Bea’s beast stories 3.

It was in the middle of the day. I was seated at a
vanity in Helen’s bedroom brushing my hair. I hadn’t
had a good chance to brush it out since arriving, and
the brisk strokes tugging at my scalp felt good.

My hair was longer than it had been in years, the thick
brown tresses reaching down to just below my shoulder
blades. It seemed like an awful lot of hair as I
watched it move with my head in the mirror. I picked
the mass up with both hands and held it atop my head
for an instant.

The tap-tap-tap of the hooves on the kitchen floor
downstairs interrupted my thoughts. The pony had made
himself quite at home. So far there had been no
“accidents,” but the novelty of having a horse-like
creature roaming at will throughout the house was
something I had not yet gotten used to.

Helen was still upset about Clyde. We still hadn’t
figured out how he had gotten out of the house. He was
adept at pushing doors open that were not quite tightly
shut, but all of the doors leading to the outside were
found locked when Helen checked them.

Because of the air conditioning, all the windows were
closed, but one basement window we had found unlocked
and very easy to push outward. The window-was a good
six feet from the floor, however, and it seemed
doubtful that Clyde could have both scaled the wall and
pushed open the window. Still, he was gone.

Helen had reported him missing to the police shortly
after we had arrived home, and all morning had been on
the telephone checking with the pounds in the
metropolitan area. She had also alerted local kennels
and pet shops to be on the lookout in case the person
taking Clyde tried to sell him.

She was being very thorough. I had heard her calling in
ads to the Lost and Found sections of newspapers, and
talking to medical school people on the hunch they were
buying animals for student dissection.

“It’s not going to be easy to hide a tricolored collie.
They’re the rare ones,” she had pointed out to me.
“Well, maybe not as rare as the Morrells,” the thought
occurred to her, “but certainly not an everyday breed.”
She had been moved to tears periodically. “Where can he
be?” she had kept asking me.

Her grief over Clyde had kept her from paying much
attention to the pony. The tan and white creature had
taken to her almost immediately and frequently walked
up to where she might be sitting, softly nuzzling her.

On top of everything else, Jack arrived home later in
the evening. I thought he was going to croak when he
laid eyes on the pony. He went quickly from a kind of
shocked expression to a livid fury which he managed to
keep under control but just barely.

Helen, of course, didn’t waste any time telling him
about Clyde’s disappearance. Jack did his best to
reassure her that everything was going to turn out all
right, but seemed too stunned by the pony’s presence to
gather his wits about him enough to be of any material
help.

“Whose idea is this anyway?” he had almost demanded,
casting an eye in my direction. Because I had not yet
married, he was prone to suspect me of the darkest
sexual adventures, and once had told Helen that I was
probably a lesbian. He was a very insecure man.

He had insisted Helen keep the pony in the garage while
he was home. He calmed down considerably finally when
Helen told him the pony would only be there a few days,
but kept at her occasionally about the exact time of
departure.

After he had left for work earlier in the morning,
Helen told me he had wanted intercourse with her the
night before, but that she had begged off because she
was so worried about Clyde. He had gotten angry and
said things about Clyde he had never said before,
strange things.

“Do you suppose he knows that Clyde and I have been
lovers?” she had asked me.

I had blushed at the thought. It had seemed like such a
blunt way of putting it. “Only you can know that,
Helen,” I had answered.

“I’ve been very, very careful,” she had said. “Why, I
think I’d be mortified if Jack found out. He’d be so
upset.”

I had thought he would be more upset if he knew of some
of her other escapades, such as the hay episode with
Cunningham’s foreman.

“Jack would not be one to keep something like that to
himself, I think,” I had said. “You would hear about it
pretty fast.”

“He’s been suspecting something,” she had told me
again. “I just haven’t been as frustrated when he fails
to satisfy me completely, not like I used to be.”

I decided to put my hair into a loose ponytail, and
looked around the vanity for a barrette, Helen had
several including a wide tortoiseshell type which I
chose. A light itch behind my ear reminded me that it
would be a good idea to wash my hair. Perhaps tonight,
I thought.

Standing up, I removed my robe and caught my reflection
in the mirror. I was a body without a head as the
vanity was just low enough to cut the reflection off.
The hair on my bottom was a thick mat, and I ran a comb
through it, ratting it up as much as it would go.

All fluffed out, my pussy suddenly seemed larger than
life. I turned sideways and looked at my reflection.
The hair made quite a bulge. Patting the crest of the
bush lightly with my hand, the thought occurred to me I
really had too much hair there, and I wondered how many
men might be bothered by it.

I had just put the robe back on when a squeal from
Helen downstairs attracted my attention.

“Bea!” she called out, “come down and see this!”

I went down the stairs and turned, thinking she was in
the kitchen.

“In here!” The voice came from the living room.

I changed my direction and walked into the room. Helen
was kneeling on the floor alongside the pony. I could
see immediately that the animal was in an erect state.
In fact, it was still growing.

“Oohh,” she piped. “It just keeps on coming out!”

It was true. The organ kept extending outward and
slightly down. Less embarrassed than I had been about
looking at it in the barn, I knelt down on the other
side of the pony and watched, fascinated, as the skin
on the protuberance grew tauter.

I could not resist touching it and reached for the
shaft. Helen had the same impulse for our fingers
clasped it about the same time. We both gave a little
squeeze.

“It’s so soft,” Helen marveled, “yet solid!”

It felt warm to my fingers, and I let them run down to
the fat head at the end. It resembled a big brown apple
except that inside the depression where the stem would
normally be was an open hole about the size of a pea.
Inside the hole the lining was a fresh pink.

The pony was blowing softly and turned to nuzzle me on
the ear. He didn’t seem to mind that we were so curious
about his huge part. His thing was easily thirteen or
fourteen inches long.

“I wonder if we could get it to come,” Helen mused.

“You mean, jerk it off?” I asked.

“Do you think he would stand for it?” she asked me, in
turn.

“How would you do it?” I wanted to know. “I mean,
without him kicking you?”

She had begun jacking at the penis with her closed
fingers, but her tiny hand seemed inadequate, scarcely
reaching around. “I don’t know if he likes that or
not,” she said. She stopped and shifted her position.
The pony neighed deep in his throat.

“See,” I said, smiling. “He doesn’t-want you to stop.”

“It’s hard to do because of the angle,” she revealed,
and rolled onto her back, reaching up to continue
stimulating the animal.

I watched as she worked. The pony was showing no signs
of losing the erection, but didn’t seem particularly
excited, either, as I would have imagined him to be
when sexually aroused. He seemed to be tolerating it
more than enjoying it.

“Oh!” Helen exhaled, “all the b***d ran out of my arm
and it aches. This is hard work!”

She stood up, rubbing her arm and looking at the thing.
I could tell what she was thinking. Here is this
magnificent thing. How can we keep it from going to
waste?

“I wonder, she mused. “I wonder if that would go in.
What do you think, Bea?”

Oddly, my curiosity had taken me over completely.
Whereas the thought of Helen with Clyde had embarrassed
me, the thought of her with the pony quickly aroused
me. Clyde seemed so human. The pony was more
impersonal.

I knew, though, that it was the immense thing he was
carrying that outweighed all other considerations.
There is nothing like the sight of meat to thoroughly
distract a woman.

“Go on!” I urged, blushing in spite of myself. “Live
dangerously!”

“How do you go about it?” she wanted to know. My
blushing was making her blush, and we talked without
looking at each others’ eyes.

“Try it like with Clyde,” I suggested.

“You mean, get down on all fours?” She stood thinking
for a moment. “Okay,” she said quickly, unbuttoning her
skirt on the side. “That damn thing’s got me so hot,
I’ll stand on my head if I have to.”

Unzipping her skirt, she stepped out of it and quickly
pulled down her panties. Getting down on her hands and
knees, she backed up slowly at the pony. She was
telling the truth about being hot. The lips on her
bottom were glistening wet.

There was a burning lump in my throat that started to
throb. The strangest notion came over me that I would
like to be that pony right then, about to be doing
whatever it was that was going to be done to Helen. The
feeling must have been based on a sheer desire to want
to participate, nothing else.

Helen had moved close to the pony. He nodded his head
at her exposed rear, and I noticed his nostrils flare
slightly as he nosed at her open pussy. He muffled at
it, and I saw the tongue flick for an instant.

“Yi!” she exploded. “What a feeling!” I stroked my
juicy twat harder. “Anything doing?” she asked.

“He’s not exactly hell bent for leather,” I said. “Do
you suppose you have to be in heat?” I asked her.

“Sis, I’m in heat thirty days a month,” she informed
me.

“You know what Cunningham said,” I reminded her.

She got up and rubbed at herself. “Damnation! There
must be a way.” She walked around the animal, banging
her fist into the palm of her hand.

Something someone had told me once about Catherine the
Great of Russia came to mind. “How about like a
hammock, underneath?” I suggested.

“You mean like a sling?”

I nodded. In a fit, I disrobed and got underneath the
animal, placing my arms around his neck. The space
between his front legs wasn’t too wide, and I had to
force them apart. His big thing poked at my belly. I
looked up at Helen. “Like this.”

“Well,” she said, “go ahead. Išll be glad to wait my
turn.”

I felt a thrill run through my body. Why not, I
thought. Moving up further on the animal, I felt the
heavy weight of the end of his penis move slowly down
my belly as I inched forward. When it reached the crest
of the mound, I stopped.

“Can you lift my legs over his back?” I asked Helen.

She grabbed hold of first one and then the other,
holding them until I had a chance to lock the feet
together. In making the adjustment, however, I lost
contact with the head of his organ. The big apple
bounced on the top of my pussy, came to rest
momentarily on a good spot, where it tamped briefly,
then fell off down below my ass.

“Point it, point it!” I nearly shrieked at Helen.

“Jeepers!” she gushed. In a second she was down on the
floor, grabbing hold of the fat thing. She had to bring
it up almost parallel with his belly to get it into
position. “Is that good?”

“Down a little more. No! Too much. That’s it. Hold it
there, right there.” I was beginning to breathe faster.
“Work it in a little. Oh, gosh!”

I could feel the enormous head beginning to slip
inward. The pony was evidently not going to do anything
but stand there, so I had complete control. Almost by
definition, though, the thing seemed to be entering me.
The opening began to stretch.

“Oh, oh! Sis! Oh, oh! Oh wow!!”

With a rush, the head cleared the opening and plunged
softly into me. I was conscious of an enormous filling.
The feeling continued for some time.

“Oh sis,” I drooled, “it’s wonderful. How much is in?
Can you see?” My breathing was short. I was wishing the
animal would start pumping or something. The pleasure
seemed long and drawn-out with no movement.

Helen was rubbing her fingers into herself vigorously.
“About half of it, I guess,” she said.

I moved forward more actively than before and was aware
of it packing in slowly, deeper and deeper. After about
a minute I was stuffed almost beyond endurance.

“Is it all in now?” I asked, breathlessly.

“There’s still a lot out, Sis,” she said
apologetically.

My face must have shown my disappointment.

“Bea, you can’t expect… I mean, there’s an awful lot
there.”

Try as hard as I might have wanted to, I could not
force any more inside, and gave up trying. I began to
contract the muscles in my thighs in an effort to
initiate some movement back and forth. I was packed
full, and it was lovely, but I wanted things to go all
the way.

My biceps just were not that strong and I soon tired.
Helen saw my predicament.

“I have an idea,” she said. Running into the kitchen,
she soon returned with a fly swatter. “Hold on!” she
commanded.

She began swatting the rear end of the pony, yelling at
him to giddyap. The effect on the beast was electric.
He took off around the living room at a trot, and at
last I began to feel some movement inside me. It wasn’t
much but it was having an effect.

He kept following the same path until one turn around
the sofa cut a little sharp. He ran up onto it with his
front hooves practically sitting me down on it. I held
on and he began to make thrusts at me. He had finally
been aroused.

“Hooray!” Helen yelled. “Ride ’em, cowboy!”

It was much rougher than I had been prepared to take.
The latent strength in the animal, finally mobilized to
action, was incredible. Some instinct at work in him
was driving him to sink the last full measure of his
phallus inside me. I began howling from the mixture of
pleasure and pain.

“Helen,” I gasped, “I don’t know if I can take it!”

My sister just stood there transfixed by the spectacle,
as the animal drove still deeper. He was sweating
profusely, the horsey, leathery smell overpowering me.
What’s it going to be like when this animal comes? I
wondered.

As exhausted and jammed up with meat as I felt, a warm
feeling began to grow inside me. As it increased, the
pain of being stretched to unbearable limits subsided.
I was embarrassed to come in front of my sister and
squeezed my eyes shut.

“Helen, I’m going to have an orgasm. Don’t took,” I
managed to blurt out.

The pony was blowing hard through his nostrils. I felt
him drive particularly hard on one thrust. The hot come
suddenly spurted out and around the sides of his organ,
for my vagina could not contain it all. I could hear
the drops hitting the floor and landing gosh knows
where. I heard Helen shriek.

My climax came over me, then. It seemed to me I was
going to become part of the sofa, sinking deeper and
deeper into the cushions. In the dim recesses of my
brain while sinking, I felt the pony withdraw. The
sudden loss of all that power within me left a great
void, as though I had just given birth to the Empire
State Building.

The next thing I was aware of was Helen standing over
me. She was talking to me, but the words didn’t
register.

“What?” I managed to say drowsily.

“I said I could drive a truck through there. Look at
you!” She was pointing to my bottom. I must have been
in a beautiful position for someone to walk in on us,
then. Flat on my back with my head buried in the
cushions, my feet on the floor, and my knees spread and
pointing in the air.

I managed to sit up after a fashion. I felt sore as
blazes. Looking down at myself, I saw that I had been
reamed out to the point where I was afraid things would
never close up again.

Struggling to my feet, I took the robe from Helen and
headed for the stairs. “I’m going to soak in a hot tub
for the next hour,” I moaned. “At least an hour. Do not
disturb!”

Helen was laughing. “That was supposed to be mine, you
lucky girl.”

I turned on the stairs. “By all means, be my guest,” I
said, extending my hand in a magnanimous gesture. “By
the way, wherešs the family stud?”

“In the garage, happily munching grain,” she announced,
“and does he have an appetite!” She seemed pleased that
I had done something at long last to overcome what she
regarded as prudery, or perhaps excess modesty.

The hot bath felt good. I was still sore and quite
open. I couldn’t help wondering if I was ever going to
be able to enjoy an average-size penis again. I wasn’t
torn. Just stretched. Hadn’t it always shrunk back to
normal limits? Why should this be any different? I had
to admit it was an extreme case.

Helen was on the telephone when I came downstairs. She
was talking to someone about Clyde. From the gist of
the conversation, it must have been the owner of a
kennel. They were talking about registration papers and
the fact that without AKC registration, the dog could
not be sold at a high price.

I had an appointment that evening to visit a Mr. Ben
Cameron in Highland Park, the next town over from
Irving. Cunningham had given me the man’s name and
telephone number as the owner of a pony. I had called
Cameron, and he had seemed happy to have me come over
and take some pictures.

Helen had begged off accompanying me. She had to stay
by the telephone, she had said, in case some news about
Clyde developed.

She completed her call and came over to the sofa where
I sat. “Would you believe the mess?” she asked,
pointing to the spot on the floor. She sat down and
stared at it blankly. “I can tell Jack I spilled a
drink. What say we have one?” she suggested.

I opted for a beer, and she got up to go to the
kitchen. While she was getting the drinks the doorbell
rang. I rose to see who it was. It turned out to be the
paper boy making a weekly collection.

“Look in one of Jack’s coat pockets in the closet,”
Helen called from the kitchen.

I fished through several suit coats and jackets.
Feeling what I thought was a loose dollar, I pulled out
only to find I had a plain white slip of paper with a
telephone number written on it in pencil. The number
looked vaguely familiar. I stuffed it back into the
pocket.

Helen had to come to the rescue with some change from a
kitchen drawer. We sat down then and quietly drank. I
had to sit with my feet up on the end of the couch.
Helen chuckled at my aches and pains.

After dinner it was still bothering me as I drove over
to Highland Park. We had sat very quietly during
dinner. Jack had been in a much better mood than the
night before and had valiantly tried to cheer Helen up.
She was too worried about him finding the spot on the
carpet and complaining about the pony, to be at ease.

I was glad in a way to get out of the house. Cameron,
as I soon found out, lived in a house not unlike Jack
and Helen’s. The neighborhood was a more expensive-
looking one, larger lots, some nicer homes, but the
difference was merely a matter of degree of income,
rather than of lifestyles.

Cameron answered the door himself. He was a gruff kind
of a man. I judged him to be in his fifties. He
explained to me that he was a bachelor and like all
bachelors his small talk with young ladies was not very
smooth.

I noticed he was wearing a kilt, and commented on it.
He told me he was born in Scotland, but never wore them
in the States except at home.

The pony was in the living room when we entered. It was
standing so still it appeared to be a statue at first.
It was a gorgeous animal, a mare, with softer features
than the pony at Helen’s. I noticed, too, the blue eyes
Cunningham had told me about.

Cameron offered me a Scotch highball, and we sat and
talked about the pony. He was very fond of her, he
said. They were just like an old married couple, he
felt. He saw me raise an eyebrow at that, and reddened.

“It’s the whole truth, lass,” he said, making no bones
about it. “I won’t deny it.”

I wondered, though, if he had actually caught my
meaning. He called to the pony, speaking slowly and
affectionately. The animal trotted right over and
licked at his ear. He asked it to lie down beside him,
which it did without hesitation.

“You can see, my dear, she’s quite fond of me, too,” he
asserted.

He explained that the Shetland Isles were off the coast
of Scotland and that Iceland, too, was not really so
far away, and for that reason undoubtedly the two of
them got along so well.

I noticed a small platform in one comer of the room. It
was about a foot high off the floor. He explained to me
that he used it for playing the pipes. When he had
guests he frequently performed for them on the bagpipes
and used the platform like a stage.

When he mentioned the word “platform,” the pony
suddenly got up and trotted over to it. She stepped up
onto it, threw up her tail, and I was able to observe
immediately that the animal was in heat.

Cameron reacted instantly. “Dash it all, Heather,” he
said, shooting me an embarrassed look and getting up.
“Come now, girl. That won’t do,” he said to her,
walking over and trying to coax her off. “That won’t do
at all.”

“Why does she do that?” I asked, walking over to them.

Cameron thought I was asking why she kept opening and
closing her hole. “Why, lass, she craves the dork, as
they say.” He was having difficulty being at ease. The
pony had embarrassed him, and he didn’t know how to
handle both her and me at the same time.

“I meant, why does she mount the platform like that?

“That? Well!” He cleared his throat. “Heather wants to
hear the pipes, don’t you, girl? I’ll get the pipes and
well have a tune, we will.” He walked over to a closet
and brought out a set of bagpipes.

He stood there then, playing a quickstep and tapping
his feet. The pony turned around once and looked at
him rather oddly, but otherwise continued standing in
the same position, opening and closing her organ in the
violent manner that is the animal’s nature.

I took a picture of the pair of them just like that,
the pony calmly listening to the sweating, huffing
Scotsman’s music. It might have seemed more natural for
the pony to be facing the music in this case. Perhaps
when he was through, I could rearrange the pose. I set
the camera down and waited.

He was done shortly, and I asked him.

“Lass,” he began, “She’ll not be changing that
position. Take my word for it. You may as well put it
out of your mind.” He seemed certain, and I did not
press for the pose. He returned his bagpipes to the
closet, and we went back to our chairs.

The remainder of our conversation was strained. Cameron
seemed to have something on his mind and was anxious to
conclude our interview. I felt he had probably lost
face somehow when the pony would not heed his request
to get off the platform. I thanked him warmly and he
walked me to the door.

Out in the car I realized I had left my camera inside
the house and returned to the front door. It had not
been shut tightly and I could hear Cameron talking
inside.

“Heather, darling,” he was saying. “Did you have to do
that, my lass? The young lassie was near to finding out
all about the way I feel about you.”

Curiosity got the better of me and I squeezed just
inside the door. From the vestibule I could, by
standing close to the wall, peer around into the living
room.

The pony was standing where I had last seen her.
Cameron was over behind her stroking her rump with his
large hands. To my surprise he had an erection. A
rather broad, fat, ruddy penis jutted up out of his
kilt at a forty-five degree angle.

He kept stroking the animal’s hindquarters and speaking
to her in soothing tones. With the pony on the
platform, he was in a good position, simply by moving
forward and tilting his organ down about fifteen
degrees, to copulate with it. It seemed obvious to me
that was his intention.

I didn’t have long to wait. Cameron began catching at
his breath as he became more aroused. He dropped his
kilt suddenly and stepped out of it. Bending his penis
slightly downward he brought it within a fraction of an
inch of the pony’s throbbing hole.

He waited momentarily like that, apparently trying to
time his thrust to coincide with the wide-open phase of
the vagina’s openings and closings. He rocked slightly
in rhythm with them and then suddenly lunged forward.

The timing was apparently right. The pony’s hole closed
over Cameron’s organ in an enormous grip, and held it
tightly, pulling the man off his feet.

Cameron cried out and fell forward, clutching the pony
about her flanks. The massive vagina seemed to undulate
and slobber, making gurgling noises as it attempted to
consume the somewhat inadequate organ it had captured.
The animal neighed and kicked out at the man’s legs
convulsively.

Cameron came very quickly under such conditions. I saw
him try to extricate himself.

It didn’t seem to be an easy task, but he did pull
away, failing back against the closet door where he
leaned, panting, for some moments. “That’s a good lass,
that’s a careful lass,” he kept muttering to himself.

The pony, seeing that he had finished, stepped off the
platform and walked over to him, nuzzling at his hand.
In spite of the violent nature of what had just
occurred, the relationship was returning to a tender
phase.

Cameron patted the pony’s brow. They remained there
like that, exchanging gentle touches of one kind or
another, and I was reminded of Cameron’s statement
about them being like an old married couple. The term
suited them at that moment.

Finally, his arm around the pony’s neck, he turned with
her and walked back into the house somewhere. He was
speaking to the pony again in soft tones as the tapping
of the hooves beat a staccato accompaniment across the
floor.

I waited until I was sure they had gotten out of
earshot before stepping into the living room and
retrieving my camera. Very quietly, I pulled the door
shut and stepped out into the cool Texas evening.