Hardcastle's Farm

Hardcastle's Farm

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All characters are over 18, fictional, and none of it ever happened. Think of it as a grimm fairytale.

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Hardcastle turns from the clergy to farming and husbandry.

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Hardcastle acquired the land from Jeffries.

An itinerant opportunist his whole life, he searched out the valley early one spring on strength of rumours in a farmers' pub. He could always draw out private information from the unwary.

Jeffries, a simple man, alone, without family, never saw value or else was not concerned. So Hardcastle befriended him, was soon his heir, and a week after the will was signed Jeffries died. Hardcastle planted him in an unmarked grave beyond the back ridge.

In the morning he took the will, deed and cash from the tobacco tin in the barn rafters and walked to town. After registering the deed, he left his mark on the community by drowning his sorrow in the pub at the death of his dear old friend. Then he bought a wagon, a gelding, a young filly, and farm equipment.

All year he worked, clearing the woods and wresting pasture and field from the land. Jeffries had no vision, but Hardcastle did. In spring he ploughed the field, sowed his seed, and watched his virgin crop grow.

The land was his, his seed and mark was on it, and his farm pleased him.

But he wanted more.

He took cash from the tobacco tin, harnessed the gelding and drove into town. He paid for a few rounds in the pub to loosen tongues, marked the gossip, asked sideways questions, and learned what he needed. Money well spent.

By dusk he was home with supplies, a good stallion named The Boss, and a young slip of a lass named Claire sitting primly beside him. He acquired both the horse and the girl for a small sum from her widowed father, a dissolute and failing but fecund man.

She was one of two identical twins, eighteen years old, the eldest of nine daughters. Her Pa handed her over with mixed relief and regret, consoling himself that Fawn, her twin, could fill the place he had reserved for Claire.

"One less mouth to feed I guess, though I was was just beginning to enjoy her company of an evening," he grumbled.

He winked conspiratorially to Hardcastle, "But at least now you'll enjoy her company. She'll mind your house and tend to your needs."

He winked again very slowly as he fumbled and fussed around Claire, assisting her into the wagon, his hands everywhere.

"Do as Mr Hardcastle says," was his last paternal instruction as he took his money and gave her over.

Claire was a slight and simple girl, supple and supplicant, easy on the eye, and easy to bid. Her wide eyes, inviting smile, and lithe form would decorate Hardcastle's bed, life and farm nicely.

When they pulled up to the farm he told her to wait inside while he tended to the gelding and The Boss. The stallion had scented Fiona the filly and was restive. She was in heat and her invitation for his attendance had carried to him on the wind as they entered the valley. Hardcastle put Fiona in the home yard and the stallion in the next paddock so they could sniff each other 'till morning.

It was dark when Hardcastle went inside and Claire was sitting quietly, her tiny bundle of few possessions in her lap, her eyes accepting her lot. In a sliver of mirror above the sink he marked her demeanour. He watched her watching him as he took off his shirt, bared his chest, split wood and kindling, lit the fire, put a big pot of water on the stove to heat, and cooked their supper. Knowing this would be her new home, she was wary but attentive, feeling him out like she had her Pa when Ma disappeared.

After they'd eaten, he placed a tin tub in the middle of the kitchen, mixed hot and cold water in it, fetched soap and two towels, then spoke for the first time since they left her Pa's house.

"In my house we are always pure, free and open. Undress and stand in the tub. I will clean you."

Her head jerked up and she looked away, blushing crimson, but rose obediently. Her Pa always said obedience is next to godliness, and not by chance had Hardcastle always insisted on the same moral precept with the bevies of girls he used to train in the nunnery school.

Obediently Claire turned away and did as told. When she turned back she was naked except for cotton panties and two slender fine hands hiding her small breasts.

When she saw him, her head again jerked back but this time she kept her eyes fixed forward. He was entirely naked and from under hooded eyelids she secretly, or so she thought, set to assessing his long, fat uncircumcised penis.

Even flaccid it would be over twenty centimetres long and now it was definitely engorged and getting longer, straighter and more upright by the second. She wondered what it could become if he ever became ungentlemanly with her. She'd never seen a penis but neighbourhood girls told stories behind the barn that made her quiver.

Hardcastle gave her time to assess him. He always found this relaxed and titillated virgins, and he loved how his cock twitched and hardened under their gaze, and they in turn became disconcerted, moist and aroused under his male gaze.

She had a lovely figure, was assuredly intact, and would be a tight delight. He particularly liked her simplicity, modesty, innocence and naivety. It was a special nymphette combination he loved which even by itself could raise his penis to rock-hard ungentlemanly thoughts. He loved being the man to first open the eyes and body of these ingenue nymphs to a new world.

But time for that later.

"Panties," he said finally, with finality.

"Please... I'm... my... my... I'm having... my... monthlies."

"All the more reason. How do you expect me to wash you? Always pure, free and open in this house."

He gently continued, "You must take you panties off."

As she hesitated he added softly, "Or I will!'

She obeyed, but then had to decide where to put her hands. After several trials she spread a forearm and open hand across her breasts while the other hand shielded her little crotch. Seeing her standing, open, offered and unwrapped, yet innocently shy, was more enticing than he had dared envision. She was like one of the those carnal temptations with which he tested himself every Lent in the nunnery school... and... well... he was lost for words.

"Thank you Lord...," he muttered, licking his lips in appreciation and anticipation.

"Damnation is always superior to salvation and purity," remembering how he always yielded to his Lenten temptresses and they to him. "Lent be damned, Dieu merci!"

"Now into the bath," he said quietly, and she lowered her hands and gingerly stepped in.

Hardcastle knelt on the floor and started to gently wash her all over as she stood in the tub before the kitchen fire.

He started with her ears, face and neck, then moved to her arms, torso, breasts, back and legs. He lathered her. He was thorough. He took his time. He rinsed and lathered her again. He returned repeatedly to small blemishes and tiny scars, as if they might be a spot of dirt he had missed, but really he was merely learning all he could about her body.

He dipped his finger in vinegar and a little wood ash and cleaned her teeth. She resisted but a firm grip on her nape and a strict word quickly brought her to hand, and he proceeded to explore her mouth, tongue and teeth with long fingers. When he pushed two fingers deep into the back of her throat he was pleased with her gag. It was a slight but discernible reflexive contraction which a moment later she controlled, and it repeated sweetly and delicately as he worked his fingers in and out. Her throat would be a delight. She was a natural and would train well. Perfect.

He moved behind her so she couldn't see. He leaned in to inhale her scent while he smoothed his soapy hands down her back, over the slightly flared hips, into her buttocks crack, around to her soft belly, and up again to make sure her breasts were squeaky clean. He was pleased. She would do well.

All along she stood with arms loose at her sides, without complaint or reaction, as if used to it.

He knelt in front again, tapped her inner knees apart and she spread her legs as best she could in the tin bath. He didn't use a flannel, only his bare hands to lather every fold and crease and nook and cranny in her crotch. He allowed his finger tips to dip slowly and deeply into inviting holes, to rub her ridged surfaces, massage soft swollen lips, and force entry into the tightest of resistant cracks.

When she sagged against him and murmured inarticulately, he asked, "Are you ok?" and held his fingers still where they rested

She immediately muttered something urgently, so he resumed his inspection until she calmed. But her calm didn't last, and soon she sagged into him again, and this time he did not stop his fingers, palms and strong forearm until her face contorted, her body became rigid, her breath hissed, and she mewled and bit into his shoulder.

Under his ministrations she had left her mark on him, though it was really a mark he made on himself using her body as his instrument. She watched him touch the red streak possessively, and wondered if he would chastise her.

As she recovered he quietly murmured in her ear resting under his pursed lips, "You've done well, Claire. Welcome home."

Her Pa's last words--"do as Mr Hardcastle says"--were rippling non-stop through her mind, but now in place of her memories of Pa's busy hands and flabby embrace she was making new memories, this time of Hardcastle's tall naked hard toned body against hers.

She thought, "Doin wot Mr Hardcastle says is easy."

Shyly, she slipped her tongue through her own slightly pursed lips resting against his neck and tasted his salt.

He felt the touch, read her thoughts, and pressed her to him.

After drying her, he placed a clean rag in fresh panties and, still kneeling, held them open for her to step into. She placed her two hands on his broad shoulders and lifted each foot in turn. Then he pulled them up for her, snugly into her crotch, making sure the rag pressed comfortably against her vagina, the gusset neatly over her pussy, the back pulled not too tightly into her butt crack.

When he was satisfied, he kissed her forehead and told her to watch while he washed himself.

He brushed his teeth with vinegar and ash and a long first finger. He stood in the tub of cool sudsy water and washed himself all over. He took particular care with his nipples and grey chest hair, muscled chest, arms, legs and belly, his butt crack front and back, and finally his testicles and penis.

His penis, of course, was quite rigid and erect in response to virgin Claire. He pulled back the foreskin and cleaned the skin and fat mushroom glans thoroughly, then jacked himself gently. Normally in such a situation he might toss himself off to induce an envious and willing yearning in the girl, but Claire was different. He didn't want to come just yet, but he did enjoy seeing her eyes following his hand. She had a lot to learn.

With an effort he forced himself to stop, then rinsed and dried.

It was time for bed.

"Where do I sleep?" she asked.

"With me."

"Naked?"

"Yes, except when you're bleeding. Then you'll wear panties and a pad."

"Will you be naked too?"

"You ask a lot of questions like a child. But you're a grown girl moved from your Father's house to mine, and it's time for me to mark you."

"What do you mean 'mark' me?"

"It's when I make my body part of yours to show you belong to me. It's just a beginning tonight. Soon I'll mark you in many ways. My body will be in yours as you are in this home, and this home will be yours as you will belong to me."

"Will other men mark me?"

"Other men might touch you if I permit. I'll have my reasons. But you can only be marked once, only the first time, only by one man, and I'm that man. You're mine and I'll be yours for as long as you live, and even after we're dead through the lives of our children and our children's children."

"When do we start?"

"We already have. I was inside you just now, and you've tasted me. You've started becoming mine."

She was silent as he unwrapped her from the towel and carried her to bed, putting her flat on her back, arms relaxed at her sides, legs modestly together, thigh-gap beckoning.

Simple, pure and open, served prim and presented, giving him flash-backs to the nunnery school.

He got in beside her, lying on his left side, her head in the crook of his left shoulder, his left hand caressing the delicate hair behind her ear. He recalled past neophytes. He leaned down and kissed her lips, waited patiently till she opened, then inserted his tongue to her teeth, waited patiently again, until she let her jaw relax open.

They always knew what was expected the first time a hard naked man with an erect phallus nestled against them.

For many minutes he explored her teeth, gums, cheeks and tongue with his long, agile, instructive tongue, while his right hand guided her jaw. He enjoyed the hiss of warm air through her small slit nostrils as he probed the cavity.

He sucked in her little, soft, almost liquid tongue, swirling it on his palette like a fine Easter wine.

Memories of Lenten pleasures in the nunnery school mingled with her taste, like a fine Merlot paired with a delicate Camembert on a fine morsel of lamb's tongue. His blood was quickening.

Her breath was also quickening, and he could smell carnal urgency creeping into her. He felt responsive twitches ripple along her limbs. His felt her torso twist sinuously against his, like the snake around the apple tree when God was using it to tempt Adam and Eve.

He had made himself at home in her mouth, and now she was shyly exploring his with her own tongue. All the while, without her knowledge, her pelvis was constantly rising smoothly and rhythmically, like a saddle mount being trained to walk to hand. She alternately moaned, grimaced, and fluttered her eyelids. He saw the whites of her eyes as her blue irises rolled back in her head.

Quietly and imperceptibly, while she lay gently in his arms, naive and so very, very innocent, he was filling her with need.

She didn't know it was happening but he did, and his cock was now stretched long, hard, thick and urgent. He had deftly trapped it between his hard belly and her side where he pressed against her. His full balls lay pleasantly along her soft thigh, his cock-root was against her little hip bone, and his mushroom cock-head smeared pre-cum on her rib cage around her right nipple.

She was as enticing as any wayward nunnery angel he'd ever trained to pleasure.

It was time.

He reached down and freed his shaft, fisted it and began to stroke. He had waited all afternoon since he got her from her Pa, so it wouldn't take long. In fact he was about to release over her so instinctively and quickly that she would be unaware of his flying fist and her first marking. She was too busy soaking in her new feelings.

When he started stroking she was daydreaming of how deftly he had dealt with Pa, of how he handled the stallion and Fiona, and of his experienced hands washing her as she stood in her tub in her new home. It all filled her childish mind as only an exciting new home and man can.

She could feel his hands, breath and eyes on her, giving her the same tingly tremor she had when she was standing in her tub. He was cleaning her inside and out, purifying her body and thoughts, welcoming her home, simplifying her world.

She remembered him saying she must always be simple, pure and open in his house, and suddenly knew what he had done that made her feel that way, the way he wanted her to feel, the way she wanted to feel, and how he had done it.

Now he was again making her his, making her who he wanted her to be, who she wanted to be. Her blood had risen, heat was spreading through her tummy and between her legs, and an intense bout of the 'dreamy feels' had taken over her foggy brain, swollen tits, hard nipples, and moist cunt.

Beneath his flying fist her belly was warm and her skin tingled. He had turned her inside out, and her inside feelings were on the surface of her outside, coating her like his pungent male sweat was doing.

"This is the super-bestest of all feelings...," she thought with an inner giggle, lost in his hard sweaty body against her, tense and rigid, compelling and possessing, thrusting.

Soon she was as lost as when "that" had happened in the tub, "that" explosion in her belly and between her legs, "that coming from nowhere and going everywhere" thing that wracked her body, her senses and her sense.

When, it finally stopped she had melted into him with his fingers still deep inside her, his body enfolding her, his blood and salt from his neck in her mouth, his soft guttural words creeping into her like a beckoning finger inserted, "You've done well, my Claire. Welcome home."

This memory of her first orgasm flowed through her, flooded her mind, overflowed and flooded her body, and triggered her second orgasm.

Her skin tingled from her scalp to her soles. Her torso arched rigid, her tummy rose off the bed, then reversed and her belly hollowed and her pelvis and cunt curled up, searching. She clutched blindly for something to grip. One little hand found the root of his cock, the other his pumping forearm. She gripped both and hung on.

Then the first rope of semen hit her.

She heard herself scream. Her eyes rolled up and back behind her wide open fluttering eyelids. Her grip tightened on his cock and arm. She wanted it all, yielded all.

Hardcastle never ceased stroking and came without restraint.

He felt like his balls had accumulated a quart of semen over a lifetime waiting to mark her, and he didn't waste a drop. The first rope stretched from her belly to her eyes and triggered her orgasm.

The next rope arched high above the bed, descended, and landed with precision on her left tit as she arched in a full-body spasm. Then countless frothy white ropes spattered all over her, each soaking a new part. He twisted his body and cock this way and that, covering her from head to toe while she drowned in the second orgasm of her young life.

The arcs slowed to spurts, then dribbles, and finally drops which he wiped on her lips. Lastly he rose to hands and knees over her, and thrust his spent cock-head and first four centimetres of shaft between her wet lips to suck and taste.

She had lost consciousness and was not aware of the breeding seed covering her. Her belly, face, neck, thighs, breasts, arms, lips and panties were soaked, every part coated, glistening, dripping and slippery.

As her senses returned the first thing she felt were his strong farmer hands working the warm white cream into her flushed skin, cooling and balming her, sealing himself into her.

"Where is it from?" she asked.

"From inside my cock and balls,. It was in my body a few minutes ago, now it's in yours where it belongs. It'll be part of you for the rest of your life."

At that, she craned up her neck and kissed him, giving him tongue, resting one hand on the back of his neck, the other on the back of his hand, helping rub the lovely cream into her belly. When they finished her skin was smooth and fresh, and he sat back and said quietly, "Simple, pure and open. As you should be. Now off to sleep."

She barely heard. Her young eyes had drooped, her little head lolled, her light grip on his cock relaxed.

Rolling her onto her side facing the wall, he spooned her from behind, hugging her into his belly with his fat turgid cock comfortably filling her butt crack and pointing up her spine. His left arm curled protectively around the top of her head, her head pillowed on his bicep, her scent filled his lungs, and his fingertips caressed her twin acorn breasts.

She slept, breathing easily and evenly, while he drifted in and out of sleep and explored her body.

That night In the darkest hour she was stirred half awake by him steadily thrusting his hard cock up and down her butt crack. He was holding her head hard back to his chest with a middle finger hooked in her cheek. A bruise would remind her in the morning of his strength and possession.

He couldn't yet pace himself with her. That would come later, because tonight he had her in his balls. He controlled her but his balls controlled him, and she loved it, deliciously helpless, hurting, groaning under his thrusts, struggling for more, yearning to be filled, wanting his mark.

After a few minutes, he slowed, stopped and muttered, "Je te remercie, mon seigneur Dieu!" and she felt his cock swell and pulse and her back flood wet and warm.

He massaged in the cream as she slid back into sleep, dreaming Pa's words.

It was light when she woke on her back with Hardcastle straddling her, massaging a load of cum into her supple skin.

"Good morning, sleepy head."

He kissed her nose, swung up and off, his balls and half-erect cock dangling free. A thread of missed cum draped from the tip to her tummy.

"Time to get up. Your pad's barely pink and your monthlies have ended, so put on your dress and shoes but nothing else. You should always dress this way unless you're on the rag. Have your breakfast and meet me at the yards."

She hurried to do as told.

When she got outside he was leaning over the top yard rail watching Fiona and The Boss. Claire climbed up to the third rail and leaned against his warm hardness. For a while they watched the filly pacing restlessly under the eye of the stallion, who nickered and paced with her. During the night he had splintered the top rail with his hard hooves trying to get to her, but it was still intact.

With Hardcastle's strong arm about her, Claire watched Fiona approach the fence near The Boss, turn her hindquarters towards him and spread her back legs, lower her rump, lift her tail, and let go a big stream of piss. Some ran under the fence toward him.

The stallion stretched his neck and head as near as possible to her raised tail. His lower lip drooped and upper lip curled back, quivering, and he sucked at her scent between sharp parted teeth.

"The bitch is teasing him," laughed Hardcastle, "but I guess she needs it just as badly."

He looked down Claire, "Don't ever let me catch you doing that to me."

"What does she need?" she asked quizzically.

Hardcastle laughed again, "She needs to be mounted."

"What's that?"

He stepped away from the fence, doubled over, and guffawed, hands on his narrow hips.

Finally he straightened up, wiped his eyes and hugged her tightly.

"Oh, my! Mon dieu! You really are a clean slate. I knew I got you for a reason. I'm going to enjoy teaching you your three R's--rolling, rutting and rooting!"

"And when I'm done," still chuckling, "... when I'm done you'll be a professor of mounting, breeding and all-round fornicating. We might even start our very own school for wayward girls right here on Fertile Farm. We'll teach them their three R's and saddle train them for domestic service, just like at I did at the nunnery."

Claire had been growing red in the face, and now exploded, "Stop it! You may have marked me as yours but you have no right to laugh at me! Answer my question!"

She stamped her small foot and fixed him with fiery eyes. He was reminded of bringing all those reluctant nunnery school girls to hand, and his cock sprang to attention.

Eyeing his crotch she muttered, "And don't think you'll mark me again until I get an answer. For the last time, what is mounting?"

He wiped an eye and eased his crowded crotch.

"Ok, I give up. Mounting is when a stallion's cock gets really long and thick and he gets up on a filly or mare's back and pushes it inside her cunt. He pushes it in and out of her and she pushes back at him, and finally he empties his balls inside her.

"You know all that white stuff I've been marking you with? Well a stallion has the same sort of stuff, only for horses, and he marks her insides with it."

Claire had gone white. her mouth gaped, and she was very quiet. Finally she squeaked out two questions in a small voice, "Why would he do that? And won't he kill her?"

Now it was Hardcastle's turn to gape, "But you've lived eighteen years on a farm with your Pa and sister and animals. Surely you saw a horse or pig or chicken or dog or... my God... any male animal mount a female? Why even your Pa mounted your Ma to make you and your sisters."

"What? He mounted Ma? Like The Boss wants to do? To make me and my sisters? Is that how Ma got babies in her? From Pa mounting her?"

"Well... yes.. though it didn't have to be your Pa... it could have been any man."

"Like Uncle John? He was always hanging around, particularly when Pa was away."

"Exactly. But let's get back to your questions. First you asked 'why'. Well, some people say a stallion fucks a filly to make a foal. That's true but everyone knows the real reason is because it feels so fucking nice to fuck. Everyone likes it and no one can get enough. A filly in heat loves being mounted, and her stallion loves mounting her.

"Then you asked 'won't he kill her'. Well, no, 'cause her cunt stretches to take that long thick stallion cock and its big mushroom head all the way up inside her. Her cunt won't stretch completely so it'll be nice and tight for both of them, but it won't kill her. She's built for it. She'd take it all day if she could. But after the stallion marks her inside to make his baby, he pulls out.

"It's the same with all animals. And men and women too."

Claire watched Fiona and The Boss.

Hardcastle pointed, "See how long and thick his cock is now? He's ready to push it deep into her, I'll let him into the yard and you can watch. You're going to love it."

His last statement hung in the air like a fat cock, demanding her attention like a fat cock.

Did he mean she'd love seeing the stallion mounting Fiona? Or did he mean she'd love being mounted herself? Claire looked at The Boss, then Fiona, then Hardcastle, then down to where his long thick cock was tenting his pants, then down at her own small body, then back at The Boss and his enormous cock, and lastly at Fiona waiting impatiently with her tail raised.

Claire thought Hardcastle might mean both and she tingled between her legs.

"Are you going to mount me?"

"Yes, but I'm going to wait till you're in heat and fully fertile. I have professional pride that I can fuck a baby into a girl in one shot. Years of practice. I plan to mount and breed you when you're fully ripe."

Claire twisted her legs. "When will that be?"

Wordlessly he lifted her down from the rail fence, planted her on her feet in the dust beside him, grabbed her nape and bent her double. Then he dipped his other hand under her dress, flipped it up and spread her legs so her little butt was facing him.

He reached his free hand into her thigh gap from behind and palmed her mound, while deftly running a long breeding-master's finger through her slot.

It was all done in an instant, in a single smooth motion. Years of practice in breeding had given him muscle memory for this classic inspection hold, and she automatically complied with his mastering.

He slid the tip of his middle finger back and forth through her pink folds a few times to get a sample of her cunt juice, then rubbed it against the tip of his thumb. He held it to his nose and examined the consistency, smell and taste, like a perfumer assessing an exotic essential oil.

He was practiced and could learn everything he needed to know about a breeder within seconds, but Claire wanted to learn, so, keeping her bent over by her nape, he held his fingers in front of her face.

"See here? Fairly dry with a little clear juice. No smell. Still tastes like salt water. I'll check you each day but I think you'll peak on Sunday. I'll take your cherry and fertilise you in one fuck. You'll carry through fall and winter and deliver my baby by spring. That's also when Fiona should deliver her foal."

He let go her neck and she stood up, tidying her dress. He took no notice, treating her like any of the hundreds of girls he'd had in his breeding program.

"Wait here," he said and went to lower the slip rails so The Boss could have at Fiona.

When he returned Claire was standing on the third rail again, bent over the top, hindquarters beckoning. Lifting her dress for access he stood behind her, freed his cock and nestled it firmly in her warm arse crevice and against his belly.

As Fiona accepted her first stallion cock, Claire accepted Hardcastle's long thick cock. As the filly got her shafting the girl got her own cock sliding firmly up and down her warm tight crevice. It was hard for him to resist penetrating her, but, when The Boss spurted his semen into Fiona, Hardcastle's seed spewed from Claire's ginger puckered arse all the way up her back.

He smoothed the salty semen down her back and poked and prodded to get as much as possible into her arsehole. He was still semi-hard so he got his cock-head engaged and started thrusting in, using his cum as lubricant, and, as he fucked her he regained his erection.

She was god-awful tight but he kept at it. After all she wasn't going anywhere, bent over the rail as she was. With each thrust he got another half centimetre into her and slowly spread and entered her sphincter, his shaft swelling and hardening back to full fucking form as he worked it in.

Finally he was in and well up her, and she was squealing like a stuck pig, as she watched The Boss fuck a baby into Fiona. When the stallion came inside Fiona, Hardcastle came inside Claire and marked her colon with a pint of hot semen.

She was fully fucked but of course would not 'take' until he got up her cunt. Hardcastle was a man of professional pride and would not breed Claire until she was fully ripe.

She stumbled through the rest of the day in a daze.

Without a word of direction she found herself cleaning house, arranging her tiny private treasures by bed and toilet, rearranging the kitchen, straightening curtains and fluffing cushions, bringing in wildflowers to frame her new life, and making herself as pretty as she could. At sundown Hardcastle had his first supper from a feminine hand since he was cock-master of the nunnery school.

Watching his acquisition from behind in the kitchen, barefoot, dress and apron hitched up, sturdy farm legs planted wide apart, he couldn't help thinking she was presenting herself to him exactly as Fiona had presented to The Boss. He was familiar with female breeding behaviour and knew she wasn't ovulating yet, but nevertheless got a fine cock-stand.

When he cleaned her in the tin tub after supper she came quaking in his arms. When he cleaned himself he jacked his cock firmly until he came, catching her on the face and hair with every spurt.

They slept well.

Dawn crept in, tenderly lighting her face as she lay quietly, one soft hand on his shaft, her cheek on his chest, breathing in his breath. She was at peace, barely a day in his keeping, already possessed, his seed in her skin, his semen in her arse, his exhaled air in her lungs.

Her sheltered farm childhood had made her both wise and innocent, wild and submissive, pure and open, girl and woman, virgin and sexual. Just the way Hardcastle liked his neophytes.

In two days and nights she had learned the sin of hedonistic pleasure, the overpowering transcendence of orgasm, and the bliss of submission lying naked beneath a naked man looming over her, bathing her in his semen.

His breathing shifted, his cock stiffened in her hand, and his belly muscles stirred against her cheek. By pure lustful instinct, she lowered her lips to the cock-head and sucked it into her mouth.

The massive engorged organ immediately swelled and hardened and she was shocked simultaneously by fear and pleasure. His thick phallus forced her little jaw wide open and filled her small mouth to overflowing. She grunted and began to work her tongue, and slide the fat sausage, compressed tightly between her palate and tongue, into the back of her throat. She'd never done it before but instinctively thrust her head down to feel the fat plum cock-head push into her gullet, then pulled it off slowly again as her thinly stretched lips around the monster dragged along the shaft.

Down and up again, down and up, and she was soon bobbing steadily, finding her rhythm, remembering to add little sensations with her tongue, lips, teeth and gag reflex when he least expected them.

She did it all without instruction. A young girl's instinctive knowledge of male need is a natural wonder.

She had just hit her stride when a sharp pain zig-zagged across her scalp, making her yelp and shoot her hand to her head. He had woken to find his new girl teaching herself to suck cock and had instinctively grabbed her hair to help. He was soon pounding her throat up and down his thick shaft while twisting her head to make eye contact.

He started marking her down her gullet, another first for her and she was proud.

She pulled her head of the glans with a plop, saying, "Am I doing good, Father Hardie?"

He could only groan. He was in the middle of coming and found himself spurting all over her face. He didn't want to waste a drop and had to quickly thrust her open mouth back down over his big fat purple plum to catch it all.

Thirty minutes later he was done, she'd licked him clean, and gone to make breakfast.

"What a girl," he thought, "and how did she know my name was Father Hardie."

Claire had yet to learn he was an ordained priest, and for decades ran the Nunnery School for Wayward Young Women. That secretive place was a finishing school for young women eighteen or older from around the county whose guardians wished to cure them of recalcitrance and selfishness. Officially, on the letterhead, he was Father Stern, Head of Domestic Training, but unofficially, whispered behind hands and shut doors, he was Father Hardie, a strict, firm and attentive mentor.

Hardcastle watched his girl cook breakfast. She really was a keeper, would be a great mother, and one day would help train other girls.

That day as she skipped around the house in her simple dress and bare feet, cooking and cleaning, he sawed and hammered and built animal pens against the barn, and a breedstall in the house.

As they worked, both their minds wandered. His wandered back to decades doing God's work, guiding young ladies into obedience and godliness, and Claire thought of Father and of Pa and sister Fawn and all the others who she'd left behind, and everything that had happened in just two days.

"What if Father had never got me from Pa? Pa just happened to be in my life, and I'm not even sure he made me. Uncle John might have done that. But Father Hardie chose me, like a real man, tough and loving. I know he wants me and is making me his, not like Pa who didn't know what he wanted."

She's remembers how Pa began to sniff around her after her eighteenth birthday. He would watch her with his hungry hang dog look, like he eyed Evangelina next door, who was older with big fat tits and a wide arse. Claire often saw Pa taking her into the barn, and other girls asked her who pumped her water and called her Evagina and ran away laughing.

Pa looked at Claire like that, but he was different, like he didn't know what he wanted, or was unsure of himself.

Not that there ever seemed to be much of her for a man to want. Her hips had barely widened, her tits were tiny and on her eighteenth birthday he got tipsy and backed her against his workbench. Breathing beer fumes on her he told her she reminded him of Ma and tried to hug her, his weak hands fumbling at her flat chest and scrawny backside. His flabby paunch dragged across her hip and narrow arse as she turned away.

He said he meant no harm and would never raise a fist or make her do things--he was indeed a weak man--but over the following months he would often trap her against his crotch. His ragged breath would get louder, he'd wheeze, clutch and cough, then groan. Sometimes she'd feel a wet stain spreading and wetting her bodice before he hurried off.

She had always wondered if her Ma had died, or, like the neighbours whispered, had absconded with Uncle John to a happier life than surreptitious rutting on Pa's failing farm.

Her breath catches as she remembers John's ne'er do well virility and how Ma looked at him, and Pa looked at both of them. They thought she never knew what was going on between the three, but she really did, and it made her skin crawl. None of them was like Hardcastle and his forthright ways.

Neither Pa nor John could have ever claimed her like Hardcasle did, as his filly, within hours of bringing her home, never made her come so hard she fainted, never marked her with his cum and rubbed it in till her skin shone, never built a breedstall for her.

"Not like Father Hardcastle," as she ran a hand along her own rump, daydreaming it was his.

Neither Pa nor John could have done it, but Father Hardie did it without thinking.

"So he's my real Father," she thinks, "he's my Father Hardy," and feels in her crotch her wide-on gape and moisten and itch. In the not-so-distant future she would add, "... and Father Hardy is father to so many."

In the morning he went to town and returned with a rooster and hens, a hog and a sow, a billly and nanny goat, a dog and a bitch, and new bedroom furniture, bedding, a rug and frilly curtains.

He put the pigs in the new pig pen and Claire saw the hog mount his sow. Then she sucked off Father Hardie and he marked her down her throat, telling how the sow would farrow piglets in a few months.

He released the rooster and hens to run free around the yard and she watched the cock run his ladies down and fuck them in the dust. She watched them as Father upended her over a bale covered with a horse blanket and rutted her arse crack till he came then slipped a finger in her arse and lubricated her with spunk. He told her the hens would have chicks in a month.

He put the goats in their yard and she watched while the billy made short work of his nanny. Father told her the nanny would swell with babies then push them out, just like Claire would do.

He put the dog to the bitch who was in heat, and they fucked and stayed knotted for twenty minutes in the front yard. Claire, also in heat, dropped to all fours in imitation and waggled her butt to attract Hardcastle's attention.

He put the furniture in her new breedstall and arranged the bedstead, water closet, night stand and padded armchair. Then she decorated everything with the bright frilly bedding, curtains and pretty pillows. It was her first private stall.

She was pleased with her breeding room, and lying in bed would be able to see The Boss mount Fiona through the window. Father saw her romantic notions and to indulge her he mounted her on her new bed in doggy presentation. She was watching The Boss fuck Fiona as Father Hardy came deep inside her arse.

As he spurted into her, with his wet matted cock-hairs pressed tightly against her butt-cheeks, she asked if he had made a baby in her. He said, "Not yet, that's not what arses are for, but I will soon."

Every morning that week he would grip her nape and bend her double to check for ovulation. Every morning he would shake his head then fuck her in the arse. He was patient and deliberate and liked to do things right.

Finally on Sunday morning when he bent her over his finger found new slickness and her pussy lips were puffy, red and warm. He nodded appreciatively as he pressed his finger-tip between the lips and slid it back and forth and circled the cunt opening. Her inner lips--what she called her flower--swelled up and protruded under his attention, and began to glisten. He ran his finger across fourchette, finding it still delightfully tight across her virgin vagina. She dipped her back and pushed her birthing canal back at him, and grunted gutturally.

He raised his finger and rubbed the tip against his thumb and tasted it. Her moisture was as smooth as silk and sweet as fine wine and he offered her a taste, explaining to her to note it's terroir. It tasted of limestone ridges, fertile river valleys and green pasture, just like the wayward cunts he trained in the nunnery among the vineyards and hayfields beyond the back mountain.

Twenty years of experience had taught him it's always best to impregnate a breeding female in her breedstall. The security and comfort she feels in her personal surroundings when she's broody helps her take. It helps his sperm find the egg she has waiting for him.

It's a pleasure to fuck them anywhere for entertainment or training and enjoinment, but for practical results they should be inseminated where they brood and sleep.

She may think of her breedstall as her private innocent pink boudoir, but in the larger scheme of her master's house it's his place for his purposes, the confinement where he will fertilise her womb, where he will breed her. And when she takes, it's where she will loll and whale about and swell through nine long months, then finally spread her legs and push out his next new kindling into his hands, the latest bairn for his farm.

The breedstall is the place where he protects her, the place to keep her during confinement and between successive confinements, often on her breedbed. It's where he can conveniently monitor her growth, daily assess the progress of his new kindling growing inside her, and fuck her frequently for exercise.

Of course she can work around the house, cleaning, cooking and caring for the cared for while she herself is cared for. But her only true purpose is to carry her breed master's child. He--as she should be--is always conscious of her real labour, the work of her womb, and the value of his issue inside her.

Hardcastle didn't fuck or mark her all Sunday, but noted how she followed him around, presenting and pouting and pushing against him. She was definitely on heat and at peak fertility. Her cunt was searching for cock, her egg eager for a sperm, her womb ready for his baby, her heart ready for her Father to be inside her, making her his.

After supper he edged her during her bath but didn't let her come, then carried her to her new breedbed. There he stretched her out in receiving position, spread her legs, lay between them, and used his mouth on her for the first time.

With two hands under her buttocks he raised her pelvis and brought her swollen protruding inner cunt lips to his waiting mouth to suck and slurp and tongue fuck.

He worked her swollen eager flower with an active tongue and suction. He pushed his rigid tongue tip into her vagina which tried to hide shyly behind her dainty pink fourchette. He kissed and purred and nibbled at her clit. He tasted her mouth and she tasted his.

He moved his mouth across her belly and sucked each tit between his teeth, then lowered his head and tongued her crack and arse.

He was skilled and she came quickly and hard in a classic 'breeding come'. Then he held her while she thrashed in extended breeding orgasm, and while he positioned himself between her flailing legs.

She was still rigid and moaning and her cunt still spasming as he pushed his cock in hard, picking just the moment her cunt was clenched most tightly shut, forcing his cock in, behind her fourchette, through her hymen, up her tight canal, and deep inside her, in a single thrust.

He liked how virgins looked at him when he did that. He liked seeing their eyes shoot wide open, their mouths open cavernously in silent scream, their minds wrench open to the knowledge he had pierced their insides, entered them, burst into them at peak fertility despite their body's resistance.

That look on their faces as they filled with cock for the first time was priceless!

It's essential for the well bred virgin to feel the epitome of violation midst the epitome of pleasure.

He was a professional with pride in in his work, but he was also an artist and never failed to get a charge out of a good virgin impregnation.

As he bottomed out her cunt remained as tight as an iron fist on his cock, clamped tight, trying to resist the penetration that had already happened. Her body thought he was killing her and fought back. It tried to push him off and expel his cock.

Her desperate resistance was futile. He was already in and had gotten his weight over and started shafting.

This, of course, only intensified her breeder's orgasm, and she was soon being dragged squealing, resisting and coming, in body, mind and soul, into an inner conflict where there could be only one winner. Her mind was demanding a fucking and her body was resisting penetration.

It didn't last long and soon her mind won out, her body yielded, and she fiercely clung to her Father as he fucked his baby into her. As he filled her with come she moaned and lay open to him.

It had taken him barely twenty minutes, and, as he relaxed, his mind drifted back over the years, and forward to many more.

"All girls are the same when properly bred," he mused philosophically.

For him it had been just another peremptory barnyard fuck to get a baby into a breeding female quickly and efficiently, like any farmyard male, whether stallion, hog, goat, rooster, dog or farmer.

"And males are all the same when it comes to breeding," he mused casually.

She looked up, knowing he had seeded her, she was his, and she had started making babies for him.

He looked down, still inside her, assessing, making mental notes, thinking and speaking as a professional breeder.

"You'll drop in nine months.

"You're a twin. Perhaps I'll get twins out of you."

"Then I'll want more."

***

Eight months later Father was in Claire's breedstall giving her a checkup after lunch.

She was on all fours on her breedbed, naked, sway backed, head low, panting, her enormous veiny distended belly pendant to the sheet, two swollen leaky milk-filled fat pendulum tits swinging. He had one hand resting on her rump--a moment ago it had been inside her--and he was sliding the other along the curved flank of her pregnant belly, assessing, feeling for the position of his twins.

Before lunch he had checked Fiona's belly in her breeding stall in the barn, and was pleased with her progress too.

Both Fiona and Claire were quite small for such large carries and would have to work hard to push out their foals, but both were built for it and would do fine. They would foal within the month.

Comfortable with Claire's progress, he decided she could do with a relaxing ride. He stripped and hopped lightly on the bed and settled on his knees behind her. He quickly entered her and started shafting. Her head came up sharply as he grabbed her hair and she panted harder.

He raised a large hand and slapped her rump, leaving his palm where it landed, neatly covering a slowly spreading crimson hand print, the echo ringing through the house. He leaned forward over her back and reached his other hand down and slid his rough palm along the flank of her pregnant belly. He liked to feel his twin babies kicking inside as he fucked her.

Occasionally he would palm and squeeze a swinging tit and feel milk squirt between his fingers. She would have plenty for the bubs when they arrived, and already had sufficient for his own consumption.

He was about to come when there was a knock and voice at the door, but he was too busy to notice. A moment later he saw a young woman--the spitting image of mare Claire beneath him--watching as he fucked her.

He managed to keep his rhythm and could not and would not stop, and began spurting inside her eager cunt. As he filled Claire he saw the female at the door raise a hand, cover her mouth, and not look away.

The young lady was Claire's twin sister Fawn, and when Father and Claire finished their fuck they brought her in. She was in a terrible state. She told how Pa was always drunk and ungentlemanly to her, wanting her to do terrible things, and she had run away.

"Where are the others," Claire asked, "The triplets? Sara? Jane? The twins?"

"I took them to Aunt Sally. They're safe for now, but can't stay there."

Fawn lowered her head and a long pause followed.

Father Hardy put his arm around her and she raised her eyes to him and said in a small voice, "Mister Hardcastle, I didn't know where to go, so I came here. You were so nice to take in Claire and I thought you might take us too."

"Nothing would make me happier," Father Hardy said, "and I want more girls. You'll live here with me. I'll build a new breedstall for you next to Claire, and a dormitory for the others. It's a blessing how twins run in your family."

Claire hugged Fawn, who sagged in relief.

"Where's your Pa?" asked Father Hardy. He wasn't wasting time.

"He's on the main road, drunk in the ditch."

"You and Claire stay here and I'll deal with him."

He harnessed the gelding to the wagon, took a bottle of whiskey and a shotgun, and found Pa beside the road. Taking sympathy on the poor bugger, he refreshed him with more whisky and asked if the girls were his heirs and where he kept the deeds to his land, and suggested they go get the documents for safe keeping.

After he had what he needed, he persuaded Pa to spend the night in a distant shack at the back of the farm, then drove the wagon behind the last ridge, where Pa alighted, stumbled, fell and hit his head. Father buried him in the unmarked grave beside Jeffries.

Fawn moved in with Father and Claire that afternoon.

That first night Hardcastle watched her in the sliver of mirror above the sink, watched her watching him as he took off his shirt, bared his chest, split wood and kindling, lit the fire, put a big pot of water on the stove to heat, and cooked their supper. Claire watched too, her little hands resting on her water-melon belly as she whispered to Fawn.

After they'd eaten, Father placed a tin tub in the middle of the kitchen, mixed hot and cold water in it, fetched soap and three towels, then spoke to Fawn.

"In my house we are always pure, free and open. Undress and stand in the tub. I will clean you."

Fawn blushed and reached a small hand to Claire.

"Now take of your clothes.

"Yes everything.

"Including your panties.

"Just like Claire."

***

***