“You’re gonna suck my cock whether you like it or not, you little cunt!” The handsome young boy snarled as he held his prick in front of the girl’s ruby lips. “Hold her legs down, Caleb,” he exhorted his friend. “If this bitch is gonna give me a good blow-job, she can’t be moving around like that. Grab her ankles and hold her tight.”
“Okay, Wyatt,” the other boy replied as he gripped her ankles and pressed them into the sand.
Wyatt was straddling the girl’s tear-stained face, gripping both of her wrists in one big, strong hand, and slapping the helpless, nude teenage girl with his other hand. The slapping sounds were hardly audible, smothered by the windy breeze that blew in over the ocean. And the girl’s cries of fear and anguish could not be heard by anyone.
It was early one Sunday evening that Evan received the anonymous telephone call.
It was a woman’s voice, there was no doubt about that. An elderly woman–sixtyish, Evan figured. Dry, rather prissy. Old-maidish, but authoritative at the same time.
“You don’t have to know my name, Dr. Morrison,” the woman said crisply. “My identity is not important. What is important is the ugly, vicious act of perversion that your wife–”
Evan’s temper flared like an ignited powder keg. “I don’t take anonymous phone calls!” he exploded. “If you won’t tell me your name, then I’m not interested–”
“–the ugly, vicious act of perversion that your wife is committing this very instant,” the steely-cool voice went on implacably. “I’m sure you know Carson’s stables on the edge of town. He specializes in pony rides for children. Sunday evening is the one time he’s closed to the public. But not closed to your wife, Mr. Morrison. She’s there now. I’ve just been watching her actions through my binoculars. I’m a snoopy old maid, Mr. Morrison. But I’m not a liar. Go there. See for yourself. If you hurry, I think you’ll be in time for a very interesting performance!”
The line went dead.
Evan sat there, ashen-faced, the receiver clicking in his hand, for a full two minutes. Carson’s stables. Yes, he knew them. He’d passed them many times in his car. It was a small place. Carson had a couple of ponies. He charged fifty cents to children for a short trot. Good God, was it possible that Skyler could!
Damn all snoopy people! he cursed. Damn all prying, spying old bitches who make themselves the consciences of their neighbors!
“Oh, who the fuck is that?” she mutters.
Julia stands, wondering whether to answer the door when the bell rings again.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” she shouts.
Not the first time I’ve shouted that, today, she thought and smiled. Detouring through her bedroom, she scoops her bathrobe off her bed and wraps it loosely around her. While Muttley still licking his lips, follows her.
“I hope you don’t think this means you now have bedroom privileges,” she said to the big animal and pats his head affectionately. His answer is to sniff again toward her crotch. “Now cut that out,” Julia said lightly hitting his muzzle. “We have a visitor.”
They’re soon at the front door. Wrapping the robe tightly around herself, she opens the door to see a familiar face smiling at her.
“Kylie,” she said.
A tall, lushly built brunette is standing on the porch. A sardonic smile twists her lips.
“Just getting up?” Kylie asks, her eyes taking in Julia’s robe-clad figure.
“Well, no, I, ah, just took a bath,” Julia said with a slight blush because she hardly looks as if she just had a bath. She’s sweaty and hot from Muttley licking her cunt, and if Kylie has any sense of smell, there’s a good chance she can smell her hot pussy. Kylie always makes her nervous, she’s only two years older than Julia, yet seems more mature. One of the things making Julia uneasy in Kylie’s company is the brunette’s air of sexual freedom. Julia suspects there’s probably nothing her friend hadn’t already experimented with. Does that include dogs, Julia wonders? So far, Julia hadn’t invited Kylie inside.
“Do you, err, have somebody with you?” Kylie asks, smiling knowingly. “Did I come at a bad time?”
By Sheela B.
Sarah Chambers likes to ride bareback. She’s a nubile teenage horse trainer working at The Ponderosa and she loves to feel her crotch slide around on a horse’s back. The Ponderosa was once owned by one of the stars of a well-known western TV show of the sixties that had a farm of the same name. The grounds are kept immaculate and the place is picture postcard and luxurious. Its Disney-like appearance is a marketing strategy to attract people to stable and ride their horses on the ranch, however, it does have a serious side. The ranch run by John Rogers gets its credibility by training equestrian horses for the elite level of the sport. Several Olympic medalists train at The Ponderosa and Sarah’s job is keeping these animals in peak condition.
Sarah can get her rocks off riding this way, creaming her jeans and slathering the horse’s broad back. Bolt, the stallion she’s riding seems to like it too as she rides him along a lane that leads away from the ranch where she works. Many farms in the neighborhood converted into country homes for people from the city, which reflects the kind of people who use The Ponderosa too.
She has little respect for the city slickers because she’s a genuine horsewoman, having grown-up at Norris’s where her father is the head trainer for the racehorse ranch. However, she has much respect for the elite equestrian riders and their horses as well bred as any racehorse. Sarah loves Bolt, the chestnut Arabian, specially for his mighty cock. Sarah is fond of horse cocks. Now she leans limberly sideways, one fist clutching the horse’s mane, and gazes beneath the animal. Sure enough, his cock is starting to stiffen. The girl smiles impishly. She had been sure the stallion would get a hard-on while she squirmed around on his back. Sarah loves the idea of turning a stallion on.
The sight of the big cock starting to get hard inspires the naughty teenager. She squirms around some, her slim thighs tightening around the animal’s flanks as she works her crotch against his spine. Sarah is wearing denim shorts and a T-shirt. The fact she wears no bra beneath the T-shirt is obvious because her stiff nipples are little peaks poking up beneath the material. Her shorts are almost hot pants and tuck into her crotch.
Kylie has heard the stories of the feral pigs in the local swamp for most of her life and like the other folk in town had paid little attention to the tales. As a youngster, she had used the fringes of the swamp as a playground and now at twenty-one, she often camps in the swamp for days on end to paint and photograph the abundant wildlife. Sure, she has seen the disturbs ground makes by wild pigs searching for food yet aside from brief glimpses of them she has seen nothing extraordinary.
The pigs in question are not the wild swine, native to the area, they’re feral pigs escaped the many piggeries in the area. Many farmers use the big pink Yorkshire pigs, and these were the one’s Kylie had seen. Although they do breed with the wild pigs, so there are many mixed breeds in the swamp. The wetlands provide the perfect habitat for the pigs and the swine breed vigorously, the advantage of this for her town is it attracts hunters from all over the country to shoot them.
Something disturbs Kylie as she struggles with her pallet of colors trying to capturing the variegated light filtering through the trees fringing the wetlands. She stops painting and gazes into the fading light of the swamp. She hears it again, a low grunt and a snap of twigs. Something’s out there, she thought, an animal, a large animal moving carefully. Kylie listens intently for a good ten minutes yet hears no more sounds. She returns to focus on her painting yet the light has gone and she decides to stop for the day.
As she covers her easel and removes her painting to the small tent to protect it from night dew, Kylie remains wary of the sounds of the swamp. This area harbors more than feral and wild pigs; there are alligators, bears, snakes, and cougars to think about too. Feeling sure the wild boar has moves on, Kylie decides to wash in the small creek before preparing a meal.
About twenty yards into the thick undergrowth, two small slits of red eyes peer from the face of a wild Pig. The boar watches Kylie as she removes her blouse and jeans and washes briskly in the cold water of the creek. As is Kylie’s habit, she slips on a painting smock she uses for sleeping attire and returns to the tent to prepare her evening meal. The smock is white cotton and billows over her slim body loosely. Meanwhile, the boar remains motionless and vigilant.
By Gowan Bush
“I’m sorry, honey,” Peter said, giving his wife a guilty frown. “I just need to get more done before we leave.”
“What the fuck, Pete?” Kerry said her voice sharp with agitation. “I’ve been driving for hours get to this shithole and now I have to sit around and wait?”
“I’m sorry, just another hour—two at the most.”
Kerry raises her sunglasses to her forehead making sure her deep brown eyes have his full attention. “So at least three hours, then?”
“No, probably not, the parts have only just arrived,” Peter said, “so once I put them in, Abdul and Chang can finish the job on Monday.”
He feels guilt creeping into the back of his mind. Pete knows he’s disappointing her, yet he doesn’t want to stop now. The cheese factory is potentially an important client, and if they can get this machine running again, a permanent contract for equipment maintenance is possible. This trip is more than an emergency repair job, it’s important for the future of Peter’s business.
Kerry stares at Peter in silence, her jaw tense. “Fine,” she said eventually. “So what am I supposed to do while I wait?”
Her hands cross her chest and her face flushes red, and it makes Peter’s stomach churn.
“I think Abdul and Chang are going for a swim,” he said, loud enough his two employees can hear him across the factory floor. “Maybe you can hang with them?”
As if on cue, Abdul and Chang emerge. “Hey, Kerry,” they greet her, kissing her on the cheek.
Like Peter, his employers are in shorts. The weather has been hot all week, and none of them has bothered to put a shirt on. The cheese factory’s closed until tomorrow morning so they have the place to themselves.