Late autumn in the forest and I revelled in the rich colours afforded by nature’s artist. When the green chlorophyll in the leaves dies and is taken back into the tree, the brilliant reds and golds burst through and bestow the most wondrous colours on one of the best types of land. Woodland, forest, copse all with their own maturity and young blood. Vast phallic pines and conifers, sprinkly female little birches and massive dominant oaks. I’d bought the old farm on the proceeds of my father’s bequest and I was comfortably rich, single and free.
I had arrived at the farm with plans to renovate some of the extensive buildings into holiday homes and I needed quality time to think and draw it up. I had my own highly successful architectural practice. Girl friends were scattered in various parts of the country allowing me to indulge in sex whenever I felt. They were always hankering after my cash, I was a big spender, but I didn’t mind, I got my cock well and truly into them and made them earn their presents. I needed to settle down and further the family name, but time was on my side being only twenty nine years old.
On my first walk in the surrounding forest, which I had access to from my ninety acres, I had spotted the herd of fallow deer. Thirty or so in a bunch, wandering carefully, always watchful across the big heath and I watched fascinated as they fed and nibbled on the hoof. I’d been alerted to them by some weird grunts and moans, which at first I couldn’t place. Then I’d stumbled down wind on the herd, luckily not scaring them and I watched the big bucks in rut, roaring and grunting and fighting, claiming their ground and attracting mates. Of course it always happened in October to November and I gloried in being able to watch this wonderful display of nature on my doorstep. Often the encounters would entail a lot of clashing and locking of their splay of antlers, then seemingly an amicable split as they compromised. But I had read that they would sometimes fight to a death.
Meanwhile the delicate little does, all presumably in heat, with those fine heads and attractively coloured rumps, with their black stripes and flickering short tails, would feed quietly. Occasionally having to dodge one of the fights, they would merely trip to one side and bend head to grass again. What did fascinate me was the way the agitated bucks waggled their genitals as they strutted and clashed. It was if they were showing off the furry sheath and sharp little dick in its own glory, the control of the waggling and wobbling of it apparently separate to all their muscular bravado elsewhere. Their big balls swayed and swung alarmingly against their inner legs and I wondered if the buck felt the pain I imagined. A buck would then mount a doe, such a massive discrepancy in build and weight always puzzled me, also when I had seen massive bulls on little heifers in the dairy herds. However the female stood quietly while the buck reared, its forelegs straight down her side and with one or two shunts, would get off and start feeding. Quick isn’t the word. The doe would shake herself and her little tail and likewise continue her forage for food.
I thought of Toria, the girl I’d been with only three nights earlier. If I’d blown off in fifteen seconds she would have hit the roof. The deer herd moved on after I saw two other couplings, which I found strangely exciting in a mild sort of way. I rubbed my dick under my jeans and wandered on back to the property. The measuring and sketches for the alterations and extensions I had in mind, were to be done over several days and I amused myself with frequent walks, lunch and evening, to the numerous good local pubs for my meals.
One evening I was watching TV in the farm house and saw a documentary about the forest and lo and behold up came several shots of the stag rut and frequent matings. I became fixated for some reason, as the camera did linger on the doe’s delightful winking fanny and the buck’s erections, which I must say, were not much to be admired for all their bulk. A few days later a TV story about a racehorse owner, one who I had spent quite some cash on interested me and this time they showed mares being brought in for covering by stud stallions. It was here that I dived for the video remote and recorded the scenes. Again there were lovingly long sequences of the whole procedure, with sincere commentary from the trainer I followed. From teaser stallions, vets testing the mares for sex by sticking their arms up their cunts, right to the final moment when the stallion would mount her, with an itinerant following of humans monitoring the valuable nags. I idly found myself comparing the stag’s fine pointed cocks to the horse’s long blunt cocks and ended up, digging my own dick out and hefting it as I watched an old Ally McBeal show. Incidentally, it’s a crap fictional US law programme, featuring an ugly stick insect of a woman who likes to constantly, with irritating affectations, disappear into its own attire. However the high point of the series, for me that is, is the appearance of a black woman, Lisa Marie Carson. A work colleague of Ally, she has the most enormous pair of jutting tits. Whether they are natural or silicone, I’m not sure but she wears them high and always displays some deliciously dark cleavage. I could wank all night to them.
This particular episode which I zapped onto, had the stick insect – Ally, supposedly trying to lure a handsome black guy away from Lisa’s character. I mean what dross is this? At least the show had a high proportion of coloureds to make it interesting. Hmm! I needed sex. I rang a few girls up and they were all out of town, so there was no point in going back to the smoke.
I rang my office the next day and settled on staying down here for another day or so as necessary. I could work with the phone, fax, internet and my laptop and they knew where I was. God knows, I needed some time off. The villages didn’t offer too much in the prospect of girls. The barmaid at the lunchtime pub that day, was OK from the waist up, but she had what might be called elephantine legs. Huge pointed tits with seemingly spectacular nipples, bright sunny disposition and nicely done up, but I just couldn’t see myself getting between those ballock crushing trunks.
I sauntered back to the farm, round many attractive tracks in the forest and suddenly came across the deer. One stag and six does. Again I saw him cover two and then they got my scent and dashed away. I went to where the pretty little females had been fucked and thought of the sex they had had. I could smell them, a musky kind of odour hung in the clearing, it was one of their usual haunts. I looked at the forest floor, but apart from lots of droppings and footprints there was no sign of a boudoir. What did I expect to find? I didn’t know.
Having almost walked in on the sex act, I wondered what she had felt like to the stag. Of course he wouldn’t think about it, but I pondered for long periods on my walk back to the farm. As it happened I had venison steaks in another pub that evening and again my mind switched to the herd. I was possibly eating what was once one of them, I could smell them at will and I was becoming expert at their surroundings and activities, having seen them for over five days. I found myself rubbing my cock surreptitiously under the table as I scanned the pub crowd. A couple of plain girls could have been interesting, purely body wise. One tall and slender, the other medium height and stacked. But they left shortly after I spotted them. One man’s wife was smiling at me, had nice legs but she was pig ugly and about fifty, The landlady of the pub was about sixty and scrawny and I gave up in desperation, wandering a touch drunkenly back to the farm. Rustling in the moonlit woods attracted my attention, but I ignored it. Any beast or bird could have been making night sounds and I relished the beautiful utter silence otherwise and the sheer remoteness of my dwelling. It was so private. One particular copse edge came right down to the garden and I walked in past the tumbledown shed.
I wanked to the fleeting video of the horses and then a late night mildly sexy film and cursed my stupidity and set to to ponder about my next fuck. The images of the deer flitted constantly through my mind and with another two Macallans inside me, my evil plan unfolded. I had prime females within reach. They couldn’t tell, they couldn’t get pregnant, they couldn’t sue and they couldn’t scream. What’s more they were in heat, at this moment. Excitedly I went to bed and early next day, after a rasher or two of bacon, I was in the old shed checking its structure and sorting good timbers from old.
I worked fanatically all day, foregoing lunch – unusual for a foodie like me. Also unusually for the manual effort I was putting in. Something was driving me on. I cleared the shed and constructed a stout pen. To test it, I belted it with a lump hammer and bashed against it with all my weight, I’m six feet five and fifteen stone (210lbs to my US fellow bestials). I levered at it with my legs and it stood up nicely. In one of the barns, I grabbed some netting and tested it. It was sound. Outside the shed I checked the access from the copse and worked out the distance and then again to where the deer usually rutted. About 500 yards. Hmm! I was strong - but? I got a good sleep, tired yet on a high.
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