The morning mist was thick upon the pastures that lined the road to the stables. Stacy liked to arrive earlier than most riders. She loved riding her gelding on the trails and through the gently rolling hills alone. She was often the first rider to arrive in the morning when the stables were just coming to life.
She parked her large SUV and strolled toward the particular stable that housed Spark, her three-year-old horse. She was wearing her usual riding attire; English riding kit, with a tight black jacket and white low-rise breeches that looked as if they had been sprayed on her trim legs and firm ass. She carried her black helmet and crop in her stylish, custom-made gloves, her glossy black boots kicking up small clouds of dust on the stable grounds.
She had ridden extensively in her pampered childhood, and then again in her exclusive women's college back east. She was an accomplished horsewoman, with several steeple chase cups adorning the mantle above the fire place in her lavish estate home.
After college she had fulfilled her mother's destiny for her by marring into even more money. Her husband of four years, Stanly Garner III, scion of the Virginia Garners, was away at the capital, where he was serving as a state senator for their district.
The gorgeous twenty-three-year old woman's life was filled with idle pleasures, afternoon teas with society ladies of her county, officiating in her husband's absence at various social functions and opening of new government buildings and projects, and doing volunteer work for the local historical preservation society.
But Stacy was bored. Her life seemed mundane, pointless. All of her dreams in college of making a difference in society had fallen through. She felt like her husband's pretty trophy, one which he kept safely ensconced on the mantle next her to riding cups.
But riding was different. She felt truly free, like a bird on the wing, flying above the picturesque country side that stretched for miles around the stables. Here she could be herself, at one with her mount. It was a primal, primitive feeling that appealed to her.
Instead of having one of the stable boys saddle Spark for her she preferred to complete the chore herself. It helped her bond to her mount and she would whisper words of encouragement to sooth the beast before their jaunts. She led the proud gelding out of the stable and expertly swung into her custom English saddle. She bound the strap of her helmet under her elegant chin and slowly trotted toward one of the many trails that led from the yard.
As she rode past one of the outbuildings she paused to consider a busy scene in a small corral hidden from the view of the main stable area. Two hands were preparing to collect a sperm sample from one of the breeding studs that the stable kept. They were using a phantom mare, a device that looked like a large gymnast jumping vault, which would serve as the surrogate mare for the randy stallion.
The hands paid little attention to the petite blond with her long pony tail blowing in the gentle morning breeze. Although it was cool, their exertions had the men sweating, and one, a striking colored fellow, had removed his shirt, displaying his sculptured muscular body. His broad shoulders accented by his narrow waist, his washboard abdomen, all caused the color to rise in the young woman's cheeks.
Momentarily, they led the stallion, which Stacy recognized at Demon Seed, the winner of countless races, towards the phantom mare. They smeared some viscous fluid on the 'rump' of the device, which Stacy guessed was some sort of pheromone. Demon Seeds nostrils flared as he took the scent in and immediately his procreative organ began to grow and distend.
She shifted nervously in her saddle, feeling the smooth leather against her warming womanflesh, as Demon Seed's organ reached a breath-taking length and began to sway and bob beneath his belly.
The hands encouraged Demon Seed to mount the phantom mare, but he did not seem to need much encouragement as he lifted his chest onto the back of the device and began a series of rapid pelvic thrusts. Quickly, one of the hands grabbed a long, tube-like device and slipped it over the stallions jiggling penis. Using the handles at either side of the tube, the hands began to work it back and forth on the beast's cock, causing him to snort loudly. This artificial vagina was padded on its inside to simulate the feel of a real mare in heat. Stacy had seen one of the devices once, lying unattended in a tack house, and had inspected it with curious astonishment. It was about three feet long and had a removable reservoir on its end for collecting the semen sample.
Demon Seed's body went taut, his hind legs quivering violently, as he ejaculated into the fake pussy. His massive balls jiggled as they pumped a copious amount of prized horse jizz into the plastic sleeve of the artificial cunt. So copious was his discharge that excess spooge began to leak from about the cuff that sealed the device to his cock, and streamed down from the sleeve like a garden hose on high.
Stacy could feel her nipples stiffened, pointed, in her jacket. A familiar sensation coursed through her loins as she took in the scene before her. She had often dreamed of being a mare and being ravished by a wild, savage stud like Demon Seed, dreams that always caused her to awake with a yawning, wet pussy.
The stable hands removed the fake vagina from the stallion's organ, and it dangled, more limply now, from beneath his belly, still dripping volumes of semen from its flared tip.
Stacy patted Spark on his muscular neck. "The show is over, boy. Let's go for our ride."
The reverie of her morning ride was disturbed by a returning vision of Demon Seed's frantic bucking against his imagined lover and the cascade of his juices leaking from the imagined horse vagina. The sample would no doubt fetch the stallion owner many thousands of dollars, and it would be frozen until it was sterile-injected into a likely mare with the use of some large syringe. It was sad, in a way, Stacy thought, that neither the stallion nor the mare would ever likely feel the passion of a real mounting. With horses of this value the risk of injury far outdistanced any altruistic feeling of compassion for the animal's pleasure.
Stacy's thoughts also turned to the muscular black stable hand, his sweat-glistening body laboring with the large tube under Demon Seed's belly and chest. Did the latent sexuality of his labors arouse him in the least? Did the proximity of such a large, powerful organ cause him any notions of human sex?
She shook her head to dispel the vision of the black man. Everything in her past, her linage, her culture screamed in her ears that she could not look upon a black man with any sense of sexuality. It was decadent beyond words, and any woman of her class that dared to think of a black buck in any romantic sense would surely become a social outcast, scorned by polite society, avoided by ladies of fashion and breeding, and certainly would never find a husband of any quality willing to marry her.
The constant rubbing of her vulva against her saddle had ist usual effect—Stacy was in a fine fettle by the time she returned from her three hour ride. Her thoughts invariably drifted to her husband, Stanly, and she cursed his absence. She was destined to spend many hours of vexed frustration waiting for her body to settle down and return to a state or normalcy. Or she could wickedly lie upon her canopied bed and allow her fingers to explore the gentle folds of her labia, rubbing and massaging her soft fleshy lips until an orgasm racked her slim body. But such behavior always left her with a feeling of degradation and unfulfillment. Better to take a long, ice cold shower.
She swung her shapely leg off her mount and led Spark back into the stable. By now the usual crowd of riders were arriving. The idle rich, the social elite of the county, here more to make deals than to ride. Stacy nodded pleasantly at Marigold Harrison-Payne as she and Reginald Waters led their own mounts out of the stable. Rumor had it that their rides were curiously short. That they would ride to a secluded meadow and engage in frenzied carnal couplings. Or so the gossip went. Stacy wondered if Marigold's husband was aware or even cared about his wife's alleged debauchery.
The stable was by now empty, devoid of riders and mounts. Stacy drank in the stillness and quiet, the fresh smell of alfalfa filling her nose. She deftly removed Spark's tackle and saddle and began to brush him down. Again, it was a task for the hired help, but Stacy enjoyed these quiet moments with her friend, Sparkie. She hung her jacket of a nail in one of the upright wooden posts and worked in her high-collared white riding shirt. Her yet erect nipples poked through her inner slip and stood proudly on the tips of her firm breasts.
"That was a good ride today, Spark. We must try that path again soon, wouldn't you agree?" she asked as she ran the large, stiff brush over his shining fur.
