Madam's Stallion
Last night, I dreamed of a black horse. Upon waking, I looked in the
dictionary of dreams I keep in my bedside table, to see if there is any
significance to this particular night time vision. It seems a dream of a
black horse is a dream of passion. Considering all that has happened in the
past weeks, I am not surprised.
The weaver of my dream, I suppose, well, she'd ridden upon me suddenly, at
an old home affair that was family tradition; wine, cheeses, caviar, little
piggies captured sleeping in their blankets.
Even though mum and dad had passed away not a full year, leaving me as
heir to the finest of estates, I did so want to keep the social connections
going as they had been. You see, we'd backed the conservatives since King
George, though we'd lost the privilege of his guidance in New Hampshire,
having run to the Whigs, then to a hesitant nod for Lincoln that turned out
surprisingly well a century plus hence. Our man had won handsomely in the
special June elections that our recall money had so handsomely maneuvered,
so it seemed only right to have the most traditional house in the valley
opened to the better class of blue money. It was tradition to open the
estate for some hours the afternoon after and say, "Here, here!"
I'd caught a glimpse out of the lace and crystal window, a glimpse of a
rider in long boots and tux on a black shining stallion, where for years
there'd been but arriving limos and the occasional sporty Martin on the
asphalt. (After all, we do have proper stables, fields, paths and even a
half mile track). The horse strode forward, muscular and striking against
the small, white-stone, lantern-bearing guides lining the long drive up to
my Corinthian columns. The clatter of hooves ceased making dents in the
blacktop.
I'd thanked our Mary for the wine with my nod, she in her finest black and
white with the laciest of her mini-aprons, and excused the stately old widow
Winslow. (Our winning puppet had long left for his first trip to the
drudgery of the work of pumping more of our money in Washington).
Curiosity had the best of me. Of course, Mary curtsied slight and quietly,
she mid-life, and from a family who'd long served us with quiet efficiency.
She was as comforting to leave the gathering to as my best Argentinean
leather recliner.
The woman, on the horse, from the moment I'd seen her through the glass,
had peaked my curiosity by her strange, animal arrival.
I noticed even our new Wadsworth Domestics trained stable boy, a large lad
who was spending this day as valet, slide back so perfectly into the role of
holding her reigns and steadying the steed as she dismounted. She paid him
no mind, a mark I took of her station. There are ways to tell station even
before meetings, and when guessing wrong, certainly at first words.
The grass was perfectly green, Summer upon us, green under my shined black
Oxfords. The smell of hay, freshly cut, not brown, but marbled green and
yellow, topped with finger lengths of seeds, all drifting in from a distant
field, it for some reason making me dizzy. I looked about the grounds. The
long family stable swam into view among the outbuildings and then me back to
watching this new woman.
The stable boy ambled by, only some of the black animal sweat in tow. Then
we were disconnected beyond our separate businesses. A line of perspiration
dripped along my cheek, finding a neck.
When she turned she spotted me at the bottom of our dozen marble steps,
and with both of her feet planted, crop angled from one of a pair of fists
upon hips, she smiled as if appraising the reason for her arrival. Her eyes
hinted something of the end of a fox hunt.
Black hair as straight and opposite as the horse's, which had been
braided, nearly to mid shoulder, black vest, top hat, and boots; and of
course the horse, all black too. I could almost feel the warm weight of her
thighs, not heavy, but caressing. The lady's white ruffled blouse and peach
skin sang delightful laughs as in early morning coffee. I was in instant
love with pounding heart. Me! There was, even then, something of a dream
about it all, from the very beginning, just as last night. Not a man to be
so indisposed and unused to any non-functionary interest in women ten years
my age, it was surprisingly settled so suddenly.
"This would be Master Jefferson, I presume," she said as introduction.
"I'm afraid that you have me at a disadvantage, Madam?" I intoned, having
found myself at the bottom step and being so enchanted that I'd no recall of
having descended there. I heard a wooden door creek and felt somehow
unburdened, as if hearing her name had lifted pounds from my shoulders.
Perhaps behind me, spirits? I looked back. The mansion door was empty, the
house a riot of millionaire murmurs, oblivious to serpent spells or
infatuations of the heart.
"Madam is plenty, Jefferson. Would you be so kind as to show me the
estate, my boy? I've found myself late, diverted by the thrill of riding my
darkest beast. I'm afraid we've churned up much of our northern pastures."
Our? She did have such a royal person about her, I couldn't help but
notice. "One need not worry over the condition of the grounds you trespass,
Madam."
I offered my arm, and after a disproving glance, as if I'd spoken ill -
the strange woman took it with hands of a bird - or at least until the top
of the steps. Upon her rising, her upper mood returned with the altitude,
whereupon she released me with a pet upon the nose and strode confidently
into the room.
Deftly, the woman liberated a pink wine from Mary's third, how I do forget
the names of servants not born to our family. In seconds, it seemed, this
new woman in her riding best stopped the crowd she parted, and from the
second step of the ball room landing, offered a toast. Her right leg danced
upon a toe, and her left hand swung the swirling wine at an angle
dangerously close to spilling upon my room sized Persian: "To our victory,
and the demotion of that awful commoner candidate! We are honored at your
company, this celebratory afternoon. Please enjoy, and don't forget to say
goodbyes to me at least as you depart at your leisure; I've barely met the
half of you in my shameful delay, and hope not to miss even one."
The crowd seemed to take to her as if she belonged, though I thought her a
large piece presumptuous - just as quickly forgiving the intrusion.
I was as smitten as her audience, who, with just those few words, sparked
her to the center of every one of their conversation circles. From there it
appeared as if she pretended the host. Audacious! Clearly it was a sign of
too much familiarity - the huge oil portraits of my dead relatives watched
her from hangings in the broad circular stairwell. What were they thinking,
I thought, glancing up, and before I could return, realizing that I'd shaken
some hands and the room was empty.
She sat before me as I stood, dangling a diamond pendant at her cleavage.
It was at that moment that I worried. Had I slipped into a dream, or is
this telling itself the dream? Weeks passed before this morning's turning of
the dream book in my hand. I made another note on a middling empty page,
mindlessly writing some recent necromantic history.
Finding it hard upon my eyes to moon read before today in my book, I made
a note of the last day's reflections, and with the same moonlight by which
I'd written, returned it to the single, tiny, table drawer. I laid back upon
the bed. The wooden slats of a ceiling fan wandered around in front of me
above, slowly moving the heat about the room. It cut through the angle of
moonlight like an amusement ride in a funhouse on some ancient pier. A horse
shivered a complaint in some place beyond. Out my open window, the blue
Venetian morning star egged me to look at the clock with blurred vision.
My penis ached, returning me to my reflections as I drifted between states
of consciousness, racing to it before the pre-dawn morning duty's call. The
days drifted backwards, close to the beginning: Someone was in the study, it
seemed, the door a crack, and muffled voices wandering through. I'd been
waiting in the grand hall. Our maid, Mary, walked out of the study, a bit in
a huff, which was not her service style. She glanced up at me, her face
displaying an impatience I'd not seen so openly before. "For god sakes, Sir,
put them up. And, stop wearing a hole in the floor; I'll never find a mender
if the rug bears through!"
I was, at first, startled at her tone, but then, looking down, I saw the
tread-wear on the rug, as if someone's foot had rubbed it thin from a month
of pacing. My right leg ached, mostly at the calf and toes, and the right
heel was positively hot. Before that, and worst of all surprises, my
trousers were literally at my ankles. It was my own home, I told myself, but
I could not rid myself of a bit of guilt, the room public and Mary having
seen me at some kind of worst in naught but boxers, footwear and shirt. I
felt compelled to apologize, blurting, "Sorry, Mary. I've been sleep
walking, it seems," but mostly to her back as she rushed out the servant's
wing without further word. Well, why had I felt the need to explain myself
to the servant anyway, I mused?
One thing about servants, you see, is that discretion is a must; I had no
concern that Mary would tell anyone else, and was kind of pleased that it
had been she who'd seen me in such a result of mental fog. As for sleep
walking, I was surprisingly well dressed, save for the rumpled pants.
I'd no sooner put my pants up when that third maid appeared from quarters,
she with a luggage in each hand.
She looked at me before tugging open the front door, and with a thin voice
said, "You might have given me a week notice," before parting to our waiting
car down the marble steps. I had no idea what had caused her resignation,
but I determined to find out. Instincts told me to drift into the study for
all that I need know.
"Oh, there you are. It has been steady work settling things around here.
I'd thought you'd never get yourself moving, boy. Could you be a dear, and
sign these forms! I've been on the phone to our broker, and even he told me
that the way you manage the stocks is as late as this morning's arrivals.
Seven percent with such tardy attention, he told me. Goodness, you'd take
this for a bear market at those rates," said the lady I'd first met riding
the black horse.
What was Madam's name? Whoever she was, she had a completely different
outfit on from when I'd first seen her. Hair was up in pins, her blouse was
white, skirt black; all of that at my room dominating large mahogany desk.
Oddly, I had a weird feeling that I'd seen her in similar outfits as well as
more or less, though I could only then compare her to when I'd first met
her.
I hesitated, a light suddenly glowing in her eye upon spying my puzzled
face. She shifted in the chair so that I could see more of her. I leg
dangled off of a crossed knee, the dress eased up to a garter hook, and
suddenly I noticed a necklace. The diamond had become a small key at the
apex of her cleavage. Although I couldn't make out the words, she seemed to
chant, as if hiding her words, "bri . luck of . bestia . mas . muta . animus
. br ... me . parvus alius huc . my luck demona . canterius . gransis .
magnus."
"What dear?" I asked, she seemingly having changed dangling legs and shift
twenty degrees or so in the time it took me to wink an eye. I was pure lust,
and I knew that I was making a display of myself; too proud to look down and
find the ache.
"I meant to thank you. Now you may go about your duties. Oh, and, as you
know, Jefferson, it's ..."
"Yes. Madam. Sorry Madam," I said, nodding my head and body. I turned, not
quickly enough to miss noticing my signature on the top of a whole stack of
forms. When had I signed those, and when had I made her my business manager?
Clearly she was better at it than I'd been, I determined, making my way out
of the study and into the main halls. The old family portraits (some of the
coots I'd not much memory of, to be frank about it) looked down at me as I
wandered through and out of the side door of the spotlessly rich old house.
I had somehow changed attire, and was not well dressed.
I went immediately to the family stables. She'd, of course, gotten me
disoriented, and me, having even less to do than usual since she'd taken
over so much, well I felt as if I was blossoming to less stately thing;
perhaps the call of nature, which was quite at hand on the 200 acre estate.
I yelled across the wide rear grounds, the sound carrying all the way to the
wood-line.
The horses spoke to me as I wandered from tenant to tenant. "Coming," I
answered laughingly, literally prancing with outstretched fingers.
I stepped to the stall with the large, black stallion, he the only one
sticking his head out far enough to almost impede my progress. I got him
some water, and the cakes he craved. The stud's tongue wetted my hand when
raking cakes, my hand soon as cool as the breeze across the fine hairs of my
chest and legs. The stable boy worked around me, eyes low and intentionally
non-intrusive; unaccustomed to much conversation with the lord of the manor,
I presumed. Up above, the wooden slats of ceiling fans added just a little
too much to a growing evening chill. I took a blanket for my back, last
recalling morning, but clearly the sun was falling around the place. My legs
ached, as did my back, but I stood as long as I could recall, waking in the
morning, next over from our stallion.
I woke that night and others, dreams all over my skin. That's when I
determined to find a book, an old ledger in a closet to be most accurate. I
carefully labeled it, 'Dictionary' and then hid it in what I took for a
dresser, where a comb and two brushes hid it in plain view to the unlikely
spy - though I doubted the single door dresser had been opened in years by
any hand but mine - it a discard. I wrote my first dreams. Then I wrote
more. Always the pages turned; each night its own; each night alone from the
last. The book had only one page, that the one before my pen.
I can barely remember, but I think that if I take flashes of my memory and
start, I can bring a day forward for you; perhaps just this once and as long
as I work sequential: For example, I see a finger and a ring, and I have the
hand in mine, and am pressing the ring forward. The finger is truly lovely
as the wedding band marries the ten carrot engagement. We fed one another
cake.
I worship her breath as I feel it so close in a dance. I imagine her body
pressed to me. I crave the simplest response to her will.
She is so beautiful that I have cramps in my body from the pain of wanting
her, though those fighting for the bouquet seem shocked at the bride choice,
as if I'd not done well, which is simply unimaginable to me in my dream
wedding. I know a beauty soul-deep when I see one, my bride not unlike
Madam, though I'm sure much younger and a bit more giddy and trim and of
course, accessible, though my recall feels shaded. Of course, I'd not been
married, it but some piece of a dream, perhaps on one of my pages; the rest
of that day was well faded on an enchanted page I dare not return to.
Returning will make my dreams go away, and I find such a need for them, I
feel deeply inside. I've a disease, perhaps; Alzheimer's, but it hardly
matters, as long as I have such rich and addictive dreams, and they do no
less than grow.
Days later, Mary's second walked by as I sat at the small table behind the
kitchen pantry and ate a snack. "Any more water?" I asked, holding up a warm
plastic cup.
"Get your own, Jefferson. What do I look like, your mother?" She walked
off with a load of towels and sheets that she'd collected from the laundry
room behind me.
"Fat little bitch. I'll see her fired for a mouth like that. See to it
right after I eat," I told myself.
One never actually does the firing in person; a trick my father had taught
me when I'd come of driving age and thus, had grown to need such tactical
information.
I got up off of the chair. My ass made a small "shrump" noise as it
unstuck from the seat. The room was not air-conditioned a bit. I found a tap
in the wash basin for a refill. I drank my fill and then went back to the
laundry room, it hotter than the servant's eating room by a good ten
degrees. Mary wasn't there to complain to, so I just went back to sorting
and ironing a few blouses that nobody else seemed to have time for.
Even naked, I dripped and had to stand back from the heat of the iron as I
fogged up the sleeves like Mary had shown me. Of course, I wasn't indecent.
I still had the plastic cage on my penis, hiding most of what couldn't be
seen between the little pink bars. Madam had been kind enough to let me air
out in the back room without those hot clothes to hinder my work, and of
course the bars were better than the metal one for that too, she'd told me.
Something about it troubled me though, my mind instantly flashing warnings
that I should pay better attention, least I burn the collar on one of
Madam's best dining-out blouses. My how she does love her nights on the
town.
I did think of that dream though; and perhaps that was why I was so
distracted by observations in that moment. I saw the women in the wedding,
days later, we in bed I think? Her nightgown was real silk, and the key at
her cleavage so shiny as it swung. She was so seductive, her voice saying,
"You are mine. You are mine. You are mine. Yes. Sweet surrender to my love.
Love so deep. Passion so great. Bir ... right ... for a touch. Varire
caballinus.
Huc alienus accipere! Deeply. Yours is mine as one! For mine.. Asilus yo
es hinc alius."
The darkness of her hair, and the intoxication of the need to kiss my way
up her lovely legs and worship her womanhood, was a joy beyond any I'd ever
lusted after in a woman before. She filled me as I ate in slow, easy circles
and petting strokes that spoke of my devotion. My hands wandered about her
wonderfully tapered legs. I put fingers to her sweet toes, interlacing one
by one.
"Accidere animus unum . parvus . ohh! Si! Cenebellum parvus. Mas . mens .
parvus! Yes! Oh yes! Take me! Take me! Take of me! Become of me!
Yeeeeeessssssss! Oh, oh, oh .."
Her thighs embraced my head so tightly that I nearly passed out, but of
course, I was dreaming still, and yet still I could hardly hold myself from
wanting the taste of her more and more, it pure nectar. It was a dream more
real than any live thing I'd ever known. I touched myself, shaking the
plastic cage as my tool ached to explode within its dream confinement. This
way I wandered within my dream, both fulfilled in soul at having pleased her
so, and in the same seemingly endless twilight hours, captures in such total
frustration that it seemed that a single touch would flood the place I'd
chosen as my most appropriate bed. I woke, loving my frustrated torment,
imagining it making my dream love's chore of embracing me into such ease for
her that we'd meet again quickly.
In my head, I knew it to be Madam I'd wed. It was a dream to be so lucky
as to have her, of course, and I put it into my book, but that didn't make
it uninspiring in my real life, given that my state of mind had become one
with the woman's slightest pleasure since I'd seen her horse on my drive.
That was one thing I did remember quite well about her; that need to fill
her lust above anything mine and of course, her arrival: The way she'd said,
"Madam is plenty, Jefferson. Would you be so kind as to show me the estate,
my boy?"
Like a wet rag in my hands as I bent over to clean the basement floors, I
wringed every last drop from all seventeen of those words, rearranging them,
finding new meanings within them, worshipping them as gifts to me, no more
than her boy, and yet she'd given them to me. Then there was the picture of
her, up there on the horse's back, through the curtain laces, as I stood at
the top of the steps, as I descended, and as I watched her from a perfect
vantage, slightly below her level. She'd stepped from the back of the lucky
animal who'd felt her thighs for so incredibly long as to merge sweat for
sweat. Prior to her descent, I'd even learned to envy the animal.
Then I had the bad dream. I was in the stables. It was late night, perhaps
midnight I guessed, and my blanket was all that I had, save the tiny desk
and the diary, some straw, biscuits and a bucket of water. I rolled over,
finding my legs. Through the slats I could see the great black stallion. It
was the noise of its thrashing that had awoken me to this dream. The great
beast was shrinking, and slats of moonlight showed the black of its hide
shimmering under a slime that pinked as if an embryonic soul. I stepped back
from the crack in the slates that separated our stalls, and took breath.
I heard more, something my mind had hidden from me: The slow murmur of a
heavenly female voice as it chanted the same foreign mysteries I'd imagined
my lovely Madam speaking in so many dreams past. The sucking slurps of
change also assailed me, but I dared no longer look through the slats and
see that nightmare. To see too much is sin, I'd come to know.
Then the stall door clicked of a slipped lock, and opened. Before me stood
the woman in full riding gear. Her whip in hand, angled just as I'd first
seen it after she'd arrived. The chaps were tight, displaying her sexually
inviting legs perfectly. And yet, there at her crotch was no clothing at
all; nothing but a beautiful black triangle of hair, framed by the neatly
tailored crotch of her leggings.
She came in and put a thin black collar around my neck, attaching this to
a leash. Oddly, I found it comforting at her knees as I walked out of the
stable stall on hands and knees, not once imagining it proper to stand as if
some sort of real man possessed my soul. There, in the center of the stable
aisle was a bed of not inconsiderable size and comfort. She walked me up and
then met me there. Soon, her sex sat upon my back, her thin whip teasing my
thighs as she rode me wetly and with lusty abandon, riding up and down my
spine and hips to the spring of the bed.
In the full lust and pleasure of pleasing her, I glanced over at my empty
stall, and saw the tiny dresser that housed my precious book of memories.
There, on those pages was my way back, I suddenly realized. Lust soon mixed
with fear. If only I could have found the courage to have looked back at old
pages, might I have found myself as I'd once been? Was that why I'd written,
as a desperate means of seeing what was happening to me?
She moaned, and that was when I lost that thought, and let her turn me
over upon my back. My goddess, but she was above me, her flesh and legs
widely straddling just above my thighs. This I'd never expected, and yet for
this I'd been kept chaste for so long, just so that I'd never forget the
honor of our plunge, I reasoned!
Her hand yanked at my leash, forcing my head forward, aiming my face just
so that it could not miss seeing the sex hovering just above my caged
lusting rod of screaming need. She'd neglected a bra, her breasts and
nipples sliding inside of the very same blouse I'd last ironed in the
laundry room that very same day. I could see the deep brown shape of her
large areolas. I could smell her intoxicating perfume. I wanted her more
than life itself, and found my voice to say just such nonsense, but most of
all, one look into her deep, black eyes and I could see how much she wanted
me even more, as if her soul was deeper than mine, ageless, enchanted with
mysterious being that was beyond we mere human toys.
The key dangled, swayed, and soon I focused upon it as if compelled by its
power. The key swung, the chants filling my mind with obedient devotion,,
"obey, obey." Madam's fingers found the key, ripping the chain as she freed
it from her thin and inviting neck. With deft dexterity she found the lock,
twisting the key and with a click, the force of my huge penis shoved apart
the chastity devices parts. She lifted the enclosure free, leaving the
plastic ring around my balls, as if knowing that the ring would not stop a
single bit of the pleasure of what awaited inches above my freed phallus.
"Oh, Goddess of lust!" I screamed, she waiting, teasing with her lips at
my neck, her silk covered shirt brushing nipples across my chest. I looked
away, allowing her my neck, and hoping her a vampire meant to suck away my
soul so that I'd die as enthralled as any human had ever died.
"Take you?"
"Yes, take me! I give mine to you. Anything. Just take me!" I screamed to
her chants and desire.
I was not without size, a big man to all of the women I'd known. And yet I
felt a boy in the hands of a woman beyond years of carnal knowledge. Her sex
touched the head of my rigid member. I felt wet lips parting at a perfectly
aimed union. I'd been so long without!
Over in my stall, however, the single doored dresser beaconed. Save me
from what, I wondered? The book of dreams whispered to me that I should stop
this wild lust, as if some sort of wood and paper missionary meant to save
my essence from life itself.
That thought was stifled by what I next saw in the open door beside my
stable stall. The stallion was no more. In its place was a writhing form, a
full placenta, was the best I could define it, pink and somewhat glowing,
hands, it seemed, inside of it, ripping at the fabric of translucent flesh
holding it contained. I gasped.
"Look away!" The woman above me said sharply, turning my head to see her
breasts. They'd been loosened by several ripped buttons, a scratch mark from
the fury welling red where a nail had caught chest in her haste.
Then she plunged upon the full ten inches of my cock! I was inside of the
wet well of womanhood, warm, testing textures, being caressed from all
sides, sucked at by her rise, and consumed by her next fall upon my nail,
taking me all. She held me prisoner by her perfect cunt. The gates of hell
could beckon this and I'd be but a paralyzed bug in her spider's web, I
knew, even forgetting the horse in his cocoon.
"Accipere alius equus donare. Accipere alius equus donare. Accipere alius
equus donare. Accipere alius equus donare. Accipere alius equus donare! Oh
yes! Give it to me. I want to suck it all from you, boy!"
I came even as I plunged fully to her womb. When I came, it was no small
seconds of a handful of spurts, but a seemingly endless stream of ceiling
capable streams, one after the other, the wetness of it leaking from her
clinging and stroking pussy for seconds that turned into minutes beyond
counting. I felt my whole body shrinking inches as the bed filled with the
stream of cum, creeping from below me to the small of my back. I moaned,
fearful of death itself from stroke, my ecstasy unrelenting, like that of a
woman, embraced by passion to the point of having more pleasure than any
human was meant to endure.
Still, it did ebb, and my cock began to small. She held it between her
pussy lips, she surprisingly strong there, in spite of the surreal wetness.
Yet, my penis shank more and more, she holding me tighter and looser, as if
trying to push her body into mine. And then, of course, I felt it, her
clitoris, touching me there, and reaching me there, and filling me there,
plunging into me there, until it was I who, feeling the strangeness of it,
and in spite of the pleasure, reached down to her hips and eased her away. I
kissed her deeply, not wanting her to think me unsatisfied just because I'd
had feminine delusions in the end.
I moaned, as did she, she still chanting her odd little Haitian Latin, and
I fallen back in complete exhaustion.
Over by the stall, the white, shimmering mass darkened, losing some of its
placenta. I nearly could not care. Still it was curious, so I watched, not
concerned, until ....
Over to my other side, Madam had gone, strangely, me not having felt her
leave. In fact, as I shifted, I had no hands, them and my legs having been
bound to the corners of the bed by something silken. It was as if the spider
had indeed captured her bug, and yet I did not panic after so much
satisfaction. I shifted again, feeling my body shifting in the oddest of
places, as if I were somehow different than I'd once been. My arms felt, I
don't know, kind of fat in places, as did my thighs and breasts, but all of
that was quickly dismissed when I saw into the gloom of the stable, and
there was the most beautiful creature alive, she naked as born and walking
with her eyes closed. Her beautiful lips chanted into the moon-laced
darkness.
The stable stall banged, as if some large creature had shuddered and half
fallen. Then the animal stumbled into the stall doorway, and I saw the great
black stallion. But, of course, it was no longer a great black stallion. No,
not a horse at all, it was. It was a man, black of hair, tall, thick across
the shoulders, standing as if a fawn finding its first feet. If a man could
be a stallion, he'd be the man.
"Equus donare," she whispered. "Equus donare," she repeated with each
step. "Equus donare!" She screamed with opened arms, taking and embracing
him as he stumbled and fell into her clutches. He smelled of finely bred
horse, and she breathed that in audibly, as if it were her particular brand
of favorite perfume.
"Equus donare!" She continued, each word striking both him and I. I felt
it in my nuts, each time he jerked. Then, there, between his legs, where a
man hardly finds courage to look at another man, I saw his cock growing with
each jerk. Once at each declaration of, "Equus donare!" Ten inches. "Equus
donare!" Eleven inches!
I groaned in agony, the pain in my crotch as excruciating as had been the
pleasure minutes before, but pounding upon each word, like a hammer blow at
each declaration of that cursed, "Equus donare. I looked down upon myself,
and saw nothing but hair where I'd once housed a massive rod. Even at my
chest, now completely smooth and hairless, the sagging of large, loosely
skinned and growing breasts new to me told of a man no more and in such a
language as that speaking of a woman not new, but much used by the aging of
poverty and long hours of common work.
Almost worse than that, the man made from a horse jerked in rhyme to yet
other changes.
Those I found upon the horse's face, a nose, eyes, chin, and all of those
intangibles that make a person whomever he appears to be, shifted with every
blow to my miserable cock and balls. He, "Equus donare," by each "Equus
donare," though bigger and stronger, and soon six inches bigger in manhood,
was becoming me!
I screamed into the night.
Displeased by the intrusion into their first union of impending
intercourse, that upon the straw floor of the stables, Madam looked my way.
From under his leaning body, she mouthed a chant that she tossed to me as if
with so much casual practice that the score was settled with but the word.
His cock and my cock, now one huge, wet and vein throbbing cock that only he
could feel, disappeared into the warm love box of the one who'd also
captured and imprisoned my soul, it and I both slipping into darkness with a
body cramped with the pain of too much sudden change.
I found myself standing, the next time I awoke. In fact, I'd been standing
for some time, offering wine to the guests at some November result. Our man
had won, I guessed, though a little bird in my head was telling me that
perhaps the man who'd won was not really all that good for one of my new
station. My heels clicked on wooden floors as I retreated to deposit the
empty glasses and get some more. There, in the kitchen, was Mary, the head
maid. I curtsied to her as I picked up the tray. She smiled approval, me
always wanting that smile from her and I suppose, most anybody, though I
have no idea why I now craved so much petty approval.
"Did you ever see Master Jefferson so handsome? The two months at the
mental health spa must have really taken to him. Oh, listen to me go on. I
keep forgetting that your arrival to the estate was on the very night he
went off to his recovery. Oh, am I ever glad that he went though. He was
becoming quite the bother, you see; walking around the house in his
nothings, always staring off as if in a trance. Wearing that erotic plastic
thing on his wee-wee."
"I don't know ." I stammered.
Mary continued as if I'd never spoke, "He was, well, let's be frank,
dearie, perverted. You should have seen what he had been writing in that
book I found in that old ratty dresser in the stable. You know, the one I
had you burn yesterday!"
Burned book? Something about that troubled me, but was just as quickly
gone. Yes, all gone!
"Ungodly things were in that filthy book, and no doubt due to the taint of
mind that had him those months before his recovery. I'd put in feelers for
other employment, to be honest, what with Mrs. Jefferson having put out half
of the servants, and with the Master going lunatic. Oh, listen to me gossip.
You be a dear, and get back to the party with those drinks, won't you dear?"
"Yes Ma'am. Right, you know, to it, I be. Oh." So frustrated, I was, at my
lack of language. God, I sounded like an airhead, and the words had just
popped out as if spoken by a bimbo recording.
What I'd wanted to say was, 'help me! I'm a prisoner in a black and white
maid uniform, apron, little white hat, garters, heels and dumpling, smooth
body inside with big sagging tits and a warm, wanting pussy between slightly
fatty thighs.'
On my white, ruffled apron, someone, probably me, had embroidered a tiny
head of a horse on a bottom corner. I saw my reflection in the biggest steel
refrigerator, seeing a bleach blonde bimbo, my mind even feeling less heavy,
people, places, subject, style, social grace and perhaps even libraries
missing; certainly a diary or two. I'd once known stocks and bonds at least
and had been privy to a fair education, now not remembering a thing beyond
counting simple pocket change, which occurred to me to be all a maid truly
made in my ... my old household.
Of course, it was that warm, wanting pussy part that caught up to even my
lightened thoughts, the crotch as light as a feather without my accustomed
equipment. I bent slightly, giving my thighs a squeeze to tighten my lips
and have a feel of what that felt like. Jesus, I was horny, and that was
positively disgusting, me not in the least bit attracted to the foul male
form, but wanting to be filled anyway, and not with plastic either, I
understood. Mary, sensing my confusion, though not why, stated, "Get to it,
girl, or Madam will have me put the strap to you again!"
"Oh sorry, poor me. Sorry, Ma'am. Yes Ma'am, right to it," I breathed with
a curtsy, scooting away into the main room, my heels finding the Persian,
even in heels, me now only five feet up there in the world and certainly the
shortest here among the blue bloods.
Just in, the first man I met was me, only bigger, stronger, handsomer, far
more mysterious, and yet just as into himself as Mister Old Money and Overly
Deserving had been. He glanced my way, as if not recognizing as much as my
existence, which, as I recall, was a sign to him that I was doing my job
well enough.
Then I was a wine glass less to bear. Then I was off, my feet as if on
servant autopilot, passing others, men, women, political Whigs for the rich,
and even Madam, who gave me a glance, and then nothing more, me well in hand
as long as she held my soul in the depths of her womb where she'd sucked it
in during our one intercourse, perhaps even giving it to her lover. Would
she release it even when I died? Would she take it with her to hell, when
she died? I had no say, even in that, I sensed, simply by the way she
dismissed me with less than a full glance.
A man behind me and previously unseen, slipped a hand up my dress, raced
along the seam of a garter strap and pinching a tiny cheek of my pantied
ass.
"You're new. How about in the stables by ten, if you know what's good for
you, you wanton little cunt. I can smell a wench in heat a mile away," the
man threatened.
I glanced around, startled, knowing I'd never met the man before, nor any
man before in such a way, nor did I thrill to it - mentally at least. With a
scowl, me and my red face moved away, finally bumping into the lectern with
a wine glass jingling start. Turning again, I saw the posters strung above
the stairwell, replacing half of my dead relatives, for this occasion,
campaign posters of the same man who'd sexually propositioned me, now
apparently our newest Republican member of the U.S. Senate. My free hand
found my lips as I gasped, knowing that any fuss would be blamed upon me if
I refused him in the least; troubled maids always easily let go.
Seemingly knowing my thoughts, Madam looked my way. Our eyes froze. Time
shifted once more. She looked away, we passing an unknowable time together,
a second that seemed an hour.
I pulled my middle fucking finger from where I'd unknowingly implanted it,
last knuckle deep into my red, pouting, and warm, wet lips.
The Congressman nodded my way, saying that he had watched me cock-sucking
my face with a finger and could hardly await the present of me in the
garden; as my grandfather's clock chimed and crept past nine.
