Night fell.
The stable, dark except for the moonlight filtering through the cracks in the wood, was quiet. The sounds, the flesh-slapping and the screaming, had finally stopped. The marathon, the twelve-hour, 'from-morning-to-night' marathon, was over.
Myra lay on the hay. Her body, the chubby, soft, priestess body, was limp. Her arms, at her sides, didn't move. Her legs, spread, didn't close.
Her pussy, the swollen, raw, thoroughly-fucked cunt, gaped. The cum, the thick white fluid, leaked from the entrance in slow, heavy streams.
The blood, the dried virgin blood, was crusted on her thighs. The hay, beneath her, was a swamp of fluids. Cum. Squirt. Milk. Sweat. The combination, the 'every-fluid-her-body-can-produce' mixture, had created a small pond in the hay.
The horse, in its stall, had turned its back. The equine dignity, such as it was, had been offended.
