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Her right hand began slowly stroking her pussy and my right hand began gently stroking right along with her. She planted her feet on the bed and raised her knees as her fingers petted her light furred pussy with firmer strokes. Her hand cupped her mound, she was grinding up against her palm, her hips rising and falling with the motion. Lifting her butt off the bed, she arched her back and pressed her cunt into the exploring hand, all the while rubbing first one breast and then the other. I began to wish I had installed a microphone. Her mouth was open and all I could do was imagine her moans of lust. Matching her stroke for stroke, I struggled to keep my own labored breath quiet. Then, much to my surprise, she just stopped. As I watched her lie there with one hand on her right breast and the other between her legs, I figured maybe she’d had a quiet little orgasm or perhaps she was just too tired to come. When she grabbed a pillow I thought she was planning to go to sleep. She rolled. I was a squire, home seldom, before he was walking, but I loved him well."When it came time for him to learn to ride, he was put on top of the gentlest horse in the stable, an old mare called Schreiterin. Thou knowest how it is at that age; one less rides the horse than one sits on it. George was nervous for two minutes, and then he fell in love. I would have expected him to demand a faster-stepping horse too soon. Instead, he wheedled to ride Schreiterin every day, sometimes several times a day. Nor did he try to gallop her, it was always a gentle walk with George perched on top. The times I saw them, they looked more like a boy sitting on a hay bale than horse-and-rider. After well more than a year of this, George learned that Schreiterin would have a foal. (First he noticed that her girth was growing faster than his legs.) He pestered my father to allow him to name the foal after himself. Perhaps he was convinced that the foal would be male, perhaps not; sex means little at that.
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