Morgan Fletcher fled to the south of England to seek revival, staying with his maternal grandmother and husband.
He'd been squeezed dry by his demanding job as new business manager for an ailing firm manufacturing sanitary disposal units for workplace toilets while socially attempting to anally satisfy his new stepmother as well as performing like a stallion for his egocentric girlfriend who stuck to him like a leech.
Although now married, Dottie claimed she was being sexually neglected, with her husband recovering from a tsunami-type honeymoon of wall-to-wall sex and that the onslaught of post-honeymoon depression. He'd horrified her by declaring that having sex once or perhaps twice a week was more than enough for anyone.
Morgan had become so fatigued he felt as if his teeth were ready to fall out and although he was only twenty-eight he was walking not unlike a geriatric ex-horseman.
He received medical treatment for something diagnosed as gross penile over-use, resigned from his job and snuck away without saying goodbye to his dad and his over-sexed stepmother and the clinging girlfriend who refused to be dumped.
His grandparents Agnes and William met him at Haywards Heath in West Sussex and notified his father he was in their care. When they'd headed from the station to a nearby village Morgan began imagining feeling the therapeutic bliss of knowing he was in the middle of nowhere whilst still being in England.
Driving the 21-year old Land Rover not unlike a tank commander through the conquered countryside of submissive peasantry, Agnes asked, "This over-stress you mother has told me you suffer from, is it long-lasting?"
Neither she nor her grandson heard William, a retired veterinarian mutter the symptoms at a glance appeared to be sleep deprivation and over-stimulation of self-inflicted masturbation.
"No grandma. According to the psychologist, three weeks of rural tranquillity in health-promoting sunshine ought to recharge batteries, so to speak.
"What sunshine?" grumbled his grandfather.
"Is your mother taking good care of her health?" Agnes asked and that on-going level of conversation convinced Morgan he was being inculcated in the near moronic environment of folksy sub-existence that would allow his spent body to rejuvenate itself.
"You can't have your old room as we now have a maid who sleeps there."
"Thank Christ for that," her grandson murmured as the tank rumbled through the countryside with remarkable agility considering the incompetence of the driver and the vehicle's state of mechanical neglect.
"No you'll sleep above the stables that we have leased out," William said, adding with authority he'd liberally applied rodent poison and therefore his grandson should not eat off the floor.
"There's no heating apart from that emitted from the two horses that should warm your room above them by half of a degree," said his grandmother as if she possessed vision.
As a boy Morgan had suspected that his gran was a Sussex witch because her pointy, narrow and prominent jawline was very similar to those witches in his boyhood birthday and Christmas story books that had frightened him shitless.
They walked into the kitchen and Morgan saw a sight for sore eyes; god his eyes were sore.
A woman was bent over the coal range displaying the traditional sturdy arse of a Sussex woman and when she stood and turned carrying a tray of hot fresh scones he could see that her chest was the same size of her arse, also a standout feature of many Sussex females.
"Omigod this under-fed specimen is your grandson" she commented. "He looks as if he'd collapse if he so much as took two pulls of his dick. Will you have three hot buttered scones darling?"
Morgan collapsed on to a chair at the table, nodding to the motherly female who looked no older than perhaps twenty-two.
Her name was Emma and as she led Morgan to the loft above the two splendid looking horses, going up the ladder access ahead of him. He kept his eyes lowered, fearing that the sight of the white of her upper thighs could trigger him into some type of relapse.
"I've made this horrid room as comfortable as I could for you," she said. "Here allow me to undress you; you appear exhausted.
"No."
"Now listen here Morgan, you pleaded with me to buy coffee because you detest tea and I agreed. In return I expect you to cooperate with me."
She undressed him and held out his flaccid dick for closer inspection.
"This is the biggest one I've ever seen. You'll be interested to learn both horses are mares."
Morgan was horrified.
He knew that buggery and lesbian behaviour existed in Sussex although nothing like it was in previous centuries but had always assumed only riders and Canadian police mounted their horses and now Emma was implying there was a more intimate associated between man and horse.
"Oh no, sex was rearing its ugly head sooner than expected.
He collapsed on to the bed and Emma said she would fetch a bowl of soapy water to wash his face. She went off to get the water from the house rather than cold water from the horses' drinking trough.
Morgan awoke to find Emma sponging his face with one hand and her other hand clutched his reproductive gear.
"Excuse me to touching you intimately but you balls obviously required warming; they appeared cold and dead."
He went to protest but she reminded him she'd promised to buy coffee.
God she was a manipulative bitch.
Falling asleep Morgan was dimly aware of Emma bending over to suck his dick but smiled grimly, knowing it would be unable to rise to the occasion.
Not long after dawn he heard the horses talking, or it seemed like that. He was standing nude at the bench that really was only a plank, drinking cold water from a container that Emma had left for him when he saw a woman's head and then body come into view at the top of the access ladder.
