Those flanks, ripping with muscle, coursing with blood,
constantly engorged with movement and fluid strength. The raw power of your hindquarters is enough
to drive anyone who looks at you, man, woman, old, young, any everything in
between, into wild estrus. You are sex
incarnate, and as your hooves pound the field out behind our uncle's house we
are all thinking the same thing.
Only Gregg will say it out loud. Only Gregg, simple Gregg with two gs, will
have the tincture of stupidity and courage necessary to speak the words we all
desperately avoid saying as we stare at you, as we watch you move, so free, so
majestic, so pure.
"I wanna fuck that horse," Gregg will murmur
before spitting a long stream of tobacco into the ground.
Half of us will nod.
The other half will avert our gazes, for fear that we might say the same
thing. None of us will act on these
desires, universally shared, uniformly daunting, but all of us will be thinking
of the same response.
No one should ever try to lay claim to such a wondrous,
beautiful thing, even if for a heartbeat.
Also, you could disembowel anyone that tried to fuck you with one good
kick. It just wouldn't be worth the
risk.
Congratulations Rambunctious Filly!
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