Fortunately, there was much to keep his mind occupied.
His position as schoolmaster was largely an intermediary role — part disciplinarian, part mediator, part dignitary, and all salesman. He was expected to sell parents on the idea of the elite private school, not an altogether hard thing to do in a place like Sleepy Hollow. The pockets in these parts were deep — deep and well furbished. He had scarcely seen houses of such scale and ornateness and could barely remember a time when he had lived surrounded by such obvious prosperity.
It was the sort of town where everyone went out wearing Wellington boots and their most disgusting barn jacket as if they had all just come in from mucking out the stables. The people of Sleepy Hollow drove mud-spattered vehicles with 4-wheel drive, baked bread, and shopped at the farmers market. Their appearances and behavior ignored the reality that they brought their farmers market purchases home to kitchens in multi-million dollar houses, and that they paid the equivalent of a private college tuition for their horses to be kept in the lap of luxury, with organic hay and designer oats and a warm, well-appointed place to sleep, and most importantly, someone else to shovel out their shit.
Ichabod knew without question that the artificial trappings of living such a bucolic, sylvan-like existence was a sign of such extreme wealth and privilege that they didn’t even need to worry about being fashionable — the most privileged any one person could be.
Amidst all these suburbanite farmers with the bank accounts of oil barons, there grew a single, rare rose. She was pink-cheeked and precocious, with generous curves and delicate ankles, shown off by trendy autumnal ankle boots and denim dresses, with a designer plaid scarf looped around her neck. Her hips were wide and her tits were full and inviting, and he wanted nothing more than to fit in with the other residents of Sleepy Hollow and sample the local organic goods — in particular, the sweet honey between Katrina Van Tassel’s creamy thighs.
He wanted to coat his tongue in such a heavenly ambrosia, let her flood his mouth with its abundance, and once he had his fill — slurping up the excess and licking his fingers clean — he would repay the favor in kind, giving her a taste of his artisanal summer sausage.
She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in town, a member of the village council, looked up to by all. He owned the largest contiguous stretch of land in a Tri-County area, and every organic apple and alfalfa sprout that was sold to national food distributors lined the Van Tassel nest egg — an egg fair Katrina would be inheriting. For her to be beautiful and charming was one thing. For her to be beautiful and charming and possess the sort of physical attributes that made him want to sink his cock into her and never come out was another . . . That she was filthy rich on top of it all, Ichabod could simply not ignore. She was a flirt, but he was as well, and he prided himself on his dogged persistence.
He had been working his ass off to impress the girl. Flowers, imported chocolates, the sort of precious little handmade gifts from overpriced boutiques that people in this part of the country went gaga over. He found himself visiting the Van Tassel estate to have tea with her, feeling as if he had been transported back in time, wondering why this wasn’t a simple swipe right or left situation.
Still, he was a man of his trade, and he knew his trade well. The lilies must be gilded by hand, and it was a slow and laborious process. He would keep visiting, keep buying her pretty little trinkets and telling her amusing stories, listening to her vapid chatter in return.
It was one of those days that he had shown up to the Van Tassel farm, an armload of flowers in the crook of his elbow, coming to take the girl out to lunch.
Ichabod Crane was no stranger to the sound of a woman enjoying her pussy being licked. After all, he had gotten his nose wet on the job on more than one occasion.
It was, however, the last thing he expected to hear as he followed the dirt path from the main house to the luxurious stables, as the housekeeper had directed him. If there was one thing Katrina loved more than pretty clothes and new charms for one of her expensive bracelets, it was her horses, so it was not altogether surprising to be told she had been out riding. Ichabod halted in his tracks when he heard the sound, realizing the little flower was riding something other than her horse.
He wasn’t sure what it was about him that lent itself to always having such an advantageous position to such goings-on. Perhaps it was his lankiness, the ability to practically disappear if he turned sideways, or maybe that his great, gangling height placed him higher than one would expect to find a spectator, for he had a perfect vantage point yet again.
They were in the grass, a blanket spread out for a picnic, although the only thing being feasted on at that moment were the dewy, nectar-slickened petals of her cunt. Katrina was up on her knees, legs spread wide, her dress hitched up around her hips and her panties discarded. The wavy dark hair on the head she gripped was familiar to him. He observed her hips shift, listened to her breathy little moans, and watched as Brom Bones tongued the girl’s clit, fluttering against it like the wings of a hummingbird. She gasped when his full lips closed around the succulent little pearl, sucking, sucking, her head dropping back, his licking resuming.
Ichabod realized, when the strong arms of the headless body lifted her, dropping her back against a broad, solid chest until her legs opened further, that the headless men were superior in ways he had never considered. His heart seized when the object of his affections moaned with her whole throat, the fat cockhead belonging to his rival catching at the plump lips of her pussy, pushing into her slowly. He watched as her delectable pink folds gobbled him up, hungry for each prodigious inch. His hands clenched into fists when Brom Bones began to thrust, fucking her in a way that made the sweetest little sighs issue from her mouth every time he pumped upwards. When the horseman palmed his own head, nestling it against her cunt and resuming his licking of her clit, Ichabod knew he was completely out gamed.
Slumping in defeat, he edged back up the pathway until the amorous duo was completely out of sight. The flowers would be used in his office, gifted to each of the ladies who came in asking after their child’s grades or if she might be of better assistance as a volunteer. He had reached too high, and like Icarus, came tumbling back to earth to the dulcet sounds of Brom Bones sucking the girl’s clit as he fucked her. Ichabod knew when he was beat. There was simply no competing with that.
“Did you enjoy the view, Professor?”
Ichabod’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Brom Bones stood before him, bulging thighs looking ready to burst out of his tight, white shorts. His polo shirt was similarly painted on, and his head — broad, angular face with laughing dark eyes and a perpetual look of amusement — was tucked under his arm like a basketball.
His resolve to stay away from the racquet club lasted nearly an entire week. He simply couldn’t help his return. It was one of the few signs of luxury he was able to flaunt, the thrill of doing so greater than his ambivalence over seeing the horsemen again. The days since his last visit had been an aggravation, like a chafing beneath his skin, and his nights plagued with more of those treacherous dreams.
His perfidious imagination placed him back at the Van Tassel estate, but rather than lurking amidst the rosebushes, as he’d done in reality, Ichabod had knelt on the blanket beside the object of affection. It had been his mouth that pleasured her, his teeth nibbling the delicate mound between her creamy thighs, his tongue dipping into her sweet honey . . . and then the head of Brom Bones had taken his turn, his tongue making Katrina cry out in a way that disturbed the chirping birds in the nearby shrubbery.