David Crane: Sisters love horses

The blonde teenager came galloping across the meadow, riding bareback on her sturdy pony. It was a sturdy Welsh mountain pony, shaggy-coated and broad across the haunches, with a flowing mane tumbling over its arched neck and a silken tail switching as it jogged along. The pony's name was Buck. It was a stallion.

The girl's name was Bonny Harper. She was very young, but nubile for her age, her prematurely developed curves nicely emphasized by what little clothing she wore. Her white cotton tee shirt was tight, molded to the contours of her plump tits, and showing the imprint of her taut nipples in twin peaks. Her firm tit-globes bounced saucily to the pony's stride. She wore a pair of faded, cut-off jeans that were so snug they might have been painted on her loins, and were cut off so very short that they had no legs at all – just a triangle of denim stretched across her hips and clinging to her ass. She was barefoot. Her legs were long and slim and shapely, wrapped around the pony's flanks. Her pert ass shifted easily with the animal's jolting gait, and her crotch, barely covered by the crotchband of her shorts, squirmed around on the pony's broad back.

Bonny had long blonde hair, streaked by the sun into shades of amber and gold and honey. Her eyes were blue and wide, and she had a scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. They gave the girl an air of youthful innocence. But her mouth was wide and full and sensual and not at all innocent. She was smiling with the pleasure of riding – and perhaps in anticipation of a different, less wholesome, pleasure that would follow that ride.

Bonny was a most desirable and exciting sight as she jogged her pony across the fields.

Her father certainly thought so.

Jake Harper was a gentleman farmer, having moved from the city some time ago to find a more peaceful life. He worked the farm with the hired help, however, never getting his own hands into the soil. At the moment, he was strolling across the field beside the lane, smoking a pipe and wearing a tweed jacket and twill trousers, his only concession to being a farmer was the rubber boots he wore because of the cow shit. Pipe smoke trailed behind him on the still, fresh air and Jake was feeling content, pleased that he had left the bustle of the city behind him.

Then he saw his daughter jogging down the lane and he no longer felt so content.

Jake felt disturbed – and aroused.

He had not failed to notice how nubile his daughter had recently become, and he had been troubled by incestuous fantasies concerning the girl. He felt embarrassed and ashamed of these depraved yearnings, but he could not deny them – nor could he deny the stirring he felt in his cock and balls whenever he looked at Bonny nowadays.

As she rode past, Bonny saw her daddy and waved to him, smiling. He waved back, but his return smile was strained. He clenched his pipe stem more firmly in his teeth and, when the girl was past, shook his head as if bewildered. When she had raised her hand to wave, her tee shirt had stretched tightly across her bouncing tits, revealing the stiffness of her nipples and now, gazing after her departing form, Jake watched her heart-shaped ass bob around on the horse. He saw that her shorts were so tight that little half-moons of her ass-cheeks showed. He thought he had even detected a few wisps of curly pubic hair coiling out from those chopped-off legholes. The crotchband of her shorts had been damp, too. Jake felt sure that it was only sweat, or lather from the pony's back, but it was exciting, nevertheless.

His cock began to rise, jamming into his cavalry twill trousers, and his balls started to swell. Jake puffed furiously on his pipe and watched Bonny ride away, her long blonde hair streaming out behind her like the pony's tail, and her delectable little ass bouncing and wriggling delightfully. Her slender, well-muscled thighs clutched the animal's flanks, tensing and relaxing and as she maintained her seat. Jake wondered what the girl would look like naked. He hadn't seen her bare in several years, since before those plump tits had begun to thrust out, and when her ass had been flat, not so maddeningly rounded. Despite himself, Jake lusted for a sight of the girl's naked body.

Maybe he could walk in on her in the bath or shower, or when she was changing her clothing, he considered. Maybe, pretending it was accidental, he could get a look at her ass and tits and crotch. He blushed at the thought, ashamed of himself. But he told himself there was no harm in just looking, determined that he would never actually do anything to the sexy nymphet. It wasn't really so wicked just to pretend, as long as he never actually touched her, right?

His jaw seemed to be connected to his cock. As his prick rose up into an iron-hard rod, his teeth clamped more tightly on the stem of his pipe, the muscles taut along his lean jaw. Bonny was out of sight now, having turned along the twisting lane, but her image stayed in his mind and his hard-on persisted. Jake – and he felt sheepish about it – had often jerked off while he thought about Bonny. He had also pretended he was fucking Bonny when he was fucking Martha, his wife. Now, with his balls bloated and his prick pounding like a jack-hammer, the frustrated father considered returning to the farm house and taking his wife to bed. He knew that Martha would be willing – she always was. But it presented a tactical problem. To get back to the house he would have to cross the fields where his hired hand was working and his hard-on was so visible and prominent that he was embarrassed to be seen.

He willed his cock to shrink and soften.

The damned thing swelled and hardened. So much blood was rushing into his cock that Jake felt light-headed.

He had to reduce that hard-on somehow and the only way he could do was to empty his balls.

Jake always felt ashamed when he jacked off, being a happily married man with a sexy and agreeable wife. But under the circumstances he felt that he had no choice. Shameful or not, it always felt good, too, when he milked his prick thinking about Bonny.

He reached down and cupped a hand over his bulging groin. His cock rippled and flared, bucking like a bronco, demanding release from the prison of his fly. He rubbed his prick and grimaced at the fiery sensation shooting through his loins, and the visions that danced in his mind. He sighed, resigned to necessity. Still smoking his pipe – he had forgotten that it was clenched in his teeth – he moved toward the shelter of a fringe of pine trees that bordered the dirt lane. Standing in the shadows, he looked all around to make sure that he was hidden from sight. Then he opened his fly and his prick came charging out like a maddened bull into the bull ring, his cockstalk falling into his open palm. He gritted his teeth. He was panting now, and as he breathed heavily the clouds of pipe smoke came out furiously. His big, purple cockhead was smoking-hot, too.

He lifted his cock in his open hand, as if judging the weight. Then he reached down and hauled his swollen balls out, freeing all of his formidable prick. As he rubbed his balls, he could feel the jism slosh around, and they began to ache.

His hand slid up again, and he shifted his thumb back and forth against the sensitive spot where his cockhead flared out from his cockstalk and then dark, pulsing vein that seamed the underside of his prick spread out into his wedge-shaped cock-knob.

He was pretending that it was his daughter's hot tongue fluttering against his cockhead.

Then he closed his hand into a fist and slid it lightly, skimming up and down his cockshaft. He groaned and grimaced. Pipe smoke poured out like steam and his prick throbbed mightily. He clamped his fist tighter and began to pump his prick up and down. The foreskin curled up over the edge of his cockhead as his hand jerked up, then was dragged back as he pumped toward his balls and skinned the head of his cock into a naked, glowing hot slab of prick-meat.