A foxy woman
The mist clings to the manicured hedgerows of Blackwood Manor, a damp, grey wool pulled tight over the rolling countryside. The air tastes of wet earth and horseflesh, and a sharp, polished leather tang that wakes the lungs better than any morning coffee.
I adjust my grip on the reins, my gloved hands flexing against the cold leather. Below me, my gelding, a massive bay named Brutus, shifts his weight, hooves squelching in the mud. I am not perched side saddle like the other women, gathered in their ridiculous, stiff habits.
I ride astride, my breeches-clad thighs hugging the horse's flanks, boots firmly set in the stirrups. Four years in the field hospitals of France stripped me of the patience for decorum; I've seen men's insides on the outside, so a pair of legs spread atop a horse hardly qualifies as a scandal.
Lord Percy trots his stallion up alongside me, the animal a glossy black mirror to the fog. He looks every inch the Jazz Age hero—tweed coat cut sharp enough to slice, a silk cravat screaming in a loud paisley, and that careless, dashing smile that survived the Somme when so many others didn't.
He holds up a silver flask, the metal catching the weak light filtering through the oaks.
"Stirrup cup, Vivian," he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest, "Sloe gin. To warm the blood before the chill sets in."
I lean over, the movement bringing my shoulder close to his. I take the flask, the metal biting at my palm, and tip it back. The gin is dark, thick, and burning a hot path down my throat, blooming in my stomach like a swallowed coal. I hand it back, our fingers brushing. The contact brings the tingles, a sudden static shock that has nothing to do with the dry air. His skin is warm, rough, and I feel the jolt of it through the inside of my thighs.
God, that tingle recalls the burly Scots Guards Sergeant before Ypres, inside the field ambulance. Tight space, stretched filled pussy.
"Steady, lads!" The Master of the Foxhounds raises the horn to his lips. The note shatters the morning quiet—a piercing, mournful cry that tears through the fog.
The pack explodes into motion. Thirty English Foxhounds and a pair of jagged terriers surge forward, a chaotic river of fur and sound, baying their bloodlust to the grey sky.
Percy kicks his heels into his stallion's flanks, and we are off. We thunder across the manicured lawn, the hooves of fifty horses tearing up the turf, before plunging into the darkness of the private forest.
The wind whips my hair loose from its pins, stinging my cheeks. We jump the first ditch, a wooden barrier looming suddenly from the mist. I rise in the stirrups, instinct taking over, my body fluid and light.
Brutus clears it easily, landing with a heavy thud that jars my teeth. Beside me, Percy matches my pace, his eyes locked on mine, a wild, reckless grin splitting his face. The adrenaline is a drug, flooding my veins, making my heart hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I recall the French Colonel, champagne in Paris, and my slick slit his oyster.
We clear a second fence, a high stone wall festooned with moss. This time, as we land, Percy's leg presses hard against mine, the friction of his wool trousers against my leather boots sending a spike of heat straight to my groin. He doesn't pull away. He leans in, his thigh riding mine, the contact sustained, deliberate. My breath hitches.
The hunt is fading into the distance, the hounds' cries growing faint as the fox leads them on a winding chase deeper into the woods. Percy slows his horse, nodding toward a narrow, overgrown trail branching off to the left.
"Let them chase the vixen," he shouts over the noise of the wind. "I've found better sport."
We turn off the main path, ducking under low-hanging branches. The fog is thicker here, dampening sound, wrapping us in a cocoon of white silence.
We ride hard for another mile until the sound of the horn is just a ghostly echo. We break through the tree line into a secluded grove. A stream babbles over smooth stones, the water clear and cold. Moss covers the ground like a thick green velvet carpet.
Percy is off his horse before the animal stops moving. He ties the reins to a low branch and turns to me. I dismount, my boots hitting the earth with a soft thud.
He is on me in a stride, his hands grabbing my waist, pulling me flush against him. There is no preamble, no polite courtship. The hunt has primed us both, the raw animal energy of the chase seeking a different outlet.
I recall the Australian Digger, recovering at Le Havre, fragments in his butt, called me a 'real proper shelia' and then proceeded to mount me.
Percy's mouth crashes down on mine, tasting of gin and tobacco and desperation. I kiss him back hard, my teeth scraping his lower lip, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I can feel his cock, hard and insistent, pressing against my belly through the layers of tweed and wool.
"God, Vivian," he growls against my mouth, his hands fumbling with the buttons of my riding jacket. "I've wanted to get you out of this kit since I saw you in the stables."
"Shut up and get on with it, Percy," I breathe, shrugging off the heavy coat and letting it fall into the mud. I reach for his belt, my fingers clumsy with urgency.
He spins me around, pushing me face-first against the rough bark of a massive oak tree. The bark scrapes my cheek, a sharp contrast to the heat flooding my body.
He yanks my breeches and tap pants down in one rough motion, the morning air hitting my exposed skin, making my ass clench. I hear the sound of his buttons, the rustle of fabric, and then the hot, heavy weight of his dick sliding between my thighs.
"Uuggh! Uugghh!"
I braced my hands against the tree, arching my back to present myself to him.
He doesn't hesitate. He grips my hips with the force of commanding men and slams into me.
I cry out, the sound swallowed by the trees. He fills me completely, stretching me, the sudden invasion sending a shockwave of pleasure-pain up my spine.
My body is under a flesh assault barrage. I'm banged. My slit spooned. My girly canal grips in one instance. In the next, it stretches out to chase his retreating pecker. His meat sinks into my encircling space. Rapid, continuous; tugging, pulling, jerking and driving.
He doesn't wait for me to adjust. He sets a ruthless rhythm, pounding into me, his hips slapping against my ass with a wet, fleshy sound that echoes through the grove.
"Take it," he grunts, his fingers digging into my flesh.
"Take that cock, you dirty flapper."
"Yes," I hiss, pushing back to meet his thrusts, "Harder. Fuck me harder. Aahh! Yes! Aahh! Aahh!"
The smell of the forest—the moss, the damp earth, the rotting leaves—mixes with the musk of our sweat and the carnal tang of sex.
It's primal, filthy, utterly exposed. Anyone could ride by. The hounds could pick up our scent. The thought makes my pussy clench around him, the walls of my sodden gash gripping his shaft like a vice.
He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing it in tight, savage circles. The sensation is too much.
"Oohh! Hnggh! Hngg!" I unladylike grunt.
My legs tremble, my knees threatening to buckle. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, a tight coil ready to snap.
"Cum for me, Vivian," he demands, his voice ragged, "Cum on my dick right here in the mud."
The coil snaps. I scream, my orgasm tearing through me with the force of a physical blow.
"Orrrrghhh!"
In the distance, the hunting horn sounded a double blast.
My vision blanks, my body convulsing, waves of pleasure radiating out to my fingertips. My pussy pulsing, gushing wetness, coating him.
He roars, burying himself deep inside me one last time. I feel him throb, his hot cum shooting deeper, flooding my insides.
He holds himself there, panting against my neck, his sweat dripping onto my skin.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent gurgle of the stream.
Slowly, he pulls out, and the rush of cold air is shocking. I lean against the tree, my legs weak, my thighs sticky with our combined fluids.
Percy tucks himself back in, adjusting his trousers with shaky hands. He looks at me, his hair mussed, his clothes dishevelled, looking more like a man who's just survived a battle than a lord of the manor. A slow, satisfied smirk spreads across his face.
In the distance, the horn blows again—a long, sad note signalling that the fox has escaped the hounds, gone to ground in some faraway burrow.
"Bugger the vixen," Percy says, reaching out to stroke my flushed cheek with his thumb.
"She got away. But I think we caught something far better."
I pull my breeches up, the fabric rough against my sensitive skin, and grin, the taste of sloe gin and sex still lingering on my tongue. "Indeed, my Lord. Indeed."