She came the same time every morning. She would enter the dark stable, her long skirt rustling as she walked. She never smiled and never said so much as a "good morning." She would ask for her horse and I would hold the reins as she mounted the chestnut stallion. She never needed help getting on the animal. She would throw one muscular leg over the saddle and pull herself into position. Taking the reins from me, she would thank me and then gallop off into the early morning.
I once asked my father, who is the groundskeeper for the Wentworth estate, why Mrs. Wentworth never wore pants when she rode. Although ladies wore long dresses and skirts, it was still acceptable to wear riding pants when horseback riding. I made the mistake of showing my ignorance in front of some other workers who started snickering. My father pulled me aside to explain.
"Mrs. Wentworth is a very beautiful, but very unhappy woman. She married her husband, Sebastian Wentworth, when she was very young and he was much older. He never paid a great deal of attention to her. He was always consumed by his business affairs. They never were blessed with children. Of course he is old and ill now and there is not much he can do. Laura Wentworth has always been a devoted wife and she would never leave him. Where would she go? She doesn't have a penny that isn't her husband's," explained my father between puffs of his pipe.
"I still don't understand dad. Why does she ride every morning and look so sad?" I asked naively.
"Son, when a woman is neglected, when her husband can't or won't take care of his husbandly duty, she must take care of it herself. Do you understand boy?" asked my father with a wink.
"No, I am afraid I don't dad," I confessed.
"I am worried about you son, you should be more aware of these things. Look son, Mrs. Wentworth rides to relieve her sexual tension. The motion of the horse gives her pleasure. And that long skirt hides what she is doing. Don't be dense boy!" said my father as he slapped me on the back.
"You have got to be joking. A lady like Mrs. Wentworth wouldn't do such a thing," I exclaimed.
"She is still a woman. You are the stable hand and you see her when she returns from her ride. Haven't you noticed that she is always out of breath? Haven't you seen her large bosoms heaving and straining against the fabric of her dress? And if the light is just so, you can see that her nipples are erect. And you must have noticed the wet stain on the saddle from where her pussy juices flowed during the ride," queried my father in an annoyed voice.
It was true. I had noticed those things but being young I had never understood what was going on. Ever since that conversation with my father I watched Laura Wentworth more closely. The thought that this beautiful woman had only a horse for pleasure made me so sad. As I began to mature, Laura Wentworth filled my fantasies. As I lay in bed at night and feverishly clutched my cock, I thought of her riding that stallion.
By the time I turned eighteen, my childhood infatuation with Laura Wentworth had turned into a man's lust. At a muscular six feet, I had developed a man's body, but I still had the experiences of a boy. There were many girls my own age that I went out with, but I was fascinated by Laura. I asked one of the housemaids how old Mrs. Wentworth was and the maid thought she must be about thirty-five. Her body still appeared to be firm since it had not experienced the ravages of childbearing. Through her dresses, I could tell that her breasts were large and fleshy. Her long, wavy red hair always hung down her back. And to me her face was utter perfection. Large brown eyes that always looked so sad. Her lips were full and usually tinted a pale shade of red. Her skin was creamy white and it was always flushed a deep crimson after her ride. Sometimes she seemed to give me a furtive glance, but I didn't think she really noticed me.
