Unknown - Bea_s pony

Helen and Hack came out of the barn, my sister leading the pale tan animal by a lead rope hooked to the halter. Hack carried a small pail of grain.

"Keep him for a few days," Cunningham said to Helen. "Maybe you'll want to buy him." He watched Helen as she and Hack walked over to the car. We followed them over. "They make nice presents, too," he commented. "We also have regular ponies and horses," he added.

He seemed to be more interested in Helen than in his sales pitch, for after the pony had climbed in upon the back seat Helen had bent over to hand-feed the animal and was presenting her rear end to us. I could just imagine the effect on a man of that plump little butt in the hotpants.

"Well now, ladies," Raver drawled. "No reason you've got to run off, is there?" I could see what he was thinking. "Lots more to see around here." He moved in close to the car, appearing to be assisting her with the pony. It looked to me like an excuse to touch her.

Sure enough. He must have worked up a half erection and pressed it against her because she reacted as if she had been tipped with an electric cattle prod. "Uh, Hack! I mean, Mr. Raver. What else is there to see?" she asked.

"We've got some beautiful Arabs here," he said, pronouncing the word as if it were Ay-rabs. "Them's awful nice," he drawled, making it sound as though we were really going to be missing something if we turned him down.

"Perhaps you ladies would enjoy some refreshments, a sandwich," Cunningham suggested, having no idea what the two of them might have been thinking at that moment. "Come and join me in the kitchen and we'll see what there is." He made a motion to accompany him.

"Why don't you go, Bea," Helen suggested. "I'd really like to see the horses." Her pretended ingenuousness was almost convincing.

"By all means do what you really like, Sis," I said, laughing. "I'm a trifle thirsty, anyway. Have you got a cold beer?" I asked Cunningham, throwing my camera and sweater on the front seat.

We separated then, Helen and her longhorn Texan walking off in the direction of one of the other barns, and Cunningham and I strolling over to the house.

"Your sister," he said, "is a very pretty girl. But then, so are you."

"I'm glad you added that," I said, not really being very interested. He was a short man, pudgy, with fat little fingers that had rings on a few of them. The sort of man I never, ever had a desire to make it with. Invariably, though, the type always had ideas about me.

The farmhouse had a large, old-fashioned kitchen which the owner had modernized very little. The plumbing fixtures looked new, although I noticed a hand pump at the sink. Outside of the cabinetry, though, much of what I saw could have been there a hundred years ago.

I was surprised then when he told me the house had another kitchen, much smaller and completely modern, on the other side of the dining room. The kitchen we were sitting in was just for show, he said, and to satisfy his feel for antiquated Americana, as he called it.

"Everything in here is just as it was styled in 1880," he said, "which was the year the house was built. Everything works, too." He went over to the sink and started pumping water. "From a well. No chlorine." The flowing water looked somehow clearer for him having said it.

He walked over to the large wooden ice box and lifted the top. "Fresh ice, delivered every other day." He pulled out two bottles of beer and put them on the table where I sat. From inside the bottom section of the box, he brought out a partially picked carcass of a chicken and a strange looking mold of butter.

"Now, some bread," he said, reaching into a tin bread box. He took out a partial loaf of what was undoubtedly home made. "Made with unbleached flour," he said. He brought two mugs and an opener and sat down. "Now we eat."

He opened the beers and poured their contents into the mugs. Quaffing a healthy draught, he urged me to do the same. The beer was foamy and cold but tasted good. I had been thirsty, and it was hitting the spot. I drank greedily.

I watched the pudgy fingers tearing at the chicken. He ate with much enjoyment in what he was doing. A real gourmand, I thought. He kept urging me to dig in along with him. I sliced off a piece of bread. Cutting it in two, I made a half sandwich with the chicken and butter.

He seemed pleased and got up to fish out two more beers from the ice box. "This is excellent beer, don't you agree?" he asked.

"Yes. It is good," I said, drinking some more.

"A friend of mine brings it to me from Czechoslovakia. Twelve per cent," he asserted. He stopped eating for a moment and looked at me. "As you can see, I like good food," he remarked. "I love to eat." He said it in a way that made me cross my legs instinctively.

I was beginning to feel a little woozy from the beer. As he ate, he appeared to be drinking in more and more of me. He gazed at my breasts for a long time, and I could feel the nipples tightening under my bra.

"Shall we see what the others are doing?" I suggested, rising from my chair.

"Oh, no!" he stated abruptly. He got up fast and took my arm. "I mean let's stay a moment more." He wiped some butter from his chin. "Surely there is time. Please. Sit down," he urged.

"I really think I should be checking on my sister," I said. He was somehow too insistent. I wasn't quite sure what he had in mind, although I was certain he would make a pass.

Standing up quickly as I had done had made me quite dizzy.

"Then one favor before you go. My Victorian Room. You must see my Victorian Room. I have a room in my house, Miss Starr, which is an authentic reproduction of the most opulent interior in all London during the eighties." He took my arm again.

Perhaps it wouldn't do any harm to humor him, I thought. He was obsessed with such things as furnishings to the point where his sex drive might have been completely sublimated. I felt fairly confident I could handle his passes when and if they came. "Oh, very well," I said rather reluctantly. "For just a minute."

I followed him through the house to the main hall. A carpeted staircase went straight up to the second floor. He went over to a set of double doors near the bottom of the stairs and motioned me over close to him.

"Real double pocket doors," he said. "Notice the brass fittings." He opened both doors simultaneously, sliding them about a foot to each side. "After you, Miss Starr," he said, motioning at me to go on in.

I entered a very plushly furnished room. Red velvet drapes hung from polished brass rods across the windows. On the floor was a brilliant Persian rug. A large carved wooden bed occupied the center, and over it stretched a brocaded canopy. It was lovely. I heard the doors close behind me.

"Why this is a bedroom," I said, surprised but nonetheless affected by the surroundings.

"Yes," Cunningham said. He sighed and walked over to a closet. "Here," he said, handing me what looked like a silk nightgown. "Put this on."

"What!" I cried.

"Put it on. Please," he emphasized.

I turned and walked over to the door. "Unlock these doors," I demanded. "Mr. Cunningham, I want you to unlock these doors immediately."

"You might as well do as I ask," he said calmly. "I'm not going to hurt you, you know."

"I know what you want to do," I told him.

"Do you?" he asked, suggesting that perhaps I had been mistaken.

I turned toward him, folding my arms across my chest. "Well, suppose you tell me just what it is that you want to do."

"I want to eat your pussy."

My arms dropped suddenly and I gaped forward at him. I could feel an imaginary hand clutching at my vulva. The fat little son of a bitch was actually making me hot.

He was wetting his lips. "I haven't eaten any in so long, I can taste it," he said, holding out the nightgown again.