched.
An enormous dildo did the trick, used twice daily stretching me; my cunt was wide and sagging. An empty space, a hole that needed filling with a cock bigger than any man’s.
I had stopped taking my oral contraceptive. I don’t know why I did that – it just seemed fitting that when stallion fucked me, it should be the most natural thing in the world. Free from restraining, suffocating modernity and convention and everything unnatural – anything that would detract from my elemental focus.
It was Queen Pasiphae – her story had made me understand that my desires did not colour me with the taint of madness. Those of you who know her name will know exactly what and whom I am talking about. Women throughout history must have been driven crazy by this shameful desire. Look it up; it’s the first part of the story of the Minotaur. Or just Google “Pasiphae”--you’ll find it -- Wikipedia will tell you all about it.
And there’s another story; an Empress of Russia, Catherine. There is a legend that she died while having sex with her stallion. She’d arranged an intricate contraption; a harness, elevating the stallion to keep his weight from bearing down on the Empress. The harness snapped and the Empress Catherine had been crushed.
I’d begun having the fantasy, I think, around the age of nine. Growing up on a stud farm, copulation was all around me. The dainty show ponies that my father bred from native stock crossed with Arabian Stallions; I saw the moment of pumping conception, my undeveloped womb had tingled and little grunting sounds came from my throat, picking up the stallion’s rhythmic thrusts.
I had yearned for it to be me.
I was not a good student at school. I sat at the back of the class and dreamed. But I loved to read and that is what I would do while the history teacher droned on about the Stone Ages.
The Greek Myths; I had found the book in my school’s little library.
I was eleven years old when I read the story of the Queen’s shame. Who would have thought that a child could read pornography on the bookshelves of her junior school? But it was the story, and the story of the Empress, those tales would shape my life. I knew it, even then. I knew that I had found my destiny.
“So, what now?” he asks.
What he is really asking is whether his presence here is redundant now that she has achieved her goal.
He hopes, prays that she does not send him away.
They are seated in her farmhouse kitchen, their elbows resting on a large, scrubbed, rectangular pine table.
He cups his hands around his coffee mug. She has made rich, dark espresso and laced it with a little brandy. His mind is busy – where is he going from here?
He sips his coffee. It scalds. He can still taste her viscous cocktail of juices in the back of his throat.
Daisy’s clothes were ruined. The lovely blues and greens that should never be seen; trampled into the stable straw. She hugs Noah’s long Burberry around her. He still looks out of place in his designer tee shirt and blue denims, but they fit like designer gear should; nothing ostentatious, just fitting close enough to accentuate tight, neat pectorals and just a trace of a developed six pack. Daisy would lay money on his physique being the product of an expensive gym membership, probably with a personal trainer, rather than any strenuous manual work.
She strokes the luxury of the Burberry again and reflects once more on the strange ideas that city folk have about life in the country. The image they projected was coordinated, pristine shades of brown and green. The reality was mud and manure, and lots of it.
She couldn’t have done it without him; she knows that now. She had panicked when the stallion’s penis was about to ravage her anus. Thank God for his presence of mind, gripping hold of the cock and guiding it to the opening of her cunt. Feeding it inside; at last, of but one flesh. She shifts on the wooden chair; her cunt feels slack, stretched and her cunt lining tingles with something exquisite that just borders on, but not quite, pain.
Her womb contracts in a spasm and she gushes juices into the lining of Noah’s expensive coat.
She will not meet Noah’s gaze so he turns his attention to a clock on the wall opposite him. A clock that you wind up every night before you go to bed; a real clock, not a digital clock that runs on batteries.
The clock ticks out the seconds, the minutes. The clock looks old and is made of some sort of very dark wood; inside, at the base, there’s a little cupboard, where a golden pendulum swings. A silly song trips into his mind; something about England swinging like a pendulum. It had been on the radio during the long drive to reach her.
He wants, needs to talk but knows that she doesn’t really want to. She has found her bliss and she wants to relive it alone, and in silence. But she does speak and she surprises him with a flash of anger.
“If ever I had any doubts about what I wanted to do; they are gone. It was right, the right thing to do; and I will do it again. It’s not depravity. I’m sick of stupid rules that tell me I’m unnatural, a pervert.”
Her statement has a finality about it. A challenge to any deity that might be listening. What has taken place in the stable block that afternoon is going to shape her life. An illegal act, a crime has been committed. Man’s law has been broken -- God’s law too. She doesn’t care. Everything has undergone a change and assumes a different, crazy aspect.
The world has changed.
“And it’s okay,” she says. “I never feared the act, I feared the consequences. But I learnt the rules, you have to know the rules to challenge the boundaries. No one is going to be punished; it’s ridiculous to think so.”
He can feel his jaw, tight with tension. He takes a swig at his brandy laced coffee; let the alcohol do its work and relax him.
One minute he feels calm and balanced, the next, his mind swims with anxious fits of restlessness.
She stands, scraping her wooden chair across the terracotta tiled floor.
He grimaces; the screech makes him flinch.
“How did it make you feel…watching? I know it turned you on…”
He lets out a long breath.
“It’s complicated isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I watched you, well, I thought that actually being there would be enough. That was my fantasy, that’s all. I wanted to believe, to know that it happened. Just as yours was actually doing it…you made it into a spectacle, having a voyeur, me there.”
“I guess you needed someone to tell you how it looked. You wanted to get every last scrap of sensation from…I don’t know, the occasion, sounds like the wrong word, but you know what I mean. It was special, special for you, and special for me too.”
Considering what they have shared over the last couple of hours, the physical distance between them seems ridiculous.
She walks around the table and stands behind him. Her hands rest on his shoulders. Both are silent, the words floating in the air.
She massages the tense, knotted muscles at the base of his neck.
She bends over him and in a gesture of lover’s tenderness, places her cheek against his. But when she speaks, her words are barely a whisper, she precipitates something that really does scare him.
“You want to do it too, don’t you?”
“Have the pony fuck you…”
He does not answer. She has a knack, a weird perception of seeing into him; a knowing.
“I’m right…aren’t I?”
He swallows. He tightens his grip around the coffee mug to stop his hands from shaking; a little muscle in the ball of his foot makes his leg jerk chaotically.
“I didn’t know I did, not really, not until I saw you.”
Her hands are still now, just resting once again on his shoulders.
Silence once more; there are no words.
She walks around the table and back to where she was sitting before.
His dark eyes are huge --she holds his gaze. She doesn’t know whether his dilated pupils tell a tale of despair, or arousal.
She taps the finger nails of her right hand on the wooden table top, tap, tap, tap, tap… one, two, three, four…
She stands and fetches the bottle of brandy from where she’s left it on the kitchen counter. She pours herself a measure, reaches across the table and pours a good slug of the spirit into the dregs of his coffee.
Her bedroom is functional, with no attention to the fripperies that Noah has come to expect from women. They’ve had sex, fucked, made love, or whatever you want to call it.
Given what they have seen and done that afternoon, fucking each other is a poor second best. Noah doesn’t know whether Daisy orgasmed or not. She’d straddled him -- a pornographer’s dream, full, creamy breasts swaying, thighs apart, stretched spread.
But he’d hardly noticed his orgasm, what there was of his ejaculate was purely functional. He recalls her face, grotesque with carnal lust, her lips curled back from her teeth as the animal fucked her.
He recalls his own perversion as she lay in an orgasmic swoon after the fucking.
To fuck a woman as she lay unconscious, unable to respond, or embarrass him with criticisms of his sexual prowess; the notion of necrophilia has its allure for him.
And not two hours ago she had spoken those terrifying words, thrusting an image into his mind that would not leave him be. A perversion that had crept unbidden into his fantasies; a perversion that he’d always dismissed.
Blocking feeling, turning away from feeling, doing anything not to feel. He’d always refused to acknowledged, before that afternoon. If she could do it, why not he? Say it like it is Noah!
He has told Daisy his first lie. Once, he’d watched it on the Internet. A porn site; “Debauchery”. A man was being fucked anally by a horse. Noah had wept his despair and shut it firmly away in the dark recesses of his mind.
They’d fucked again when they woke in the morning. Again, both with little enthusiasm until Daisy had slipped a hand over his butt, traced his arse crack and pushed a finger into his anus. He’d responded as if he’d had an electric shock; snarling his approval into her mouth, biting down on her lower lip. Afterwards, he could scarcely look at her; her sweet mouth swollen, disfigured. He’d never wanted to cause her pain.
After their fucking Daisy has to go and check on the ponies -- she also needs to speak to the stable manager; Joe. She is gone a long time; Noah showers and dresses. His belly churns; he feels as if he is trembling inside. Far from wanting to stay, he now wants to leave. Get the hell out of there; if he doesn’t have to see her, he can work on his mind and the terrible images that threaten his sanity. Paper over the cracks; the cracks that have let the obscenity in.
But he cannot leave; his car is parked at the stables, she will see him leave and he will have to explain, proclaim his utter disgust.
But even his disgust is a lie; if it were not, why does the insistent, persistent image of her fucking the pony making him hard?
Indecision sticks to his teeth like a spoonful of soft, sweet, sticky toffee.
When he hears the front door slam, he knows it is too late.
“I wondered if you would still be here,” she says.
“I nearly wasn’t.”
“You have to come clean with me,” she says. “If you can’t be honest with yourself, then at least be honest with me.”
She sits at the kitchen table. She wears ripped blue denims and a loose fitting red sweater. Her auburn curls are tied up into a pony tail. A rubber band keeps it in place.
She stands, a frown creasing her forehead. She doesn’t ask him if he would like tea, but she makes it anyway. She prepares the pot the old fashioned way, making it into a little ritual. She warms the pot with boiling water, tips it away, then adds the tea leaves. Loose tea in a packet -- he wasn’t even aware you could still get it. He wonders how she can be so calm -- she has already told him that she plans to repeat the bestial act later. Probably this evening when the stable hands have all gone home.
“So, how about you?” she asks. “Still prevaricating?”
“Sorry, that was nasty…”
“You don’t understand…”
“Oh, but I do…”
“You don’t understand…”
“Oh, but I do…”
“I want it so much…”
“I know you do…”
“I have to prepare myself…
“I can help, we’ll take it in stages…little baby steps.”
“I want it right now, but I’m not big enough.”
“No, you’re not. It would probably kill you…you need to be stretched.”
“We’ll go up to the bathroom. I’ll show you.”
I have ordered him to strip, to kneel on all fours, forearms flat to the floor, his ass raised in a humiliating position of submission. I hear him breathe, short, panicky, shallow breaths.
He raises first one knee, then another as I slide a small, turquoise rug beneath his knees.
I suspect we’re going to be here for quite some time.
I remain clothed. The act will be sexual, but has nothing really to do with me. I am an appendage, something and nothing; a facilitator.
I place a mahogany stool next to him. I take the lid off a container of baby cream. It will soon be apparent to him exactly what I am planning to do.
He pants quick, shallow, gasping breaths.
It is the unknown that is scaring him.
I kneel and put my cheek next to his.
“Breath with me,” I say.
I inhale, exhale slowly. It’s a meditation technique to concentrate the mind. You follow another’s breathing and slowly you relax into a state of mind imperative to calming the spirit; and I need him calm.
It’s also a technique I use with a nervous horse. Just be very quiet and still and follow the tempo of the pony’s breathing.
I stroke his buttocks, gently pulling the arse cheeks apart. I blow onto his anus. His warm flesh quivers; he likes the sensation. I lower my right hand to his penis and feel the beginning of an erection. I masturbate him for a while, until he is hard.
I return my hands to his buttocks and digging my thumbs into his flesh, I pull the arse cheeks apart once again. My face is close to his crack; I moisten my finger with saliva and run it the length of the crack.
He lets out a little whining moan. I return my hand to his erection; he’s harder now, aroused by what I am doing to him. I spit into the top of his crack, the saliva trickles down; I follow it with my tongue. He lets out little animalistic whimpers. I make my tongue pointed and push at his anus.
“Please…” he says.
“Go inside…” he whispers softly.
I remember when a guy did to me what I am doing to him; the warmth, the tenderness. A primal, carnal feeling of being cherished. Maybe it’s the same for a puppy, when his mother cleans his anus with her tongue. She does it to stimulate defecation. Humans do it purely for pleasure. It even has a name; rimming.
I hold his cheeks apart; his skin ripples with anticipation. I blow on the puckered entry to his bowel again and I lap at his anus, feeding his desire. It tastes acrid; when I think about it afterwards, I tell him it tastes bitter, but then it tastes sweet.
We have a walnut tree at the back of the house; the taste of his anus is a little like the flavour of the walnuts if you eat them when they are under ripe. I push at the tip of his anus. I have to keep going, to fall in love with it, relishing the dark power of the forbidden act as my tongue probes his bowel.
He lets out a series of breathy moans; “go inside,” he murmurs again.
I make my tongue into a point as I fuck his bowel going ever deeper and deeper, my tongue swirling around the circumference of his tight rectum breaking down his body’s resistance.
The nerve endings of the anal sphincter are intended to encourage defecation; they are an exit point. His anal muscles contract, shocked into recognising an intruder.
I reach beneath and masturbate his erection again and within a second he ejaculates into my hand.
But I’ve not finished yet, I have promised him that I will stretch him, make him wide enough to take the circumference and length of the stallion’s cock. He’s relaxed from his ejaculation and I need him relaxed for my purpose.
I reach for the jar of baby cream and smear a dollop down his crack; I work a further dollop into my fingers, up to my wrist. He is so slippery that three of my fingers slide in easily; I spend some minutes fucking his hole with my fingers.
I pull out slowly. I dig out a handful of baby cream smear and massage a further dollop into his rectum. I recall an image, from the Internet; a hand, with the fingers close together, the thumb tucked beneath, forming a duck bill shape.
I slide in.
I’m inside him up to my knuckles, the joints halfway up my fingers. Two fingers, pull out, then three. He lets out a long, low groan.
He wants this, very badly; I can tell when he pushes back on me, clenching tight around my fingers. There’s a crazy sensation as if his muscles gulp and swallow, like a contraction; my thumb joins my fingers.
Just a little push and my whole hand is in, right up to my wrist. His muscles seem to be working of their own volition, working with me, sucking me in with each spasm and contraction. I push gently, receding a little, pushing forward a little and with each push my hand goes higher inside him.
He is breathing quickly. “So full,” he murmurs. We remain in our positions for minutes, long minutes, maybe even hours.
I gaze at him.
Impaled on my hand.
He is panting.
“Breathe with me,” I say again.
And he does.
I retreat again, push in again, sliding, retreat again, push in again, sliding ever higher. My fingers are cramping and I move them as best as I can, within the confines of rippling, quivering muscles. I am in his bowel, past my wrist joint. Slowly, gently, I negotiate the curves of his passage.
He whimpers; “oh, oh, oh, oh…”
Then something gives, gives way and I slide, slide in; I am further in than I had imagined possible. My hand and forearm are inside his bowel, almost up to my elbow.
We are both, absolutely, locked in the moment.
I rest my cheek on his lower back.
The image of my arm impaling him, the delicate skin stretched wide will stay with me the rest of my life.
The little whimpering moans come again from his throat.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh…”
I reach down to his cock; I masturbate his erection with my free hand.
His bowel muscles contract, crushing my hand as he ejaculates.
The process of removing my hand from his bowel takes a long time. I’m a novice at this, but I sense that it may be dangerous to him for me to rush the procedure.
Perhaps I would rip the fragile skin lining his rectum. Maybe, I would damage the muscles; I don’t know.
At first, I am unable to move; I am tightly locked in. I tell him he has to push, just little rhythmic pushes, helping the muscles to contract, just as they would if he were pushing shit out of his rectum.
This would not be a good moment for either of us to panic.
I place my free hand on his buttocks and use his weight as leverage to begin my exit. And slowly, slowly his internal muscles relax and an inch at a time, I withdraw.
His anus gapes, a perfectly shaped O, an open hole.
I sit in a crouch with my back to the wall. I cradle him in my arms while he trembles and sobs. He nuzzles his head beneath my sweater -- he suckles my breast.
It is the afternoon of the night when Noah will be buggered by a horse. Let’s not be fragile about semantics; buggery will happen. Buggery and bestiality, two words full of a bitter dark sting like a mouthful of nettles. Most people would retch and run.
Noah and Daisy are planning the deed; the crime. What they are going to do tonight is against the law. They are criminals already, from before. They will not just break the law; they will shatter it.
Tonight they will seal the deal.
Noah and Daisy are not most people; here there is mystery. Nothing is commonplace. Now that the plans have been made, there is a tangible excited anticipation in every spoken word, in every gesture, in every movement.
Words are said that they knew before, but now they are pronounced as if they’ve only just discovered them.
Daisy will watch and assist if needs be.
Since the fisting they have become somnambulists; sleep walking through the days on autopilot. Dizzy dreamers; joined forever by the dictates of an overwhelming perversion that will never leave them be; a perversion that seems to them, entirely natural.
The two have become lovers. It is unbearable to be apart; when they are together they are constantly touching. One hand brushes another; a finger strokes a finger, lips suckle a fingertip. There are tender sucking kisses; a cool cheek rests upon a fevered cheek. These moments have little to do with sexual arousal.
They are falling hopelessly, helplessly in love.
Their hearts beat in unison – rhythmic, terrifying beats.
It seems strange to have to do simple, ordinary things when something so profound is constantly swimming in our heads. My fears have long since departed – I have accepted the inevitable – I wouldn’t be able to do it without Daisy. Well, I would, but with her there, watching, sharing my arousal, it will be so much more.
I prayed earlier; meditated, prayer. Is there a difference? Daisy was not present; her tussle with Catholicism has been enough for her. She worships the old gods these days; gods that do not demand your very soul. Gods that do not pierce your sanity with dreadful calls to obedience and the constant threat of suffocating guilt.
I don’t know to whom I was praying, or what I was praying for. Strength maybe; physical and emotional. I don’t know.
We decided that we wanted a record of the event – and that necessitated a trip to the shops.
Camera equipment; we both had perfectly good cameras on our mobile phones, but we wanted our home movie to have a professional touch.
We decided that five cameras, some on tripods, some on taller stands, would be enough. The tripods would be for lower levels; one beneath where the pony stallion’s belly would be. I wanted to know what it looked like when my own hole was ravaged.
I knew what the fucking had looked like when it had been Daisy’s turn; the replay of the thick, leathery penis sliding slick in and out of her hole, kept me constantly erect.
It was a turn on for her too, and every time I described it to her, she would sprawl across me, her long auburn curls spread over my chest, her thighs spread while I fingered her wetness and lapped at her clitoris.
Her cunt is wide and roomy from her years of dildo stretching.
Only the pony’s cock can satisfy her now, although I came close when I worked my whole hand inside her cunt.
There’s no light pollution here, at the farm. They are in the depths of the English countryside and the darkness is allowed to happen naturally. There’s no fluorescence; no neon here to hurt the eyes with its tawdry brilliance.
The moon is high and full. For Noah, the city dweller, it’s as if he’s seen the moon before, but never seen it shine so brightly. The galaxy displays a crescendo of stars, thrown into the night sky and landing haphazard on black velvet.
Walking in the countryside, across fields, when the only light you have to illuminate your way is the moon, has its hazards. You trip over things that aren’t there; you see obstacles that aren’t there. You become disorientated and a deep blue vulnerability colours your journey.
Nerves make them giggle helplessly, splitting the diligent, ordered process; the precision of the plans made earlier.
They hold hands, like two children, as they stumble across the grass, their gaze fixed firmly on the dimly lit stable block.
They set up their lighting system; it’s a rig of five bright theatre lights that can be angled to suit any area that you want. There’s no need for speech anymore; the cameras are in position.
And then it is time.
I help Noah to undress. He needs to disrobe quickly and not be fumbling with buttons and buckles, so we’ve ditched his designer wear. I’d found a pair of my father’s jogging pants and a pair of old tennis shoes; garments that are easy to step out of. He wears a sweater that I had knitted for my father one Christmas many Christmases ago. It is a terrible green mess of loose stitches. I never did give it to Dad; I think I gave him something for his car instead.
The pony stallion stamps a hoof impatiently.
Noah is a magnificent specimen in his nudity; his skin has a golden hue. A sprinkling of dark hair across his pectorals. He has an otherworldliness about him, tall, with defined muscles, without being muscle bound.
I place my palms flat to his chest and slide my way over the smooth skin, down to his erection; he slaps my hand away. I understand why; for this little ceremony, this little holy rite, he is not mine to touch. Later, that will come. Just not right now.
I wonder to which Diety he prays?
He bends over for me to lubricate him, I slip and slide my fingers inside to make sure there will be no friction, no risk of tearing the delicate skin of his rectum.
I lead the pony stallion to him; the cameras are clicked on, recording the moments for all times. Noah falls to his knees and shuffles beneath the firm, muscular belly – he utters the little sobbing, throaty whimpers as he moves.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh….”
My heart is racing, pounding.
Splice and suture; splice and suture. In a way, the process is a bit like memory, how we edit our lives so that when we recall an event, there’s stuff we miss out.
Perhaps it’s unsavoury, perhaps we’ve forgotten the minutiae, the little events that add depth to the whole. Just as I was editing out moments that seemed insignificant, so we all do when relating an incident to another.
Memory makes liars of us all.
I had learnt the mechanics of turning video into film at college; technology has moved on, but the basics remain the same. My father had installed the equipment when he’d made a film about his elite herd of show ponies for a television series and I knew exactly how to use it.
I spend long hours transferring our debauched video, to DVD.
Meanwhile, Noah sleeps; exhausted after his ordeal.
While he sleeps I stroke his hair; I turn him over. I want access to his rectum. His anus mouth is still the sagging shape of a perfectly round O.
The stallion’s spunk, mixed with the fluids from Noah’s bowel, drips, drips, trickles from his anus. I lap; I wriggle my tongue inside. In his slumber Noah cannot object, nor can he consent.
I don’t care.
He can neither welcome my invasion nor judge me.
No one can judge me.
Is my perversity the act of a necrophile?
I probe his rectum with a cooking baster, fucking him…in deep, then out again…I suck a cupful of spunk mingled with the slime from Noah’s ravaged bowel; I place the cup in the refrigerator.
When Noah wakes we will drink.
The night and day after the fucking I had a fever, the sort of sickness that you read about in Victorian novels; the sort of fever that Catherine Linton had willed upon herself. The fever that ended in her death. I don’t understand why I was so overwhelmed; perhaps because we had challenged the natural order of things.
I had sinned and there was a price to pay. Perhaps I had encountered the divine; maybe I was drunk on a debauched ecstasy. I raged throughout the long nights in a state of incoherent, babbling delirium.
I recall sweat soaking me, my heart thumping a tremendous beat, powerful, awful, terrifying… I’m coming to get you…I’m coming to get you…
I was scared to close my eyes; I had a dread of what I might see in the darkness. A needle behind the pupil of my right eye pierced, forcing its way outwards. I vomited a thin, slimy green nausea.
Daisy told me later that she emptied my bladder by using a catheter to probe my urethral tube; my fatigue was such that the act of merely opening my eyes and drinking cool water lulled me to sleep again.
It felt like the end of the world.
Even when recovery was in sight Daisy wouldn’t let me watch the film we had made; I could watch television, but nothing that was going to excite me. You know the sort of thing, children’s animation. Bambi, Jungle Book.
And then Daisy tells me that the time is right.
We cuddle, curled up on the old stuffed leather sofa; we snuggle, huddled beneath a warm red chequered woollen blanket.
We share the cup of the stallion’s spunk; each sipping delicately, not wanting to waste a drop.
Daisy picks up the remote and clicks ‘play’. The huge television screen overwhelms the room.
The screen flickers, then settles.
A still image of me, naked, bent in a grotesquely crude position, my buttocks presented to Daisy as she lubricates my rectum – her fingers slippery with the stuff that they use on mares to prepare them for a mating.
Daisy has no difficulty in slipping her hand inside me, up to her wrist.
As I watch, a tentative tremulous tingle at the base of my spine becomes a shudder; Daisy stretches out and strokes my hair.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Anytime it gets too much, just tell me and we’ll stop.”
On the television screen the woman leads the black pony stallion to the man. The stallion’s erection is huge, bouncing against his belly; as if responding to the sight, the man’s cock is instantly hard, slapping and swaying.
The stallion’s nostrils flare, he tosses his head, he knows what’s demanded of him and he’s impatient to begin.
The acoustics in the brick built stable block are superb, something to do with there being no ceiling, just the oak wooden rafters and beams. The microphones pick up the stallion’s eager breathing, there are the sounds of animals shuffling; a pony snickers, another answers. The loose box is brightly illuminated by stage lights on metal stands and trusses. Shadows flicker.
The stallion waits.
The man falls to his knees; it’s an image of obeisance to the gods of all things primal. Slowly, slowly he shuffles, crawling beneath the stallion’s belly. He wraps his fingers around the thick, hefty, weighty cock. He bounces it in his hand, testing the weight. His eyes close, as he rests, just for a moment, inhaling pure meaty maleness.
The cock is slickly shining.
The man whimpers.
Oh, oh, oh, oh…
Daisy holds me close.
The stallion stamps a hoof, snorting as the man pushes back the thick, leathery foreskin. You can see the man’s hand trembling.
Back and forth…back and forth…a repulsive, perverse sliding motion.
The man raises his head, taking the cock between his lips, just playing with, lapping at the bulbous head. The stallion is still and quiet with anticipation. The man slides the cock deeper into his mouth.
Both are still for a moment; the stallion lowers his head, waiting, giving his Acolyte time to test the cock. The man sliding it around his mouth; tasting it, learning it.
Lit from the ground level, the shadows of man and beast rise to a ghastly height against the pale wooden partition.
Daisy and I watch as first the man’s right cheek bulges, then the left.
Sucking, slurping, slobbering, gobbling…
The stallion shoves further in, it’s a brutal move for which the man is not ready; he retches, gagging, jerking away. A pause to compose himself. Briefly, he has lost his way, but he is strong and determined; he tries again. It’s an ambitious move considering the length of the stallion’s erection, but slowly, slowly, inch by inch the cock disappears into the man’s throat.
Daisy can feel me trembling and she pauses the DVD; it freezes..a pornographic still. A man has swallowed a horse’s cock into his throat, as far down as his belly; his lips stretched, resting against the stallion’s scrotum. I can see that what breath the man has is small; it’s taking a huge event of concentration, his throat stuffed with cock, he takes little breaths through his nose.
My own erection throbs; tears start from my eyes. I feel weak, confounded. Frailty is something new to me, I have aged over the past two or three days.
Daisy and I kiss; nibbling each other’s trembling lips. Whispering little endearments.
“I love you,” she breathes against my mouth; she traces the line of my jaw with a forefinger. “Love you too…”
She clicks ‘play,’ the screen flickers.
The man arranges himself on two raised straw bales. The bales support his weight; he reaches behind him, his fingers splitting open his arse crack.
The camera switches to a different angle; Daisy has done a professional job with the editing.
A close up of the gaping anus, little spasms making it quiver; an open and closed mouth.
The woman leads the stallion to him.
The stallion needs no guidance from the human beings, he knows what to do; rearing up he mounts his disciple, his knees bent, resting on the straw bales. The beast’s forelegs grip the man’s torso, trapping him.
With the first brutal thrust, splitting him, the man lets out a primitive bellow of rage. Profanities spew from his lips.
The camera angle changes again -- I see the action from beneath the horse’s belly – the cock inside the man, rammed up to the hilt in his anus. The skin around the anus already split, stretched, torn and raw.
Another camera angle; man and beast copulate in a carnal rhythm. The man roars, with his hands flat on the bales he pushes himself up to a stooping standing position. His shoulders are carrying the weight of the stallion; his forearms shake with the strain. His erection bounces and slaps against his belly as he and the stallion ejaculate.
The stallion’s seed filling the man’s bowel to overflowing.
The man’s seed spurts jerking, sticky into the straw bedding.
The screen flickers and turns black.
Daisy straddles me and we fuck.
Those early days were the best; it is always so for lovers. Noah and I married, six months to the day after we’d met. It was a small occasion, we are both small families; Noah’s brother and his wife were our witnesses.
Noah and I had discussed the matter of contraception for me; it wouldn’t be right, Noah said, to bring a child into such a complex set up.
I am taking the little yellow pill again. One in the morning, everyday…