Stacy's Riding Lesson Ch. 04

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Stacy black riding lessons are threatened.
3.7k words
4.14
51.3k
15

Part 4 of the 4 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 10/23/2011
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sgtklark
sgtklark
70 Followers

Stacy flew across the foyer of her mansion. Along the way he discarded items of her riding attire; her gloves, her cravat, her jacket, letting the pieces fall to the polished marble floor.

"Jezelle," the pretty blond bellowed, "draw my bath!"

"Oh yes'm," she heard her maids voice from some unseen location.

Stacy strolled up the curved stairway to the second floor landing and her master bedroom. She threw open the double doors to her room. Who had shut those curtains, she wondered. She craved the sunlight, lots of it. She violently tugged the chords that opened the curtains, flooding the room with bright afternoon light.

"Hello, Stacy," came a male voice from behind her. She wheeled about to see her husband, Stanley, sitting upright on their broad bed.

Stacy froze in terror. She had not expected Stanley to return from the capital so soon. She had just returned from her afternoon tryst with Rufus and even now the evidence of her infidelity was soaking into the crotch of her riding breeches. Rufus had given her a cream pie that she had not been able to adequately wipe away before redressing at the stables.

"Are you so happy to see me that you are stupefied, dear?" Stanley laughed, throwing back the covers, drinking in the silhouette of his wife against the huge window of their room. He approached her and kissed her gently on her forehead. She could sense the tension in his wife's slim body, but mistook it for excitement.

Stanley was tense too. He knew his wife would be ravenously horny after his long absence. But he felt totally spent after his earlier episode with the pretty black main, Jezelle, and would not be able to accommodate his young wife's certain lust.

Stacy knew that Stanley would doubtlessly be rutting for a roll beneath the covers with her, and yet she was still wet and sore from her frolic with Rufus less than an hour previously. In addition, she had made a present to Rufus of her thong panties, a trophy of sorts, and she was shy some cotton under her breeches.

"I am so pleased to see you home...so unexpectedly. What a surprise," she said somewhat too formally.

"Not as much as I am happy to be home, my love," he said in an oddly detached way.

"I must be a fright! I've been riding for hours. I really should bathe immediately, dear."

"Indeed, my dear. You look thoroughly bedraggled."

"Oh, you know... the demands of the gallop can wreak havoc with one's appearance," she replied, studying the ceiling with apparent and sudden interest. "I must have worked my mount into a fine lather today."

"That is quite all right, Stacy. I have been up all night and all morning, and I really must take a short nap."

Stanley returned to his bed and was soon snoring softly. Stacy sat soaking in her bath, reflecting on the morning fireworks with her new lover, Rufus Johnson. Her hand glided over her womanhood and she could feel the changes Rufus had made to her body with his relentless fucking and his huge manhood. Becky was toughly in a state of vexation over what, if anything, she could tell her husband should he notice the changes. Later she relaxed in the large den, sipping a glass of wine and studying the huge portrait of Stanley's ancestor, Confederate General Thaddeus Garner, dressed in his immaculate grey uniform and staring out sternly into the room. Most of the traditions and customs of the Garner family had been started by General Garner. But Stacy knew the revered gentleman was a fraud, a military man who had never heard a shot fired in anger and had never held a military command. He had spent the War of Northern Aggression safely in the Confederate Capital of Richmond as the inspector of this or that department—nothing that ever exposed him to any danger. What a reprobate you were, Stacy mused. But the good general had been the role model of succeeding generations of Garner males.

"He shor be a stately gen'lman, missus," came Jezelle's voice.

Stacy frowned at having the silly black maid tread upon her reverie. "Oh, I do suppose so, in his way, Jezelle," Stacy replied, her voice dripping with annoyance. Jezelle dutifully refilled Stacy's glass.

"Take care, you silly wench! You've spilled wine on my dress!"

"I shor am sorry, missus Garner! I shor am!"

"Oh! Just leave me in peace!"

"Yessem, I do dat."

Stacy detested the obsequious maid, but could not fathom why. Certainly the maid was inept, but she was quite young and had not fully mastered her craft as a servant. She would doubtlessly improve given time and the right amount of abusive incentive. Perhaps it was the unrefined beauty of the girl that Stacy objected too. Stacy had noticed that the girl's dusky good looks and innocent nature had the male staff licking their lips every time the maid passed them by.

Stacy decided to call her good friend, Peaches Hill, and invite her out for a late lunch. Her own vigorous session with Rufus that morning had left her ravenously hungry.

"Yes, Peaches. I will meet you at the stable club."

Stacy and Peaches sat in the fashionable café at the clubhouse for the stables. Stacy was gazing about hoping to catch sight of her lover, Rufus, but she could not find him. Peaches, a slightly older woman, was all abuzz with the latest gossip. Stacy endured these sessions because she found Peaches amusing in many ways. Her large-busted red-headed friend had gone to the same exclusive women's college as did Stacy, although a year ahead of her, but since they were from the same county they had quickly struck up a close friendship. Poor Peaches! She was in an unhappy loveless marriage to a much older man, a local banker, and so the woman's thoughts often turned to romance...or just plain sex.

A young black waiter sat their salads on the table before the two women. Peaches stopped talking and longingly watched the tight buns of the waiter as he walked away.

"Oh, the scandal!" Stacy said.

"Whatever do you mean, dear friend?" Peaches was a portrait of innocence.

"I was the way you were looking at that darkie! For shame, woman!' Stacy kept her voice low to avoid the neighboring tables from eavesdropping.

"It's no sin just to peek!" Peaches said with a crooked smile. She leaned forward and whispered, "They say these negro boys have a much larger wanger than normal men!"

Stacy rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't know about THAT!"

"Nor I. But it is told that they do. I suppose it's from all that running around through the jungle they do... or did... with their parts hanging free."

"I really don't think that is the sort of evolutionary trait that would be passed down from generation to generation, Peaches."

"Oh yes? Then why do they have that kinky hair and the dark skin if not because of the brambles and the relentless African sun?"

Stacy could not think of an appropriate response so she changed the subject. "Stanley is home from the capital," she said.

"Oh dear! You must be so happy!"

"Yes. I am," Stacy said icily. "Shall we order desert?"

"Oh yes! I am suddenly in the mood for some chocolate!" Peaches said, licking her lips with a devilish grin.

At the Garner mansion Stanley Garner had Jezelle belly-down rump-up on his desk plowing her from behind for all he was worth when the phone on his desk rang. Without hesitation the little black maid picked up the receiver. "Garner Estate," she answered promptly. Her quick abandonment of passion was a bit unnerving to Stanley. "Yes'm, the senator is in, please hol' on a moment," she said, then held the receiver tightly against one bare tit for a respectable length of time and then handed it to Stanley.

"Yes, this is he," Stanley said.

"Stanley, old man! This is Buford. So glad you are back home. Listen, we need to have a meeting of... our secret society. Can you come to my home at, say, 3 p.m. today?"

"Certainly, Buford. I will be there," Stanley said with a slight air of apprehension.

Stanley handed the received back to Jezelle, who was mewing contentedly on his polished desk, and she replaced it in the cradle. His thrusts against her backside were sending jelly-like ripples through her firm, wide ass. Her flimsy panties were only slightly pulled down, and his balls were resting on the waistband of her undergarment, raking the elastic with each thrust. Jezelle's long, pointed tits were mashed flat on his desk surface and she was gripping the far edge of the desk with tan-knuckled intensity. The musky scent of her womanhood rose and filled Stanley's nose and added to his ardor.

He was hammering her backside with a rare determination, his lust fueled by anger at the prospect of an unwanted meeting with Buford. Stanley's teeth were clenched in a mean grimace and he slapped the black woman's ample ass.

"Oh yas! Slap dat booty, Senator!" Jezelle bellowed.

"You like that, don't you, you black wench!" he grunted.

"Oh yas! I like it rough like dat!"

Stanley gave her rump a matching smack, harder this time, making the girl squeal with delight. Was he mistaken or was his punishment of her ass making her clench her pussy around his cock even more?

The melodic massaging of his shaft in her hot wet snatch forced his premature climax. "Here it comes!" he shouted.

"Fill me up, suh! Fill me wit' yo' hot spunk!" she screamed.

He could feel the pulse of his jizz traveling along the length of his cock and erupting into the girl's quivering gash. He gave a last mighty shove and buried his length into her from behind, pumping furious amounts of his hot semen deep into her innards. The maid's rump was humping back for all she was worth, grinding into his thighs and belly in an up-and-down rhythm.

Afterwards Jezelle took a wad of tissue from the box on his desk and daubed at her leaking pussy. Stanley slumped in his large leather chair, his wilting pecker resting on his drained nards.

Methodically Jezelle pulled up her delicate panties and readjusted her skirt and apron, buttoning up the front of her uniform.

"Yo' missus is one lucky gal, suh," she said, and left the study, her head held high.

In the kitchen Mama Tubbs, the cook, surveyed Jezelle.

"Don't say a word, Mama," Jezelle cautioned, knowing that the older woman could read the events on her face. "The things I have to do just to keep a job," Jezelle moaned.

"Why do you let that rascal use you like that?" Mama Tubbs groaned.

"He's paying me three times what I am worth, for one thing. And another—it makes me feel sort of powerful, sort of in-charge to screw him like that. I think it is I, rather that he, who is using someone."

"What would your man think if he could see you with that white bastard, missy?"

"Oh, he'll never know. There's no evidence that some soap and water won't cancel. It's not like he's going to damage me, not with that little white pecker of his."

At the stable café Stacy was absently stirring her coffee, listing to Peaches drone on about some real or imagine scandal involving some of their peers. Then she caught sight of Rufus on the road outside the café, driving a quad runner and pulling a trailer loaded with various weapons of agriculture.

"Please excuse me, Peaches. I need to talk to that darky about my horse's care," she blurted and rose quickly, too quickly, and departed.

Peaches watched through the window as Stacy approached the large black hand. She seemed to be berating him for some transgression, and he stoically listening. But Peaches sensed correctly that it was all an elaborate pantomime, for the benefit of anyone watching the two. The more Peaches studied the two the more she was convinced—they had been sleeping together. There was something sublingual, something in their aura that convinced her. The way Stacy tilted her head just so, the way a slight grin snaked across the black man's face, the way the blonde's hips moved convinced her. Her petite, aristocratic, blue-blooded best friend had been partaking of the forbidden fruit. Peaches rubbed her palms together in the exquisite deliciousness of it all. She was at once happy for her young friend and angry at her for not sharing the graphic details. Something this precious was meant to be shared with the ones closest to you, excepting spouses, or course.

"I really want to see you again, Rufus, but I need to give my body some time to recover. You've put me through considerable changes, both in anatomy and in emotion, dear boy."

"Yeah, I figured as much, you being a slight white girl and all. And with your hubby home you don't need to advertise our involvement," he offered sympathetically.

"That doesn't mean I don't want to still see you. I need . . . to see you again . . . soon," she stuttered.

Rufus gave her a knowing smile. This girl has got it bad, he thought to himself with some satisfaction. "Well, the loft if out. Too many people coming and going from the stables this time of day. Why don't you follow me to the tool shed and we can . . . talk, awhile."

"I could cherish that! Where is this shed?"

"In back of the garage."

"You go there and wait for me, Rufus. I will follow after a respectful time."

Stacy could hardly contain herself as the minutes ticked by. She wanted to sprint to the tool shed, tearing her clothing off along the way, but propriety demanded circumspection. She idly strolled about the grounds, regarding the other riders, while slowly making her way towards the garage and the treasure that awaited her in the shed behind.

When she had moved beyond the gaze of the riders she moved more quickly, with more of a sense of purpose and urgency. She found the shed and flung it's door open and burst inside. She was in his strong arms and grinding her lips into his, her tongue exploring his mouth. She dug her nails into his jeaned ass and moved her hips against his growing erection. "I've missed you so, Rufus!" she panted.

"We were together just yesterday," he chortled, letting his massive hands knead the flesh of her ass through her sheer riding breeches.

"It felt like an eternity! How I longed to be in your arms again! I thought I would go mad with desire just thinking of our few moments together," she gasped as she ripped open his shirt and nuzzled his broad muscular chest, nipping gently at his hard nipples. She let her hands fall to his belt buckle and she deftly undid the belt and the strained zipped of his work jeans. She yanked down his pants with a desperate motion and fell to her knees before him. His cock, freed from its denim prison, was rapidly inflating, rising off his massive ball sack and lengthening before her ogling eyes. She watched in raptured awe as it rose to full staff, pointing her at forehead. She grasped the object of her lust with her two tiny fists and buried the purple head as deeply in her mouth as she could manage, moaning uncontrollably. Her tongue worked expertly along its underside, a skill borne not of experience but of the wanton abandon of shameless lust. Rufus threw his head back, drinking in her ministrations, feeling her moans through the turgid flesh of his organ, her slimy, slippery tongue tickling his glans. He gently guided her head back and forth on his manhood with a calloused hand on each temple of the madly sucking woman.

Stacy removed her mouth from his cock and while brutally stroking him regarded him with curled lips. "You like this, don't you boy? You like having a white woman suck on your big black cock, don't you?"

"I sure like having you suck my cock," he admitted.

"Say it! Say you like having a white woman suck your beautiful cock!" she demanded.

"Yes. I like having a rich white bitch like you sucking my cock!"

She again buried his cock in her mouth and raked it with her teeth, her head twisting on his distended blood-engorged tool. With one hand she cupped one of his canon-ball-like ass cheeks and forced his hips towards her ruddy face, trying to force as much of his cock as she could into her small, delicate mouth. Rufus whinnied like a prize stallion mounting a willing mare, huffing and puffing as his eyes rolled back into their sockets. Stacy could sense his impending climax and she increased her noisy suckage and the working of his cock dramatically until she felt the first surge of hot, thick jism hit the back of her throat. Determined to swallow every precious drop of his spew she began frantically chocking down his choad as quickly as he could deliver it

But the volume was greater than the poor girl had estimated and frothy spurts were soon leaking from around her lips, dribbling down her chin and falling on her starched white riding shirt. Tears flooded her eyes at her defeat and she pulled her head off his cock while it was still shooting, a wad hitting her squarely on the bridge of her pert nose. Another slab of semen landed over her right eye, another on her forehead.

She could still feel his organ pulsing but there was no more jizz to shoot. She rubbed the rubbery shaft over her face, spreading his sticky ooze around on her cheeks.

"God damn, woman! You are a natural at this!" Rufus sputtered, breathing again.

Her large blue eyes locked on his. "I love you, Rufus. I love your cock. I love having your cum on my face and body," she whispered as if in prayer.

Stanley Garner arrived at the Buford townhouse in a state of funk. He hated attending these meetings, but it was a social obligation he, and his fathers before him, had to attend from a sense of tradition. The humble black butler showed Stanley to a stately wood-paneled room and shut the double doors behind him. Buford was already seated, along with Banker Hill and six other local dignitaries, all well-known to Stanley.

"Stanley, my boy! Have a glass of brandy, will you? Gentlemen, we are all present, I suggest we commence the meeting," said Buford, their leader.

As one they all stood and placed their right hands over their hearts and faces a faded confederate flag.

"I pledge of allegiance to the flag

Of the Confederate States of America

And to the Republic that could have been

One nation, under God, divisible

With liberty and Justice for some.

"I call to meeting this session of our beloved Klavern," Buford began solemnly. "We have two items on the agenda that require immediate attention. First, the white daughter of one of our esteemed local businessmen in in foal from a black man." All eyes turned to member Craven, who was turning purple with rage and embarrassment. "We have been asked to perform our sacred duty as protectors of the white race to rectify this situation."

"Are we going to have a lynching, Buford?" of the members asked expectantly.

"Whiters, our Klavern hasn't had a lynching since 1925. No, this calls for a more clever, inventive approached. The wronged father has asked us to intercede on his behalf and to persuade the offending negro to do the right thing."

"What's that? Lynch hisself?"

"Not in this case. We want the young man to make an honest woman out of our wounded white daughter and marry her."

"Marry her? Since when did the Klan become a match-making society for miscegenation?"

"Well, it is the request of the aggrieved father in this case."

There was general murmuring around the table at this.

"Let us table that discussion for the time being, even though time quickly approaches for our cherished white daughter to drop the frog without the sanctity of wedded bliss. Let us discuss a more recent and pressing issue. The lovely and white wife of one of our respected members, Mister Hill, has just this afternoon reported a most profound outrage taking place at the Royal Riding Stables in this very county. A white woman, a wife, has been having a most disgraceful affair with a blackamoor employed by the very same stables. Now, Mrs. Hill will not divulge the identity of the errant wife as yet, but she has identified the offending negro as one Rufus Johnson, age twenty-eight, of this county. Now, this prize buck has been cleaving into the sacred white flesh of our obviously bedeviled sister for an unknown length of time, and this is a case that calls for a much sterner approach, being that the lady in question is married. I am open to suggestions."

sgtklark
sgtklark
70 Followers
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