A tale of Southern charm, lust, love, sorrow, and a little bit of magic.
Chapter One: The Scent of Magnolias
It happens every Spring, or when I close my eyes and feather dust the pale yellow dry perfume oil lightly all over my body. The magnolias, sweet magnolias, are blooming…and I can scarce draw a breath with the thoughts the sweet odor evokes in my mind. What happiness…what ecstasy…what might have been…and the tears etch a glistening path down my lined and furrowed cheeks as I remember…yet again…whenever I catch the scent of magnolias…
I can remember every moment of those months, oh, so many years ago, as if it were yesterday. The memories play through my mind, and time has not diminished them. And sometimes they are more real than the world around me.
****
The porch swing sways gently. The day is giving way slowly to the night with sighs of soft crimson and mauve. In the live oaks hung with Spanish Moss, birds call softly as the flock settles in for the night. The warm breeze, heavy with the scent of magnolias, caresses all in its path. The moon, not quite full, brightens slowly just above the trees, appearing much larger than it should. The magnolia blossoms glow in a golden light.
Rising from the swing, we walk toward the garden. You are tall, over six feet, dark haired, broad shouldered, eyes soft and hungry. I feel at once both improbably delicate beside you and fiercely protected; slender but with a horsewoman's broad shoulders, dark hair falling to mid-back, just above what my mirror tells me is a shapely ass. Firm, hand-size breasts just visible beneath the white silky blouse I seem to always wear around you. My legs are long for my five foot four stature, sufficient to keep up with your stride. The entrance to the garden is guarded by two magnolias, a dwarf Southern magnolia that seems to have traded stature for the intensity of fragrance in its pure white flowers, and a Daybreak magnolia, full of huge, equally fragrant, rosy-pink blooms. Beneath them, and centered between, is a circle of stones, polished river stones perhaps, occupying a space of about 15 feet across. We make love there in the circle, enveloped in the fragrance, two souls melting into one. How to describe the scent of magnolias? Intense, rich, almost magical. Sweet, pungent, spicy, an almost citrus scent, reminiscent of lemons, but with overtones of lilies, and perhaps fresh semen. I can't quite put my finger on it - they smell like nothing else in the world - each specimen is similar, yet unique. They seem a metaphor for life. The exotic blooms pass all too quickly; if only the magnolia could bloom all year so we could enjoy its heady scent always. But that isn't to be. Nature is as life - things you treasure can't always last forever.
****
You told me that night. Our joy and passion, our plans for a future together, the new life to be…all on hold, aging like a fine Amontillado in its cask…until your return from the duty to which you had sworn allegiance. Tears etched a glistening path over my sculpted cheekbones, to collect in the corner of my mouth, lips slightly parted in shock. I knew in a moment of clarity and of horror what would be. "No, no, no, you can't go…not now…not when we have found each other!" My heart beat wildly in my alabaster breast as I clutched your arms to draw you nearer. Our bodies fit together in defiance of the conventions of the day. Our hands, our lips, our souls intertwined in a frantic desire to merge into one being.
And as the moon rose above the oaks, seemingly receding from the earth, its constant companion, so, too, did you rise from the bed of moss on which we had sunk. The hunger in your eyes was momentarily sated, but there was regret and sadness in those haunting orbs. Even the smile on your face as you watched me gather my petticoats and brush the twigs from my skirt…even that wonderful, expressive smile was tinged with sadness. A last embrace…a tender kiss, as gentle as butterfly wings…and you were gone…and I was alone…in the circle of stones.
****
Chapter Two: Equestrian Pursuits
He told me later he had seen me in the early morning, riding back toward the main house on my farm, relaxed and easy on my little grey mare. Half Connemara, he had guessed, larger than a purebred, with a distinctive elegant gait, and a long flowing mane, and tail nearly on the ground. He had found the rider equally enchanting, even from a distance – slender but with a horsewoman's broad shoulders, dark hair falling to mid-back, firm, hand-size tits just visible beneath the white silky blouse she always wore, her long legs and shapely ass encased in soft tan riding breeches. Not many women he knew rode that early, or bareback, with such confidence. Yesterday, he had decided – he had to meet that rider, convention be damned. The sight of me on the mare, slowly cantering in lazy circles, breasts bouncing, arms outstretched as I guided the mare only with my legs and seat, head thrown back in joy, ass and hips, moving with the mare in deep, slow pelvic thrusts, ass firmly planted on the mare's back – now that was a rider! The sight of me moving that way, as if fucking, fired his imagination, and made him hard. He imagined that rider riding him that way, and soon he could stand it no longer. He was glad Archibald was spending the week in town, and he was alone. He unbuttoned his breeches, freeing his throbbing cock. He stroked it slowly. He could almost feel her pussy, hot and wet, sliding down on his dick, taking him all in, deep inside, then thrusting, up and down, as his hand followed the picture his mind was painting. He could see those firm breasts, surely as soft and white as that silky blouse that blew against them in the breeze, with hard pink nipples, bouncing with each thrust of her hips. He groaned, his hand moving faster. "No," he thought, "slower, slower, match the canter, match the canter." In his mind, she now moved back and forth, back and forth, her pussy tightening and loosening, tightening and loosening, to match the rhythm of that canter, her back arched, head back in ecstasy. All too soon, the picture exploded, as he shuddered to a climax, cum spraying the wisteria and the porch railing.
****
The following day, he had his horse saddled early. As he had planned, he was riding in a side field where he could be easily seen when I went by on my way home. When I came abreast of the field, I slowed to a walk from a trot, and then stopped for a moment. He appeared to be concentrating on his riding, then noticing me, he also stopped briefly and waved. I returned the wave. He picked up a canter, again focusing on his horse, but he admitted he was watching me out of the corner of his eye. I watched for a moment, then trotted off up the lane toward home.
****
I had always loved summer on the farm – the breezes blowing lightly across the fertile fields of cotton and alfalfa, the scent of fresh cut hay and manure filling the air, bringing back memories of childhood. And I loved coming to the stables to spend time with my horse. The grey mare was beauty, and elegance, and power, and I spent every moment possible with her. Riding was my passion. I almost always rode bareback, enjoying the feeling of connection and oneness with the horse, the movement of the muscles beneath me. All sense of time disappeared when I rode - always in the present moment, focused on the horse, and the beauty around me. We were so in tune, my little grey mare and I, that often I had only to think of what I wanted, and the mare responded, changing gaits, turning one way or other. The day before yesterday, we had cantered in lazy circles, my pussy growing hotter with the slow rocking motion, as I moved in a way not unlike making love. I found myself thinking of the unicorn. "Now if I had been designing that mythical beast, I would have put a slightly smaller horn, not on its head, but on its back." I imagined riding naked, in warm rain… The heat of my mount beneath me, radiating up through my bottom, inner thighs growing warmer, encircling the barrel of the beast, and my ass moving with the rhythm of the canter. The heat reflected up into my cunt, making me hot and wet, and my clit and inner lips full and firm. I could scarcely wait to get home, where, once in the barn, I quickly slipped off my pants, continuing my fantasy. I felt the rain running over my breasts, teasing them, hitting my nipples, which grow warm and hard. Soon my hands are on my swelling tits, my fingers brushing the nipples, across the tips, back and forth, back and forth, then grasping them between thumb and forefinger. I roll each nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pressing down firmly, and arch my back, pushing breasts upward and forward to meet my hands. Soon, I am too hot to ignore the burning ache between my legs any longer. I slide my hands down, and shuddering with delight, rub them against my pussy, now dripping with juices. I play the rider, my hands becoming the back of the horse, rubbing against the swollen lips and button. I move my hips in rhythm with the imagined canter, slow and powerful. And then, once again, I feel myself on that strange unicorn. Fingers become that horn that would satisfy my desire, as first one and then two slide in. I fuck myself slowly, hips and ass thrusting in time with the canter, horn-fingers moving in and out and around, as I ride closer and closer to release. I press and rub my clit harder and faster, grinding as if on the back of a racing stud. As the intensity builds, the canter becomes faster, as my thrusts grow more frenzied. And then, my sex quivers, contracting again and again as waves of orgasms envelope me. I sink to my knees, gulping for air, then slowly pull myself up again onto the mare's neck. I hang there, spent, leaning against the mare as she quietly eats her hay.
