Sex-crazed stallion

CHAPTER TWO

The breeze blowing through the open window brushed over her bare nipples. It was cool but not yet with the biting chill that would signal the true onset of winter. For now, it was still comfortably in the dying gasps of summer, or, to be more exact, Indian summer. A month ago there had been a sharp cold spell and she had feared the warm weather gone till spring.

But now, even with the leaves the brilliant shades of red, orange, purple and yellow like giant dollops of paint dripped on the mountainsides, she could still enjoy the countryside as she liked best.

The breeze blew a little harder, rustling the window shade which was pulled a few inches below the base of the open window. It was a light sound, but during the night she had somehow unwound herself from her covers and had been shivering slightly through her dreams for the past hour. The added sound of the shade was enough to finally arouse her.

Carrie Simpson sat up the way she did everything, all at once with a sudden jerking motion, fully alert and at attention.

She was as striking a girl as her sister, smaller of body, blonde where Sherry was a brunette, but with the same full breasts, the same lithe supple form.

She yawned once, shook her head to clear it of the last remaining traces of slumber and was on her feet with a single graceful hop, into her shorts and shirt, and checking to see that her bedroom door was still locked, she was out her window and onto the damp grass outside. Her bare feet left a chain of oblong smudges in the coating of dew that she knew would vanish with the first rays of the sun. But now in the grey half-light of false dawn they stretched back from dancing figure as it raced down the slope of the yard towards the woods, the only proof that life stirred in the mountain retreat.

She had no need really to be so furtive and clandestine. It was simply part of her nature. She was a private girl, one who kept the major portion of herself hidden from the rest of the world, choosing instead to serve portions of herself to others as she saw fit. She understood the first rule of the theater: leave them wanting a little more. She also understood the mind of the poker player and knew instinctively the value of keeping your true self hidden.

Strange, that one kept sheltered and secluded from the world and from other people could have such a worldly outlook, but Lucus Simpson had done right by his daughters, at least in terms of preparing them for maturity. Why, is anybody's guess, because Sherry's secret conviction that he never intended for them to leave their shelter was probably correct. Still, he must have realized that he would not live forever. And in the meantime, if he was successful in keeping them with him, he would obviously want minds as aware and as sharp and knowledgeable as his own.

In Carrie, he had molded a mind that was perhaps too much aware. Too sharp.

She was, unlike her sister, her own person and no one else's. She respected her father, even loved him and allowed herself to go along with his desires, but that intimate bonding that had so affected Sherry had never taken hold with her. At the center of her soul burned the conviction that what she did with her father was wrong, that ultimately she would have to escape, flee their hermetically sealed box and break out into the world beyond, a world that till now had filtered to her only through books and her father's lectures, both of which were available in abundance.

Her feet skipped lightly over the rough terrain, the bottoms turned slowly thick and hard by endless summers of climbing up and down the mountainous landscape, of racing through the limitless forests, of wading through the rocky stream beds with their frigid crystal waters… she was a child of a natural environment. It was perhaps the greatest gift her father had given her and she was so much at one with the land around her that she probably wasn't even quite conscious of it.

She knew only that her solitude was the most precious thing she had. She sought it out often.

Particularly in the past several months. That was the reason for the locked door. Let them think she slept late. By the time she returned, her father would be in the laboratory cooking up God knows what and Sherry would be blissfully involved with whatever satisfied her.

No one would notice her returning, and if they did, no one would question her.

Life in the house, to be honest, was boring. How Sherry could spend day after day, week after week, year after year mindlessly catering to the quirky whims of an old man rapidly going senile was totally beyond her ability to fathom.

Well, maybe that wasn't fair… Lucus was sharp as a razor… something about him just didn't go down quite right, and she couldn't have said what it was… she only knew that as she grew older, the calm complacency of her older sister seemed to be more and more an act worthy of loathing… was it his eyes, the way he would look at her sometimes when she would go to him, stand before him naked, waiting for his wishes to become apparent?

That strange distant stare, flavored at times with… was it hatred? That's how it struck her, so much so at times that when he would reach out his hand to her, start to stroke her breasts, run his fingers over her neck, her shoulders, her face, and she would actually have to beat down an impulse to scream out, to pull away, to run…!

But from what?

She had no idea. She still lacked the distance necessary for true objectivity. Their situation, their isolation were still givens in her life, like the color of the sky, breathing, dawn and dusk…

But the seeds, sown probably at birth or perhaps before, taken root from her earliest years of awareness, were now beginning to sprout, to grow, to bear fruit…

So far, her rebellion expressed itself only in the act which now preoccupied her.

Dancing through the woods, she seemed from a distance to be perhaps a doe, maybe even a fawn, so perfectly did she melt through the trees, the underbrush, the foliage. As she ran, she had no conscious goal. The running was an end in itself.

To be alone!

To be a part of a world so much more vast, so much older and expansive… that was her desire.

Coming to a clearing, she climbed a rock and standing at the top, she stripped. Naked, captured in the first ray of sun cutting a yellow swath across the tops of the trees, she might have been a wood nymph, the very embodiment of whatever spirit ruled the forest.

Her stance was defiant. Arms akimbo, legs spread, long waves of thick hair washing down her shoulders, her back, dipping down to the two rounded cheeks of her tanned buttocks.

Her sister's body had long ago been given to Lucus Simpson. She knew it, knew how Sherry secretly craved the touch of her father's lips on her breasts, the feel of his fingers probing into her, the grinding crush of his cock as it split her…

Carrie's body was her own. She derived no pleasure from what her father did to her. None. She was, again, the actress, the theatrical persona, giving just exactly what her audience paid for, no more, no less.

Only in the isolation of the wilderness could she truly feel her own life's pulse throbbing throughout her veins, rippling beneath the taut surface of her skin.

Here, atop this rock, she felt the heat of arousal, as surely as she felt the heat of the sun, climbing higher now in the sky.

She stroked her long legs, let her fingers glide over the hairless skin. It had always been Lucus' wish that they maintain their bodies in a truly feminine manner. No unshaven legs for his daughters, no hairy armpits. It was something that was very important to him and Carrie could understand. She like the sleek feel of her body, the almost frictionless way her hands glided over her flesh, up the insides of her thighs, higher, higher, all the way to the already dripping lips of her young pussy.

The feeling of her body's juice oozing through her fingers was possibly her greatest pleasure. She never failed to be amazed at the depths of feeling her body was capable of and she never hesitated to drive it as far as she possibly could.

She lay back on the top of the rock, her body sloping downward along the curve of its surface. She spread her legs, pulled them up towards her at the knees, and touching her fingertip to her hot clitoris, began the slow steady manipulations that would propel her through orgasm after violent orgasm.

The crisp air, the crystalline clarity of the sky, the near silence of the breeze slipping through the trees with a whispered SHHHHHH…! All these blended with the glowing nugget of hot coal between her legs, its heat spreading outward taking in more and more of her body until she felt herself to be on fire, felt the entire surface of her skin to be aflame, engulfing her, devouring her, consuming her…

She cried out when she came. From a distance, one would have heard perhaps what might have been the distant cry of a falcon, would have seen, had they even noticed, the inert form of a Goddess. She made almost no movement at all. The torrent was within her, ripping her apart, searing her brain. Outwardly, there was just the simple flickering of her fingertip back and forth relentlessly against her clitoris. Orgasm after orgasm tore through her, cries welled up from her throat, her eyes closed… she was transported, she merged with the wilderness, for a moment felt time as it was experienced by a tree, a rock, a mountain, felt herself changing like a season changes, felt time come crashing to a halt.

But only for a brief instant.

She returned, as she always did, and spent long moments simply lying motionless in the sun, legs splayed across the surface of the massive rock, breasts jutting straight upward like two mountains themselves, hair flowing in every direction, scattered as the wind, brilliant as the sun itself.

She felt at peace. Completely at peace. She was aware of her body, her mind and her soul. She was content with who she was.

But she was restless. She stood up, looked down the long slope of the mountain across the ravine to the next and the next, all splotched with the fiery hues of the dying year, all a tapestry of change, of alteration, of death and renewal.

There were changes building in her, still hovering just past her conscious thoughts. But she felt them the way animals in the forest feel an approaching storm when the sky is still cloudless. She knew something was there. She wished only that she might discern something of its shape, describe its form…

She looked at the sun. It would be nearly seven o'clock. Time was abundant.

She slid down the face of the rock, gathered her clothes, and carrying them in her arms, trotted off in the direction of the stream. Perhaps it was a bit chilly still, especially in the shade; nonetheless, nothing could surpass the shattering jolt of that first plunge into the icy water, that nerve searing blast of heatless energy. Her senses were finely tuned. They needed stimulation.

Carrie's solitude was not quite as complete as she believed.

Others stirred on this early morning, though they moved as strangers through the woods.

Had she gone perhaps a half-mile further, instead of turning down towards the stream for a swim, she would very soon have encountered the spiced wooden scent of coffee wafting through the trees like a scented mist. And she would have heard the sound of metal clanging together, smelled bacon cooking, perhaps even heard the sizzle and sputter as it fried in the pan.

But most alien, she would have heard voices. Strange voices. Voices never before heard in these woods. Male voices.

Belonging to one Johnny Talbert and his companion Rod Barrett. They sat at the camp fire watching their breakfast cook through bleary eyes.

"I'm telling you Rod, I don't think I can take much more of this. I'm getting to fucking old!"

Rod just chuckled to himself as he poured a dark stream of coffee into his cup, sipped it, wincing from the heat, then sipped it some more.

"You say that every year, and you've said it ever since we started coming up here. Now why don't you just drink your coffee and wait till you wake up a little bit before you go making sweeping decisions like that. You'll only regret it later on anyway."

Johnny grumbled and rubbed the stubble on his chin.

"That's another thing. Who the fuck can be expected to shave with cold water? It's barbaric!"

"What are you talking about? Shaving's barbaric anyway! Hell, if you weren't supposed to have hair on your face it wouldn't start growing. That's what I say."

He ran his fingers through a thick beard tinted generously with deep flashes of red.

Johnny looked at him sourly.

"Yeah, well, something like that could get caught in a branch or something. You want me to start calling you Absolom?"

"Aw, shut up! Here, have some coffee."

The bacon turned a darker and darker shade of brownish red, and when it seemed to be just about done, Rod dipped into his backpack and pulled out a small carton wrapped in two towels. Inside were six eggs, each wrapped in paper towels to cushion them.

"See there, you sorry hound? You laughed at me, but I told you it would be worth it. Save the freeze dried shit for later. On that first morning, there won't be anything at all to compare to a real breakfast of real eggs and bacon."

Johnny's face still wore a scowl that seemed to be permanently etched into his skin, but his eyes perked up with renewed interest.

"Here, pour me some coffee, will you?" he asked Rod.

"Pour it yourself, asshole. Can't you see there's serious business taking place here?"

He very carefully cracked each egg till it was circled with a jagged ring of fractures, then delicately pried each half apart, splitting the small sac beneath the shell and let the egg fall with a plop into the bacon grease.

"I hate broken yolks. Nothing fucks up breakfast worse than a broken yolk."

Johnny looked at him like he was mad.

"What's it matter? An egg's an egg. What if you scrambled the fuckers?"

Rod stared at him like he was the most uncouth asshole that ever lived.

"Well Godfuckindamnit, I ain't scrambling the damn things, and if you're so indifferent about the whole thing, you get the broken yolk if I fuck up."

"The hell you say. I don't want a broken yolk."

"Asshole," muttered Rod continuing the painstaking process of starting the day out right.

And it was important too. This was the first day of their annual backpacking excursion into the wilderness. They'd begun the tradition eleven years ago, each year choosing a different area to explore. Usually they would spend two weeks in the wilds, leaving jobs, friends and all the burdens of civilization far behind.

Both were divorced now, but when they had been married, these trips had been a problem, so much so that they even brought their wives along one year.

Never again. Rod, in fact, traced the break-up of his marriage directly to that ill fated trip. He thought of it now and began to laugh.

"What's so damn funny," Johnny asked, still feeling like the world had something against him.

"Oh, it's real hard for me to get up in the morning and fix breakfast like this without thinking about dear old Louise."

Johnny thought about it for a second and started to laugh too.

"Yeah, that was too bad. Ah, women don't belong up here. It's too damn rugged for 'em."

"No, Louise had a liking for the wilderness. She just didn't like bears."

"That bastard sure took a liking to her though, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but it was the flood that really did her in."

"That's for sure. Mabel didn't get along too good after that either."

Rod thought back on the ill-fated venture. "Probably not having any clothes left when the rescue crews finally caught up with us didn't help either," he mused.

"Yeah. She did kind of shy away from the TV cameras."

They both started to laugh hard at the recollection. Johnny stood up and cracked his vertebrae, stretched and exhaled deeply. His breath puffed into a small cloud and dispersed into the morning. Then he winced.

"Goddamn! I swear to God, I'll never get used to sleeping on the fucking ground."

He rubbed the small of his back in obvious agony.

Rod regarded him with a mixture of sympathy and contempt.

"I just might leave your sorry ass home next time after all. Listen you sorry clown, we've got fifteen miles to cover today if we're gonna sleep on top of Kingman's Dome, and I'm going to be sorely pissed if you can't make it."

"Hey, I'll make it. I'll make it. I'm just getting too old for this garbage, that's all."

"You're thirty years old! How the hell can that be too old? I'm thirty two! What's that make me? Crippled?!"

Johnny threw a pine cone at him to shut him up and wandered down to the creek to splash water in his eyes, maybe wake himself up.

And to think, he muttered to himself, I could have been putting a couple of six-packs on ice right now giving Cheryl, or maybe Charlene, or what the fuck maybe both of them a call on the phone to come over and watch the game with me and then…

But he didn't mean it. The day was young and just as soon as he could figure out a way to wake up and make his joints stop hurting, he'd be ready enough to get out in it. If only they had a couple of women with them. That's all. Didn't seem like too much to ask. Just a couple of nice sweet women who'd do nothing but fuck their eyes out. Yeah! He warmed to the idea as he splashed the cold water over his face.

Oh well. Like Rod said. What didn't get packed they'd damn sure do without. He looked around, took in a deep breath and for no reason at all other than the fact that he felt utterly alone in the world, he let out a mighty roar. The sound bounced off the surrounding mountains, returning again and again in diminishing echoes till at last, there was again stark, naked silence. No question about it. They weren't going to find any women up here waiting for them.

Carrie stood at the clearing leaning over the wooden fence. Out in the field she saw him.

In the brilliance of the early morning sun he stood motionless, a statue sculpted from black onyx, polished by the wind and rain, separated out of our own time, defining a space all his own.

She put two fingers to her mouth and let out a shrill whistle.

Suddenly, he was fluid with motion.

The mighty head turned towards her and with an imperial shake, he broke at once into a rapid trot spilling over to a slow gallop as he made straight for her.

He came up to where she leaned against the fence, nuzzled his face against her hand and neighed softly.

She had no name for him feeling somehow that would preserve the magic she felt in his presence.

That was the word for it. Magic. She knew nothing of his true owners, only that their landowning were extensive. Her father never spoke of them. They were forbidden to ask, and the idea of any exploratory contact was such a taboo that not even Carrie in her rebellious independence would seriously challenge her father on such a serious issue. Yet.

But the magnificent stallion before her represented the first chinks in the wall he'd constructed around her life, the first steps outward, away, seeking a world of her own.

She'd discovered him five months ago. She'd begun to wander further and further and further from their sanctuary, seeking to uncover more and more of the world that had been denied her, moving, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps by design in the direction of the taboo lands, where the possibility of human contact might actually present itself.

Instead, this meadow, this steed had appeared.

The first day she felt an attraction she could scarcely focus her mind upon, much less verbalize.

She'd hopped the fence immediately, in awe of such a beast. The very first time she'd seen a horse. It somehow came to symbolize the vast quantity of other experiences that had also been kept from her.

Through some instinctive communication system that functioned beneath the filter of language and mind, she understood how to ride him, how to control him, and he accepted her from the first.

A graceful spring and she was up, arms wrapped around his neck, knees digging into his powerful ribs, and they were off across the meadow. It never occurred to her that he belonged to someone else and that they might object. She simply did what she felt like doing.

She returned. And returned again. The animal became the focus of her life, yet she still was almost unaware of the fact, as she was unaware of so much about her still developing personality.

But her excursions into the wilderness now usually ended here, in this meadow astride this horse.

The feeling as she rode him was electric. The communion between their bodies was a real, tangible sensation.

It was…

But there were no words in her vocabulary to describe precisely what it was. She knew only that when they rode, she soared, she flew, she transcended herself.

She petted him softly, talking a kind of baby talk to him. He was gentle. That something so huge and powerful could be so gentle always left her stunned.

And then, dropping the clothing that she had carried from the stream, she mounted him, naked, alive, tense and trembling. They would ride. She would soar. And again, she would feel the strength of his body pass into her own, feel the energy of his gait transformed into power in her own body, energy, sensation…

Sensation like nothing she could possibly experience from anyone else or anything else.

Her legs spread down either side of his large frame. The bumps along the ridge of his spinal column passed directly beneath her, right along the opened wet slit of her pussy. She felt his body against hers, felt herself growing wet as she gave the first tentative squeeze of her knees into his sides.

He began to move. The vibrations started like a slow cadence, building with each step. She felt him. She felt herself. She felt alive!

Faster now, faster, racing with the wind… They reached the other side of the meadow, and he instinctively slowed down as they approached the fence. She paused, trying to decide what to do. Then, she turned him back around the way they had just come, kicked him into a full gallop and held him to it, even as the fence loomed closer and closer…

With one mighty spring he flew over it.

They were out!

She felt suddenly a freedom she'd never before known.

She didn't even think about where she was going. It didn't matter.

She wanted to ride, to fly, to escape. She wanted to take her steed and vanish, never to return again!