The first time I felt his hot breath on my inner thigh, I knew I was crossing a line that most women wouldn’t even dare to approach. But I’m not most women. I’m Celeste, forty-three, freshly divorced from a man who couldn’t satisfy me if his life depended on it, and I own a sprawling estate in the countryside where I do exactly what I please. What pleases me now is something I’ve fantasized about since I was a girl, something that makes my cunt wet just thinking about it: I’m going to train my stallion, Apollo, to fuck me.
It started with the grooming sessions. I’d stand between his powerful legs, running the brush over his sleek chestnut coat, my fingers trailing lower, finding the thick, soft sheath that held his cock. He’d twitch, his ears flicking back, but he trusted me. I’d been his sole caretaker for two years, ever since the divorce. He knew my scent, my voice, my touch. And I knew his body—every muscle, every shudder, every time his breath hitched when I stroked the underside of his belly.
At first, it was just touching. I’d let my hand rest on his sheath, feeling the warmth, the weight of his soft member inside. He’d stretch his neck, nuzzling my shoulder, his eyes half-closed in pleasure. I’d whisper to him, “That’s right, baby. Let me make you feel good.” And then I’d slide my hand lower, grazing his balls, and he’d lift his hind leg slightly, a sign of submission and trust. My pussy throbbed every time.
The next stage was introducing taste. I’d smear a little of my own cream on my fingers and let him lick it off. He liked the saltiness, the woman-scent. His tongue was rough and enormous, curling around my fingers like a wet, muscular snake. I’d close my eyes, imagining that tongue inside me, and my clit would ache. The first time he nuzzled between my legs while I was wearing a thin summer dress, I almost came right there. His muzzle pressed against my cunt through the fabric, hot and sniffing, and I grabbed his mane and held him there, grinding against his nose. He didn’t pull away. He understood.
Within a month, I had him trained to follow a simple command: when I spread my legs and patted my thigh, he’d lower his head and start licking. I’d lie on a clean blanket in the stable, naked, my pussy shaved and glistening, and he’d bend his massive neck and lap at me like I was a salt lick. That tongue— that tongue. It was broad and thick, sliding from my clit up to my entrance, then pushing inside, a deep, wet invasion that made me gasp and squirm. I’d grab his ears, my heels digging into the straw, and let him eat me out until I screamed. He got so good at it that I could orgasm within minutes, my hips bucking against his mouth, his whinnies vibrating through my cunt.
But licking wasn’t enough. I needed to feel him inside me. I needed his cock—that massive, horse-cock I’d watched him erect when he smelled a mare in heat—to fill my pussy and stretch me open. I knew it would hurt. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to be split apart by something real, something animal, something that didn’t whisper sweet lies like my ex-husband did before failing to get it up.
The mounting phase took another two months. I started by letting him mount a training dummy I’d built—a padded frame with a realistic cunt hole at the perfect height. I’d stand beside him, stroking his shaft as he slid into the silicone, whispering, “That’s it, Apollo. Fuck it. Fuck it hard.” His hips drove forward with a power that made the whole structure shake. His cock was a spectacle: at full erection, it was easily eighteen inches, tapered at the head, with a thick, veined shaft that pumped precum like a faucet. I’d jack him off into my hand, catching the hot, creamy ropes, and then rub it all over my face and tits. I drank it, too. It tasted like almonds and salt and pure, unbridled stallion.
The day came when I decided the dummy wasn’t enough. I wanted the real thing. I built a sturdy breeding mount—a padded platform with stirrups for my feet and a curved belly rest that would angle my pussy perfectly. I spread my legs, oiled my cunt with lube and my own juices, and called him over. He was already half-hard, his sheath dripping from the scent of me. I grasped his cock, feeling the heat, the weight, the pulsing life in my hand, and guided the tip to my entrance.
The head was too big. I knew it would be. But I pushed anyway, using my other hand to spread my labia, stretching the ring of muscle around that massive dome. “Come on, baby,” I breathed. “Go slow. Fill me up.”
He understood. He always understood. His hips pressed forward gently, and the head popped through, a searing stretch that made me cry out. I felt like I was being impaled, my walls gripping the smooth, hot shaft as it slid deeper. He paused, his cock buried halfway, his chest heaving above me. I reached back, gripping his mane, and said, “Fuck me, Apollo. Fuck your mommy.”
And he did.
His first thrust was a jarring, deep lunge that drove his cock into my cervix. I screamed—a raw, animal sound that echoed off the stable walls. My vision went white. The pain was a bright, clean fire, and then it melted into something else, something that made my pussy clench and my clit throb. He pulled back, his cock slick with my blood and cream, and rammed in again. And again. Each thrust was a hammer blow, a universe-shattering invasion that rearranged my insides. I could feel his balls slapping against my ass, the rhythmic grunt of his breath, the smell of horse and sex and hay. My cunt was on fire, stretched to its absolute limit, and I loved every second.
He fucked me for what felt like an hour. I came three times, each orgasm a convulsive wave that squeezed his cock inside me, making him whinny and pump even harder. When he finally came, it was a flood—a torrent of hot, thick cum that filled my womb, spilling out around his shaft and down my thighs. I felt it deep inside, a warm, living pool. He stayed buried for a long moment, his cock twitching, his breath hot on my neck. I lay there, limp, covered in sweat and cum and blood, utterly satisfied.
Now, I ride him bareback every evening. Not out in the fields—that’s for show. I mean he rides mr in the stable, his cock buried in my pussy. I’ve learned to control his pace and the size he let’s in me. I can make him slow and deep, or fast and brutal. Most times, I invite him to mount me from behind, and I grip his sides while he pounds into me like a stallion servicing a mare. He’s my lover, my toy, my secret. And I’ve never felt more alive.
The divorce was the best thing that ever happened to me. It freed me to pursue what I really wanted. And now I have it: a magnificent beast who fucks me better than any man ever could, who doesn’t judge my fantasies, and who never sleeps in the guest room. Apollo and I are the perfect couple.
And I’m not ashamed. Not one bit.