The Horseman isn’t headless. If you count the knob of his cock of barnyard proportions, a rigid billy sliding hard and deep into your vitals, setting your asshole afire.

You found yourself drunk and naked in moonlight, tied to the wheel spokes of a wrecked hearse, rogered by a pumpkin-headed spectre, your own stiff dick dribbling.

Gripped with a thrilling confusion, the burn of the intrusion lit up your insides with a blooming throb that radiated through you, so much like a hot compress on a harsh ache—both unwelcome and pleasing.

The night started in a hayloft streaked with moonbeams where lovely Katrina, the squire’s oldest daughter, rattled your balls and sucked your wick with a starving urgency, attracted by your education, your genteel comportment, and coming from so cosmopolitan a place as Boston to replace Ichabod what’s-his-name, the school master gone missing one year ago.

This very night as it happens. But the insistent lips of Katrina—sliding the length of your manhood down to the root—so deeply she seemed ready to swallow you entirely at every stroke—had completely overtaken all imagination. There wasn’t a single bit of your brain available to consider that notable coincidence.

Nor did you give much thought to old Van Brunt, Katrina’s betrothed. You simply accepted the fact that a youthful, spirited country girl, full of such vigor, would prefer the manhood of a gentleman so much younger than farmer Van Brunt.

All your thoughts were on the jangling of nerves in your pizzle, radiating out with buzzing tendrils that reached down your thighs as she rocked and bobbed and twisted her head, applying an almost scientific knowledge of masculine anatomy to deliver an exhilarating experience you gratefully savored.

When it was impossible to hold back, impossible to tease out a moment longer in that delicious mouth, your gut clenched and you spewed a shot so hard it caught Katrina by surprise. She snorted a cough as she held you, deep, the juice passing straight down her throat, even as a stray dribble escaped to slide back down your pecker, glistening in the slatted moonlight coming through the gaps in the barn wall.

Patiently she waited as the contractions faded and you finally breathed out a long, long sigh, having emptied yourself. She drew back, even as you fingered the curling strands of hair shaken loose in her enthusiasm.

Her face seemed to radiate a silvery glow, and with a slow biting and licking of her lips, she took in the last of your spume. A long stretch of her tongue found that one last drop at the corner of her mouth.

She sat back on her haunches, satisfied at having thoroughly exhausted you.

She slipped back into her dress, and climbed down the ladder leaving you to sigh and recover.

Your thoughts did turn to Ichabod finally, only to wonder how he could let go so delicious a prize as Katrina.

Nearing midnight, according to your watch, you rode for the farmhouse where you’d taken a room. The road led you past a public house, well-lit and filled with the boisterous howls of locals and whatever travelers might be waiting for the morning coach.

Deciding that a little wine would be a perfect cap to this scintillating evening, you swung your horse toward the tavern and tied up at the railing.

Inside, the noise stopped as you stepped through the doorway.

Old Van Brunt—Brom Bones, they called him—stood among a circle of farmers all hoisting their mugs.

The room fell silent, and he turned to see who had brought the gaiety to so sudden a halt.

Bones gave you a sharp look, his glance full of meaning. It was clear he suspected something.

Had a good night, have you, he’d said. Not a question.

You agreed you had and signaled the tapster for a mug of wine

“Plucked himself something tasty, I’d reckon,” he said to the gaggle of crusty fellows standing around him.

You gave him an agreeable twist of a lip for a smile but had no intention of bandying words with a low-wit like Bones.

“Tastiest bits are got by moonlight when the farmer won’t notice. Am I right?” Bones barked a laugh, turning again to invite the rest of the company to join him in his joke.

Sizing up Bones, you recalled your boxing days at college, sure you could give as good as you got—if it came to that.

“Well, young fella, you’ll need something strong to wash it down.”

He slammed down his empty mug.

You tensed.

He picked up another mug, this one full, sloshing as he swung it toward you, holding it out for you to drink.

This was not expected.

You hesitated, so he took a long swallow, then held it out to you again.

Seeing no ill-effect on Bones and no hard looks or conspiratorial glances exchanged with his compatriots, you put it to your lips as everyone watched, filled with a pent-up glee.

You took a taste.

Harsh corn liquor to be sure, not the well-bred whiskey you grew up with, but drinkable. So you took a deep slug to show these country folk you were made of sterner stuff.

That brought an explosion of riotous laughter from the company, and a slap on the arm from farmer Bones. There would be no fisticuffs or wrestling tonight, it seemed, however old Bones might have felt about whatever it was he knew. You took another drink.

Swimming up from a drunken haze, you became aware you were flopped across the withers of a galloping black horse, riding along a moonlit country road. The night chill made you realize you were naked, nothing but your wig, knocked askew by the jolting of the galloping horse.

Twisting, you saw the rider, dressed all in black and leaning forward as he rode, and on his shoulders for a head—a pumpkin carved with a face of dark eyes and twisted mouth.

Jerking to throw yourself off, you felt the ties that bound you to the horse. The rider pressed a gloved hand to your bare buttocks to hold you in place.