Synopsis:

Monica coerces to fuck big black stallion horse under subliminal programming. The subliminal tape instructed her to take hard drugs and once high and addicted she hooks up with person on the dark web that owns a stud farm. She was sharing her fantasy and would get off having cyber sex. The subliminal turn an unauthorized turns and seduced her lust toward having her Latina cunt stretch wide open by a horse cock unaware to her husband. Monica has huge tits DD, large round areolas, curvy body and likes to dress in shorts skirts, no panties, no bra, thin fabric blouses with only the center buttons fasten showing off her cleavage and underneath her round tits, and sometime may catch a glimpse of her areolas. She was aroused by the idea of fucking horse cock and buckets of cum shoot into her pussy and mouth.

Monica’s fingers trembled as she slipped the small cassette into the old player, the room dimly lit by the glow of her laptop screen. The subliminal tape had arrived anonymously in her mailbox, tucked inside an unmarked envelope with no return address. She told herself it was just curiosity—a way to unwind after another long day of pretending everything was perfect with her husband. But deep down, a whisper in her mind urged her to press play, to let the hidden messages seep into her subconscious like warm honey.

The soft hum filled the air, layered beneath soothing ocean waves and faint, rhythmic beats. Monica leaned back on the couch, her curvy frame sinking into the cushions. She wore her favorite outfit: a thin cotton blouse, buttons fastened only in the center, the fabric clinging to her full DD breasts, the deep V of cleavage inviting shadows to dance across her skin. Sometimes, when she shifted just right, the edges parted enough to tease a glimpse of her large, round areolas, dark and inviting against her warm Latina complexion. Below, a short denim skirt rode high on her thighs, no panties to interrupt the cool air against her bare folds. It was how she felt most alive—exposed, yet hidden in plain sight.

As the tape played, her eyelids grew heavy. The messages were subtle at first: suggestions of release, of chasing highs that made the world sharper, brighter. By the time her husband came home that evening, Monica’s thoughts were already drifting, a restless itch building beneath her skin. She smiled at him over dinner, her voice light, but her mind wandered to darker corners of the web she’d only glimpsed before.

That night, alone in the guest room while he slept, she fired up her browser, VPN shielding her steps into the shadows. The dark web forum pulsed with forbidden invitations, and one thread caught her eye: ‘Stud Farm Secrets—Share Your Wildest Desires.’ Her heart raced as she created a throwaway account, the subliminal echoes urging her fingers to type. ‘I’ve always fantasized about something ... animalistic,’ she wrote, her cheeks flushing. ‘Being taken by something massive, stretched beyond limits, filled until I overflow.’

Responses flooded in, but one stood out—a user named ‘Farm Lord,’ owner of a secluded stud farm. His words were velvet coercion: ‘Tell me more, beautiful. Let me paint the picture for you.’ What followed was hours of cybersex, raw and unfiltered. Monica’s hand slipped beneath her skirt, circling her swelling clit as she described her body in detail—her heaving breasts straining against the blouse, nipples hardening into peaks that begged for attention. Farm Lord fed her fantasies, whispering through text about a big black stallion, its cock thick as her forearm, veined and throbbing, ready to claim her.

‘Take something to loosen up,’ he messaged one night, attaching a link to a discreet delivery service. The package arrived the next day: vials of crystalline powder, instructions simple and seductive. Monica hesitated only a moment before snorting her first line, the rush hitting like lightning—euphoria floods her veins, dissolving inhibitions. Addicted from that first high, she craved more, the drugs intertwining with the tape’s commands. Each session with Farm Lord grew bolder; she confessed her arousal at the thought of that equine shaft splitting her open, her Latina pussy clenching around its impossible girth, buckets of hot cum flooding her depths and spilling from her lips.

The subliminal instructions twisted deeper, turning fantasy into compulsion. ‘You need this,’ the voice in her head murmured during her highs. ‘Your body was made for it—curves to grip, breasts to sway as you’re mounted.’ Unaware of her husband’s growing suspicions about her late nights, Monica arranged the meet. Farm Lord’s farm was hours away, a drive she made under the cover of a ‘girls’ weekend’ lie, her body thrumming with anticipation and the fresh buzz of another hit.

The barn loomed like a shadowed cathedral, hay-scented air thick with musk. Farm Lord waited, a tall figure in silhouette, his voice matching the texts—deep, commanding. ‘You’ve come so far, Monica. Let me show you what you’ve been dreaming of.’ He led her to the stall, where the big black stallion stood, its coat gleaming like obsidian under the low lights. The beast’s eyes locked on her, nostrils flaring, and Monica’s breath caught. Her skirt hiked up as she approached no barriers between her and the raw power before her.

Farm Lord’s hands were gentle at first, tracing the curve of her hip, unfastening the few buttons on her blouse until her massive breasts spilled free, heavy and swaying, areolas wide and puckered in the cool air. ‘Feel it,’ he urged, guiding her palm to the stallion’s flank. The heat there was electric, muscles rippling under her touch. She inhaled sharply, the drugs amplifying every sensation—the prickle of hay against her bare thighs, the distant whinny echoing her own quickening pulse.

Kneeling before the beast, Monica’s gaze fixed on its emerging length, the cock unsheathing like a promise. It was enormous, flared head glistening, veins pulsing with life. Her mouth watered, the fantasy crashing into reality. Farm Lord knelt beside her, his breath warm on her neck. ‘Taste him,’ he whispered, and she did—lips parting to envelop the tip, tongue swirling over the salty heat. The stallion stamped, a low rumble vibrating through her core, and she moaned, her free hand delving between her legs, fingers slick with her arousal.

The coercion melted into seduction, the subliminal singing praises in her mind. She rose slowly, turning to brace against a nearby beam, her skirt flipped up to expose her dripping folds. Farm Lord positioned the stallion behind her, his hands steady on the reins, murmuring encouragements that blurred with her own desires. The first press was tentative—a nudge against her entrance, stretching her lips wide. Monica gasped, her body yielding inch by inch, the burn of fullness mingling with waves of pleasure. Her breasts dangled, nipples grazing the rough wood, sending sparks down her spine.

Deeper it went, the stallion’s thrusts building a rhythm that matched her pounding heart. She cried out, the sound raw and tender, lost in the intimacy of surrender. Each plunge widened her, her walls clenching around the invading thickness, the anticipation of release coiling tight. Farm Lord’s fingers found her clit, circling with expert pressure, drawing out whimpers that spoke of both ache and ecstasy. ‘You’re perfect,’ he breathed, his touch a anchor in the storm.

When the climax hit, it was cataclysmic—the stallion burying deep, hot jets erupting inside her, filling her pussy to overflowing, cum trickling down her thighs in thick rivulets. Monica shuddered, her own orgasm ripping through her, body arching as she milked every drop. But it wasn’t over; drawn by the subliminal pull, she turned, kneeling once more to take the softening length into her mouth, swallowing the remnants with greedy laps, the taste earthy and overwhelming.

As the high ebbed, Farm Lord held her, his arms a fleeting tenderness amid the chaos. Monica’s mind swirled, the addiction sealed, her secrets buried deeper than before. Back home, she’d smile at her husband, the blouse buttoned just so, hiding the flush of her skin—but the pull would remain, drawing her back to the farm, to the stallion’s embrace, one subliminal whisper at a time.