colour as a ginger biscuit. His expression, which showed only around the eyes , was curious but a bit vacant. A beef breed, I thought, not dairy. Beef cattle are bred more docile.
An arse man, not a tit man then. It was his lucky day.
‘Hey now, Peter. You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’ I took another couple of steps, brandishing the torch like Van Helsing brandishing a crucifix. He scraped the earth with one hoof and looked nervous. ‘It’s all right. All right.’ I was within arm’s length now. I reached out with one hand and brushed my fingertips across his chest.
He felt like man, not tree stump. Warm despite the rain. His musculature was that of a man too, except for those feet. He even had nipples. ‘Wow,’ I whispered to myself. He shivered, his hide dancing under my fingertips. I stroked his chest slowly, still holding the torch between us and angled up at his face, my thumb on the button.
Deep in his chest he uttered a noise, half bovine low and half groan.
‘Shush.’ I let my hand trail down to his belly, and followed its path with my eyes. He had no pubic hair. His cock already hung big and distended, though it wasn’t totally out of proportion for a human. Unlike his bollocks, that is. He really was hung like an animal.
‘You’re not real, Bull Peter,’ I whispered, discovering that he had no navel. ‘So what’s the harm?’ My exploring fingertips circled his prick and he shuddered all over. He felt hot in my cold hand and it thickened at once in response to my touch, so that all of a sudden my fingertip couldn’t reach my thumb around its circumference. I stroked him up and down rhythmically. He was like velvet to the touch and, beneath that, hardwood. ‘Oh, you’re a big boy,’ I told him, delighted.
He seemed hypnotised. His head was tilted high. The eye of his cock gleamed, his own lubrication mingling with the rain. I wanted to fondle the big pouch of his balls but I only had one hand free so I had to release his cock. His whole frame surged back to life and he laid his hands on the front of my coat. His fingers were thick and blunt.
I should’ve switched the torch on.
He tore my waterproof open, pulling the zip from the rubberised cotton with no apparent effort. Then he tore open my sweatshirt and blouse together, exposing me to the sudden chill, and slid to his knees in front of me. I gasped with shock, rocking on my heels. His head dropped to a level with my torso and then his tongue slid out and lapped at my breast as if trying to lick it off. I was overwhelmed by sensation as he mouthed and licked and tried to suckle at my nipples, coating me in his saliva, his brown eyes rolling. Overwhelmed so completely that I didn’t notice him rending the front of my trousers until the elastic and plastic and the thin leggings beneath had given way with a sound of tearing. I laid my hand on his face and cried out. Then I lost my grip as he ducked his head and licked right up between my legs, nearly lifting me off the floor. Only his hands, transferred to my thighs, kept me from tumbling. He pinned me in place as, snuffling, he explored my exposed sex and gently butted my clit.
Bloody hell – his tongue was
long
, inhumanly so. He had no problem ascertaining my state of readiness or of effecting entry. And there was no question but that I was ready for him. The torch slid out of my numb hand. As he stood he lifted me, holding me to his chest, and bellowed in triumph. The vibration made my head ring.
In three strides he had me pinned against the rough wall of the cottage and I was sobbing with fear and relief as he entered me with his prick. I was slick with his saliva and my own insane desire and he moulded me around him, rearranging my insides to make room for his pizzle. I’d braced myself for a real battering and that is what I got; his thrusts were deep and heavy and inexorable. They filled me with his fire. They crushed the breath from me and bruised my arse against the
An arse man, not a tit man then. It was his lucky day.
‘Hey now, Peter. You’re not going to hurt me, are you?’ I took another couple of steps, brandishing the torch like Van Helsing brandishing a crucifix. He scraped the earth with one hoof and looked nervous. ‘It’s all right. All right.’ I was within arm’s length now. I reached out with one hand and brushed my fingertips across his chest.
He felt like man, not tree stump. Warm despite the rain. His musculature was that of a man too, except for those feet. He even had nipples. ‘Wow,’ I whispered to myself. He shivered, his hide dancing under my fingertips. I stroked his chest slowly, still holding the torch between us and angled up at his face, my thumb on the button.
Deep in his chest he uttered a noise, half bovine low and half groan.
‘Shush.’ I let my hand trail down to his belly, and followed its path with my eyes. He had no pubic hair. His cock already hung big and distended, though it wasn’t totally out of proportion for a human. Unlike his bollocks, that is. He really was hung like an animal.
‘You’re not real, Bull Peter,’ I whispered, discovering that he had no navel. ‘So what’s the harm?’ My exploring fingertips circled his prick and he shuddered all over. He felt hot in my cold hand and it thickened at once in response to my touch, so that all of a sudden my fingertip couldn’t reach my thumb around its circumference. I stroked him up and down rhythmically. He was like velvet to the touch and, beneath that, hardwood. ‘Oh, you’re a big boy,’ I told him, delighted.
He seemed hypnotised. His head was tilted high. The eye of his cock gleamed, his own lubrication mingling with the rain. I wanted to fondle the big pouch of his balls but I only had one hand free so I had to release his cock. His whole frame surged back to life and he laid his hands on the front of my coat. His fingers were thick and blunt.
I should’ve switched the torch on.
He tore my waterproof open, pulling the zip from the rubberised cotton with no apparent effort. Then he tore open my sweatshirt and blouse together, exposing me to the sudden chill, and slid to his knees in front of me. I gasped with shock, rocking on my heels. His head dropped to a level with my torso and then his tongue slid out and lapped at my breast as if trying to lick it off. I was overwhelmed by sensation as he mouthed and licked and tried to suckle at my nipples, coating me in his saliva, his brown eyes rolling. Overwhelmed so completely that I didn’t notice him rending the front of my trousers until the elastic and plastic and the thin leggings beneath had given way with a sound of tearing. I laid my hand on his face and cried out. Then I lost my grip as he ducked his head and licked right up between my legs, nearly lifting me off the floor. Only his hands, transferred to my thighs, kept me from tumbling. He pinned me in place as, snuffling, he explored my exposed sex and gently butted my clit.
Bloody hell – his tongue was
long
, inhumanly so. He had no problem ascertaining my state of readiness or of effecting entry. And there was no question but that I was ready for him. The torch slid out of my numb hand. As he stood he lifted me, holding me to his chest, and bellowed in triumph. The vibration made my head ring.
In three strides he had me pinned against the rough wall of the cottage and I was sobbing with fear and relief as he entered me with his prick. I was slick with his saliva and my own insane desire and he moulded me around him, rearranging my insides to make room for his pizzle. I’d braced myself for a real battering and that is what I got; his thrusts were deep and heavy and inexorable. They filled me with his fire. They crushed the breath from me and bruised my arse against the
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