tagIncest/TabooOut of the Dark Wood Ch. 04

Out of the Dark Wood Ch. 04


Cheryl Clarke didn’t think of herself as a Senator’s wife on mornings like this when the ground fog burned slowly off the paddocks in the August dawn. She had slipped out of her empty bed at 5 to begin her day’s work, though she didn’t think of the horsey life as work, either. With the Senator in Washington, Annie safely under control at the treatment center and various brush fires of a political nature put out Cheryl was free to immerse herself completely, at least for a few hours, in what she loved the most – raising and tending award-winning show jumpers.

Walking down the gravel drive toward the barn she looked across Belle Meade’s white-fence-laced, rolling green pastures sinuously descending westward toward the Shenandoah and breathed deeply of the alfalfa scented air. This was her home. She’d made it that by the power of her intellect and “womanly persuasion” and by God she was going to enjoy it.

She heard the nickering of impatient animals and hurried into the huge, old redbrick barn, her cathedral. She was always uplifted by the deep, visceral smell that enveloped her as she entered through the wide wooden door. It was a complex odor of hay and horseshit, leather, oats and ancient oak timbers, the dirt of generations mixed with the sweat and ordure of the night. It stirred her ever-close-to-the-surface libido. She wanted to snort and paw the ground like the boxed geldings and fillies that rolled their large questioning eyes toward her.

She made the rounds greeting each of them, rubbing her hands on their massive, powerful flanks, breathing in their so-alive aroma. She greeted them by name, not in the baby talk voice so many of her friends used and that she hated, but as equals, like business partners. She wasn’t a horse-whisperer like Morgan the farrier but a firm, stern and gentle leader of her herd -- the matriarch. Cheryl supplied food, shelter, medicine and companionship to these horses and she relished the role. If only Annie were as simple to guide, to mother, as these animals.

She pulled her red hair into a ponytail and set to work parceling out the oats.

Damn sweet Annie for going off the reservation Saturday night, she thought. Cheryl’s attempt at mothering had gone horribly wrong. What started as a maternal exercise ended with the girl out of her mind, naked and wandering alone in the woods. She’d only just managed to avert public disaster by calling in Vernon Cattrall to carry them both to the treatment center in North Carolina and put Annie out of harm’s way for the time being. Cheryl needed time to think about how to resolve Annie’s problems and now this fucking shrink, Scarpelli, had called to insist on a face-to-face meeting. That he was willing to drive the seven hours from the coast to the Shenandoah Valley meant he thought it was important. That he was coming this afternoon meant she had to think fast.

She’d been busy presenting her public face since Sunday night when she’d ridden back from Wilmington asleep in the back of Catrall’s State Police cruiser. Monday had been the planning for the Habitat for Humanity fundraiser and Tuesday she’d been pulled six different directions with consulting for the Senator’s upcoming Middle East junket. The staff at Belle Meade seemed to need her constant oversight, as well. The fundamental shift that had begun in her psyche on Saturday night in the tent had continued beneath the smooth public persona she projected. Now, while working the currycomb on Gantry’s sleek, chestnut coat the memory of that night seeped to the surface.

As she pressed the comb firmly across the horse’s brown, taut flank an image of Jack, the young black man, standing naked in the stream flashed into her mind. Cheryl remembered how the sight inflamed her, how Adonis-like he stood dripping with water, how innocent and malleable he’d been. A teachable moment, she had thought as she and Annie talked in the tent after the rain. Then she’d let her libido take charge and led Annie into the darkness.

It seemed like a good idea at the time to go down on her knees at his feet and open her mouth to his cock, to show Annie her power. The fire had burned both inside and out, exciting her to impetuosity. Annie was certainly of her blood; she’d wanted a turn, too. Cheryl had felt so powerful, so full of love for her daughter at that peculiar moment when Jack’s horse cock coughed thick, wet streams of spunk on her face.

It had been a moment of hubris.

Her pride and presumption led her to cross a boundary into a country that she feared could not be returned from. She could so clearly see the sweet pink lips of her daughter’s open mouth sliding over Jack’s purple veined pole as she held it for her. They sucked him together. Then Annie turned and she’d held the black cock as the girl lifted her leg and let Cheryl guide him into her pussy. Her daughter’s wet, swollen pussy lips split right in front of her face, the fat little clit exposed as Jack slid slowly in. And she couldn’t stop herself from tasting it.

At the moment her tongue touched her daughter’s clitoris something broke in her. She was swept along by an inner force too powerful to resist. There was nothing in the world beyond the young couple’s shiny, slippery organs and the dripping tongue she played over them. The taste of lemon, musk, sardines, salt, woodsmoke, earth, blood and metal filled her senses. Her probing tongue connected a circuit that sent a bolt of energy through her, wiped her mind and left her merely an instrument of lust, a point source of pleasure.

Then suddenly Annie was on her own pussy with ferocity. Cheryl had pressed herself onto her daughter’s hungry mouth without qualm, without fear, without shame. Annie ate her roughly, made her come with a mixture of pain and pleasure like none she’d felt before. There was a universe of joy in the small circle of their bodies as each of them crested into oblivion and for a long moment, body twisted into a muscle-tearing rictus of sensation, all went white. Time stopped. The vessel that held her being evaporated and she felt the all-oneness of religious mystics. There was no mother-daughter boundary; there was only an all-pervading intensity.

When she woke, Jack was gently snoring and Annie was gone. At that terrible moment Cheryl knew that everything had changed. She knew that the fear that had driven her all her life had always been larger than everything she’d built to protect herself. And she knew that the source of that fear, that enemy power, was within herself. What she’d done to her daughter she didn’t have the courage to admit. Yet.

Losing Annie in the dark wood that night had clarified her mind. But on awakening in the real world she’d fallen back on her usual strategy of taking control of all around her. She’d wakened Jack and sent him packing with the fear of God in him should he ever speak of this to anyone. (She also detailed a state police detective to shadow him back on campus.) She’d rounded up the horses and tracked Annie down the mountain to find her walking aimlessly on the old logging road toward home in the dim light of Sunday morning.

A call to Catrall had them speeding down I-95 within the hour. Vernon’s discretion could be assured. He’d been her lover for three years and in her husband’s employ for ten. His loyalty to the family was unquestioned.

Now everything was stabilized, back under her control. Cheryl had had a revelation but she did not know what to do with it. She knew she should face it, but she could not.

So she turned her thoughts away from Annie, last weekend and what was to come of it for now. For now she would get the oats, brush the coats, turn them out and rake the stalls. In short she would lose herself in her most comfortable role and let her mind gestate a plan for dealing with Annie, unconsciously, while she worked. Some folk’s best ideas came in the shower; Cheryl’s came in the barn.

She would only have a couple of hours of undisturbed time with her charges and her chores before the farrier arrived and so she would sink deep into them. Then, renewed, she could face people again. People and the too damned complex balancing act of power, desire and trade involved in keeping them in control. She sometimes grew weary of it these days. Still, the hours she spent in joy in the barn with her horses, with the privilege of her husband’s wealth, and the security of her position in society made the manipulations worthwhile. At this late date she couldn’t imagine another way.

That Morgan the farrier was a special relationship in her tangled web circled at the edge of her thoughts as she cleaned the stalls. Cheryl tingled with anticipation and dread as his appointment approached. He would expect the usual and she would give it in the wicked little dance they’d learned. She rationalized it as a trade of services that brought her advantages in her business but she knew there was more to it. She didn’t want to think about that part of it. For a woman of such command and power to submit to humiliation from a mere tradesman seemed to meet a need in her contrary to any she’d previously admitted to.

Granted Morgan could diagnose horse trouble better than the much more expensive veterinarian and so saved her considerable money. He was highly valued among the estates in the Virginia horse country. His reputation was exceptional, his skills rare.

It was also true that the ‘bonus’ paid kept him a faithful tradesman. But she enjoyed the one-sided episodes more than she wanted to. Notwithstanding her mantra of managing her libido rather than having her libido manage her, this ‘taking it out in trade’ disturbed her. She could rationalize all of it but lately a small voice had been whispering doubts in the corners of her head. She could almost make them out…

So her hoped-for quiet morning was unquiet as persistent, inchoate thoughts buzzed around her brain like the flies around the horseshit in the barn. She flicked them away and they buzzed right back. Cheryl made the rounds of the stalls, feeding each animal, brushing it, then turning it out into the pasture so she could clean its nightly filth. She broke a good sweat but was not as comforted as she hade hoped to be. When Morgan arrived she was tense, uncertain.

She heard the crunch of the gravel under his wheels first, then the metal clang of his truck door slamming. His boot steps sounded closer as she put up her tools in the tack room. Here all was orderly, all was still, a shrine made of saddles and silver. Morgan’s shadow blocked the morning sun as he stood in the doorway making him much more imposing than his thin 5’ frame. He’d started as a jockey and turned to blacksmithing after his body wore out. Now, at 50, he looked wizened if not wise -- a bit of a leprechaun and a bit of a wrangler in baggy canvas overalls, an oversized cowboy hat on his head.

He smiled at Cheryl but said little as she instructed him in what she thought needed to be tended to. He took her council but would make his own judgment as he examined each animal. After he walked out to the fencerow Cheryl watched with a certain trembling as he called each horse to touch, stroke, and manipulate its body. He’d said each of them “spoke” to him as he communed with them and told him what he needed to know. She sometimes felt he knew things about her she didn’t know herself. Perhaps what was about to happen could be explained by some silent power he had over women, she thought. Else why did she allow their roles to be reversed? Why did she allow him to be the exception?

So it was with some dread and a febrile anticipation that she watched him return from his time with the horses. He seemed absurdly small and childlike with his cowboy hat and bowed legs.

“What do you say, Morgan?” She stood, hands on hips, looking down at him.

“Most all are just fine this morning, Mrs. Clarke,” he offered squinting up at her, “but Gantry has a hot joint on his right foreleg and it looks like he’ll need to be re-shod soon.”

“Do you recommend a poultice on the joint?” Cheryl liked his old-timey, money saving remedies.

“Yeah, that and rest. Gantry been rode hard recently?” He gave her a sidelong look.

It was nearly an impertinent question though it was phrased as a clinical inquiry. He was fishing for more, she feared. Morgan made the rounds of nearby stables. Had he heard rumors of the weekend incident? She’d worked hard to keep it from becoming an “Incident” but knew the local grapevine telegraph was fast and free flowing. It would be difficult to keep news of her daughter’s wandering naked down Bacon Hollow Road a secret if someone had seen her. Cheryl was determined to keep it away from the press.

“He got away from us in that thunderstorm on Saturday night. Annie and I were riding up in the cove.” That was her story. It was almost true. “He panicked and went cross country. We were most of the night trying to bring him in.”

“Right. Well, I’ll do his shoeing on Friday, then, but don’t you ride him. Keep him on the soft ground and off the gravel or the roads til then…Y’all must have got right wet Saturday, I reckon.” Was he still fishing?

Yes, he was fishing. It was unlike Morgan to speak more than a dozen words in a breath let alone ask such a personal question, solicitous though it sounded. Time to dance, time to distract, she thought. Cheryl walked toward his trailer raising her hand to the top button of her chambray shirt.

Morgan grinned smugly and followed. Cheryl was happy to let him think he was extorting her.

The trailer he towed was a mobile blacksmith shop converted from an old double stall horse trailer. At the front he’d built a smithy and kept a small fire going in it as he moved from farm to farm. One could see him trailing smoke from the little metal chimney as he drove the back roads. He’d boarded up the small windows in the sides and built thick doors to secure his many tools that hung on hooks or were corralled in bins along the sides of the small space. The right side wall held a low, very solid wooden workbench with metal fittings for his smithing work.

Cheryl opened the heavy door and felt the heat push out at her. It smelled of hot metal, scorched wood and sweat. The floor was dirty with grime and metal shards, the air inside close. She climbed in. Morgan followed. Dust swirled in the thin shafts of light that stabbed through chinks around the closed doors. She continued to unbutton her sweat-stained blouse. The coming dance of passion had been choreographed years before and they each danced their part every time. What a strange thing to have made a habit of, she thought as she sank to the floor in front of the workbench.

She let the shirt drop from her shoulders and shook it off her arms, leaving it tucked in her jeans. With a brisk movement her bra sprung loose and she shucked it onto the floor, keeping her eyes on Morgan’s all the while. Cheryl’s full, sloping breasts swung loose, the dusting of freckles sharply etched against the brilliant white skin. In the heat her dark nipples rose and beads of sweat began popping. Her hair stuck on the rough boards of the workbench at her back. Smiling at Morgan she raised her arms to each side as if to embrace him. The farrier took a leather thong wrapped it round her right wrist and tied it off to a metal ring on the bench. He stood with his boots placed on each side of her thighs where she sat in the dirt, his filthy overalls pressed within inches of her face as he fastened her left wrist like the right.

Without pause he unsnapped the lower two fasteners on the overalls and reached inside. Morgan’s dick was short and fat, already hard, and smelly, as he pulled it out. Seated in the dirt Cheryl looked directly in its weeping eye and, giving a sultry look at Morgan, opened her soft mouth and let him plunge it in. It fit. With her nose mashed into his overalls he drove it all the way to her molars.

He wasn’t gentle. Morgan grasped the edge of the bench and banged her head against the wood with each brutal thrust, breathing hard and fast. It wouldn’t take him long and that was a mercy. Cheryl never let anyone else have this total domination of her but when she allowed it here, to Morgan, it had inflamed her like no other lovemaking, at least until last Saturday. To be helpless, to be beaten was somehow ‘right’, somehow ‘good’. Perhaps because it was restricted to this one debased act out of the many she could accept it.

Her pussy ached. She wanted to touch herself, to grind herself against the iron tools just out of reach. She wanted to howl but her mouth was full of thick, red cock. Cheryl’s mind turned to stallions. It helped. She saw the animals rampant, stamping the ground, their penises extending from their sheaths and glistening as the stallions, impatient to mount, whinnied sharply. They fought, kicking out, rearing up, their long naked cocks swinging.

Cheryl’s hands clenched. So did her pussy. Liquid heat dripped as she squirmed where she sat. In her imagination the dominant stallion had driven off all challengers and turned to a mare in heat. The skittish mare coiled her tail up over her back and thrust her haunches out. The stallion rose up, dropped his forelegs on her back, his pole of meat quivering and blindly swung toward the mare’s wet opening. Tip struck flesh and the mare startled, the stallion bellowed and bucked. Both animals shrieked.

Chery’s mouth filled with cum. Morgan held his cock deep and forced her back against the bench with his jerking body. White foam bubbled and fell from her lips onto her freckled chest. Morgan backed up a step, grabbed his wet prick as it slipped free and stroked it. He watched, face red, veins at his temples pulsing as he came again and again in streams over her breasts. He heaved and shot and slowly wilted, curling in on himself, panting, leaning on the bench over her. Cheryl held his eye, swallowed the spunk in her mouth, her passion only mounting, unsated.

Then, in his one redemptive but insidiously vicious act, Morgan knelt astraddle her hips and began to lick his jism from her body. He tormented her by slowly caressing her flesh with his tongue as he cleaned her up. Where the cum dripped from her left nipple he lapped and sucked. As it ran in a thin rivulet mixed with sweat between her breasts he made a long slow path from her navel to her collarbone. Carefully and with perverse gentleness he kissed away the mess he’d made, kneeling in supplication to the bound woman, his employer. He never touched her with his rough hands though her skin cried out for it. Cheryl’s need rose with each touch of his tongue. But it was part of the dance that she never did get relief. It was her punishment.

When he was done he slowly stood and put his tool away, snapped the overalls and turned from her while she slumped there sweating. The sun cutting through the darkness when he opened the door hurt her eyes. She hung, Christ-like, in her bonds. He slammed the door and she heard him crunch along the gravel to the truck. Cheryl twisted and pulled and loosened her right arm, then the left. It was part of the game that she wasn’t completely helpless, couldn’t ever really get loose if she wanted to. It was part of the game that he humiliate her as much as she wanted.

She hurried to button the gritty blouse over her sticky body and jump from the back of the trailer before he pulled away. She left the bra for him in the dirt.

Cheryl watched from the drive in the bright August sun feeling small and ferociously horny as the farrier’s rig drove out of sight trailing a plume of road dust. She stood straight in dusty jeans, her blouse plastered to her loose breasts, the course fabric only inciting the burning in her nipples, the grasping in her crotch.

In more ways than she realized she was ready for Dr. Scarpelli.

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