SEX-CRAZED STALLION
His hands trembled slightly. Yet his appearance was one of outward calm, a methodical thoroughness that obliterated emotional reactions.
There was no room here for the indistinct grey region of emotions, of moods, of feelings.
No. Here, there could be only precision. Calm, detached precision.
Magnificence cloaked in the simplicity of scientific accuracy.
A magnificence he alone could attain.
They had expelled him from their midst. Now, he would return, triumphant.
It would be he to whom they came, pads in hand, bubbling over with questions, with pleas for guidance, pleas for his forgiveness...
Maybe, he would grant it. Maybe.
But he would have no need for them now. He had learned to do without them, they had proclaimed him expendable and now it would be his privilege to return the favor.
He noticed the slight trembling still in his hands, his wrists, as he dipped the pipette into the clear liquid, then carefully, ever so carefully let it empty into the small glass dish. He flicked a button and a bright light shot through the dish, while at the same time, a previously blank screen flickered, cleared and slowly came to focus.
The object was hazy still, a kind of patchwork worm seen through blurry eyes. That's how it looked. Ah, but that patchwork... that would be his ticket back. It would make the world stand up and take notice. It would make the name of Lucus Simpson once more not just one of the leading names in medical science, it would make him the leading name. He would rule.
A slow turn of a dial on the console in front of him sharpened the image to the point that separate segments became noticeable... links in a chain, pieces in a puzzle, fragments of a text...
It was a molecule. A living reproducing molecule. Some would say it was the essence of life itself. A chromosome. Messenger of life. The ordering structure of heredity.
But a chromosome like no other on earth. One that he and he alone had created. True, it was still a small scale operation. But the major line had been crossed. Ahead lay difficulties in logistics, but the fundamental problem had been solved. The answer came finally to focus before his eager eyes.
A living chromosome, forced to accept and duplicate genes of a wholly different species. A mutant. A life form never before conceived.
Sure, there was work going on all over the world; using bacterium, splicing in this genes to fool the organism into duplicating insulin here, interferon there, maybe a few illegal drugs now and again... the possibilities were endless.
But the fools. They'd strapped themselves into a straight jacket. Would you ask a neurosurgeon to work wearing boxing gloves? Never!
Yet, the entire industry had done exactly that, by declaring human manipulation off limits.
He shivered every time he thought of those vast international cartels with their virtually unlimited resources playing around with microbes while the true work of their calling gathered dust on the pages of obscure publications and texts.
But for himself.
Man was the laboratory.
Man was the experiment.
Man, was the product.
Like Nietzche, he believed that man was something to be transcended. He, Lucus Simpson, would be the bridge. The human race would forever and for all time sing praise to his foresight, his knowledge, his daring, his genius...
There was so much left to be done. Still such a long road ahead, he felt constantly weighed down by the task. Yet his heart was light. And his mind clear. Quite clear.
This simple chromosome was but a start. There would come an embryo. Then more, each with a greater and greater blend of genes, a fuller and more equal mix until he could predict with accuracy which traits from which species would appear in the mutant. His pulse quickened at the thought of it. No longer would we need to rely on unstable population pools for the human resources so necessary to the growth of the system as a whole.
Now, people could be bred specifically for the tasks required. Qualities envied in other species could be matched with the superior intellect of man producing unimagined benefits. It was so obvious as to be painful. A tool so awesome surely must have applications never yet conceived.
And as long as his fellow scientists ignored the path of the future, it would be up to him, Lucus Simpson to lead the way.
He looked back at the chromosome. Not alive, yet vital, vibrant, filled with possibilities, able somehow, by an incomprehensible blend of physics, biology and sheer magic to duplicate itself exactly, atom for atom, molecule for molecule, gene for gene.
A human chromosome. With a few stray genes added in. Taken from the blood cells of a horse.
It would develop no further. But others would follow. The tests would become more and more complex. But the first and most crucial stage had at last been reached, and banished from his own kind, he had been forced to develop the capability and the technology all on his own.
He had succeeded. He would continue to succeed. Nothing would stop him now.
It was some time later that Lucus Simpson emerged from the depths of his laboratory.
From the living room came the sounds of Chopin. His daughter Sherry paused in her practicing as she heard her father shuffling down the hallway to his room.
She sighed. He would be about due again. It had been almost a week. And it was her turn this time. Carrie had taken the last two sessions and had let her know in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to go again until Sherry had taken her turn.
Dear little Carrie. She was so headstrong. Of course, Sherry could easily understand her sister's reluctance to indulge their father's strange little quirks, but he was so weary from his work these days, and he had been spending so much time down there. It seemed a simple thing to ease his burden, however slightly. True, he did get a little rough at times, but that was only when he took too much of the drug. Usually he was docile as a lamb, putty in her hands.
He seldom took them both at once anymore. Probably a general lessening of his stamina.
But he could still be a wild man when the feeling grabbed him.
For years, they had been his only release. They had served his needs, they had been his... his women. Sherry was old enough to understand. She had been six when their mother left. That was after the bad time, the time of reporters and newspaper articles and police and investigations and inquiries and an entire collage of images and recollections that she simply filed away in her mind as BEFORE. Now, it was AFTER, and had been for years. Almost as long as she could remember, and certainly longer than Carrie could remember.
He had taken them away. He had run, taking them with him, into hiding. The years had been hard, awkward, at times dangerous, but he had managed to keep them alive and safe and clothed and fed, and now they had this beautiful house in the wilderness that she had grown so to love. It seemed at times that there could be nothing to interfere with the idyllic life their father had carved out for them. Nothing, except that unexplained stubborn streak in Carrie. Sherry had noticed it long ago, though she doubted her father was aware of it yet.
But Carrie was becoming restless. She was becoming dissatisfied. She was starting to wonder about the rest of the world. She was asking questions.
"How do other people eat, Daddy? Do they grow all their food like we do?"
And their father would patiently explain about the evil of cities and civilization and of other people and she would listen but Sherry could see that she really didn't hear.
But most dangerous, she was beginning to wonder about other men. And why there were none around. Or any people. Their father had seen to their education. He had instructed them well in the way's of civilized society. He didn't want them to feel like they were prisoners here. He wanted it to be their choice. He wanted them to realize that there was only evil and pain and suffering beyond the safety of the Eden he had created for them in the mountain wilderness.
Where else could one breathe clean air, catch fish in an unpolluted lake, fish without chemicals, fish from water you can swim in. These questions and hundreds more he would patiently confront Carrie with, but she was still unconvinced.
It saddened Sherry, because she knew that at the final point, their father would never permit them to leave. He had learned to need them. To depend on them. They would sign his death warrant should they leave. Sherry knew that. She had almost, in her own way, made peace with the fact. It was a beautiful place to live. And it was so easy, so simple, so undemanding an existence...
She heard him coming down the hall again, his gait a little less steady.
When he came into the room, she could tell by the slightly out-of-focus stare in his eyes that he had taken the drug. She had no idea what drug. Once, he'd confessed that it was some kind of extract from a mushroom, varied according to his own special formula. He claimed to have bacteria in petri dishes working overtime to produce the stuff. Sometimes she worried about him, worried that maybe he was taking too much of it.
But the poor dear, it was the only real recreation that he enjoyed. And it seemed to be the only way he could arouse himself...
"Come to me my dear," he said in the characteristically thick voice of his drug induced euphoria.
"Would you like me to finish this Chopin Etude, Daddy?" she asked, knowing that he would show no interest.
As expected, he simply shook his head and held out his hand. She rose from the piano bench, carefully folded her music and stacked it in a neat pile, then she turned to face her father.
It was easy to understand how someone, male in particular, would find her an appealing sight. That this male happened also to be her father could perhaps be forgiven in light of the fact that until recently, the young woman standing before him had been the one and only woman to cross paths with Lucus Simpson for close to ten years now. In the early years when it had been necessary to rely on his considerable intellectual powers merely to avoid detection, it had often been necessary to exist right in the midst of the very people who would have screeched for his capture in the shrill tones of hysteria so typical of the general uncomprehending populace.
Hide where they'd least expect it!
And he'd done it with his usual success.
Except he knew that there would be less and less safety for them. Eventually, whether or not by design, something would slip. He was, after all, no fool. He knew the law of averages, he could calculate odds. A chance meeting (remember, according to chain-letter enthusiasts we're never further than five people through a chain of acquaintance from anyone else in the country), some connection of links totally beyond the powers of prediction, and it would be over.
At its peak, his case had been a national story, and when one spoke of the peak, one spoke actually of three separate events, spaced apart by six weeks or so, that assured Lucus Simpson of initiation into that select circle of the near-famous, the nefarious and the infamous whose names trigger a spark of recognition in most of the populace. And if the trigger's sharp enough, it can even conjure up details of the case itself.
Would they remember?
He wondered.
There certainly was enough to remember.
"SIMPSON THE BABY-RAPER says fearful wife"
Headlines of a similar nature filled the hinterlands and the cities, with enough follow-up reports on national news to keep him up nights worrying about that one stray fool who'd actually remember...
And he'd had no doubt that somewhere, someday they would meet. No matter that there had never been a single shred of evidence against him that would stand for a moment on its own support in a court of law. No!
Never mind the fact that not a single eyewitness raised a voice against him.
Ignore his record of brilliance, of dedicated service to his profession, the long list of credits, his awesome credentials.
Who among the mad mob could recall any of those?
But the lurid details... the pictures of those poor children... The anguished cries of heartbroken mothers... The circumstantial evidence...
He knew there was no shortage of morbid ghouls spread across the entire land who soaked up precisely such facts as a way of life almost, trying to season the bland stew of their own dull existence with the blood and sweat wrung pitilessly from the pages of magazines, tabloids, non-fiction thrillers...
He had no stomach for it, and knew that ultimately the final disappearance would be necessary.
It had happened, precisely for the same reasons that he had managed to slip away unnoticed in the first place.
There were still a few, a very select few who believed in him, who knew of him, of his work, who even now were ready to lend whatever assistance they could manage.
No, Lucus Simpson was not without friends.
But he was without human contact. He had planned it that way, structuring his life so that it became a closed box, a sealed jar, a self sustaining system.
Their terrarium needed no attention now.
There were no outsiders.
No one to recall old nightmares.
No one to betray, no one to lie.
No men to prey upon the two jewels of his daughters, no one to soil the perfect life he had fashioned.
He had kept them pure. He had kept them unsoiled.
He had kept them for himself.
Since she'd been aware of her body, Sherry had regularly been called upon to ease her father's tensions.
"I'm tense, daughter, yes, I'm tense indeed. Ease the tension in my loins girl, come to you father and ease my pain."
He would whisper it to her in her sleep, he would call to her in the afternoon from the porch as she played in the yard, he would read to her at night and at the close reach his arms out to her: in short, she was at his command whenever he felt need of her.
It wasn't a conscious decision on his part.
It simply evolved into the custom.
Tradition starts with a single act.
The act had been placing her small hands on his swollen cock, letting her squeeze it, pull on it, jerk it until the fountain of white jism spurted forth and coated her arms, her chest just beginning to blossom with breasts.
She stared wide-eyed.
"What happened? What did I do to you Daddy? Are you bleeding?"
She was petrified.
"Easy little girl, easy," he'd laughed, gently, calming her as only he could.
The bond, forged almost at the moment of her awakening awareness was never something grafted onto her from the outside. It was from the start something interior, something organically fused to her own developing personality, something that was innately her.
By the time she had sufficient analytical powers to try and make some sense of the situation, objectivity was beyond her.
It was a bond that could be questioned, liked, disliked, approved of or disapproved of, but never broken.
She was a part of him.
And it was a bond she accepted in the center of her soul with welcoming pleasure.
The ritual was always the same, although lately he had begun taking more and more of the mysterious drug that he prepared in his laboratory.
"Purely by accident, purely as a result of tripping and stumbling into some previously unsuspected part of my mind, I have invented the first genuinely authentic aphrodisiac!!"
Sherry remembered well the day he had proclaimed that discovery, and remembered as well the first test of the substance.
It was then that he discovered the psychedelic properties as well.
Mild, but nonetheless real.
Once a week, he would treat himself to an excursion, and always accompanied by one of his daughters. In the past year, their sexual tasks had slowly merged with his drug experiences so that now, they knew that they would usually be called upon to assist. Which meant that as soon as their father's brain cleared enough from the first rush, he would develop a massive hard-on which would take most of the night to wear away.
Though she doubted Lucus was aware of it to any degree, Sherry knew without a doubt that she enjoyed the sessions far more than her sister Carrie.
Carrie's awakening years had come at a point when Lucus was still quite virile and Sherry was sufficiently matured that their sessions were both involved and frequent. As a result, Carrie was not brought into their special relationship until later in her life than Sherry.
She had never evolved into her father's instrument to the extent that Sherry had.
Which was fine with Sherry, because even though she may not exactly look forward to their fucking sessions, she never failed to find them exciting once she was involved in one.
Lucus was just standing watching her. She was beautiful. Long brown hair that hung straight to her waist in a thick cascading mane (Carrie's hair was as thick and long, but much curlier and a brilliant summer blonde in hue)... breasts as full and ripe as the honeydew melons they grew in their greenhouse... beautiful long slender legs with perfectly curving thighs...
He would sometimes simply watch her asking her finally to remove perhaps her shirt, her pants, sit in front of him dressed perhaps only in her panties...
Lucus made certain that his daughters had the proper apparel when he so desired it.
His favorites were the flimsy crotchless panties that split right over those juicy pink slits, so hot, so heavy with musk, so inviting...
He could never control himself when he stood in front of his daughters. Either of them could reduce him to jelly.
He stood now, transfixed and Sherry slowly unraveled herself from the dress she wore. It was a wrap-around style (he made certain they had access to moderately current fashions), a loose fitting piece of cloth that gently molded itself to the delicious curves of her young body, not glued itself to her, but simply suggesting the shape of that pliant flesh beneath.
She was his release. The safety valve that kept him sane, sane to continue his work, sane to keep them protected... and yes, sane enough to stay his hand in those awful early morning hours, when the urge would creep onto his soul like a black fog. When the pressure in his temples would flare, press outward against the inside of his skull, when he could think only of one thing, the small tender bodies, their warmth, their innocence, their need. OH GOD their fierce overwhelming need!!
And he would wake from a soiled sleep.
He would call for his Sherry and she would be there, and as he would gently stroke her smooth young skin, running his fingers over her face, her slender throat, her soft breasts, down into the wet folds of her youthful pussy, he would forget, he would block the past from his mind, he would return to the present, to his new life... to his new destiny...
He wanted her now. So gracefully she moved! Like smoke, only with structure, coherence.
She turned to him now, nipples flaming a deep crimson against the backdrop of the two dark eyes of her aureole.
Her breasts were perfectly round, perfectly tight, firm and taut so that they merely rippled when she moved.
It never ceased to amaze him the way those two huge globes of flesh could simply hang there exactly in place and simply ripple. It never struck him as being short of miraculous.
He reached for her now, saw her weave her way through the space that separated them, approaching, coming closer, closer, closer...
Her lips were on his mouth, her hands on his body, reaching between his legs, cupping his balls through his trousers, squeezing. Them gently, more firmly, hard...!
He let out a gasp of pleasure mixed with pain. That too was perfect. She knew exactly what he liked, what he wanted. They thought as if with one mind.
She unzipped his trousers and as they slid down his legs she circled the suddenly exposed head of his cock with her thumb and forefinger, forming a ring only slightly larger in diameter than the head of his swollen shaft.
She slowly started to slide the ring up and down, focusing mainly on the bottom ridge of his glans at the point where it flares then curves sharply back into the main shaft. He loved it there, claiming it to be the most sensitive part of a man's cock.
She stroked with these miniature strokes for as long as it took him to start drooling from the tiny mouth-like opening at the center of his cock.
As soon as the first clear droplet appeared, she began to rub it into the deepening purple colored head, enjoying the sound of his throaty moans as she did so.
Again stroking his cock, back and forth, back and forth until again a crystal droplet appeared, oozing slowly out and down.
This time, she lowered her body just enough for her breasts to hang down on either side of his prick.
She took one in her hands and guided the hard red nipple to the collected liquid.
Cock against nipple, the friction of each spreading through both their bodies.
Sherry felt a tingling in the deepest portions of her cunt, felt her body gather itself for an explosion of orgasmic fury, still distant but unmistakable even in its earliest stages.
She spread his juice all over her nipple, her aureole, down between her breasts...
Then she squeezed both fleshy mounds against his cock burying it in the folds of her thick breasts. She squeezed hard into him, felt his hips begin to move in and out against her in response and then start to get faster.
But she wanted to make sure that wouldn't come too fast. On the drug, he was able to come several times without getting soft, but it was still best for them both if she could stretch it out a little.
Which sometimes could mean hours!
She got down on her knees and began to feed the stiff piece of meat before her straight into her mouth. All the way in, till it pressed against the back of her throat, her hungry throat that had swallowed enough of her father's cum over the years to fill a bath tub... her sweet hot throat that waited for this next load to come shooting out of his cock, splash against her tonsils and slowly slither down the pink walls, down her throat into her stomach.
But again, Sherry was only building him up. Tension, release. That was the key.
Play with him, get him hot, fill his balls, wait till he's just about to blow his entire load, then pull back, leave him hanging, frustrated, unfulfilled...
Until the process starts up again, this time taking him just a little bit further, leaving him dangling from an even higher position.
Tension.
Release.
Tension.
Release.
Except that as each pause builds upon the tension that proceeded it, they too merely contribute to the gathering pressure in his balls, his cock, his thighs.
Until at last, there is no line left to cross. He is standing directly on it. Poised right at the brink of orgasm, yet still, somehow, not coming.
That was her style with Lucus, one she had never wavered from. She'd learned to read her father, to interpret his body language, his non-verbal cues, the noises he made. She knew when he was going to come and she knew at any moment exactly how much it would take to make him spill over.
And always, she could withhold just that last tiny bit, keep him in limbo with a cock so hard it could cleave a diamond and oozing so much juice that she would feel almost that he had come in her mouth after all, so much of it did she have to lick off.
But yet, not coming. Still with the tortured balls, filled to bursting.
It was an agony for him, one that he gladly endured, but the strain was obvious from his face.
He could only remain standing for a short while. Once the session got under way seriously the only thing he could do was to lay back and let her do whatever she desired.
And to be sure, Sherry got a lot out of giving her father sex. She got sex for herself, for one thing, and that was something that she had long since learned to value greatly.
But she also got the satisfaction of knowing that she was helping a great man resume his position of greatness in the world.
About her father's past, the past she was too young to remember, she knew virtually nothing.
She knew only, at the moment anyway, that her pussy was beginning to ache badly for the feeling of that hard cock in her mouth. She wanted it to be in her pussy.
She wanted to be fucking him. Sometimes she would let him lick her cunt, leave her pussy suspended above his lips for what seemed like an eternity while his tongue and lips and teeth gladly wandered each minute part of her pink flesh.
But not tonight. Tonight she wished only to be fucked.
She'd long ago learned that her father was glad to trust her judgment. Whatever she felt like doing, that's what he felt like doing.
It was a very convenient relationship.
She slowly slid her body around, letting her breasts drag across his body and then the head of his cock was at the lips of her pussy, lips spread and parted by the angle of her thighs as they straddled his waist, but spread also from the sheer force of her mounting passion.
It was at her, moving at her, in her, sliding through her.
Deep.
Deeper still.
Down, down, all the way to the bottom of her cunt. All the way into the back of her cunt wall. She gasped, for no matter how often he rammed his swollen cock into her, the feeling of a cock first entering you still carries echoes of the first time a cock ever entered you.
It was like rediscovering what your pussy was really supposed to feel like, as if in those dull moments when the rest of the world intrudes and you aren't fucking, you somehow forget it's purpose.
But she always remembered.
Now, he began to slide it in and out, her thick juices providing perfect lubrication.
In and out, faster and faster, he began fucking her like it was the first time he had ever fucked, like it would be the last time he would ever fuck.
Fucking her the way he always fucked her, with passion and desperation.
Harder. Harsher. Hips slamming against hips, sweat mingling, her breasts crushing down on his body beneath her...
She came, five times, ten, a dozen... she had no idea. She knew only that this was why she kept it up, why she found finally, nothing wrong with her relationship with her father.
The bottom line was that she couldn't live without these massive jolts of orgasm that left her body limp every single time they made love.
Again and again his cock crashed into her, splitting her cunt in two, splitting her body in two, driving orgasm after orgasm from her ravaged pussy.
At last, she felt him come. She always knew when he was coming, because he started to plunge his cock in and out of her a lot faster, and suddenly the friction eased up as wad after wad of thick white cum shot from his prick.
And then, surprisingly, he was still.
Could it be that he wanted no more tonight?
It seemed so, because he simply rolled off of her after gaining his breath and held her hand for long moments of silence. Then he started to stroke her hair, but she thought that he seemed... almost distracted.
Something must be on his mind, she thought, after he gave her a kiss and strode from the room. Perhaps his work is going well, she thought. She hoped so.
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!
CHAPTER THREE
"Holy shit! Would you look at that."
"How the fuck can I look, I can't even hold on!"
Rod looked back at Johnny, who was balanced precariously on a small ledge.
"What the hell are we doing climbing up this damn thing anyway for? I thought you wanted to make Kingman's Dome by dark!"
"All right, all right, we'll head back. I just wanted to see what there was to see."
"Well, if you'd move out of the damn way and let me up there, I might get an idea for myself."
"Well, be careful you stupid klutz. There's not a whole lot of room up here."
They had decided to detour and climb a chimney rock. It had taken the better part of an hour and now, perched atop what seemed to Johnny to be the highest place in the world, the view was without a doubt breathtaking. But scary. The top was no more than five or six feet square except that it wasn't square at all but rather sloped. At a fairly steep angle.
"Oh Lord, I think I'm gonna be sick," moaned Johnny as soon as he scrambled up next to Rod.
"Well make damn sure you're down wind from me if you do."
"No fucking sympathy, that's your problem. You know I'm scared of heights."
"Then what the hell are you doing up here?"
"Well now you see the confusion that's been going on in my brain for the past hour."
Rod just looked at his friend with bemused exasperation. Then he looked back at the sight that had first caught his attention.
"Look over there."
He pointed about halfway down the mountain slope that they'd slept on the previous night.
A faint stream of smoke could be seen drifting through the trees, and the dim outlines of a house.
"Someone lives over there. That surprises me. This is supposed to be absolute wilderness."
"That's not those people the ranger was telling us about, is it?"
"Nah, those were some people from the DuPont family. Come up here for the summer. But they're way the fuck back over that way," he said, pointing in the opposite direction. He looked back at the smoke.
"Now who the hell do you think could be living up here, and be so secluded that no one would know about it?"
Johnny looked at him like he was crazy.
"Hell, anyone. Look around you. Do you see any roads? Do you see any phone wires? Do you see anything but mountains and trees for miles and miles. No one would find you up here."
"Yeah," Rod replied, thoughtfully. "And I'll bet that if you did stumble onto someone up here, and no one else did know about them... well maybe they might have a reason for wanting to stay out of sight."
"Rod old buddy, this is the vacation, remember? You were supposed to have left your job behind, remember. You're just a backwoods country boy come home, remember? You aren't a newsman, you don't have a camera crew with you, you don't have any deadlines to meet for the six o'clock report, and if something does happen, someone else is going to get the scoop. That's the price you pay for getting away from it all. Except it's not supposed to be a price. You follow?"
He wasn't sure that he did.
He thought about it a moment.
And then he answered.
"All right, all right. I'm just curious, that's all. That ranger seemed to know the area pretty good... if he didn't know about someone who was up here, it just seemed like maybe there was a reason."
"Maybe he was getting paid to forget," said Johnny, rapidly losing interest in the conversation. He'd just realized that they were going to have to climb back down the same impossible rocks they'd just climbed up.
"There, see what I mean? Even you're doing it."
"Doing what."
"Trying to figure out a reason why someone would be up here in such seclusion."
"What reason? Be sensible, will you? What's wrong with wanting privacy? It's people like you that give news reporters a bad name. You don't look for stories, you try to force people into stories."
"All right, we've had this argument before."
"Yeah, I know. But if you're going to deal with fiction, you ought to be like me and just deal with fiction."
Rod gave him a sour look.
"Besides, you'd make more money."
"Yeah, but at least I'm performing a public service. What about you? Hell, you don't even sign your real name to your stuff."
"Don't need to. The checks have the right name on them."
Rod gave him another sour look.
"Besides, Bart McAdams sounds like a cowboy writer."
"Yeah... who were you for your spy series?"
"Brent Holbrook. Good establishment CIA type of name."
"Um hmmm. Well, I'll tell you what. Whatever your fucking name is, you're going to have to climb back down this thing, and we might as well get started."
Johnny groaned, looked down and groaned again.
"I told you, asshole, don't ever look down!"
Lucus Simpson sipped coffee on the back porch, sighed, wished for a moment that his career enabled him to get out into the open more often. The weather up here was so beautiful. Down in his laboratory it made no difference whether or not there was a tornado or a hurricane or sunshine. He saw none of it.
Every so often though, he liked to just sit out here, put the work aside, relax, forget.
Sherry came to the door.
"Do you want your breakfast now Dad?"
"Yes, I'll have some eggs, I think."
Dear Sherry. She took such good care of him, tending to all his needs.
Strange. It wasn't like Carrie to sleep so late. Usually she was around by now, tending to one thing or another.
He looked at his watch. Eleven o'clock. Yes, it wasn't like her.
He stood up and walked back into the kitchen.
"Anything wrong Dad?" asked Sherry.
"Have you seen your sister up yet?"
"No, I guess she's sleeping late today."
Sherry seemed unconcerned. Was he worrying too much? Perhaps. But there was something that he'd felt growing in his younger daughter, something almost... he didn't want to use the word malignant, and so he forced the thought from his mind. But the fears were there. There was a stranger at times behind her eyes, someone who was far different from the person he'd strove so hard to create, an alien, a flawed alien. It worried him. Actually it filled him with a dread. She couldn't be flawed. He couldn't take it. It couldn't be. Not after Sherry had developed to such gem-like perfection. He couldn't tolerate flaws. Flaws were the bane of the race. They had to be stamped out!
He caught himself, realized that he was giving in to the old feelings, the ones he had run away from, the ones his wife had turned on him for, the ones he could never permit himself to think.
Only his daughter could bring such feelings out of him. Only one he loved with such total dedication could fill him with such rage for falling short of his expectations.
And yet, the truth was, she did exactly that. Somehow, he knew that he had failed in her development. He had allowed for uncertainty, for randomness. He had allowed her to develop a will.
The horror!
It was still a fledgling, an embryo...
But he could see it, even though he tried not to. It was in her eyes. She was... well, she was somewhere else. Not like Sherry. She was like her mother.
He prayed to God that it wouldn't be so, that somehow he had been paranoid, had read signs that weren't there, had interpreted actions that didn't exist.
Perhaps. He wondered at times if the drug was warping his perception of reality. But no, that was impossible. He kept too close a watch on himself, tested himself too often. His vision was as clear as it had been twenty years ago...
He tried the doorknob to Carrie's room. It was locked. Did she always sleep with her door locked? That in itself was unsettling. For what was she trying to keep out, if it wasn't he himself?
But a darker thought struck him. What if she wasn't there at all? What if...
Sherry's voice calling to him broke his thoughts.
"Breakfast's ready, Dad."
He looked back at the door. He knocked. "Carrie? Are you all right?" he called.
There was no response.
He knocked again, harder this time.
"Carrie! Are you in there?"
Sherry heard him and appeared in the hallway.
"Is something wrong?"
"I don't know. Either she's sick or she's not in there. But the door's locked."
"Get me a screwdriver."
Sherry wasn't sure how she felt. She'd suspected for a long time that Carrie was drifting away... she'd closed her eyes to it. But now...
"Dad, what if she is gone? It doesn't mean anything. She just likes to be on her own."
But Lucus wasn't to be put off. He'd felt a confrontation brewing for some time and suddenly he felt it to be at hand.
He went into his room and returned with a screwdriver and began to pick at the lock.
Then they heard a noise inside the room. The door knob turned and there stood Carrie a blanket wrapped around her, seemingly rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
"What's wrong?" she yawned.
Lucus seemed momentarily deflated by her unexpected appearance. She rubbed her eyes, yawned again and gave each in turn a bleary eyed look.
"Is there something wrong, Daddy?" she asked innocently.
"I wondered if you were all right, that's all. It's not like you to sleep so late."
"I know, I guess I'm just being lazy. I'll be getting up pretty soon. I've got some chores to tend to."
"That's right," he agreed. "Have you checked the chemicals in the greenhouse yet?"
"No," she answered, yawning again and turning away, "but I'll do that first thing."
"You might think about gathering the eggs while you're at it."
"I will," she said, characteristic adolescent annoyance creeping into her voice.
"Well, I'm sorry for all the fuss," he apologized. "I suppose there's no harm in sleeping in a little late, is there?"
He gave her a small chuckle, trying to sound casual and unconcerned, but Sherry could see a pinched strain at the corners of his eyes, an intensity that somehow recalled ominous thoughts, resurrected images from a long dead past...
What little she remembered of her father's history she'd managed to block from her thoughts. Only now, in moments of tension, when for one reason or another Lucus would suddenly feel the fragile bonds lashing the planks of his makeshift work together start to fray and unravel...
She knew the clues, assimilated them instinctively and knew when to spring to his defense.
As he gave Carrie one last uncertain look, turned and shuffled back down the hallway, Sherry reached out to her sister and ran her fingers through her hair.
"It's still damp. Funny, if you've been asleep, when did you get a chance for a shower?"
"Oh, leave me alone. I didn't do anything wrong."
"If that's the case, why be so deceitful about it? Why sneak off?"
"Who says I did anything?" Her brow wrinkled in defiance.
"Calm down, calm down. There's nothing wrong. That's the whole point. The only thing wrong is that you act like you've got something to hide."
Carrie looked at her with a stone face that revealed nothing.
"Where do you go in the mornings?"
"I don't go anywhere."
"Carrie, it's all right. You just have to understand Father, and I don't think you're making much of an effort. He has... fears."
"About what?"
Sherry was lost for words. One of the issues she allowed herself to overlook was precisely that question. What was it that haunted their father?
More to the point would have been to question why their life was structured as it was at all, but neither girl was really able to view that question as an issue separate from the life they took for granted.
"You're all sweaty," Sherry observed. "You really should take a shower. I don't know what you've been doing, but you smell."
Carrie turned away, ending the conversation as far as she was concerned.
But Sherry was plainly worried. There was a balance being threatened here in what way she could not quiet say, but it left her with a dimly perceived feeling of dread.
"Carrie, you have to go along with Dad. You can't shut him out the way you do. He needs you."
Carrie said nothing, but her frown thickened.
Finally, the words that had been building for months were at last given voice.
"But I have my own life to live."
Sherry said nothing, but the dread in her seemed to turn to a black syrup in her stomach. She wasn't able to say why, but she felt the familiarity of her world being to come apart with those words. They frightened her, primarily because the showed her how far apart she and her sister had grown.
"Carrie, you're going to hurt him. You can't do that."
"Oh, he's just got you eating out of the palm of his hand. You're blind...!"
Sherry reacted without thinking. Carrie was doing the unthinkable. She was speaking out against their father. From her earliest years, he had been the pillar of strength, the standard for good and evil, the one who determined the rules and went about seeing that they were obeyed. Carrie's words bordered on blasphemy.
She slapped Carrie on the cheek. It wasn't hard, but the shock was still hard and impersonal as iron.
"I think I'll get a shower now. Thanks for your opinion." She closed the door and listened for Sherry's footsteps down the hallway, which she soon heard.
She clenched her fist and pounded it into the palm of her other hand.
She felt a slowly increasing rage inside her. What business was it of theirs anyway? She would do what she wanted!
It had been so fantastic. There was no way they could take that away from her, nor could they deprive her of it in the future. She too had felt the touch of desperation in her father's voice, had noticed just then and in the past also how he would suddenly seem to simply fall apart over no reason. Become morose, depressed, silent.
She simply had learned to ignore it, but now it seemed as though there was a new note of urgency being added. She didn't like it.
Not at all!
How could she?
How could the trivial day to day problems in the life of this house possibly compare to what she had felt this morning?
She opened her door again and after checking to make certain that there was no one lurking in a dark corner she got a towel from the closet and went into the bathroom to take a shower.
Sherry had been right. She did smell. Of him.
His sweat, and the scent of his body lingered on her thighs, on her stomach where she had leaned against his powerful neck, on her breasts where she had pressed herself into him...
Truly they had flown. He might have been a giant condor come to take her to another land entirely, so magical had the feeling been.
She had ridden him down to the creek, and then followed the bank away in a direction that she had never before taken, a direction that led away from their house and their world.
And they had flown.
Halfway down the slope they had come to another broad opened space, this time without a fence, with no restraining limits at all, and she had let him open up to a full gallop, hooves pounding into the earth like thunder, sending shock waves of energy rippling through her body.
Her legs were spread wide to wrap around his bulk. And she felt her body opening between her legs, felt the soft flesh of her cunt rubbing up and down on his back, his smooth coat like velvet against her clitoris, the vibrations of his body like a jackhammer pounding into her pussy again and again with every driving step.
As she stepped into the shower and began to wash the traces of his body off her own, she knew that in a way she could never remove mark he had made on her.
She had become transformed, she had felt herself transcending the world that she found herself a prisoner in, felt herself rise above it, experience for the first time in her life, something new.
She had driven him to his limits, digging her body into his, racing back and forth across the field, coming in insane orgasmic bursts again and again.
The lips of her pussy
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