by Joey W. Hill
While he had to envision all that, he saw the hard quiver of his own muscles as she fully penetrated him and sunk deep. His mind might not be sure how to react, but his cock wasn’t having the same problem. Despite the pain the strap was causing him, it was pulsing like a countdown on a bomb timer. Lust fueled by the unspecific rage churned inside him.
When he yanked against the ropes, she grasped the straps between harness and mask, increasing their tautness. He made a rebellious noise of anger and need.
“The stallion doesn’t like being mounted by the mare, does he? But oh, the mare loves it, all that rage of the alpha who won’t submit, but he’s going to. What a tight, hot little ass you have, my sweet, sweet boy.”
Fuck, he was going to come just from her talking. He snarled against the bit. He struggled, hoping to force something to twist or slip so she’d have to stop and loosen it before his circulation was cut off, but she was too damn good at this. She was starting to thrust in a diabolical rhythm. He could feel his climax rising, commanded wholly by her. He made a noise of furious frustration as the reaction boiled up from his balls. He kicked his back feet against restraints that wouldn’t yield to his temper.
“You’ve no control or influence at all here,” she said in that same steady purr, one laced with enough desire he could tell how turned on she was. But it gave him no power. He had no way to turn it to his advantage, since she had him bound, gagged, and had pulled him to the brink of climax without any element of persuasion. She was making him do her will.
“You’ll come when I want you to come,” she said, echoing his thoughts in that same even, relentless tone. “You’re my breeding stud, my property, my responsibility. I know what’s best for you in a way you don’t. You live by your fighting instincts, but they take you into a place where you do yourself and others harm. I won’t allow that anymore.”
She was punctuating her breathless monologue with rhythmic, slow strokes that were cutting every line he had on his own reaction. “When you have a Mistress that’s broken you, ridden you, and who fucks your ass when you need it, you’re protected from everything, including yourself. There are no choices. You’re my mount and that’s it. You serve me. I own you, Marius. Come now.”
He strangled on a roar, fighting the orgasm that rose and crashed down upon him. Even knowing his resistance played right into her hands, he couldn’t make himself let it go, play the game, because she’d knocked him too far out of his normal headspace.
“Now,” she repeated sharply, and he groaned, hips jerking as she reached beneath him and wrapped deft fingers over the crisscross of girth and strap to grasp his cock and balls. Semen instantly spurted wet heat over her fingers, against his chest and upper arms, his abdomen. He dug in to the platform on the hooves and almost buckled to his elbows.
His hips worked just as he’d shamefully imagined it earlier, a male animal humping air as she fucked him with harder thrusts, her other hand seizing his mane and twisting. In the mirror he saw two horses. The stallion’s badass countenance turned dangerous from the angry flame in his eyes, the way he was fighting his restraints. Whereas the mare’s head moved in a steady feminine dip of motion, her dark eyes luminous upon him, pleased with his response, alive with her own lust. Knowing he was making her so hot, without having had a thing to do with it himself, with no control…it was fucked up.
“That’s it. That’s my beautiful boy. Beautiful stud. All done for now.” She spoke in a quiet hum as he finished, as his body shuddered beneath her. “What a mess you’ve made, but that’s all right. That’s exactly what your Mistress wanted from you.”
As she slid from inside him, a hard aftershock jolted his muscles. He was trembling with the force of his reaction. His physical reaction. That was what he told himself.
Yet his gut clenched when he heard the whisper of straps and clink of the buckles that told him she’d removed the strap-on and set it aside. He confirmed it when she moved in front of him again.
He didn’t know if it made her merciful or even more cruel when she removed the dress. The hoof stilettos were thigh high boots, and she wore nothing under the dress, so she stood before him in the boots and head mask alone. Her breasts, big, round and tipped with nipples that reminded him of black cherries, captured his gaze. He’d sort of lied when he’d said black cherry Jell-O wasn’t his favorite because of her. He’d been thinking about that flavor a lot lately.
He was hungry to suckle, never mind his cock had just been drained. Christ, she wasn’t done.
No, this was good. Of course she wasn’t done. She hadn’t come yet. She would want him to make that happen for her, which would put him back on familiar footing. She wouldn’t keep him in this ridiculous get up. As he counted on that, he didn’t let himself miss out on the view.
Her trim thatch of pubic hair was ebony as her hair. The soft ropes of her locs fell down her back below her mask, an enhancement to the mane.
She tsked, her gaze coursing over him. “Before I go for my ride, I think one very important thing is missing.” She left his view, though he angled his head as hard as he could to get a brief glimpse of her bare ass twitching in a saucy walk as she circled him again. Wearing those boots, Christ, she was a picture. If he ever got free of this…
The cabinet door rattled, and she was back behind him. Silky, thick hair brushed against the back of his thighs. Oh, fuck, no. She was giving him a tail, one that was put in place with the help of a rosebud butt plug. It felt twice as thick as what she’d used to fuck him. He was too lubricated to resist her, no matter how he tried.
“My stallion’s still so slick for me,” she observed in a pleased tone. “Look at that. No, don’t tighten up. You can take this. Don’t be stubborn.” Her fingers curled around his cock again, a sensual stroke and tug, stroke and tug, that was disturbing, but oh hell… Okay, yeah, it was big, but she coaxed and teased, and it was going in, stretching, burning, and he was working with her, despite his initial resolve to resist.
When it was seated, it wasn’t comfortable, but his dick didn’t care, still floundering toward an erection again like a drowning swimmer determined to reach firm footing. It messed with his theory that if she’d used the big plug first he could have kept better control of his response.
“There it is, all the way in.” The tail fell against the backs of his legs, and the burning had him fidgeting, making it swish more, adding to the whole equine identity crisis. God, he was himself, but he was this beast, this powerful beast she described, caught up in a fantasy where he belonged to her, where he had no rights beyond being her property. The more he chafed against it, the more she soothed and stimulated and messed up his head.
Stepping back up on the dais, she swung a leg over him. She didn’t put her fine ass in the saddle right away. First, she straddled his shoulders. The feel of her round ass, wet cunt and springy hair, rubbing against his flesh, provoked the hard, angry need inside him.
When they’d come into the stall, he’d noticed there were a couple chains with stirrup-style loops hung from the ceiling. She grasped one now with one hand so she wasn’t putting her full weight on him. It also gave her the leverage to rub herself over him lighter or harder, depending on her preferences. Her thighs clasped his upper body while she curled the other hand in the reins and his mane, and started to rock. As she rubbed her clit against him, her arousal dampened his flesh. “This is one way I can come,” she mused. “Or maybe…”
She moved back onto the saddle. The brief glimpse he’d had of the pommel when she’d put the saddle on him had shown it was designed for other purposes. It was shaped like a phallus, with a rabbit ear clit stimulator. Since it seemed like she was manipulating it back and at a different angle, it apparently could be adjusted so she could work herself on it while comfortable in the seat. It probably also goddamn vibrated. A sudden tingle through the saddle told him he was right.
The plug in his ass, something about it was making him shift and rock and, oh God, what the fuck now? H
e wasn’t ready to get fully hard again, but suddenly it felt like he could, he was. What kind of stimulant was in that lube?
Adding to his aroused state, she’d lowered herself onto the pommel. He was watching her fuck it, push herself up and drop back down. She’d chosen an inanimate object over him, a man who could fuck her to pleasure. A stallion that could cover a mare, bite her neck, hammer into her until he spilled his seed and possessed her completely.
He tried to jostle her, buck her off, and didn’t succeed at all.
“This is how it’s going to be, Marius,” she said. “I take care of my own needs. I’ll make you come whenever I wish, long and hard, drain you dry, but you don’t get to take the lead in giving me pleasure until the day you want the privilege badly enough to mean it. Oh…” She let out a sigh that evolved into a moan, which felt like velvet against his frayed nerves. “You feel so good beneath me when I’m getting off. Nothing better than riding a horse…”
He was growling in anger, groaning in sexual frustration, watching her pleasure herself, feeling the rock of her through the saddle. She’d even denied him anything more than that brief contact with her cunt. Some of his more creative cursing came through, because she reclaimed the crop and started using it, smacking his ass, his balls, hard enough he was jumping against his bonds for different reasons. She was laughing breathlessly at him, calling him her bucking rodeo mount. He couldn’t get away from any of it. His cock got fully stiff again as her husky laughter became longer, deeper moans.
Something was cracking inside him, the pressure of his emotions building in an alarming way.
She’d turned him into a fucking horse, made him feel like a horse, one she’d fucked up the ass before giving him a tail and pleasing herself with a damn rubber dick. She was arched back, her beautiful throat exposed, breasts bobbing. He couldn’t see that far down, but he imagined her long, flat but soft stomach contracting, her cunt lips and short curls becoming wet as she came at last with low, throaty cries. Her legs, encased in the thigh high hoof boots, flexed with her movements.
He wanted, he hungered, he needed. He was going to fucking kill her. Or kill something to have her.
He needed to pull himself back together. She was just a clever bitch trying to take what he hadn’t given her. Yet he could only stare hungrily at her as she went over her peak and came, gasping, moaning, claiming her full measure of satisfaction from him. He could watch her come forever. He wished he could be what made her come all the time. Every time.
Stop this shit.
But he was tied and could do nothing right now but watch. And feel. He hated it. Yet he never wanted her to untie him, so he couldn’t ruin it for her. For either of them.
When her orgasm was done, for some inexplicable reason he was shuddering as much as she was. After a few long, steadying breaths that did interesting things to her latex-molded chest, she unstrapped her mask and pulled it free. As she bent behind his stallion headpiece, her lips touched his shoulder, where the tattoo armor was. He didn’t want that either. Mistresses weren’t tender to him. He had a few that he got along with well enough it was a fun fuck, and they were affectionate afterward. This wasn’t that. He wanted to tell her to get off him.
But instead of spitting curses at her, he closed his eyes behind the mask, experiencing the touch of her lips through every nerve ending. She straightened, running her hands over her hair. Even with the compression of the mask that had somewhat mussed her features and hair, she was still beautiful.
She dismounted, removed the saddle and the harness, but left on the mask and straps that held his head and body in place. She was humming a little tune to herself.
When she came back, he tensed, not sure what was next. But she began to run a curry comb over him. Tiny rubber teeth massaged his muscles as she moved it in circles over the base of his neck, his back and shoulders, down over his ass and upper thighs, his stomach.
He thought of her hands on him the other night. This wasn’t quite as good as that, but it was close. He tried to drop his head again, responding to the massage, and was thwarted by the straps pulling against his mouth. Murmuring a reassurance, she released those lines and rubbed his shoulders where they fed into his tense neck muscles.
Threading her fingers through the mane on the back of the mask, she tugged, then found the point of hair at his nape beneath it and caressed that.
After she worked him over with the rubber grooming tool, she started using her hands, coated with a liniment that smelled of eucalyptus. As she kneaded him with bare palms, he couldn’t bite back a noise of bliss. Under her touch, the knots he seemed to carry more often than not started to loosen.
When she worked on his shoulders, she pressed his head down and held it there with a grip on his forelock and the decorative brow band. The position let him feel the full effect of her touch through his shoulders and neck. Then she brought his head back up. For a pleasurable moment, he was staring right at her breasts, soft round temptations under straining cotton. Moving toward his legs, she worked down his side and along his abdomen.
When she was done, his whole body felt better, while everything inside was tied in knots, though it wasn’t without effort. His insides wanted to become just as malleable under her hands as his outside was. He forced himself to resist that urge, but when her eyes met his in the mirror, the shuttered finality he saw there speared him through his soul.
They were done for tonight. She’d give him nothing further in this session. Could he blame her?
He hated that part the worst of all, the emotions that surged up in him at the end of a session, even the fun fucks. She hadn’t allowed him to turn this into that, and that only seemed to make his descent into a dark well of emotions all the more inevitable.
As he stared at her, he thought of what he’d do if he was free. Maybe he’d reach out and touch her chin, run his fingers along the creases the mask had left on her cheeks. His questing fingers would trace her collar bone. “You’re so beautiful,” he would whisper, before he knew he’d said it.
He’d just come; she’d just come. So why did he hurt and yearn? Fuck, he didn’t let himself feel that kind of hunger outside the fighting ring. He certainly didn’t allow those feelings to slip into a session with a Mistress. His time with a Domme was supposed to be about getting her off. He hoped Regina would agree to that next time so he could fuck her and be done with this.
He hoped for that almost as much as he wanted her to never give in to him. But they always did. Or they broke. He was the child that always broke his toys before he could figure out how to play with them.
Sometimes he preferred not to come when he was in a session, letting all the orgasms happen to her. Not just because it kept power on his side, but he’d discovered unreleased passion had weight, something that could fill him and disguise what was empty.
Maybe there’d be no next time. Even if there was, this tug of war couldn’t go on forever. She’d be done with him before long. He wasn’t worth a lot of effort, and those that tried too hard just earned his contempt, while contributing to his well of self-loathing, freak that he was.
Shut the fuck up. Was there a lobotomy to remove one’s inner voice?
She unhooked the cross ties, which allowed him to turn his head to see her. With the mask on he still had tunnel vision, but now he could turn that limited view on her wherever she moved, as long as she wasn’t directly behind him. She moved to the sink wearing only the hoof boots, though she unzipped and stepped out of them, so she was entirely naked.
Most women, even the most formidable Mistress, looked more vulnerable that way, devoid of any trappings to enhance their power or allure, all imperfections visible to all. She moved the way a woman moved who had never viewed clothes as a shield. If she was walking down a busy city street right now, he expected she’d have the same sensual confidence and indifferent awareness. He’d never really understood why there were two terms for being clothes-less; nude and naked. But seeing her, he realize
d they weren’t the same word. Naked was about vulnerability, imperfection. Nude was this is what I am, and it’s so damn awesome I don’t even think about it.
A lifetime ago, in his sixth-grade class, they’d visited a bakery on a field trip to a local museum. The baker set out hot cinnamon rolls. Marius remembered having his nose pressed to the glass shield over the baker’s work area. The cinnamon, sugar and butter had mixed together in the spiral crevices to form a rich, dark syrup. That was the color of Regina’s skin, such a close match that if he closed his eyes and inhaled, he thought he could bring back the scent of the bakery. But he didn’t want to close his eyes.
He’d worship the line of her back alone. Smooth and long, a graceful curve that disappeared into the crease at the top of her buttocks. And her ass…he wanted to kiss, squeeze and bite his way over every inch of it. Tease her rim and make those long, strong legs tremble, her round ass push urgently against his face. She’d turn, swinging one of her smoothly muscled legs over his head and bring him to her breasts, letting him suck and bite there…
She hadn’t spoken, and with him still gagged, he had no chance to affect the mood or break up the intensity that still vibrated in the air. Or maybe he was the only one still feeling it. She looked relaxed. He stared at every part of her he could, but he couldn’t get enough.
Putting on her panties and matching bra, red cotton with a trim of lace, she shrugged back into the tank and pulled on her jeans. Staying barefoot, she tied her locs back into a tail before she approached the dais again.
She released all the ties holding his legs, then moved forward to remove the mask. As she pulled it off his head, it was weird to see his human face in the mirror but the same eyes staring at him. Regina removed the bit and head straps, setting them aside before she combed his hair back with her fingers. He expected she did it to get rid of that hat hair feeling that came with wearing the tack and mask. It felt good, but before he could stiffen up against that vulnerability, she took the touch away. It had been an automatic, functional gesture, no time to reject or take advantage of it.