Meadow

The more time Minthe spends in the company of stallions, the more she’s absolutely sure that they simply don’t think before they do anything. All it takes is a few sweet words from her lips and the disheveled grullo is coming right to her, a dark moon drawn to her red-hot gravitational pull. She doesn’t even have to give him her name; just as well for her, she who thrives in mystery and shadows. Her body becomes soft and yielding as he drapes himself around her, cocoa eyes darkening with primal desire, and she reaches for the hard point of his withers, her teeth working in quick firm circles to dislodge the debris clinging to his coat. If her grip on him is a little hard, her movements occasionally pinching him, it is most certainly not by accident, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. If this stranger wanted her to be more gentle, he would have come correct - or not at all. Gentle isn’t a word she knows without the added context of playing a part.

Before she can make much progress, however, he’s wiggling around like a foal fidgeting under its’ mother’s care. Minthe grabs a hunk of skin just above his shoulders, where the tumble of his mane begins, and pinches hard. “Hold still,” she chastises, her tail cracking whiplike against their flanks so closely pressed together. He’d do well to listen to her, or the next one would hurt ten times as much. He insists on continuing, winding his way around to her other side, and her ears press back, her eyes glinting hard in the dim light. If he besmirches her coat -

Ah. The stranger speaks, and Minthe raises her head from its place atop his back to follow the path of his eyes. She can’t see the aforementioned voyeur from here, but the idea of someone out there, in the bushes, watching her… other mares might have been creeped out by it, but she wasn’t other mares. Minthe loves attention, craves it just as much as she does air, and the irritation on her face at his disobedience melts away to a sly smile, her eyes sliding from the darkness of the shadows beyond to the face of the man standing before her, messing up her mane.

Minthe trails her spotted muzzle up the slope of his back, placing another nip upon his withers. “Hm,” she murmurs, pulling away from him. She feels his absence on her skin, doesn’t like it… but she knows it will hurt him more than it does her, and that is more pleasing to her than any touch from a stallion ever could be. “Perhaps,” she says, brushing along the length of his body, “I’ll go and see if this admirer can present themselves better to me than you.” On her last word, Minthe has her head by his hindquarters, and like a flash of flame catching onto dry tinder her narrow head reaches down to bite hard at the thin skin of his gaskin. With a squeal the ‘Teke is leaping out of striking range, her white-dipped legs kicking up a spray of pine needles as she races for the entrance of the clearing, towards the place in the distance where this unseen stranger lurks.