It was intoxicating in the best of ways as the stallions ground together, claiming his tail hole, stretching him out to such an extent that Beau even ...ondered if his backside would be the same again.What did it matter? Nothing mattered, not as the stallions thrust out of time, need rising, pumping through, desire curling up from the pits of their stomachs. They knew what they needed and how to take it, grunting thickly, ears twitching, tails proudly lashing the air.No one would ever know,. When Dad initially secured the farm tenancy he’d married mum who had lived in the village.Although Whitedirt was not big enough for grazing livestock it could comfortably accommodate a few horses alongside producing grain and ground crops.First Mary, then myself and Shirley were born and raised at Whitedirt Farm. I think it’s fair to say our parents produced three very attractive kids. Our childhood pass-times outside of school were the horses and the old cave at the chalk-pit. The cave was. More

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