"Many people prefer the company of animals to humans," I said. "It's not so strange. How many did he actually buy?" I asked.

He did some mental recollection. "Four," he said finally. "He bought the last one this past summer."

"And all stallions. No mares or geldings," I repeated. "Does he keep them all in the house?"

"Can't say," he shrugged. "Haven't been out there since, and the fellow never says much when he's here."

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.

If that was all he wanted, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, I concluded. The thought of the pudgy little man's body lying on top of me was another matter entirely. I don't know what made me do it, the beer or the room or watching Hack Raver that morning, but I reached out and took the gown.

My next thought was where to get undressed. Was he going to stand there and watch me, I wondered?

He walked over to the same closet and began undressing himself, facing the inside of the closet. Something about his matter of fact way of taking his clothes off set me wild.

I took my loafers off with my feet, unhooked my skirt and zipped it down. It fell and I stepped out of it. I noticed he hadn't turned around. He had taken his pants off and was carefully hanging them up.

Unbuttoning my blouse, I removed it and went to work on the bra, turning my back on him in the process. The bra off, I noticed the nipples and surrounding area had turned rock hard, I rubbed hard at them in an effort to relax them, but the rubbing only seemed to make them worse.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw he was entirely naked. He must have been wearing something before to hold in his stomach for now the belly on him seemed enormous. He was reaching for a robe.

I got out of my panties as fast as I could and I noticed they were wet down there. Some of it had dried already. Pulling the gown down over me, I got up on the bed and hid my eyes with my forearm, waiting for whatever was going to happen.

I could hear him moving softly around the room, and thought I heard the lid to a jar being screwed off. The suspense was getting to me, and I had to reach down and touch myself.

His weight on the bed made it creak. He moved my legs a little farther apart as he shifted himself into position.

"This is going to feel cool at first," he said. Instinctively I removed my arm and look down. He held a jar of cream or something in one hand, and with the other was evidently preparing to gunk me up with whatever it was.

He slapped the stuff on gently and began working it in. It was cold at first application, but slowly began to heat up until the whole area there glowed. It had a faint fruity odor.

Suddenly, he grabbed me by both hips, and I felt his mouth close over me violently. His head was nodding like a nanny goat as he ran his lips and tongue up and down the gash. He was salivating like crazy, and I thought it was going to be more than I could stand.

I began to shriek and grabbed at his hair, thinking I was actually going to pull some of it out. I tried to roll over on each side and close my legs, but he was too strong.

He had managed to work my clitoris out and was sucking on it, pushing his face back and forth into the rest of it. I was screaming now and dug my heels into his waist, kicking at him for all I was worth.

Changing tactics again, he shoved his tongue into my vagina and began a vigorous in-and-out thrusting, his nose pushing at my clitoris. He had extremely well-developed tongue muscles.

Feeling myself reaching an orgasm, I knew it was going to be a shattering one. I was clutching his head tightly now, my heels braced against his hips. My back began to arch involuntarily as my body tensed. My mouth gaped wide, and I lost the power to focus my eyes.

It came with a rush.

Great undulating waves of warmth flowed through me. One, two, three, four...five...six. The intervals lengthened. If the feeling would only persist indefinitely. I ran my fingers through his hair.

He was sucking now, sucking deep draughts, long and slow. There wasn't going to be anything left of me, I thought. When he was done, he lay his head on my thigh and gasped for each breath, his face a raw-looking red.

As the hot blood began to flow back into my vulva it tingled. I wondered what he was going to do. If he had wanted intercourse, I would have let him do it. It didn't matter now. Not many men had ever brought me to such a climax.

He sat up quietly. "I want you to know I loved your cunt," he said, still breathing hard. He put a hand on my leg. "I want you to come back. Please. Will you promise to come back sometime? And your sister. I'll eat you both. Anytime you feel you're ready for Joe Cunningham."

I told him I would be happy to return. The pudgy man looked almost pathetic standing there in the robe. I asked him if he didn't like it the regular way.

"My only scene," he said, shaking his head. "My only scene is eating pussy. I was kicked by a horse years ago and it left me impotent. There's not much else I can do."

"How did the horse kick you?" I asked him.

"Next time you visit perhaps I'll tell you," he said. "Don't tell many people that story." He bent over the bed and kissed me lightly on the vulva. "I'll leave you now. Hope you like the pony." He opened the doors and went out.

I dressed quickly. Helen was waiting for me at the car with Hack Raver.

"You look happy," she commented. "Want to tell me about it?"

I glanced at Hack and blushed. "Later, Sis."

We got into the car. Helen gave the pony a pat and waved at Hack. "So long Texas," she called out.

"You ladies know I'm always at your service." He was grinning widely and fingering at his groin.

On the way home we chatted very little. Helen was obviously happy with her adventure. I was pleased as well. The old sadness that sometimes lurked in the background seemed far away.

We pulled into the drive and walked up to the door.

"That's funny," Helen said. "I don't hear Clyde."

"Maybe he's asleep," I suggested.

She unlocked the door and went inside. I watched her go from room to room, even checking the basement. It didn't seem possible he could have gotten out. She gave up and slowly walked back into the living room. I was afraid she was going to cry.

"He's gone, Bea. Clyde's gone." She shook her head slowly from side to side. "Where?"


Chapter 3

It was in the middle of the day. I was seated at a vanity in Helen's bedroom brushing my hair. I hadn't had a good chance to brush it out since arriving, and the brisk strokes tugging at my scalp felt good.

My hair was longer than it had been in years, the thick brown tresses reaching down to just below my shoulder blades. It seemed like an awful lot of hair as I watched it move with my head in the mirror. I picked the mass up with both hands and held it atop my head for an instant.

The tap-tap-tap of the hooves on the kitchen floor downstairs interrupted my thoughts. The pony had made himself quite at home. So far there had been no "accidents," but the novelty of having a horse-like creature roaming at will throughout the house was something I had not yet gotten used to.

Helen was still upset about Clyde. We still hadn't figured out how he had gotten out of the house. He was adept at pushing doors open that were not quite tightly shut, but all of the doors leading to the outside were found locked when Helen checked them.

Because of the air conditioning, all the windows were closed, but one basement window we had found unlocked and very easy to push outward. The window-was a good six feet from the floor, however, and it seemed doubtful that Clyde could have both scaled the wall and pushed open the window. Still, he was gone.

Helen had reported him missing to the police shortly after we had arrived home, and all morning had been on the telephone checking with the pounds in the metropolitan area. She had also alerted local kennels and pet shops to be on the lookout in case the person taking Clyde tried to sell him.

She was being very thorough. I had heard her calling in ads to the Lost and Found sections of newspapers, and talking to medical school people on the hunch they were buying animals for student dissection.

"It's not going to be easy to hide a tricolored collie. They're the rare ones," she had pointed out to me. "Well, maybe not as rare as the Morrells," the thought occurred to her, "but certainly not an everyday breed." She had been moved to tears periodically. "Where can he be?" she had kept asking me.

Her grief over Clyde had kept her from paying much attention to the pony. The tan and white creature had taken to her almost immediately and frequently walked up to where she might be sitting, softly nuzzling her.

On top of everything else, Jack arrived home later in the evening. I thought he was going to croak when he laid eyes on the pony. He went quickly from a kind of shocked expression to a livid fury which he managed to keep under control but just barely.

Helen, of course, didn't waste any time telling him about Clyde's disappearance. Jack did his best to reassure her that everything was going to turn out all right, but seemed too stunned by the pony's presence to gather his wits about him enough to be of any material help.

"Whose idea is this anyway?" he had almost demanded, casting an eye in my direction. Because I had not yet married, he was prone to suspect me of the darkest sexual adventures, and once had told Helen that I was probably a lesbian. He was a very insecure man.

He had insisted Helen keep the pony in the garage while he was home. He calmed down considerably finally when Helen told him the pony would only be there a few days, but kept at her occasionally about the exact time of departure.

After he had left for work earlier in the morning, Helen told me he had wanted intercourse with her the night before, but that she had begged off because she was so worried about Clyde. He had gotten angry and said things about Clyde he had never said before, strange things.

"Do you suppose he knows that Clyde and I have been lovers?" she had asked me.

I had blushed at the thought. It had seemed like such a blunt way of putting it. "Only you can know that, Helen," I had answered.

"I've been very, very careful," she had said. "Why, I think I'd be mortified if Jack found out. He'd be so upset."

I had thought he would be more upset if he knew of some of her other escapades, such as the hay episode with Cunningham's foreman.

"Jack would not be one to keep something like that to himself, I think," I had said. "You would hear about it pretty fast."

"He's been suspecting something," she had told me again. "I just haven't been as frustrated when he fails to satisfy me completely, not like I used to be."

I decided to put my hair into a loose ponytail, and looked around the vanity for a barrette, Helen had several including a wide tortoiseshell type which I chose. A light itch behind my ear reminded me that it would be a good idea to wash my hair. Perhaps tonight, I thought.

Standing up, I removed my robe and caught my reflection in the mirror. I was a body without a head as the vanity was just low enough to cut the reflection off. The hair on my bottom was a thick mat, and I ran a comb through it, ratting it up as much as it would go.

All fluffed out, my pussy suddenly seemed larger than life. I turned sideways and looked at my reflection. The hair made quite a bulge. Patting the crest of the bush lightly with my hand, the thought occurred to me I really had too much hair there, and I wondered how many men might be bothered by it.

I had just put the robe back on when a squeal from Helen downstairs attracted my attention.

"Bea!" she called out, "come down and see this!"

I went down the stairs and turned, thinking she was in the kitchen.

"In here!" The voice came from the living room.

I changed my direction and walked into the room. Helen was kneeling on the floor alongside the pony. I could see immediately that the animal was in an erect state. In fact, it was still growing.

"Oohh," she piped. "It just keeps on coming out!"

It was true. The organ kept extending outward and slightly down. Less embarrassed than I had been about looking at it in the barn, I knelt down on the other side of the pony and watched, fascinated, as the skin on the protuberance grew tauter.

I could not resist touching it and reached for the shaft. Helen had the same impulse for our fingers clasped it about the same time. We both gave a little squeeze.

"It's so soft," Helen marveled, "yet solid!"

It felt warm to my fingers, and I let them run down to the fat head at the end. It resembled a big brown apple except that inside the depression where the stem would normally be was an open hole about the size of a pea. Inside the hole the lining was a fresh pink.

The pony was blowing softly and turned to nuzzle me on the ear. He didn't seem to mind that we were so curious about his huge part. His thing was easily thirteen or fourteen inches long.

"I wonder if we could get it to come," Helen mused.

"You mean, jerk it off?" I asked.

"Do you think he would stand for it?" she asked me, in turn.

"How would you do it?" I wanted to know. "I mean, without him kicking you?"

She had begun jacking at the penis with her closed fingers, but her tiny hand seemed inadequate, scarcely reaching around. "I don't know if he likes that or not," she said. She stopped and shifted her position. The pony neighed deep in his throat.

"See," I said, smiling. "He doesn't-want you to stop."

"It's hard to do because of the angle," she revealed, and rolled onto her back, reaching up to continue stimulating the animal.

I watched as she worked. The pony was showing no signs of losing the erection, but didn't seem particularly excited, either, as I would have imagined him to be when sexually aroused. He seemed to be tolerating it more than enjoying it.

"Oh!" Helen exhaled, "all the blood ran out of my arm and it aches. This is hard work!"

She stood up, rubbing her arm and looking at the thing. I could tell what she was thinking. Here is this magnificent thing. How can we keep it from going to waste?

"I wonder, she mused. "I wonder if that would go in. What do you think, Bea?"

Oddly, my curiosity had taken me over completely. Whereas the thought of Helen with Clyde had embarrassed me, the thought of her with the pony quickly aroused me. Clyde seemed so human. The pony was more impersonal.

I knew, though, that it was the immense thing he was carrying that outweighed all other considerations. There is nothing like the sight of meat to thoroughly distract a woman.

"Go on!" I urged, blushing in spite of myself. "Live dangerously!"

"How do you go about it?" she wanted to know. My blushing was making her blush, and we talked without looking at each others' eyes.

"Try it like with Clyde," I suggested.

"You mean, get down on all fours?" She stood thinking for a moment. "Okay," she said quickly, unbuttoning her skirt on the side. "That damn thing's got me so hot, I'll stand on my head if I have to."

Unzipping her skirt, she stepped out of it and quickly pulled down her panties. Getting down on her hands and knees, she backed up slowly at the pony. She was telling the truth about being hot. The lips on her bottom were glistening wet.

There was a burning lump in my throat that started to throb. The strangest notion came over me that I would like to be that pony right then, about to be doing whatever it was that was going to be done to Helen. The feeling must have been based on a sheer desire to want to participate, nothing else.