A Day for Lemonade
A Day for Lemonade
By Czarreynard
"The city is just too busy," say some. "What point is there to life if one must rush through it?" There is some truth in this. Many forsake the noise and odor of the city for the quiet and wide-open country. Life is simpler there. But does this mean life in the country has no excitement? On the contrary, the country is quite the exciting place, if one knows what kind of "excitement" he or she is looking for.
If one goes to the endless cornfields of Indiana, he or she may find a quaint and happy place known as Elegant Downs. This delightful place was once the home to the Elegant Creamery. Sadly, the business is no more. But the farmhouse is still there, not to mention an empty stable, an empty silo and an empty barn. In its heyday, the little farm was quite a busy place, filled with the hum of tractor engines, the squawks of chickens and the squealing of pigs. Now, it is a humble little patch of dirt.
No chickens squawk, nor do any pigs squeal. A larger, government-owned farm bought the creamery, leaving Elegant Downs a forsaken little place. Of tenants, there is only one. The heiress to Elegant Downs was left the humble little home by her parents, who had been left the farm by their parents. The American Dream was now just a hope of breaking even.
The heiress, for lack of a better title, resides in the farmhouse of the once elegant Elegant Downs. This mistress is now the last remaining member of the founding family, yet she remains on Elegant Downs. She is unemployed, choosing to consume the remainder of her parent's wealth. Her days are occupied by sitting on the farmhouse porch, bathing in the sun and sipping lemonade. Can one think of a simpler existence?
Isabella was a young mare, not so young as to be naïve, but not so old as to be boring. A tan colored mare she was with a mane of rippling, black, silky hair. She wore a cowgirl hat and a collared blouse that day, along with some very intimidating Daisy Duke-style jean shorts. On a given day, she would sprawl out on a lawn-chair on the farmhouse porch, a bottle of fresh lemonade at the low table beside her.
It was good to be the heiress of such a wealthy organization. The dairy may have gone, but the hard-earned fortune still lingered. They way she saw it, Isabella could live her entire life without having to lift a finger, provided that she did not take unnecessary risks.
Isabella cared not for fancy cars, expensive wines or even classy clothes. No, she preferred a simpler life. She saw herself as just a fortunate person, not a celebrity or entrepreneur of any sort.
The day's heat grew stronger. The sun hung at its highest point in the sky. In the sweltering heat, the bottle of lemonade was absolutely dripping with condensation. Inside, the tangy and sweet juice of many a ripe lemon settled.
A small breeze blew by the farmhouse porch, casting up small sandstorms along the dirt road. Isabella's long main of ebony hair flowed like black fire behind her. Although the breeze was cool, Isabella felt an annoying warmth flow through her. An annoying itch seemed to cling to her, particularly in the nether regions.
"And not a farmhand in sight," muttered the heiress.
Idle hands are the devil's workshop and Isabella's hands were most certainly idle. Heat for a mare is terribly annoying. She took a sip from her glass, savoring the rich, sticky, nectar soaking her lips. As the tart and refreshing concoction ran down her throat and into her awaiting belly, she licked her lips. It tasted deliciously cool and sugary, but the drink did nothing to douse the aggravating heat.
Her breasts tingled and cried out for attention. Even her womanly pit would give an occasionally throb, begging to be touched. Sweat dripped from her forehead, not from the heat, but because of an arousing fire building up inside her.
Isabella valiantly tried to ignore it. She tried focusing on the overgrown trees which shaded the farmhouse. The oaks swayed this way and that, whispering and cooing as their leaves slid past one another. But the sweet whispers only seemed to turn her on more.
She looked to the bottle she was holding. Indiana Crown Lemonade, Est. 1890. An elixir fit for the gods. It was a rare kind of lemonade, tempered by time. There was only one store left in the country that carried it, Warren's General Store. Isabella had been drinking it since she could walk. In fact, if someone had been ingenious enough to stick a nipple on the bottle, she would've started on the stuff even earlier.
Before long, it was the only thing that satisfied her thirsts. Water was too plain, warmed up too quickly and tended to leave the mare wanting more. Soda was too bubbly, stung the throat and tasted syrupy. Beer was too strong, gave her a headache and hurt her gut. So, every Saturday, Isabella would get in the old Ford pickup and make the trip to Warren's.
Warren, the proprietor, learned his lesson quickly: Every Saturday there would be a case of the stuff waiting on the counter. Warren would present his cheek, get a nice little smooch, Isabella would pay the man and walk out with the frosty case. Wash, rinse, repeat.
The lemonade was made with cane sugar, nothing artificial about it. Not concentrate, no corn syrup, no added preservatives. Just sweet, delicious, natural lemonade, is that so hard to believe? While other companies were fiddling with all sorts of chemicals and unreadable compounds, Indiana Crown stuck to its roots. Why change something that was well enough off in the first place?
The glass bottle was also a nice touch. Plastic bottles and cans just infect the taste. Even the satisfying crack as the bottle opener pealed off the cap completed the ensemble. You just could not get quality beverages anymore. It was all about what was cheap and not about what was good.
Isabella definitely possessed a sweet tooth. Many of her friends argued that her whole mouth was made of sweet teeth, the way she guzzled it down. She insisted that it was not an addiction, but it clearly was. Perhaps it was more of an obsession or a fetish, she did not care. This lemonade should have been the temptation in the Garden of Eden.
Isabella tilted bottle and head back, finishing the last sip of the sticky stuff. She whimpered a bit as the final drop splashed onto her awaiting tongue. She had just polished off another case.
As she drew the bottle away from her lips, she began to notice how nice the cold glass felt in her hand. In fact, as she studied the bottle, she began to notice things she had not before. Perhaps it was her mind, twisting and transmuting things into that which they were not, but she could not shake the feeling. The bottle looked so...phallic.
Isabella groaned. "No, not again," she said, feeling her mind and body slip back into a salacious mood. She felt her jean shorts growing wet. "So hot and bothered," she said. She turned the bottle over to reveal its long-outdated catch phrase: "It'll get into you, one way or another!"
That settled it. It was time for some mischief. Her devious mind was hatching an idea. The girl leaned forward to take a look up and down the dirt road, quite positive no one would be lurking around or have any reason to. Spying no one, Isabella set the bottle down on the small table and began to unbutton her blouse hastily. She could feel herself getting hotter by the second, more and more scandalous.
She was not sure what had brought this on, only that she needed to satisfy such an itch. As she tossed the blouse aside, she began to unfasten what lay beneath. A black, push-up bra had held back her chest up until now, but as she unclipped the pesky thing, her bosoms bounced gently. Her nipples were already on end, tender and waiting to be pinched.
But her work was not yet done. Isabella unzipped her jeans, exposing a pair of black panties covering her womanhood. A tiny pink bow was stitched to the risqué lingerie, as if to say, "Do not open till X-Mas". But waiting even a moment longer was an absurd idea at this point. The fire itched hotter and fiercer.
Lifting up her buttocks a bit, the mare pulled off her jeans, leaving her down to her undies. But even those did not stand in the way. They were peeled off in much the same way as their predecessor, revealing an already swollen, aroused mound.
It was quite a thrill to be naked outside. The breeze picked up, as if to tickle Isabella in the most intimate of places. She felt the cool air coo past her sex and glide over her gracious bosoms. The sun also provided a cozy feeling between her thighs, as if a blanket had just been laid atop the anxious mare.
Picking the bottle up again, she began to contemplate whether this was wise. But the bottle felt so good in her hand, so strong, so cool. Isabella decided that it had to be done.
She had done this before in the privacy of her bedroom. She had often worked, with her finger, her beautiful sex to raging climax. But toys, especially crude ones such as this, she had never dared dabble with. But there is a first time for everything. It was painfully clear than fingers would just not cut it this time.
Positioning the bottle near her moist, tingling mound, Isabella shivered in anticipation. She closed her eyes in an attempt to harbor her emotions, to try and feel and not watch. With a shaking hand, she pressed the bottle's neck against her pussy lips and felt the cool of the glass send a shockwave of pleasure up her spine.
"Oh, my!" cried the mare, surprised but just how right it felt. She let it linger there a moment, moving it up and down her lips. The glasses smoothly rolled over her silken entrance. It was such a lovely tickle. However, the rim of the bottle caught her clit, turning a pleasant tickle into a thunderbolt of pleasure.
"Take it slow, girl," Isabella murmured to herself, "no need to rush things." Relishing the moment was indeed the way to go. After all, it was the middle of a warm, glorious summer day. What need was there to make unnecessary haste?
But surely there was nothing wrong with a little more exploration, no? Isabella delved the bottle in a bit more, past her lips, so that the grips for the cap were buried inside. The horse moaned again, enjoying the sensation of being parted, if only a little. The grips tickled her a bit as her netherlips passed over the little bumps.
The whole thing seemed so mischievous and wayward. She was exposing herself and violating herself with a glass bottle! But it felt so good and so right and so unbelievably addictive. Using a deft hand to hold the bottle in place, Isabella began to thrust against the bottle gently. She pressed down tightly on the bottle with her intimate muscles, trying her best to make sure the bottle would not slip out.
Using her free hand, Isabella took a small sample of her feminine juices from her honeypot and brought the dainty finger to her breast. With moist, pliant fingers, she began to toy with one of her nipples. "Oh, yes!" cried she, feeling instantly the pleasure that accompanies the manipulation of one's own bosom.
Her nipples had already grown stiff from the heightened senses of pleasure. Isabella began to knead and pinch the bud of her breast. Her breasts were quite magnificent, really. They were nigh perfect orbs which clung to her chest, bouncing when the slightest of movements were made. If a male were so lucky to place his hands upon her, he would find, much to his delight, the silkiness of the coat which ran over these breasts, their comfortable weight and malleable nature.
Many see the nipple as the bull's-eye. But the underside is simply made to be fondled and caressed. As Isabella slipped a hand beneath her beautiful breasts, she cooed amorously, feeling the pleasurable aura flow amid them.
Down below, her hips bucked a bit, desperately trying to wrap around the bottle a bit more. Ready for more, Isabella allowed the bottle to slide in further, down to where the glass began to fatten. The mare threw her head back as the phallic thing filled her channel. The glass, by now, had grown warm from being nestled inside her lovely tunnel.
The bottle's neck was now completely huddled inside her. Looking down at the bottle's remainder, Isabella began to see a peculiar sight. The bottle had begun to fill with a pale, nectarous liquid. At first, the horse thought some lemonade had escaped her, but soon realized it was nectar of her own. The bottle was simply collecting this feminine brew.
The hand that had been teasing her nipple now took its place beneath her breast, cupping it. Holding the orb within her grasp, Isabella squeezed and pulled on the fleshy globe. She bellowed "Didn't know...these could be so much...fun" she gasped, struggling to contain herself.
She was in bliss; the bottle teased, the neck refusing to move farther inside, the thicker section pushing against her dew-covered entrance. Her breasts heaved in the excitement. But she quickly decided it just was not enough. She needed more.
Allowing the hand at her breast to retreat to her lap, she took the end of the bottle in both hands. Slowly, she began to press the stubborn thing against her pussy. An ecstatic feeling ensued. The warm glass cozily roasting her insides and the cool glass pressed up against her lips combined to make a very erotic sensation.
But, just as her thirst for lemonade was endless, so was her thirst for pleasure. Her hands applied more pressure. Her gates parted slowly, struggling to accommodate such a large intruder. But the mare could not help but press on. She had to have it, she simply had to!
As the bottle moved so very slowly into Isabella's clenching sex, she feared two things. First, the bottle may break from being so tightly squeezed. Second, her mound would not be able to harbor such the inanimate trespasser. Despite these trepidations, Isabella pressed forward still. She let out a small scream as her walls parted farther than they had ever parted before. "Oh, please...go in!" yelped the poor girl, absolutely starving for
With a wet "pop!" the bottle's fat rim finally was consumed by the ravenous tunnel. The bottle rubbed against Isabella's clit, evicting a happy and celebratory moan from the girl. Now that her lips had managed to house the wide glass, the remaining inches slipped in easily. She held on to the bottle at the end, ensuring she would have a good handhold.
Her whole body had begun to shudder in shear ecstasy. She began to thrust the bottle in an out now, her greedy honeypot refusing to let go, but willing to give a few inches. The letters, imprinted into the glass, rippled cross her labia, providing pleasant friction upon each stroke. "Oh, God!" yelped she, grabbing the chair's armrest for support. With the remaining hand, she thrust the bottle back in, feeling her lips slid over the smooth, raised lettering on the bottle. And when she had come down to frighteningly little space remaining, she pulled the bottle out several inches again.
As she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine a nice, strong stallion taking her. As the breeze blew, she imagined his hot breath upon her face. The sun's warmth became the coziness of a lover in her mind. Her imagination was transforming everything. Second by second, the Elegant Downs seemed to vanish, only to be replaced by a beautiful, tropical beach, lined with lemon trees.
And as the bottle forced its way in and out of Isabella's sopping, clasping, swollen slit, the horse cried out in gasps of pleasure. She began to huff and pant. Her secretions dripped into the bottle, drop by drop, until she had filled nearly a quarter of the vessel.
In her head, the stallion only quickened his pace, determined to bring his lover to rapture. In the wind, she could feel his long hair fall about her, sliding over her like black water.
In order to replicate her fantasy, Isabella's hands worked furiously now, propelling their possessor to the point of rapture. She could feel a bubble rise inside her, a ticklish feeling which became more intense with each slide of glass past flesh.
The imaginary stallion worked even faster, heatedly, as if lives depended on it. His member was slick with nectar and he had the rigidity of a stone. And as this flight of the imagination took Isabella's body to the peak of climax, she could not help but smile gleefully.
"Just...a bit...more," she said through gnashed teeth, determined to reach orgasm if it were the last earthly deed she ever performed. The passion in Isabella's bosom flared, raging into erotic inferno. And as she crested the peak of orgasm, the mare cried out passionately, finally satisfied.
Her sex contracted tightly about the bottle in attempt to seize it. A flood of nectar, unleashed by the intensity of pleasurable pinnacle, rushed into the bottle, coating the outside as well as the in.
The afterglow was glorious. The wave of warm, comforting pleasure spread about her. The mare allowed her head to fall back upon the chair, nearly dizzy from the ordeal.
"Mmmmm...so good..." murmured the satisfied horse as she licked her lips, as if the pleasure was at her mouth and not her thighs. She pulled the bottle slowly from her puckered labia, which had since grown lax enough to allow the bottle to slide freely. She had filled the bottle nearly halfway. But as her nectar was stewing inside the glass, the mare got another devilish idea.
Lifting the bottle to her lips, she allowed the feminine potion to slide past her lips. She decided she rather enjoyed the taste.
It was sour and sweet...just like lemonade.