Outlaw

by

Silverwolf ©



THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION: My apologies to the beings it is based on. Sw


Outlaw

The sky still more black than white, she looks out her window while pouring a mug of black coffee.
Hands not unused to hard work wrap the mug, bringing it to full, red lips, as she sips stepping quietly to the door. Out on the wide porch, she sets her cup down and, hands on the hips of her bootleg jeans, tosses her auburn hair back from the shoulders of a faded denim jacket.

She can hear him. Gray eyes gazing toward the worn red barn, she catches snorts and whinnies on the early morning breeze, and occasionally hooves drumming the wooden stall boards. The ruckus speaks of a powerful steed, locked up against his will, impatient to be set free. Kicking up puffs of dust, she makes her way down the drive to do just that.

Hearing the creak of the door track, her stallion rears, flint hooves clanking the mesh stall-gaurd in an exuberant hello. She smiles into the stall of this violent steed. 34 inches of sorrel stare back with liquid brown eyes as she flips the latch. He pushes against the gate as it opens, hoping for stolen freedom, though he has yet to succeed in his attempts. She’ll release him soon, he knows, as she always has after their morning time. As the gate closes behind her, he calms, nickering and nudging her side.

She gently works her hand in his forelock, his proud dished face just reaching her hip, and whispers soothing words to him in a gravelly, low tone. The other barn residents snort the chilly dawn, contentedly waiting their turn-out, as she squats before him, sliding her hands down his thick neck to massage his bulging shoulders. The feel of horseflesh thrills her, and with a puff of lung in return, she puts her lips to his velvet muzzle in just more than a hello kiss. Moving her hands along his barrel chest to his flanks, she marvels yet again at the sheer power tied up in such a small package as the one before her. He nudges again, rubbing his soft cheek across her shoulder while she skims loose hairs from his rump and sides.
Moving lower, she feels a flush of self-embarrassment when she lightly strokes his satiny sheath. Tongue moistening nerve dried lips; she feels his maleness grow within that tube of flesh while her knuckles glance off his pendulous testes.

With a nervous cough she rises, fidgeting with his dark ears and mane, thinking how she’s never gone farther than this, and doubting she ever would. She thinks of what her husband would say. Humph, she says, he shows more attention than this to his equines, and still shaking from her encounter, she grasps his halter and leads him through the gate. She releases him in the barnyard, and with a paw and a snort, he tosses his regal head, and gallops for the far fence-line, still missing his freedom and his harem, but every inch the epitome of his wild, ridge-running ancestors. Smiling, she turns to the barn to let loose his herd.

silverwolf



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