Sex-crazed stallion

CHAPTER SEVEN

Carrie sat at her window and watched the land rolling away go slowly to shadows, fade, and vanish in the soft greying air. Her mind was pure turmoil. She'd spent the entire afternoon in a daze, as if a dream had stretched past waking, lasting in her mind after reentering the real world.

He had seen her! He had watched her?

The idea sent small blades of ice slicing through her.

He had watched as she rode him, rode her steed, watched as she melted into that massive back.

He had seen her do things she could not possibly have done unless she'd been sure that she was completely alone. But how could she have expected anyone to be there?

Her father was right.

The man was an invader. He had entered a space meant solely for her. He had violated her!

Why then, why, why, why did she feel so charged from it?

She felt his eyes once more on her body, almost as hot as the breath of the horse she made love to… penetrating eyes, probing eyes…

He hadn't taken those eyes off her from the first. Through the afternoon, even to the conversation with her father in the living room, he'd stolen glances as often as he possibly could without seeming obvious.

And every single time his gaze brushed across her body, she felt it as if physical contact were being made. Her breasts tingled, her nipples had grown hard, two small tiny buds of passion glowing at the tips of her breasts, each minute increasing the power of the sensations they sent rippling back through her body.

She thought again of the field, the mighty stallion with his mane flaring in the wind, of his powerful body, the amazing force that he could transfer to her own thighs, crotch, stomach… like a storm, thunder and lightning included, a sudden unexpected summer storm that builds from the nothingness of a clear sky, taking you without a moment's warning, taking you fully, wholly, totally…

How then, to describe this stranger who suddenly appeared in the midst of her life?

How to explain something that your entire life had trained you to avoid?

Perhaps it was the circumstances of their meeting… she didn't know. But in her mind, whatever forces the black stallion and the tryst between them had unleashed had already become fused in some way with this bearded stranger who called himself Rod, this wild man of a creature, this fierce looking man with eyes that on close inspection showed themselves to be remarkably clear, soft and kind.

She saw him in her thoughts now, was thinking of him even as she slid her hands under the waist of her jeans, loosened the snap and zipper and began to rub the moist silken material covering the pink folds of her cunt, the dark patch of her pubic hair, the ruby-tipped point of her clitoris peeking out from the center of her bush.

She felt her body yielding to a complex of images.

She saw the fiery eyes of the stallion like flares in the night, felt the explosive force of his muscles in contact with her spread legs, relived once more the sensation of her pussy being rubbed wide open by the vibrations of his body, felt her juice oozing from her, coating him, even as she was coating her fingers now.

And she saw it, there between his legs, a vastly different sort of rod… she'd tried to position herself, tried to imagine how she could possibly get it into her… she'd known all along that she would eventually have to try, that it was somehow meant for her, would try to open her body fully, let her violation be total…

It had filled her dreams. It filled her fantasies now, as two, then three fingers began to work through the soft mushy swamp of her aroused pussy.

She spread her lips by flaring her fingers inside her, spread the circular opening beneath the outer membranes, felt her fingertips pressing into the inner walls, wringing more and more juice from her lust drenched flesh with every digging plunge of her fingers…

She felt her body shudder. Is that how it would feel, to have her stallion's cock in her? How different from her father's cock? How much more painful, how much more satisfying?

She had seen it, looked longingly at it… she'd even touched it, but that had sent a shudder of concern through the beast. She understood. She'd be protective of something so valuable herself.

Over and over and over again her fingers first pressed deeply into her sopping pussy then rushed out and up through her wet slit to where her clitoris ached for attention, and down after five or six hard passes at the tiny tongue-like bud of nerves, back down into her yearning cunt.

But she knew that nothing would equal one second of what she could feel with 'him' in her, with his cock splitting her wide open.

As she pressed herself on and on towards orgasm, higher and higher, she began to see it playing before her mind's eye, the drama of the two of them, saw how it might actually take place, saw her suspended form beneath that huge frame, those vast curving ribs, saw her legs spread wide, pulling the red wet target open, saw it getting closer, closer, meeting her…!

She cried out in the midst of the first of several violent spasms of orgasm. She doubled up on her bed, every, muscle quivering from the sudden release of tension.

But she was scarcely touched.

The bottomless pit of her desire had only begun to exert its influence on her. For as much as she dreamed of completing what had been started with her shadowy beast, another image intruded, more and more as her body reached higher and higher levels of arousal.

It was the stranger. She would have found him fascinating even had the link of her passion not existed. He was the first person she'd ever seen outside of the family. Ever!

Was that as strange as it was starting to seem to her? How abnormal a life did she really lead?

These questions and a flood of others like them were starting to buzz in her head like a background of static and dissonance slowly raising in volume until they now threatened to overwhelm her conscious thoughts.

More and more she was becoming convinced that there was no other alternative for her but to somehow escape her father's grasp. Until she'd looked down from her horse and seen the handsome stranger, there had been no way that she could imagine it happening. Now, possibilities loomed everywhere, like fresh fruit waiting to be plucked from a tree. If only she could find a way to reach them… way to reach them…

She drove herself to another orgasm. The image of the stallion flying through the night was replaced by the rugged face of Rod Barrett. He seemed to be… normal. That was it. That was the difference between her father and the newcomer. She wondered if his friend was the same way. It had been impossible to tell what he was like this afternoon. Maybe tomorrow. If her father wouldn't try to keep them separated, he sounded like that's exactly what he had in mind.

Well, she'd show him a thing or two. She'd already managed to do pretty much whatever she wanted, without him knowing. She had no doubts that she could continue. Harder now, harder into her dripping pussy, spreading her lips, pressing in and out.

With her other hand she started to rub at her nipples, pressed the flat of her palm hard into the soft mounds of flesh, harder and harder and harder.

In her mind now, there were two objects of her passions, two focal points for her vision. She felt at the mercy of tidal forces within her never before recognized, forces that threatened now to rip her apart.

Her orgasm, when it hit her was violent. All muscles went spastic, her face contorted into a grimace of agonized lust, her breathing was choked off.

Again and again she stabbed her stiff extended fingers between her legs, drawing every drop of juice and every tingle of sensation from her cunt. She wanted more. She knew exactly where to find it. What remained to be answered was how to attain it.

Sherry opened the door and looked in on the sleeping form with his tightly bandaged leg raised on a stack of pillows. Traction had been called for but lacking the facilities, her father had improvised admirably.

She walked in and stood by the side of his bed. He was like a sleeping… why did she want to think of 'prince'? Besides, in that fairy tale, it had been a sleeping princess who awaited the kiss of the prince.

Sherry was, in her own way as confused by the sudden addition of these strangers into their lives as was her sister. An entire lifetime kept separate from everything this sleeping man represented… she felt like she should fear him, treat him with the respect she might show a rabid raccoon but she could find those feelings nowhere inside her. Instead there was a curiosity coupled with the compassion one normally felt for the wounded and hurt.

But what else? That was what was bothering her. A feeling of excitement, a feeling of heightened awareness, a feeling that her life had just rounded some heretofore unexpected corner and suddenly an entirely new and unexplored street loomed ahead. Did she have the courage to walk it? Was she even capable of fully understanding all the implications of the question?

She doubted it. She knew only that something had sprung to flame inside her body and her mind as soon as these two men walked out of the woods with her sister. Something that she as yet had no words for, but which throbbed beneath her skin like a hot torrent about to burst through a leaky dam of her isolation.

Suddenly the man's eyes opened. She was fascinated by his face, by the fact that she knew exactly what he was, knew exactly what she was to expect and yet really hadn't the slightest idea what was really at stake here. She was conscious only of the fact that her eyes were glued to his face, to the curve of lines along his lips, his chin, his eyes, the shape of his nose.

"Well Ma'am," he said in a friendly drawl, "Howdy do?"

His voice was so friendly, so… natural. Not at all like her father's stiff manner.

"I reckon it must have been your daddy patched me up like this."

He looked down at the tight wrapping that kept the two splints and his leg immobile.

Sherry was confused. This wasn't at all the threatening encounter her father had warned them it would be. He'd always told her that someday, intruders, invaders would enter their land, their sanctuary. She'd listened in terror as he described the world slowly reaching out and contaminating them. It was something that had been more implied than discussed, the horror, the effects. He'd never actually spelled out the final scene, but whatever images he'd called up inside her, there seemed to be no relationship between those childhood memories and the scene in which she found herself now.

Contamination.

It seemed so alien, much more so than the man in front of her.

She smiled back at Johnny, sensing many things, none of them remotely resembling contamination.

"My name's Sherry," she told him, offering her hand.

"Johnny Talbert," he answered, taking her hand, sitting up for a second and kissing it. Sherry was thrilled.

"Does your leg hurt very bad?"

"Well, now that you mention it, yeah, it does hurt pretty bad. Your dad wouldn't happen to have any pain killer stuck up on a shelf somewhere, would he?"

"I don't know," she said uncertainly. She wasn't sure just what her father had planned for these two, but something told her that it wouldn't necessarily be in their best interests.

"Well, I guess I'll ask him when he looks in on me again. Did he say how long it would be before I could get up and move around?"

"Well, since he doesn't have anything to make a cast out of, you're going to have to just lay there for at least a week. He said then that he might be able to make something that would hold you till you could get to a hospital."

Johnny nodded, then frowned in pain.

"Ooooo, that's a nasty headache. Lord, was I drunk or what? Guess it kept me from going out of my head, though it feels like I might have done just that anyway."

He rubbed his forehead, and even though Sherry's experience didn't cover hangovers she understood that discomfort was a large part of the bargain.

"You just take it easy. I'll be right back with something that should make you feel better."

She quickly went into the kitchen, filled a hot water bottle with ice cubes and took it back to him.

Johnny's face lit up when he saw what she had.

"Ah, you're an angel for sure," he sighed as she set the ice onto his tortured head and he felt the cooling fingers shoot into his brain.

"Whiskey's a good pain killer but Lord, does it ever make you pay later."

His eyes closed and he looked like he just wanted to go back to sleep.

Sherry couldn't quite understand why she was so reluctant to leave. It wasn't just her motherly instincts rising to the fore. Not quite. There was something else at work here and she sensed that it was related quite closely to whatever part of her had been functioning whenever she gave herself to her father… similar, but far more enhanced.

She was aroused and it felt strange simply because whatever her father had managed to make her feel, there had been a missing dimension to her concept of sex.

Up to now.

Somehow, she felt that this stranger with his eyes closed in front of her could fill the gap.

He opened his eyes again and looked at her with curiosity.

"Would you like me to wash you?" she offered all at once.

He arched his eyebrows.

"Wash me? How do you mean?"

"Well, you can't take a bath or wash yourself all alone, can you? Surely you must want to clean up a little."

Johnny stuck his nose under one of his armpits and coughed.

"Damn! That'd gag a maggot. OK, I see what you mean. If you're up for sponging me off, I think I could get into that."

She slowly unbuttoned his shirt and then pulled the covers down. Her father had already removed his pants when he'd worked on his leg. She stared at his limp cock with open fascination.

"What's the matter, haven't you ever seen one of those before?" he asked, certain that in their seclusion, there'd been no opportunity for her to lose her virginity, or even understand how it might be accomplished. She surprised him.

"Oh of course. I've seen one many times. It's just that my father's looks very different than yours."

"Yeah? Well, I guess they're like fingerprints. Everybody's is unique, I guess."

His naked body didn't raise the first flicker of embarrassment in her and she was surprised therefore to find that he seemed to feel a little awkward.

"Does this bother you?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

"Oh, well, kind of, I guess… I don't always have a beautiful woman offering to give me a sponge bath like this."

"Well how else are you going to keep yourself clean and healthy?" she asked, surprising herself at how easily she slipped into the nurse role. It was all very confusing to her and in the back of her mind was the knowledge that her father would be quite upset if he knew what she was doing. But her father was safely secluded in his laboratory once again, and there was no one else to care or know.

She thought back to the awkwardness at the dinner table earlier in the evening. Scarcely a word had been spoken that wasn't crisp, clipped and polite. But the tension had been thick, thick as mud after the rain in spring. She felt it like electricity in the air between them all.

Her father never once took his gaze from Rod. Although he'd managed to keep the hatred out of his voice Sherry could sense it seething beneath every flicker of his eyebrows, every movement of facial muscles.

Carrie on the other hand seemed to be lost in her own world and could hardly care about what was passing between the rest of them. Occasionally she would glance at Rod, but the expressions that crossed her face had been too complex for Sherry to analyze to any degree.

And then there had been Rod himself. Whatever conversation there had been he had initiated. Questions about their way of life Lucus had passed off with a disinterested grunt and left to his daughters to answer.

But he would cough to show his displeasure if they went into too much detail.

Carrie had offered to show Rod the greenhouse where all their food was grown, the farm where the animals were kept; that almost had prompted a response from Lucus but he let it pass.

Rod kept his eyes glued to Carrie the entire evening. When Lucus asked her about the horse, a totally indecipherable look had flickered in his eyes and she wondered anew just what it was that kept her sister so preoccupied when she went off alone.

"I just started to ride him, that's all," she answered, her voice a bored monotone.

"I saw her riding. She looks like she's done it all her life."

Yes, there was something happening beneath the surface here, and that as much as anything else had caused Sherry to be a little more open with herself concerning her own curiosity about the injured man in the other room.

That very man now lay naked in front of her and as she carefully rubbed his body with a damp cloth and warm water, his cock started to stiffen.

"Um, sorry about that," said Johnny, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"What are you sorry about?" she asked, letting the cloth fall over his cock.

"Oh, sometimes it just has a mind of its own," he answered, looking first at his cock, then at her.

She just watched him with an amused grin and wrapped her fingers around the shaft. She knew how much pleasure her father's cock was capable of giving him. This stranger should be no different.

The second she touched it, Johnny's eyes grew wide, he shut up and just kept staring at her. She said nothing, simply began stroking it up and down, steadily squeezing the hard shaft of flesh tighter and tighter, feeling the thing become even stiffer in her grip.

Tighter, harder, faster. Steadily, deliberately, she increased the pressure and the tension and to her surprise he started to moan almost at once.

"Ummm…" he said in a dreamy voice, "you really are an angel aren't you?"

The pack of ice was wobbling on his forehead as her jerks became more intense.

"This won't hurt your headache, will it?"

Johnny was quick to assure her that even though it did make his head hurt a little too much, he'd gladly endure the suffering. It was, after all, for a worthy cause.

Again she jerked on his cock and again he moaned, only this time, she felt beneath her fingers a rapid fluttering movement as the muscle at the base of his cock started to go into its spastic convulsions, squeezing hard against the small reservoir that held his come, propelling it like a war cannon shot down the length of his sex-tube where it burst from the head and landed with a plop all over Sherry's hand.

More bursts followed at once. He was bucking his hips up into the air with every contraction and each wad that shot from the purple colored head brought a loud moan of pleasure from his throat.

"Oh baby, that's wonderful, fantastic oh yeah don't stop," he was moaning as he spit white come from his cock.

Sherry was surprised at first. Having experienced the orgasm of no other man besides her father, who was always so… sedate, reserved… she wasn't prepared for this out pouring of enthusiasm.

"Be careful," she warned him. "You're going to hurt your leg."

But Johnny seemed preoccupied more with his cock, and was getting ready to try and figure out some way to fuck this suddenly unexpected apparition. It would not be easy, and her old man wouldn't like it… but who cared? Every time he looked up at those lush round breasts hanging off her, he was filled with a sense of awe. She was almost perfect in her appearance, and for reasons that he didn't even come close to understanding she seemed to have developed a sudden and extreme attraction to him.

That suited him just fine.

Now, if he could only figure out a safe, sane way to have her climb aboard, and then fuck the ever loving shit out of her…

Rod felt restless. He'd looked in on Johnny a few minutes ago and Johnny had breathlessly related the tale of the hand job from nowhere that he'd gotten earlier in the evening.

Never had he seen a more blatant case of sexual repression, social repression, emotional, physical, mental repression… face it, these poor girls were repressed. One way or another, they were going to have to be pulled away from their father. He could see that now, and he could also see that it was going to result in a very severe confrontation.

Well, it couldn't be helped. The girls were almost at the point of being consciously willing. Not yet, for the influence of the long years of isolation with their father had developed a strong mental block to any concept of actually getting out, breaking away.

But the signs were as obvious as billboards plastered along the roadside. Hell, Sherry was the reserved sedate one, and Johnny said she'd just about torn his damn cock off!

And as for Carrie… well, that little honeyslit was already well along the road to thinking for herself and taking her own life into her own hands. It was simply, where she was concerned anyway, a question of options, and awareness of same. You might feel dissatisfied with your life as it had developed, but until you were able to conceive of real alternatives, that dissatisfaction would remain just that… a feeling of restlessness, unhappiness that would have no focus, nothing to bind together the diffuse threads of ennui.

How could she possibly have any sense of options? Christ! The girl had never known anything other than this wilderness. Having an educated father capable of passing on his education to his daughters had been a plus, of course; but the lack of human companionship outside the tight closed unit they had developed into could only limit drastically any concept in her mind of other possibilities. She might want to get out, but having no idea what was out there, she really couldn't know fully what it meant.

He would have to educate her. He would have to somehow get past her father and spend time with her.

It shouldn't be too hard; she was looking at him all through dinner. Or maybe he'd been staring so hard at her, that whenever she did happen to glance at him, he was aware of it immediately.

But no, there was chemistry at work here. They had both already been poured into passion's beaker, were already coming to a boil. The final reaction awaited only a catalyst of some sort. But what?

He had to think of something, because he doubted he have very many opportunities to get her alone away from her father's watchful eyes, and they had only a week or so before he would find a way to get them but of his hair for good.

He walked to the window and looked out. A full moon hung between the peaks of two distant mountains. Over the entire landscape, the white frosting of moonlight glazed the tops of the trees rolling up and down the slopes, illuminating the contours just enough to remind him how truly perfect this area was, how utterly untouched the land had managed to remain.

As untouched as Lucus Simpson's two daughters. (SIMPSON!!… DAUGHTERS!!!) The bells were ringing louder in his head. What was the story behind that queer old goat? Why did the fact of his two daughters stand out so strongly…?

It was maddening not to be able to put his finger on it, especially when it had hovered just out of reach, out of sight and out of mind the whole day, his efforts to call up any clue notwithstanding.

But his daughters were untouched.

Weren't they? Johnny had said that Sherry jerked him off like a pro in a massage parlor and then had given him head with such a sure touch that he'd come again almost at once.

Now where do you suppose she'd found a cock to practice on? There'd only been one for years and years. Which made the old man all the more sinister in Rod's eyes. Could he really have been subjecting his daughters to sexual abuses, throughout their childhoods.

That he now contemplated performing similar acts with Carrie struck him as being not at all out of the ordinary. For her father to do it however… that was sick, and if anything justified intervening in the situation that was it.

Oh, face it, he told himself, any excuse would do. The bottom line was unchanged from what it had been the moment Rod had walked upon the field and seen her riding majestically, defiantly, erotically, passionately…

He wanted her. He would have her.

Just then, a sudden movement caught his attention. Had he seen anything at all? Or were his eyes just playing… no! There it was again. Someone was moving through the shadows of the yard, and he had a good idea who it might be.

As he watched, he saw a figure pass through a patch of moonlight and saw the reflection of the cold light off warm golden strands of waist-length blonde hair.

It was Carrie!

Where was she going?

Rod had a good idea about the answer to that question. He also was getting a few other ideas. Hell, if she could sneak out, without the old man knowing, so could he.

Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to get that girl alone.

Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than that girl!

Nothing!!

He sat, as he had for hours, before the screen, eyes fixed on the flickering images bathed in the phosphorescent glow.

Slowly, deftly, with the touch of years of practicing, Lucus Simpson added the chemicals that would effect the alteration. It was simply another step in a long practiced process.

He knew the outcome in advance. It would, of course, be successful. He had nothing but success in the lab these days.

But he was growing restless. He wanted to move on. He was tired of rats and mice and microbes.

He wanted to experiment on man.

He smothered a grim chuckle, even though there was no one to hear, or see.

He knew of two perfect specimens. And how convenient! They'd been simply delivered to him, saving him the tedious business of trying to flush out a couple on his own. He'd known that should this ever happen there'd be no way to avoid having his daughters suffer some degree of contamination. That it had in fact happened was all too evident at the supper table tonight. It disgusted him! The way that smooth talking sonofabitch with his bushy beard kept making eyes at Carrie, and she back at him.

You'd have thought they were high schoolers on their first date!

Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. But he wasn't too concerned. The contamination was not yet fatal; they were still below the threshold.

Were he to interfere now, with the hard final brutality that he truly would have preferred, he feared that he might lose the girls entirely, if not in body then definitely in mind and soul.

No, perhaps he'd best play with them, let them think that he was softening, let them mingle openly with these… these outsiders… this disease that had stricken their world… let them think they were enjoying themselves.

And then, after a week, they could leave… perhaps before the girls woke up, yes, that would do it. Simple, neat, surgically clean. Remove the malignant growth before it choked them.

Life would return to normal. He was convinced of it. He was certain of it.

He was depending on it.

In fact, it was threatening to become an obsession.

That was something Lucus could not allow, not even to the extent of denying a portion of himself, a very vital portion, denying its very existence. It was a question of role. It was his firm grasp of that concept that allowed him to keep his hands rock steady during the transfer of minute units, the performance of delicate surgery, slow careful surgery, like he would perform on those two malignant pests, carefully shaving layer after microscopic layer from their cortex, probing deeper, ever so deeper into the very depths of mind itself, locate at last the chemical code by which neurons passed their information from one to the next, how it arranged it, how intelligence itself is generated…

It would become his primary weapon, the major tool of his research… the chemical genesis of intelligence… its control… its enhancement…

No, there was, at the cold immobile center of Lucus Simpson's soul, no doubt whatsoever as to the primary role he was meant to play, the essential face he was to wear…

He looked to the screen.

The figure remained, as it was earlier, still a misshapen blob, yet even now beginning to take on a crude shape… here and there small extensions of the primal protoplasm that one could almost pretend, with enough concentration, were arms, legs, the beginnings of a neck…

For the first time, the notion of 'cross breeding' had expanded to include the whole genus of mammals as its domain. But need it stop there? No!

If man could be blended with lower forms, drawing on specific superior constructions within certain systems, yet retain man's nature, his innovation, his spontaneity… his mind. Who could predict? What limits might be surpassed?

Could you imagine the implications of an army of one celled amoebae… that were intelligent? Cells that could attack body organizations with infantry-like precision…

Yes, there was a lot resting on the next few hands. Lucus felt it like a breath of ice on the surface of his skin. He heard it with his fingernails, at the tips of each hair, at the core of his marrow. He was alert. He was attuned to his essential rhythms. He was ready.

Walking to the small ice-box, he opened it, selected from among the neatly rowed bottles, each with a small white label, its molecular structure and noted properties expertly sketched and lettered in by Lucus' own hand, one bottle. It contained a deep purple colored liquid. It sloshed in the bottle with a oil-like sluggishness.

Carefully, taking in those same rock steady hands a sterile hypodermic, he punctured the seal of the bottle, watched as the liquid rose to nearly the halfway mark on the line gauge, added several more increments for good measure, and set it on the silver table. Its point gleamed in the light of the screen. Beyond the electronic interface, the little blob watched, it too preparing for an alteration of the very building blocks of its reality. Lucus felt a mental bond click into place in that instant, spanning the space, temporal and electronic between them.

Quickly tying the rubber tube tight around his arm, he found a vein and the dart was home.

Had a living organism entered his arm and begun eating its way through his body, it would have felt like this.

Lucus knew that for the next half hour, he would stay as he was, inert and insane.

And then would come the craving. The blind mindless craving, the hot flooding of his testicles with lunacy. Yes! Lunacy!

Mindlessness.

Pure primal instinct.

Lust!

There would be Sherry for that. Indeed.

And then, the long space of heightened awareness, of senses sharpened to the point of puncturing the thin fabric of reality.

At that plateau he planned to maintain himself for the next several days. Small maintenance doses at seven hour intervals would keep brain waves in phase through far more complex variations of their separate frequencies. His data was vast. He knew exactly what was happening to him, and exactly why. Perhaps his daughters looked upon his chemical experiments as tolerable eccentricities. Well and good.

None of them would ever know what hit them.

Lucus Simpson looked back at the silent screen, looked a long time in total awe… then he began a long deep laugh, a laugh which continued long and hard.

It was a strange laugh. There was something more there than simple laughter. Something complex and mysterious. Something that hinted at deep inner sadness.