Haunting Horsecock

If Molly hadn’t had the argument with her parents over curfew, she certainly wouldn’t have taken her camping gear and stormed off. And if she had been thinking calmly, she would probably have avoided pitching her tent in the ancient woodland near Parson’s Hillock. After all, every kid knew that the woods were haunted and, at 17, Jenny wasn’t too old to recall the stories.

The ghost of a highwayman, some said, shot down by the boy on the old Stage Coach. The spirit of a serving girl, cruelly abandoned with child by her soldier lover, older children claimed. If her thoughts were shaper, Molly should even have recalled the oldest of the adults once or twice declaring the woods were inhabited only by the Devil’s own horse, though they would be shushed down quickly.

Pale of skin and fiery of both hair and temper, Molly at least was not too angry to pitch her tent correctly, nor to bank up her fire properly ‘afore she lit it. As she prodded at the fierce flames with a stick, Molly cursed her parents’ unreasonableness aloud. She hoped they were worried sick, unaware that her Dad had watched her take the tent, and was confident in her safety. She’d camped years, after all, and he assumed she would return shamefaced in the morning.

As the fire died down Molly had indeed been enjoying a work of far-fetched fiction. The full moon was high overhead and so, with the coolness of the night permeating, she decided it was time to take to her sleeping bag. Molly’s teenage rage had died down with the flames, and she felt quite exhausted as she stood and stretched. It was only as Molly dropped her arms again that she saw the eyes glowing in the night,

"What the F… "

She was almost too frightened to scream for a moment, before she recognised the general shape and height and realised they belonged to a horse. As the eyes came forward the urge to scream returned, for Molly could see the trees through the great stallion. The last of the fire died then, strangely fast, and Molly felt the great cold of the night. She shivered, and tried to find the words to pray the horse would pass by.

Instead, the stallion moved closer and Molly felt a strange desire stirring deep in her soul. It may be that the desire came from the horse’s gaze, or that Molly had always unknowingly held it. Without for a moment breaking her eye contact with the spectre, Molly unbuttoned her blouse, and slipped free from it. A moment later, and her sports bra joined it in the dirt.

The pure moonlight seemed to make Molly’s own skin glow bright. Her bared breasts moved with her fast, frightened, breathing. Almost without realising it, the girl kicked her boots off and tugged down her jeans and panties. Molly showed herself to the spectral horse, and felt as if it approved. Slowly, Molly’s fingers moved down to her unkempt ginger bush.

The spectral horse seemed slightly more solid as Molly rubbed at her virginal folds. She moaned slightly, not a cry of fear, but pleasure. The night was still cold, but it seemed as if there was a heat emanating from Molly’s snatch as she shamelessly exposed herself. Her initial fear of coming face-to-face with a ghost was replaced with an unnatural, feverish lust. Still rubbing, Molly approached the horse until she stood just before its nose. She couldn’t yet smell it at all, but her own arousal was growing strong in the musty woodland. It seemed as if a question appeared in her mind, and she spoke clearly,

"Yes. I give myself to you."

Finally breaking eye contact, Molly dropped to her knees and crawled forward. Her snatch ached for her touch as her thighs glistened, but she wanted something else. The ghost’s cock had emerged silently from its sheath, and lengthened beneath its belly. Molly reached out with her slippery fingers and took the shaft in her hand. At the very first touch, the horse again seemed to gain more solidity. Lost in her lust, Molly kissed the flat tip, and felt the cold ectoplasm oozing against her lips.

The ghost horse did not appear skittish about the 17-year-old girl kneeling beneath it, even as she moaned loudly. Molly stroked the stallion to full hardness with one hand, while returning to her snatch with the other. She had no chance of taking the thick length into her mouth, but she planted lustfully kisses and licks as she stroked firmly.. Molly could no longer see through the warming horse, and the smell of the beast had grown strong as she stroked harder and faster.

Molly was rubbing herself furiously at the same time, and knew she was close to an incredible climax. She felt hot, hotter than the earlier fire, as her juices ran freely. The horse neighed, suddenly, and the sound was gravely and as unnatural as Molly’s immoral pleasuring. Another question. The horse’s hot, hard, completely solid cock twitched in her hand, and she cried out in orgasm at the same moment,

"I am yours!"

Molly thrust three fingers through her hymen, and the pain accentuated and improved her pleasure. She felt the lava-like blast of semen into her face, far too much to swallow, though she tried even in her own orgasmic writhing. The warmth spread through her body even as her face and hair were plastered in the seemingly never-ending torrent. Her breasts no longer moved with breath as the horse sprayed her, and she didn’t even notice. Molly stood hazily, and left her body behind. She stretched again, enjoying the post-climatic ache in the memory of her muscles. The horse permitted her to mount it bareback, and away they rode from the lonely tent.

"Don’t go in that wood," the old folks say, "The Devil’s bride herself rides there, and she’ll have your soul!"

A/N: Story written for AFF forum weekly prompt 1 - Haunt.

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