A self-indulgent and relatively pointless fic by Shayenne
Thanks Autopilot for reading.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns everything but I doubt they want this.
Rated PG-13
For Cobbler and Cass, Corky and Rustler and all the horses and stable-dreams of my youth.

She dreams of horses.

She dreams of their warm and vibrant hides underneath her hands. Musty stables with quiet cobwebby corners, where the mice run along old timber beams, stealing oats and hay from mangers. Horses shifting from hoof to hoof, dreaming their dreams through lowered lashes, flap-lipped, whiskered muzzles resting idly on blue-painted half doors. The shadowy corners of straw strewn stalls, where she can loop her arms around a strong soft neck and whisper secrets into the dung-deep smell of a mane or long hairy ear.

She dreams of horses. She dreams of their powerful rippling bodies between her spread thighs, the undulations of the gallop, the wind-blown manes dashing in her face as she laughs aloud, crouched over the lengthened neck, hoofbeats in her ears, sweat-soaped reins slippery between her fingers. Horses running, horses stretching, the rhythmic pounding over the plain. And herself, balanced on points of knee and stirrup, crying for the joy of it, the exaltation of the race.

She dreams of horses and the freedom they represent. The earthiness, the sensuality of sweat and power between her legs. A creature of might at her command. Taking her where she wants to go - Pegasus to the heavens, Oisin's great white horse to Tír na nÓg. Underground, overearth, to the oceans, to the stars.

She dreams of horses and the power and the beauty and the sleekness of them. The stretch of her thighs over the saddle becomes an encompassing cradle around a lover. The sweat-soaked rippling coat becomes the smooth bronze skin, the rhythm of the gallop softens into the undulations of love. The oat-breath muzzle to the sweet and heated kiss. The tracing of whorls of hair on hide are fingers outlining the dark-blue lines on a loved one's brow.

She wakes in her quarters, on soaked and twisted Starfleet sheets. Responsibilities come crashing back and the horses of her dreams disappear into seafoam. The hollow clop of hooves fades down the corridor. Holodeck horses, the photonic complexities of light lack the comfort and release she craves. My kingdom for a horse.

The lover can be real. The lover is there, next door, hers for the taking. She rises, drifts down the silent corridor following the fading hoofbeats and claims him for her own.

Feedback? Please. Shayenne

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