Katie

 

A couple of hours sleep is never kind, but neither was my body clock. I opened my eyes as the first hint of light cut through the drapes, and my mouth felt like I’d been sucking on a baboon’s ass.

Carl. Score: 001 and a half. Good wine, scary hot. Minus half a point for gakky wine-dry mouth in the morning.

I risked a glance over my shoulder, relieved to find it was Rick’s breath on my naked skin. The room was baking like a sauna, and I was burning up, even without covers, hyper-aware of the heat as his legs tangled with mine. I risked a shimmy towards the edge of the bed, but he stretched in his sleep, and his arms captured me, pulled me tight against his chest. Shit.

I could feel his cock against my ass, and he wasn’t soft. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe another good fuck would seal the deal well and truly.

But Carl. God Almighty, Carl… I wasn’t sure my freshly-fucked pussy was ready for that.

I lay statue-still and listened, and there was Carl’s breath, steady and deep. He sounded close, surely just the other side of Rick, and the thought spiked my heartrate. Yeah, I definitely wasn’t ready for that. My fingers tingled at the memory of his solid monster dick, the rush of adrenaline as he pumped himself off in my hand.

I held my breath and eased myself from Rick’s grip, inching away so bloody slowly that it felt ridiculous. My concentration was at its peak, a tentative foot on the carpet as I made to stealth-exit, but no. Rick’s fingers found my arm and squeezed and he was after me, voice sleepy and thick.

“Pumpkin carriage awaiting, Cinderella?”

I lay back beside him, keeping my voice low so as not to wake the beast beyond. “Pumpkin leaves before midnight. I well and truly missed that ride.”

I felt his smile against my shoulder. “You definitely got a ride…”

I couldn’t stop myself smiling. “Yes. Yes I did.”

He propped himself up on his elbow, and I felt his eyes on me in the darkness. “How about round two?” His fingers grazed my arm, tickled my ribs, then crept down my belly, but I shifted away.

“I have to go,” I whispered.

“Bailing on me in the darkness?”

I ghosted a laugh. “It’s morning, and I’m not bailing.”

“Who the hell calls this morning?”

“Samson,” I said. “He definitely calls this morning.”

“Ah.” He rolled onto his back. “Samson would have to get used to a Sunday morning lie in if he was mine.”

“He’s so worth the early start.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

I dropped both feet to the floor. “Can I leave?”

I loved the low husk of his laugh. “So long as you promise to come back.”

I got to my feet. “I’ll be back.”

A couple of blinks into the shadows and I could make out the tumble of sheets, the hard lines of Carl’s body at Rick’s side. I watched Rick shift position, press himself to Carl’s chest. “Don’t be a stranger,” he whispered.

I took that as my dismissal, grateful he didn’t insist on a goodbye kiss from my baboon-ass lips. I felt the pathetic little scrap of my nightdress under my toes and scooped it up, but my knickers were nowhere to be found. I patted my way around with naked feet, hoping to strike lucky, but no. I’d have to leave them.

A memento.

I pictured them jacking off together, thick cocks shaft to shaft with only the flimsy piece of lace between them. The thought was surprisingly horny.

Much more horny than the boyfriend at college who’d steal my dirty panties and stash them under his bed. I found fifteen pairs under there once. Fifteen jizz-encrusted fucking pairs.

Asshole.

I crept to the bedroom door, and it was open. The light was brighter on the landing, and it was easy to return to my room. My room, for all the ten minutes I’d spent in there. I flicked on the lamp and tossed last night’s clothes into my case, taking only a minute to bunch my messy hair into a bun and brush my teeth in the en suite. I pulled out my daywear from the bottom of the case. The height of fashion — a tired pair of jodhpurs, an oversized t-shirt, and my I love my horsey socks. All great except my boots were in the bastard car.

I looked in mortification at the glitzy stilettos I’d swaggered in on. Bollocks.

Jodhpurs and pink fucking stilettos. What a total idiot.

I smoothed down the bed and rinsed out my glass in the sink, then made my way down the stairs, keeping to the edge to avoid any creaks. I eased down the front door handle with baited breath, but nobody followed me. Almost to safety, almost…

Until a fake-cheery voice called out a good morning from the driveway next door. Oh crap. That kind of neighbourhood. I turned to face the greeter, and it was a woman, middle-aged, with a parlour-pretty spaniel ambling around her feet. She was wearing one of those posh fleece jackets, and a spotty neck scarf. Definitely from money. I could have died when she looked me up and down, eyes lingering an age on my horsey socks in stupid heels. Mortification doesn’t even come close. She held up a hand. “Cindy,” she said. “Are you a… relative?”

“Friend,” I said, and my cheeks were burning. Guilty. I don’t even know why I felt guilty, but I did, like I had slut tattooed on my forehead for the whole world to see.

“Friend, yes…”

And she knew it. She fucking knew it. Gah. I fumbled with the central locking until my car let me in. “Katie. Pleased to meet you,” I lied.

“Yes… you too. I’ll be seeing you?”

I nodded, and smiled, and did this crappy little half shrug before throwing myself into the driver’s seat. I kept the smile on my face while I tossed aside my heels, so desperate to get out of there that I started the car up in nothing but my stupid socks. I cringed afresh when my car rumbled and spluttered and choked loud enough to wake the whole fucking neighbourhood, and pulled away quickly, waving at Cindy like she hadn’t just caught my walk of shame down some bi couple’s driveway at six a.m.

I pulled out of money town and breathed more easily.

I did it. I really fucking did it.

And it was good.

I was good!

Score!

It’s so easy to feel like some kind of sex goddess in the aftermath. That bloom of confidence when you’re at safe distance and assure yourself you’ve got this shit nailed. No big deal. See you around, stud.

But it was a big deal. Big money, big dicks.

Just… big. The whole thing was big.

Crazy fucking big.

I had a glow between my legs and a smile on my face, and a nice big thousand in my bank account and life felt pretty damn sweet. It felt sweeter still when I pulled away from Cheltenham, back towards home turf. I headed straight for Woolhope and the yard, turning off the motorway and making my way back through the countryside. Roads turned to lanes and the sun rose over the horizon, bathing the world in the beautiful light of a fresh day, and the thrum of excitement fizzed its way through me. It never gets old. Never.

I pulled into the yard, crawling the car up past Jack’s house and into my familiar spot at the side of the feed barn. Jack was already out, shifting woodchip from one bin to another.

My stomach did a little lurch at the sight of him. He wasn’t old, mid-fifties at most, but he looked defeated. A haggard old man in the frame of someone in his prime.

He looked as though he was made from the land. A proper farmer type, with a kindly face and weathered hands… and just lately with eyes that roved a little too much.

Lonely. He was just lonely. He didn’t mean it.

He raised an eyebrow as I stepped from the car in just my socks.

“Don’t ask,” I said.

“Wasn’t going to.” He smiled. “Long night?”

“You said you weren’t going to ask.”

“Didn’t ask about the socks, just your night.” His eyes twinkled, and he lit up a cigarette.

“Had a date,” I said. “It went… well.”

“So where is he?” he said. “Not well enough that he’s coming to meet your boy?”

“Nah,” I grinned. “Nobody’s meeting Samson until it’s serious. He doesn’t need a string of stepdaddies at his stable door.” I fished my boots from the back of the car, and Jack closed the distance.

His expression was heavy, and it made my heart drop. “Bank’s been on at me again.”

I tried to smile. “I just need a few more months.”

He sighed. “Dunno if I’ve got months.” He looked me right in the eye. “No way you could, um, ask your dad?”

I rued the day I’d ever blabbed and blurted about my stupid pissing father.

The thought turned my stomach. “I’ll get the money,” I said. “Just not from him. I’d rather eat my own shit.”

He pulled a face. “I know, lass. Sorry I asked. You know what it’s like, times must.”

“I know.”

And I did know. I knew how tough times were around here for Jack. His wife had run off last year, taking the yard’s head foreman along with her, and Jack was left to pick up the pieces, running a woodland maintenance business virtually single-handed through the tough winter months while prices rose all around him and profit margins got squeezed. There were just a couple of stables on his land, and a run-down excuse for a dressage ring, but I’d been here years now, and I loved it. It was our place, Samson’s and mine, we belonged here. I just wanted to make it official.

Jack was willing to rent me the land, but he needed the cash and he needed it upfront. Otherwise he was going to have to sell. Sell and turf me off.

The thought was horrible.

We were right by the woods here, acres and acres of perfect riding. I’d been dreaming of running a stable here since I first set eyes on the place, and it had been cemented in concrete the second Samson had arrived on the horse lorry, and I’d led him into his stall. It felt right here.

“I could give you a bit now, if you need it…”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t, Kate, just when you can, you know? I don’t want to have to sell.”

I pulled out my mobile. “Five hundred do for now?”

He looked so sad. So awkward. “Fuel bill’s in. Gonna set me back six-fifty.”

Ouch.

I ignored the seedy twist of pain as I transferred seven hundred. So long, bank balance. It was a nice few hours.

“Done,” I said. “And a little extra. For any little extras Samson might need.”

He never did, and Jack would never use the extra money for Samson, but we danced the little dance anyway.

He smiled. “Better get old donkey ears out. He’s been giving me some shit this morning.”

Jack said that every morning, and every morning it was just something to say. I smiled anyway.

I rounded the corner to the stable block and my heart did its little jump it does every single time I set eyes on my beautiful boy. He already knew I was coming, ears pricked up and eyes fixed in my direction. On sight of me he gave a little whinny and tossed his head, and I smiled. His eyes were big and brown, and so kind, and his ears were long — a little like a donkey’s, as Jack would say — and his nose was velvet soft.

“Hey,” I said, and he butted me, tickling my cheek with his forelock. I scratched his ears and rubbed the white flash of his blaze, and my big baby looked so bloody big today, shuffling around his stall all eager to come out and play. I grabbed a head collar from the hook and slipped it on, sliding the bolt on the stable door and leading him out. His step was bright and bouncy, eyes excited as I hitched him to the post and headed for the tack stall.

He whickered as I set his saddle down on the railing, snuffling my pockets for mints as I brushed him down.

Samson was a big brute of an Irish Draught cross. An ex-hunter, certainly owned by someone who was more about the excitement than the skill. I’d picked him up from auction, my heart in my throat as I’d bid against some dealer from the Forest of Dean. Fuck knows what would have happened to Samson if I’d have been outbid, but I’d known he was for me from the moment our eyes met across the sale yard. I hadn’t even had a chance to ride him, let alone to get him vetted before I bid, but it didn’t matter. I took a chance, and it had paid big, even though he was way too inexperienced for his age, jumping way too big and way too awkwardly, and shying at everything on earth when we rode out alone. I’d persisted, through it all. All the teething problems, all the schooling, all the knocks and bumps and falls. We’d learned together, him and me, and it was the best feeling.

He was almost black, his coat the very darkest bay, and his mane was thick and full, his tail long. He breathed against my shoulder as I teased the pugs from his forelock, holding still as I planted a kiss on his nose.

“Let’s go.”

I saddled him up in a flash, and grabbed my helmet, swinging myself up onto his back before I’d even fastened my chin strap. He strode out with his head high, ears pricked as we made our way out past the other horsey faces in the stalls and further out past Jack. He waved as we cleared the barn, and I squeezed Samson to a trot as we headed up the drive and onto the lane.

The saddle felt harder than usual against tender flesh, every pace a reminder of the fact I’d been fucked the night before. I’d really been fucked the night before. Potentially harder than I’d ever been fucked, and definitely deeper. Rick fucked like a porn star. The thought made me grin. One in the pussy, one in the hand. Maybe I could be a little porno minx myself.

The nerves came flooding back, the memory of the adrenaline and the endorphins and the fear, and it put me back in my place.

Hardly a porno minx, but I’d done alright. I think.

They’d both come. That’s alright, right? Even if Carl had pretty much jerked himself in my hand, that still counted.

I sighed to myself. That counted.

Next time I’d do it better. Next time I’d strip like a professional, spread my legs wide enough for two and tell them to come take what they paid for. A shudder ran through me. Or maybe not.

Samson picked up pace, and we rode out across the common, a gentle canter as we rounded the corner to the parking area. I gave him a pat and encouraged him on, and he did me proud, head down and pace even as I slowed him to a trot at the entrance to Haugh Wood. I tried to concentrate on my posture, on the finesse in my leg work, but the motion was too intense. My pussy still felt freshly fucked, tender in my seat, and all I could think of was them.

Naked bodies, and primal sounds, and the smell of sex in the air.

Rick’s grunts, so pained… so… desperate. The memory made me hot in the saddle, cheeks burning up in the freshness of the morning, and my thighs clenched involuntarily. I bounced higher and landed forward in the saddle, pressed myself to the pommel, hard enough that the hard leather knob pressed against my clit and sent sparks flying. Fuck.

I looked around, but the track was deserted. Just us. Me and Samson. I coaxed him forward, and his trot was bouncy. I stopped rising to the beat, pressing myself to the ridge of the leather as Samson picked up his feet. Fuck. I slipped my feet from the stirrups, and spread my thighs, holding myself forward in the saddle, and moving, grinding.

Rick’s grunts. The slam of flesh against flesh. Carl’s tense ass, the thrust of his hips. The swell of his cock in my fingers. And Rick. Metal against my clit. The squelch of his fingers as he twisted them inside. And the wetness… oh fuck, the wetness…

A flutter between my thighs, Samson’s trot so steady. I coaxed him on, faster, and I was rubbing, rubbing myself in the seat.

Fuck.

Rick’s eyes as he pressed my thighs to my chest, the way he’d fucked me, hard. The way he’d thrust all the way inside, the way he’d closed my fingers around Carl’s big hard fucking cock.

Fuck.

I held myself to the pommel. Breath ragged. Thump, thump, thump.

Two cocks at once. Their condition. Carl’s strong hands lifting me up, his fat cock pushing inside my asshole and making me grunt and cry out like Rick. The thrust of his hips, and I’d be squealing, stretching, taking him. And then more, so much more. Rick’s fingers at my clit, rubbing me, forcing their way inside, stretching me open, and I’d be squirming…

Oh fuck.

And I’d take them. I’d take them both. Two fat cocks, two bodies grunting and thrusting and slamming into mine. Carl would tell me what to do… Rick would tell me how good it felt… and I’d be lost… stretched raw by two big fucking dicks.

Oh fucking fuck.

I pulled Samson to a halt and slipped my hand down my jodhpurs, standing in the stirrups and bracing myself as my fingers found my pulsing clit and rubbed their way to orgasm.

The wood was alive with the rousing chirp of songbirds. Samson rustled his nose in the undergrowth, and there was the squeak of leather as I rocked in my seat, nothing but a ragged bag of nerves, desperate for orgasm. I came with just a hiss of breath, my groans choked in my throat, and the euphoria swept through me, calming my thumping heart.

I smiled, and laughed at the absurdity, convincing myself it was safe. Until I heard voices, the familiar ching of a bicycle bell.

Bollocks. I kicked Samson onto the straight before I’d even fastened my jodhpurs and he went charging, cantering free as I gave him loose rein.

I laughed. Flushing bright. Embarrassed and excited and endorphin crazy.

This was us.

This was me.

The wind in my face. The familiar triple-beat of his hooves on soil, and I lost myself. I lost myself in the ride.

We were alive. We were free. We were everything.

I was grinning as he slowed to a trot, giving him a pat as he gave a big snort and dropped to a walk. That’s my boy.

We completed the circuit, a good long hack that saw the cyclists out in force by the time we headed back to Jack’s. Samson had worked up a healthy sweat, his head bobbing nicely and ears pricked forward, and I was still aching, a nice low throb between my legs. My clit was still tender, tummy tickling at the thought of being taken by two cocks.

I dropped to the ground back at the yard, legs like jelly as I hitched Samson back up to the rail. I loosened his saddle and took it down, and took off his bridle, hosing him down with a flash of cool water in the morning sun as he munched on his breakfast.

I was about to turn him out into the field when my mobile started up in my pocket.

Unusual.

People rarely call me in the mornings.

I pulled it out, and the screen flashed a name I really didn’t want to see:

Sperm Donor.

Fucking hell.

The dread engulfed me. The same dread I’d been feeling at the sound of his name since I was ten years old and couldn’t choose to ignore the shit out of him. The murky soup of feelings I couldn’t explain, didn’t want to explain.

Didn’t want to begin to make sense of.

Ain’t nobody got time for issues like that.

What the fuck could the sperm donor possibly want at nine a.m. on a Sunday morning?

My finger hovered over answer, until I decided I couldn’t give a shit what he could possibly want at nine a.m. on a Sunday morning.

I let him go to voicemail.

Fuck him.