Fanta C

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The first time was enchanted.

We made love in the stable amid the smell of hay and horses and dust. Our coupling was hot and lusty. Our bodies were shiny with sweat when it was over. Replete, we lay with limbs entwined. Straw was tangled in my hair. He playfully plucked out pieces of it, while I delighted in the way the sun shone in through the cracks in the walls, casting stripes of light and shadow on his wide hairy chest.

It had been destined to happen, though the selection of the time had been exclusively his. Mounted on one of my father's prized thoroughbreds, I had returned to the stable after the daily ride. My heart had begun to beat vigorously at the sight of the stable foreman leaning against the corner of the building. No one else was in the yard.

I looked at him with the haughty condescension passed down to me through generations of aristocratic breeding. He, in no great hurry, sauntered forward. Smiling arrogantly, he raised his hands and placed them around my waist to assist me off the sidesaddle. Wanting to shake his unshakable self-confidence and conceit, I deliberately let my body slide enticingly down the front of his before my booted feet touched the ground. I watched his eyes grow dark, but my triumph was short-lived.

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