It was a crisp Fall night in which the blood moon poured over the village of Goldleaf. It was well past the witching hour, and the community had extinguished their house flames, rowdy children had been ushered to bed, lustful adults had well finished their night’s affairs, and the various livestock of the farms had retired to their spots among the hay, dirt, and peaceful fields.
While Goldleaf village slept contently, buried in their furs and blankets, or wrapped in the arms of their lovers, a more ominous event was starting to unfold just out of sight.
The village was not particularly well-to-do, being fairly small and primarily focused on farming. The elders ruled the town, bestowing wisdom and rules to the villagers. The homes were mainly thatched roofs, exposed log walls, and rooms lit by candelabras and fireplaces. It was a place steeped in hard-worn days, mysterious nights, and not much else.
Surrounding Goldleaf on all sides was a thick forest. Its many branches and overgrown trees blotted out any sun, even on the brightest of summer days. Known as the Forbidden Wilds, it was the source of many frightening stories told to the delight and dread of village children. A cautionary place, not to be entered for any reason, full of mystery and foreboding.
Of course, this also made it a choice spot for horny teens and the more adventurous of adults. On rare occasions members of the village would enter the mysterious forest in the dead of night, only to never return to their beds. This always resulted in a panicked search into the virgin outliers of the dark woods. Desperate to find any trace of the lost loved ones.
It was even rarer for their diligent search to return any lost prodigal members. Eventually, the community would return to the village empty-handed and heavy-hearted.
But some claim they see traces of the lost souls. Some believe moans can be heard on particularly cold, dark nights. Nights when the veil between worlds is paper thin. A time when things that cannot be seen or understood break through to our world. Of course, most dismiss such stories as silly children's tales, or drunken stories told way past the twilight hours.
Regardless of what one believes though, on some strange nights haunting noises can be heard. Noises carried on the wind and washed over the dark branches and leaves of the foggy woods. The mysterious sounds come from all directions, a cacophony of urgent desire and lust.
It was on just such a cold, ominous night that Abigail Reinhart startled awake. Having just turned eighteen, she was the very model of beauty in the village. At nearly six feet, her slender frame complimented a pale visage. Her virgin breasts stretched the thin fabric of her commoner outfits. Her nipples often visibly poked through the fabric and caught the wayward eyes of many a villager. Her body was spotted with freckles, and her head was surrounded by long straight auburn hair that hung to just below her chest.
“Uugh,” Abigail moaned.
She sat straight up in her bed, the covers falling off her bare chest, revealing perky breasts, nipples erect and hard from the shock of the cold Fall weather. She immediately covered her nipples, crossing her arms over her chest and pressing them firmly into her bosom. The warmth from her arms provided a pleasant reprieve against the bitter morning cold.
She uncurled her right hand, grasping the edge of her big wool blanket, pulling it down and over her shoulders as she eased herself back down into her bed.
Sleep still hung just out of reach behind her eyes. She stubbornly squeezed them shut, willing herself to travel back into her previous dream. It was a cloudy memory, fading quickly. Grasping at the wisps of images and thoughts flashing through her mind, she could just barely remember it. Pieces of a puzzle, threatening to forever be out of her reach.
She wanted so desperately to return to the midnight play that had begun in her bed. To slip under the veil of darkness, drift gently along the waves of slumber, and return to the magical fantasy of her dreams.
Abigail lay perfectly still, begging sleep to overtake her. In a matter of minutes, the blankets covering her chest began to move less rapidly. The sheets’ movements slowed down to match her gently breathing, her breath becoming a gentle puff in the cold air. Her thoughts drifted back to the dream, her consciousness sliding into the inky black depths of slumber. Before she knew it, sleep had once again taken her its willing prisoner.
It was a hot summer day, she was working next to the stable in her parent’s pasture. As was often the case, she was relegated to taking care of the horses. This time it was just a lone stallion. She was busily brushing her favorite horse’s brown coat. This wasn't a particularly arduous task, however with the summer heat, it became almost unbearable by the time she reached the horse’s flank. Sweat pooled at the crevice between her breasts and beaded all around her bosom. Her chest rose and fell with the exhaustion of the task.
As she brushed, the stallion’s tail whipped back and forth periodically. It restlessly moved its hind legs, gently rocking back and forth as the brush did its work. As her right hand brought the brush through its full motion on the beast’s flank she gently smoothed the same area with her left hand, whispering softly to the animal.
“It’s OK Hammond, almost done. You’ll be the envy of the farm with your coat fully groomed. You’ll have your pick of the mares!”
This last comment made Abigail blush. She had named the horse after the man of the village who often occupied her dreams (and daytime fantasies), Hammond Richard, a tall thirty-two-year-old farmer that lived just next door to her cottage.
She often saw him while doing her chores, his tall muscular frame made thick and hardened by the many summers toiling in the sun. He had jet black hair that spanned the length of his face, often slick, covered with sweat, and resting gently over his chiseled face. He sported a full beard, dark black that framed his cheeks and accentuated a neck bursting with cords of muscle.
Her right hand snaked under her skirt and made its way to the mound between her legs. She slipped her fingers under her panties, burrowing under mounds of pubic hair and reaching the wet entrance to her vaginal entrance.
Abigail was hesitant to admit it, but this was the usual way she would perform her masturbation. Daydreaming of the man that made the spot between her legs electric with sensitivity. She would think of him, just as she was now, while beginning to tease and play with her womanhood.
She had been carefully rubbing just above her mound, circling her delicate clit with her middle and forefinger. Drumming the pads of her fingers over her sensitive area had awakened a tingly electric sensation in her womanhood. Pleasure washed over her, a crescendoing wave that grew more and more powerful. It was an intense demand of a desire, one that promised waves of pleasure that would wash over her body.
