Dressage Enthusiasts Enjoy Horsing Around

I'm not much of an animal person. My family didn't go crazy over pets like others in our neighborhood. I don't have countless stories about hamsters and turtles ... fuck, I never even owned a sea monkey! So when my editor assigned me a story about a local horse farm, let's just say I wasn't opening a champagne bottle or anything.

The city of Haven was no more than a collection of street lights and intersections anchored by a grocery, a U.S. post office, two banks, a seedy looking gas station, a stoic United Methodist church, and a large convalescent center. As I passed through, I was saddened by the shabby houses and the lack of greenery. This place has seen better days, I silently snarked.

But once I exited Haven, the scenery brightened with the colors and textures of mid summer and I found myself brightening to the idea of spending the afternoon outdoors with the manager of HavensWood Farm.

I found the turnoff without much difficulty, but the hard-packed two-lane drive was extremely rough and full of ruts. My Chevy wasn't used to such terrain and the car bucked on its springs. Parts of the drive turned gloomy, tree branches encroaching on the clearance overhead and to the sides. And at times, the road narrowed to barely a full lane. I wondered briefly what this equine business venture must be like to be so hidden back in "the sticks." The theme from "Deliverance" played in my head.

After about a quarter of a mile of jostling ... which took forever to traverse because I had to drive so slow to keep my car in one piece ... the foliage thinned and I emerged back into sunlight and clear blue skies. Before me was not the ramshackle collection of barns I was expecting, but a smart-looking main building surrounded by two stables, a large barn with nearby storage sheds, and two well equipped practice and training rings. Everything looked crisp and freshly painted in that deep country red tone with classic white trim and insets. A gleaming silo completed the idyllic picture.

Simple arrow-shaped signs led me past a gravel parking lot littered with heavy-duty trucks and associated horse trailers, and directed me to the farm's office ...a two-story structure designed to simulate the surrounding farm buildings. But the office definitely looked newer, less weathered. Window boxes marked every long vertical window, contrasting the rusty red of the walls with brilliant blooms in white, yellow, and pale orange. Perched atop the edifice was a small cupola adorned with an iconic rooster weather vane. According to the patinaed "cock," only a slight mediating breeze disturbed the calm and bright afternoon.

I pulled my car into a small paved parking strip running the width of the office building; only three of the 10 spaces were occupied. As I cut the engine, I took a moment to notice more of the homespun "touches" welcoming people to HavensWood. Wicker rocking chairs ... four in all ... sat beckoning on a slab porch to the left of the entrance, protected by an eave extending out to create a barrier against rain and sun. One chair offered comfort to a rough looking calico that eyed me momentarily and then went back to napping. A sign reading "Managers' Office" was surrounded in luck-inducing upturned horseshoes. In fact, this affectation appeared on pillars and posts in many directions. Two "hitching posts" separated the parking platform from a line of low shrubbery and bracketed the walkway to the office door ... whether the railings were functional or aesthetic was anybody's guess. Not what I expected at all, I mused as I disengaged my seat belt and exited my car with notepad and camera bag in tow.

As I locked my door and pocketed the keys, I stood motionless and breathed in heavy lungfuls of farm air. My senses were enjoying the earthy scents and natural sounds. Birds tweeted in the upper reaches of buildings and in a nearby copse of trees. An occasional whiny broke the quiet as horses were worked in the ring or meandered about the paddocks and watering troughs. After another cleansing breath, I took maybe two steps toward the office when the intricately-paned door swung open and two men emerged onto the porch. I stopped to take them in; they stood gauging my intent as well.

They were dressed similarly ... jeans, weathered work boots, and t-shirts that accentuated their forms. Each man sported a deep, ruddy tan that only comes from long hours spent outdoors. These dudes were rugged and extremely handsome; I pegged their ages in the mid 30s, maybe pushing the 40 mark. Even though I had seen them for only a few seconds, I picked up a definite "cowboy" vibe ... not the rodeo champ or the city-slicker wannabe. These men carried themselves with a casual ease ... a natural masculine sense of grace. Really sexy!

But that's where the similarities ended. One stud was tall ... probably matching my 6' 3" height ... and built sparingly, compact muscles easily seen in his neck and forearms. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but I guessed that his eyes would match the guarded way he seemed to hold his body. His lips were thin and his chin was strong and covered with a bit of stubble. "Tall Guy" had mousy hair clipped short; his nose was aristocratic, demanding attention in an appealing manner.

"Gentleman #2" was a good four or five inches shorter but equally stunning. He sported darker, fuller tresses and the planes comprising his face were less pronounced. Hirsute forearms hung to his sides, drawing my eyes to the impressive bulge accentuated by the tight denim he wore. His chest and legs promised a bit more beefy muscle than his compatriot.

With my assessment finished, I went into motion ... complete with a growing hardness in my boxer briefs ... and met them where they stood. Before I could initiate an introduction, the shorter man spoke. "Are you the reporter from the paper?" Up close, his eyes were hazel and his rich tenor voice was melodic.

"Yes, sir," I responded. "I'm here to meet with the manager ... are you Mr. Morgan?"

"It's Clay, son ... Clay Morgan. And it's 'co-manager,' " he quickly corrected. He sent an apologetic smile to the taller man. "And this is Carey McGuire, my partner. We run the place for the owners and organize all the training schedules and practice events." Clay wiped his hand on his thick thigh before extending his arm for an introductory handshake. When our hands met, I quivered from the heat exchange and the texture of his calloused hands rubbing my smooth skin. My blood pressure spiked, as did my dick which was begging to be noticed. Clay stepped back and I swiveled my body slightly to the right to face Carey. I stuck out my hand first to break the ice and the tall rancher somewhat reluctantly clasped my hand. This time I was greeted with a subtle jolt of bioelectricity, like this guy's core of energy was boiling just below the surface of his tanned skin. Damn, I said to myself, thunder and lightning!

"So let's show you around the place," Clay suggested, breaking the moment as Carey released my hand. "We're very proud of what we've built." So for the next 20 minutes, Clay and Carey escorted me around the property ... well a portion of it. Clay did all of the talking. "We have a total of 70 acres here. The owners have been horse lovers and competitors since the 1950s. The operation was small, but several years ago they started getting more and more requests from peers for help and guidance. They even had well-known coaches that wanted to lease space and time for their students. They knew they would need direct help to make it happen. We were both looking for jobs and a way to support our competition needs. It was being in the right place at the right time ... a perfect fit!" Clay smiled with obvious pride.

As we continued to walk, I asked if it was okay to take some photos. Once I received the "OK," I only half listened to Clay's continuing saga as I snapped some decent shots of the farm itself and some riders and their mounts walking or trotting by. I'll have to get releases for all these folks, I noted, but some of these pics are just for me. And with that I skewed my angle a little to capture some images of my two guides, one great shot in particular captured Clay's ass with a pair of manly work gloves sticking up from his back pocket.

Eventually, we arrived outside one of the two training rings ... this one uncovered and busy with two or three groupings of activity. "So, Clay, you mentioned competing ... you're both riders?"

The shorter hunk nodded. "It's called dressage ... a very disciplined form of training horses for competition. Carey and I both come from horse families and we've been competing for years. His father was a jockey and he has a brother that competes too. That's another reason why HavensWood is so special for us. We have access to some of the best coaches and trainers around, and we in turn get to work with our peers and share our knowledge and experience in the sport."

"And our horses love the place as much as we do." It was Carey speaking. It was the first time that the lanky horse guy had talked all afternoon; his voice was so sultry that I imagine I would have paid him money just to read from the phone book. I noticed, however, that when he spoke his attention remained fixed on the activity in the ring; when Clay spoke he made deliberate eye contact. And when he did look at you, the flecks of gold in his hazel irises caught the afternoon sun and erupted like miniature volcanoes. Thunder and lightning, I repeated mentally.

"So with keeping the place organized and managing the training schedule and keeping up with your own ... um, is 'workouts' a good enough word?" Clay nodded. "You guys practically live here!"

"We do," both men replied in unison. Clay laughed effortlessly and thumped me playfully on the shoulder; Carey chuckled softly. "See the trees over there?" Clay asked as he pointed toward the east and a dense collection of mature maples and red oaks. "That five acres is virtually untouched except for a little cottage we live in. One of the farm's owners had a son that lived there for a while but it was empty when we started here. The hours were long and one day during a break Carey stumbled upon the little house. It needed some work, but the owners liked the idea of us being so close." Clay dipped his heavily-lashed eyes slightly, as if he were debating on saying more. "It's so private in there, I can run around naked and no one's the wiser," he added.

I laughed in a shrill voice to cover my growing arousal. "We'll probably leave that part out of the story ... don't want the ladies stampeding down that nasty driveway." Both men seemed amused by my comment.

Without a follow-up question immediately at hand, the three of us stood in companionable silence. I raised my digital camera and zoomed in on a young girl in the ring working with a young female trainer. She was attempting to get her horse ... a beautiful Arabian with clean lines ... to perform a high-energy trot called a "passage." I was just about to ask either of my escorts about the difficulty level of this maneuver when Carey scaled the low fence and loped off toward the young rider. His posterior flexed seductively as he moved.

"That little lady is one of Carey's favorites," Clay explained as he watched the scene intently. "She's only been riding about three years so she's still a little timid. And the horse knows it! Arabs can be stubborn and if you're not stern with them you can be in for some real difficulties. That's why Carey and me favor Danish warmbloods and Andalusians ... generally more intelligent and better temperaments. Easier to train and better to ride."

Clay sighed quietly and then continued. "Carey would never admit it, but he has a soft spot for kids. He's so patient and gentle. The owners noticed it right away and asked me to make sure he got assigned as many youngsters as he could handle." I turned to look at Clay. He was focused on his buddy, not the horse or the girl or the trainer. In profile, his handsome face radiated more than the "friendship" of good pals and business peers. My reporter's instincts "smelled" an underlying story but one too personal to ask about. And it's none of my business anyway, I mused, but I'd buy the dvd in a heartbeat!!

Back to the task at hand ... "Clay, I always try to approach an interview somewhat prepared. I did the usual 'Google' and 'Yahoo' searches on dressage, but the information wasn't all that digestible. Could you define what you do in your own words?"

Clay motioned me back from the fence a few feet and we sat side by side on one of the many low, rough-hewn benches spaced around the training ring's perimeter. Clay's jeans hugged his legs and I could see a few wisps of chest hair escaping the slightly-stretched collar of his dark green T. "In a nutshell, dressage is a form of equine training that dates back to 12th century Europe, although some historians think its roots go further back ... like 400 B.C. It's like a marriage between horse and rider where the animal becomes attuned to very subtle movements and gestures. When we go into a competition, it's all about precision and obedience ... not dominance. Our overall goal is to get a horse to it's physical optimum."

I wrote furiously, trying to capture the words but they were unfamiliar and Clay spoke quickly, like a professor lecturing to an experienced class. I attempted to grab key phrases for follow-up questions and just soak in the "flavor" of the sport. According to Clay, the training of animals for competition relied on tasks and maneuvers or growing complexity ... moves with names like "capriole" and "levade." He also explained that there were various levels of competition ... from amateur events to full-bore Olympic events, as in the Olympic Games. Clay stressed that with every level there were regulations that differed slightly, everything from the boots and reins riders could wear and use to how a horse's hair was to be braided and what type of saddle could be employed. In my mind, I pictured Clay and Carey preparing for a competition, helping each other into dashing coats and hats ... and playfully smacking each other with riding crops. My peter drooled a little in my briefs to remind me I was working.

"So how long have you been competing?" I queried.

"Close to 17 years as a serious rider ... and I think Carey's been at it for almost 20."

"More like 23 years and you damn well know it!" Carey's nearby baritone startled us both ... he had apparently finished with his "duties" in the ring and returned to our location without making a sound. He smiled broadly at the fact that he'd caught us unaware.

Clay looked up at his partner on what I expected were many levels and returned the grin. "Just didn't want to make you sound any older than you were to the young man."

"We're the same age."

"Be nice," Clay tutted.

"Fuck you too," Carey retorted flatly.

There was an awkward few seconds, but finally Clay broke the silence. "Okay, then," he said to me while springing to his feet. "Why don't we take this into the office where we can have a glass of iced tea and answer your other questions? That is, if you've seen enough of the property and taken enough pictures."

I rose to my feet more slowly and slung my camera bag over my shoulder. "I think I have more than enough shots ... and a cold drink would be great!" Then trying to be a little flirty, I added, "I'm not used to being out in the sun all day like you macho cowboys."

I moved a few feet in the direction of the office, following close behind Clay. Carey's seldom-heard voice caught are attention from a few yards back. "What about our tack room?"

"What about it, Carey?"

The rangy stud had not moved at all. His throat worked as he chose his words carefully. "I mentioned to you earlier, Clay, that we might want to show him some of the equipment we use in competition ... in the tack room."

"Really? ... You're sure?"

Carey lowered his head as if reconciling some inner conflict. "I'm sure."

Clay actually beamed as he placed a hand on my shoulder and steered me in reverse. I felt like I was missing an important piece of a puzzle. "Carey and I have some special items ... expensive stuff ... that we keep locked in our own tack room in the smaller stable. There's also some of Carey's trophies and competition medals ... he's much more accomplished than he lets on. I usually keep quiet about it 'cause it's his story to tell ... not mine. But when you pulled up today, he mentioned it might help with the story."

Clay and I now stood directly in front of Carey. Both men had expectant postures. Clay emitted an odd mixture of excitement and apprehension, almost like he wanted me to see Carey as a deeper individual but also wasn't sure he wanted to share. For his part, Carey was still looking slightly toward the ground, his eyes a mystery behind polarized shades. "That sounds fine," I stated, clearing away the unspoken tension with a few words. "As I like to say, 'God is in the details.' Lead the way."

After passing into the relative gloom of the smaller of two stables, I stopped to allow my eyes to adjust. The structure was very tidy with a central cement path diving the space into groupings of stall. The smells of moist hay and horse manure were present but not overpowering. My clearer vision also revealed my two hosts trading sly smiles. Once out of the sun, Carey had lifted his sunglasses to reveal magnetic brown eyes ... like glimmering tigereyes ... flanked by slight, endearing sun wrinkles.

We moved deeper into the structure; Clay and Carey occasionally slowed to pat a muzzle or say a kind word to animals in occupied stalls. They were met with dark stares and wet snorts. At the end of the concrete aisle were two identical doors. Carey produced a key ... he had looked extremely hot "fishing" it out of his pocket ... and unlocked the door on the right. He opened it and disappeared inside. Once inside, he flicked a switch and the entry was bathed in harsh yellow light. Clay gestured that I should follow his friend inside. "After you."

The room was long and narrow ... roughly 8' by 30' ... and angled to the right, probably along the outside of the stable. Cheap fluorescent fixtures provided the only illumination. Each wall was used for maximum storage, with pegs and shelves and other storage solutions. Most things were neatly labeled. Two saw horses sat silent while supporting beautiful saddles crafted of warm buttery leather and finished with gleaming metal accents. A few pieces of mismatched furniture looked worn but comfortable. The dominant features in the room were a long desk covered with paperwork and small tools I didn't recognize, a glass trophy case, and a large futon that took up the entire terminus of the room.

I wandered deeper into the space and stopped at the trophy case. Where much of the rest of the room was neat, the case was literally stuffed with awards. Trophies of various sizes caught the room's feeble light, making the little jumping and prancing horse adornments glitter. Plaques were stacked haphazardly and medals lay in piles, the attached ribbons still looking lustrous in regal shades of red and blue. From my position I also noticed that the futon was covered by a thick mattress with several coarse-looking blankets. It looked dishelveld ... slept in. Home away from home, I figured. My mind snapped back to my human surroundings when I heard the sound of a latch sliding into place.

I turned back toward the room's only exit. Standing side by side, Clay and Carey blocked the path ... both maintained bemused smirks as they rubbed their denimed dicks enthusiastically. "Fellas," I stammered, feeling my heart flutter and a growing dampness in my armpits and inside my oxford shirt's collar. "Did I do something wrong? If I offended one of you with my questions, it wasn't intentional."

Clay's smirk morphed into a gentler smile. "Buddy ... relax. Carey and I are a team in every sense of the word, if you get my meaning." He waited a beat, saw a glimmer of understanding on my face, and continued. "We hardly ever 'play' outside our own cottage ... well, sometimes in the woods just to show that we can ..." Carey guffawed and continued to manhandle his genitals. "Anyway, when Carey saw you through the office window earlier, he had a gut feeling that you might be receptive to helping us close the 'rule book' for a little while."

I was confused, "Huh?"

"We wanna fuck around!" blurted the man of few words. His gaze dropped immediately and mine followed, zeroing in on what looked like a good-sized cock. After a few seconds, Carey looked up again and I saw a 'please' in his eyes that would never be uttered aloud.

"I can get behind that ... or in front of it ... or whatever the fuck you studs need me to do. I'm in!" We all laughed.

It took a few moments for all of us to get undressed. My two "hosts" used the walls and a nearby shelf to steady themselves while they efficiently removed first their boots and then their thick socks. Clay peeled off his shirt to reveal a lightly-haired torso with beautiful coppery nipples. He smoothed his hands over his pecs and tweaked each nub into hardness as I appreciatively watched. Carey was more straightforward in his striptease. With efficacy, he doffed his shirt and jeans and stood in a pair of pale blue boxers. The undergarment had ample fabric so I was unable to take better "measure" of his still-covered equipment. Carey had less body hair than his lover, and his legs were thin but well muscled. I noticed a savage scar that ran the entire vertical expanse of one of his knobby knees.

I was still unbuttoning my shirt as both Carey and I ogled Clay as he removed his jeans. He rolled them down seductively, having a bit of a tough time getting the material over his sturdy calves. Once freed, Clay stood in only a well-worn white jock strap. His thick rod had escaped one side of the garment's pouch, it's crown looking wet and red and ready to do battle. My gaze never left that dick while I hopped on one foot and then the other to remove my slacks and place them on a box with with my shirt, shoes, and camera bag to stay clear of the stray bits of hay and detritis that littered the room.

Once clad in just my "alligator" mottled boxer briefs and socks, Carey and Clay closed ranks and we shuffled along touching each other until I felt the cool steel of the futon frame against the back of my legs. Both men pushed me down into the downy padding and collection of slightly-musty bedding. They descended on each side and began to rub by thighs and slide their rough palms over my chest.

"You're beautiful," whispered Clay. His face was flushed and he pinched my right nipple to that line between pain and pleasure.

"I''m nothing like you ... um, I mean you two." I tried to access the "threesome etiquette" I had stored in some corner of my brain ... tips about engaging both partners equally. "So many muscles ... I wish I had a sexy chest like either of you with all the hair. It's such a turn on."

A strong hand grabbed my chin from the left and my head turned with a jerk in that direction. "You're a hot little fucker and you know it!" Carey said as he engulfed my mouth in an aggressive kiss. His lips were rough and hungry and, although I was enjoying the kiss, I instinctually knew I had to let him know that this encounter wasn't going to be all harsh and rushed.

"Dude," I said as I broke from the kiss and looked deep into his bottomless eyes. "We're all attractive here, okay? I want this to be fucking fantastic for us all, but I'm like you ... I have to feel some kind of connection before I go any further. Can you handle that ... this meaning something to me at least?" With that said, I lovingly stroked his cheek. My fingers touched his hair and brushed against the side of his neck. Something in the look he returned changed, communicating that he understood that I was genuinely into making this something memorable ... something special. His entire posture relaxed.

I continued to explore Carey's face, planting light kisses on his eyelids and nibbling on his ear lobes. I wasn't sure if Clay had heard our exchange clearly, but he was matching my tenderness by trailing his sweet lips and tongue between my shoulder blades, and tracing the bones of my spine with a feather-soft touch.

I rolled slowly to my right and distracted Clay's lips with my own. He welcomed my throbbing tongue into his moist gob, alllowing me to swab his teeth and gingerly gnash his full lips. Clay tasted dark and earthy with a sweet undernote like freshly-crushed sage. I closed my eyes and let my focus drift, ravaging Clay's mouth with sloppy sophistication. I was running on raw feeling and Clay seemed to enjoy my untamed abandon.

My Zen-like lust calmed a bit when I felt calloused hands working my briefs down below my ass cheeks. My skin tingled from exposure to the room's slightly cooler air. My whole body trembled when Carey's rough finger began tracing sigils across my hairless rump. And my quivering seemed to excite Clay who renewed his efforts to swallow my face intact.

After a moment, Carey's finger changed direction as he applied more pressure and dug into my damp crevice. He teased my rounded flesh, nearly penetrating my hole as his digit blazed a trail along my crack. I instinctively arched my back and pushed my ass toward the incredible probing sensations.

I broke my kiss with Clay and scooted lower to suck in his left nipple. My left hand gently stoked his pecs while the right snaked lower to fondle his plump cock. My hand met wetness, so I gathered the drops of sticky pre-cum and raised my hand to smear it all over the tit I was working. While I devoured Clay's chest and his sweet dick nectar, his partner deftly worked my underwear down and off my legs. My dress socks remained as my only ode to modesty.

Carey's throaty voice only added to the moment. "Damn that's a pretty ass, boy ... so fine and tight. We're gonna love sharin' that!" He punctuated his comment with a solid smack to first one cheek, then the other. Needing to face my "attacker," I rotated to my left to see that while Carey was "de-briefing" me he had also found time to remove his own old-school boxers. The bone he rubbed was a stunning stalk ... close to nine inches ... with copious brown curls at the root. His pecker loomed at a 45-degree angle. Mine was so hard it was parked "north" against my body. I scooted forward and wrapped our two meatsticks together in my hands and started humping ... my uncut eight inches against Carey's thicker, longer log felt wonderful. He grunted softly and joined in on the friction-producing game, thrusting against my hand and dick. His own hands worked forward over and under my hips to knead and spread my tush.

As the action continued, I began kissing Carey, trying to capture his breath and its rich, almost loamy musk. I was so focused on him that I physically jumped when Clay clamped his sweaty jock over my face. At first I wasn't sure how to respond, but a whimper and "oh, baby" from Carey was soon followed by his darting tongue poking and prodding the sweat- and urine-infused ribbing. One strong whiff had my tongue fighting for possession of the pungent supporter, but Carey took the offensive and began heartily sucking the moist mesh.

We nursed on Clay's jock strap a bit longer, wrestling for dominance like two playful puppies. Then Clay tapped Carey's shoulder and pushed him away. I dropped the pouch to the side when those same strong hands grabbed my hips and guided me onto all fours along the length of the futon. Clay pressed on my back and I lowered my torso while keeping my butt high and accessible. After admiring his ingenuity, Clay spread apart my ass and began to diligently dine on my hungry hole and the surrounding flesh.

"Fuuuuccccckkkkk!!!!" I hissed. "Keep doing that shit ... damn, man, where'd you learn to eat ... ah, shit!! ... lick my hole! ... eat my God damn pussy!!"

Clay responded to my salty words of encouragement, his tongue lashing my sensitive rim and driving it deep into my gaping starfish. I hadn't been eaten like this in a good long while ... Clay used his chin and nose like sexual battering rams. And his tongue diddled me at hurricane speeds. On its own initiative, my slender ass squirmed back toward Clay, trying to engulf his face. Carey sat close by on the edge of the futon, petting his pecker as his lover occasionally glanced up at him before burying his tongue deeper in my spitty gash. His face reddened as he studied every expression of ecstasy that crossed my face.

"Oh, Carey, your man is the best," I cooed to draw him into the action. "Does he suck your shitter like this? Does he work your hole like a chew toy? Fuck, Carey ... he's ruining me. I'm never gonna be the same! SHHHHHHIIIIIITTTTTT!!!"

Carey's eyes widened and he dumbly nodded in mute response to my questions. And he never stopped stroking his rigid tool. I beckoned him forward; he sheepishly complied. As soon as he was near enough, I took the knob of his cock into my mouth and let it stew. Then I began to suck the head with a good amount of pressure while barely grazing the flare with my teeth. I raised my eyes and met Carey's half-lidded stare. He was definitely enjoying my cocksucking skills so I extended my neck and took in his stick to about the halfway point. I worked Carey's joint like a piece of savory jerky. Shifting my weight onto one arm, I used my free hand to gently twist his unshaven nuts. With each tug and manipulation, Carey's pole flexed and drooled in my mouth. His goo was a heavier consistency than Clay's ... with almost a clove taste. Between the tongue-reaming in my ass and the heady flavors in my mouth, I was in sexual heaven. Feeling daring, I took another inch down my throat, feeling a giddy type of fear as breathing became more challenging. Thunder and lightning, my oxygen-hungry cerebellum screamed, but now it's thunder in my mouth and lightning in my ass!

After only a moment more, I pushed off Carey's pike and gulped in air. My eyes watered as I moved lower, bypassing the bullnuts in his tempting scrotum, to lavish gentle licks on his lightly-furred thighs. I moved even lower and coated the upper regions of his knees with saliva, the hair whorling in strange shapes and reliefs. I even spent a moment tracing the rough skin of the scar I'd spotted earlier with the very tip of my tongue. Carey shuddered from the effects of my exploration.

The insatiable drilling in my ass continued with the addition of one ... then two ... phlemy fingers. Wanting to get a little taste of ass for myself, I rose up and tried to move Carey into a similar position. He resisted my efforts to turn his body playfully at first, but then his body became more rigid and he turned to me. His look was stern. I continued to exert pressure on his hips and his eyes remained fixed ... cold. Tenderly, I mouthed the word "please." Almost instantly, Carey rotated his body and propped his arms against the edge of the futon's metal armrest ... his face was mere inches from the wall. With reverence I slowly inspected his ass. A dusting of fine hair met my touch. I probed his more heavily haired crack, my face so close that my breath played over the architecture of his glorious derierre. Carey's body shuddered from an ecstatic chill. I supported myself by placing both hands at the top of his ass and shifting my body weight to push his glutes apart. There at the center of his canyon was a tight brown hole surrounded by a dense ring of hair. The crinkled knot flexed and pulsed hypnotically. In an instant, my lips formed a seal around his sphincter and I established what I felt was the first truly intimate connection of the day with him.

After just a few brief minutes, while poised in mid tongue swipe, Carey shifted off the futon and moved out of my view. Soon, the work on my own hole stopped and two sets of hands urged me forward into a sitting position on the edge of the bedframe. I was crowded to my left as Carey guided his partner out into the middle of the futon. While Clay crouched on the balls of his feet, barely maintaining his balance, Carey positioned himself seated with his back against the opposite wall. One hand touched Clay lightly while the other held his own cock in a firm grip. With a downturned gaze, Clay shuffled backward until his hole touched the knob of his partner's prick. With great patience, Clay skewered himself onto Carey, his eyes shooting wide open as the first few inches sliced into him. As I watched, myriad expressions crossed Clay's face ... all of them indicative of the immense pleasure he was feeling. Once fully impaled, Clay hovered motionless for one second. Then Carey took charge and started thrusting his mighty meat into his lover's stretched ass chute.

"Oh, baby," Clay cooed. "That's how I like it ... riding my big stallion ... shit, cowboy, tear me up ... fuck my hole! FUCK ME, LOVER!!"

I sat there ... a spectator with a hard dick. I stroked myself with intent, tugging hard on my foreskin to really make my rod sing. My shaft was sticky with pre-jizz, creating slippery noises that added to the other soft slaps and moans and various sex noises that filled the narrow store room. I couldn't see Carey's face, but Clay's mug continued to register the deliberate, raw reaming he was receiving. Feeling a little left out, I crawled toward the pair and dropped low. Clay's thick, fleshy dangle was dripping clear juice. His rod's skin was scarlet in color and I could feel the heat radiating from it. I heard his surprised intake of air when I licked a drop of fluid from the slit. Encouraged, I sucked nearly all seven inches into my mouth. "Fuckin' A, buddy," he croaked. "Eat my junk. Chew up my rod while my man tears up my hole! ... yeah, bitch ... YEAH!!"

I continued to suckle Clay's member, allowing Carey's thrusting to propel his partner in and out of my throat. I employed every trick I knew to please Clay. I teased his piss slit mercilessly with my spasming tongue. I pinched his testicles savagely to the point where he moaned "my nuts ... fuck, squeeze my load out!" And for effect, I noisily expelled wad after thick wad of spit onto his already-soaked cock and groin.

Suddenly, Carey lurched powerfully into Clay's butt, sending his cock forcefully into the back of my throat. I pulled back stifling most of my gagging. I assumed he'd nutted so I waited, thinking that Clay might want to move to a more balanced, comfortable position off his haunches so I could finish him off. But the pair of modern-day cowboys seemed to use telepathy to share a different plan, because Carey disengaged from his lover and came to rest on his knees beside me. Clay adjusted to a sitting position on my other side, now working his own prick rhythmically.

"My baby wants to finish with you in a bad way," Carey explained quietly. "And I want my man to be happy."

I nodded my understanding and laid back. "I'm just glad you guys keep condoms in here just in case you get frisky," I laughed in response. And in a semi-practiced manuever, I grabbed the backs of my thighs and hoisted my spread legs toward my chest, my exposed hole completely "open for business." And then nothing happened. I raised my head to look forward and both Clay and Carey were just standing there staring at me. I dropped my feet to the mattress but kept my legs bent and spread. "So is there a problem?"

Clay was the one to make the plea. "Sure, man ... we've got comdoms but I was hoping ... well, I was kinda wanting to breed you with nothing getting in the way." The uncertainty must have been apparent on my face. "Carey and I are committed to each other. Part of that commitment is that we still get tested every six months to show that we're respectful of each other's health and well being. We don't play with others very often, and when we do we're almost always safe. It's been 16 years and not a single scare ... not even an STD. Our last check-up was just over a month ago with totally 'negative' results." He rested his case with a soulful look.

I knew I shouldn't, but I was wavering. I was healthy and horny and hungry for dick. I looked up at Clay again ... he was definitely telling the truth. Then I looked at Carey ... he appeared stoic and then mouthed one word to me ... "please."

"Fucker," I muttered softly and lifted my legs even higher and wider.

With my eyes focused on the planks of the ceiling, I heard Clay draw near. I lifted my head to look through my parted legs and saw him standing before me with his thick sausage pointed directly at my sweaty gash. He locked eyes with me as he lewdly let a huge string of spittle fall from his mouth to splash on his raging pud. He repeated this until his cock gleamed. "Do it!" I begged.

Clay bent at the knees slightly and aligned his piston with my anus. His tapered tip made contact and he nudged his way inside. My guts clenched at the penetration ... his cock was really thick ... but my body quickly adapted and I relaxed into the onslaught. Carey was standing right beside his lover, whispering no-doubt-devilish suggestions and loving encouragements into his ear. Clay smiled at whatever was said and abruptly sank his shaft to the hilt. Stars exploded behind my eyelids and I almost came.

"Shit," I hissed, my head lolling from side to side as Clay repeatedly withdrew his pecker to the rim of my hole and banged back in. Shockwaves of pleasure radiated all through my body. Fairly quickly, Clay's thrusting picked up speed. His breathing took on a panting quality as the screwing intensified, and I shifted my body continuously to receive maximum delight.

While my shorter "playmate" continued to ring my bells, the taller "drink of water" in the room climbed up beside my head and presented me with his glistening pole. I turned my head and captured his tool; it still tasted of Clay's fine ass. I savored the funky treetrunk and mumbled incoherently around the flavorful flesh. I also watched intently as Carey leaned over to trade brief but deep kisses with his partner.

My legs ached and my asshole burned, but I continued to buck into Clay as he sawed into me ferociously. Suddenly, Carey's body straightened and the stony dick in my mouth turned to steel. I began working my throat, constricting it around the spike inside. Like Pompeii, Carey detonated a milky explosion down my gullet; my swallowing barely kept pace with his salty load. Carey collapsed in on himself as his dick deflated slipped from my mouth.

Clay reacted almost instantly to his counterpart's discharge, ratcheting up his fucking to where I thought I might have friction burns that would need serious medical attention. After just a few deep, brutal plunges, he threw back his perspiration-streaked head and bellowed jubilently. "AGGGGGHHHHH, FUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!" I squeezed and flexed my anal muscles, gripping Clay's throbbing tool and milking its thick contents. Cum filled my colon and I felt the telltale sensation of excess splooge seeping from my hole and dripping over the back of my balls. After a few moments of slow thrusting, Clay withdrew his still-bloated baton and smeared the messy fluid around; I yelped in surprise when he plunged his seedy stalk back inside for a few delicious strokes. His final exit from my battered rectum made me both relieved and sad.

Like a gentleman, Clay helped me lower my stiff legs. My lower back spasmed slightly but the pain subsided quickly. I remained on my back, my prick hard and close to bursting. Clay and Carey both kneeled on opposite sides of me. I started to reach for my boner so I could give them a show when Carey knocked my hand away. It was then that I noticed he had donned his leather work gloves. With a grip like a vise, he clamped onto my cock and started yanking vigorously. The gloves were both rough and smooth, and the competing textures were an incredible turn-on. In a matter of seconds, my nuts tightened and my worked-up whang prepared to blow. As the leather hand-job picked up speed, Clay abruptly leaned over and ever-so-lightly ran his tongue across my parched lips. My load geysered painfully out of my stiffy, coating Carey's gloved hand with syrupy goo. As he continued to strip my slimy prong, my thrashing subsided. Once I'd caught my breath, I took Carey's hand at the wrist and pulled it up to my face. Both Clay and I licked the pooling semen from his leather-clad fingers.

Once swabbed, Carey leaned back and worked the still slimy glove over his still impressively-hard cock. Clay lightly kissed my lips, sharing more of my own seed. He gently moved his head lower until it rested against my chest. He laid there and listened as my accelerated heartbeat pounded away. Carey reached over and ruffled my hair. I was moved beyond words. Thunder and lightning and the aggressive air the lies between, I thought ... we make an interesting triangle.

Maybe 10 minutes later, I exited the stable lagging slightly behind my two hunky hosts. We exchanged brief goodbyes and Clay invited me to return in a few weeks for an amateur riding event that HavensWood sponsored annually. "We'd love to have you again," he said, well aware of the implied debauchery. I promised to try.

I unlocked my car and started the engine. I put the car in reverse and backed around to the left out of the parking space. Pausing, I took another look at the thriving horse farm and saw that my new friends were still there watching my departure. I offered a manly wave which they both returned. Clay headed for the door to the office but Carey remained stationery. His sunglasses were back in place and his body again radiated its innate aloofness. No one could have been more shocked when he mouthed a simple phrase before turning to join his partner in their regular life. He had said "thank you" and it sent me over the moon!

HEADLINE: Dressage Enthusiasts Enjoy Horsing Around