by Violet Blue
Time evaporated and my need resurfaced; Damon’s slathered my ass with my juice, before sliding his middle finger into the tight slit.
His smooth cock followed, and the burst of fire that followed after he entered my ass almost pulled me under. Anthony, in front, squeezed my breasts and failed to distract me from the sizzling heat within my ass. If anything, it aggravated my own sense of uncertainty. On the fence between pain and pleasure, I needed a smooth climax yet desired the agitation of used muscles and a stretched ass.
Damon gently slid in and out, then shoved his cock to the hilt. Tears sprang from the corners of my eyes. My own voice resembled a human-animal hybrid: a wounded deer or an exhausted lioness.
He rocked against me as Anthony’s chest blocked my view. Another mouth, Anthony’s, met mine as Damon continued his deep, torturous fuck. My skin broke out in gooseflesh as his cock assaulted my ass. Semipartnered by Anthony, his hand gripped mine, making room for Tobias’s fingers once more.
“You want to come don’t you, Allie?” asked Tobias. Their combined testosterone cradled and tucked me into the blistering fuck, stripping away age-old layers of convention.
A visceral groan answered in the affirmative, but another part of me didn’t want it to end in case it all changed and we all transformed into meek drones.
Tobias burrowed into my pussy, fingers aflame, as Damon’s pelvis adhered to my rump, burying his cock deeper in my burning ass. My mind didn’t stop to consider that Tobias, still full, hadn’t climaxed or that Anthony waited for release, I only thought of Tobias’s fingers skating over my clitoris and how this activated a gripping chain reaction. From behind, Damon fired off deeply, discharging into me. Tobias continued to work away, his fingers scissoring around my clitoris, gripping it tenaciously as my inner thighs trembled and my brain responded to my cunt with quaking electric pulses. Anthony, directly in front, beckoned me—his eyes did all the talking. My hand gripped his cock like one gripped a handle, and pumped his shaft until his warm load splattered my back. Tobias shuddered as his own hand strangled his cock to a fierce climax after he finished masturbating me.
Tobias was the first to speak as Damon braced his knees like a sprinter, “That was long overdue.”
“How do you feel?” Anthony’s question opened a door to another confession.
“Feel? I’ll be sore later…but—”
“Well?”
The telephone in the hall interrupted the moment. Damon rose to intercept the call.
“I feel like it could be a regular thing…that’s if you’re not embarrassed.” This couldn’t be me. Logic took its time, more moments passed and I felt relieved that shame, that ugly social construct, had ceased to exist. Tobias sat next to me and massaged my shoulders.
“I like the way you think,” he said.
“I think we could make an arrangement,” said Anthony.
As long as I didn’t have to sign another confidentiality agreement, I’d be there.
STABLE MANNERS
Lily Harlem
Six Sundays in a row his brooding gaze has scorched from the twilight shadows of the ménage. Black eyes narrowed, expression sulky, he’s devoured my body with a fierce intensity as I’ve struggled to maintain a cool, professional image.
Standing alone as he was, away from the more sociable parents, I initially assumed he was concentrating on his daughter’s dressage skills, but before long I realized it was me, her tutor, he was fixating on each week for a full hour and a half.
Now, as I turn my back to watch the trotting ride, I can feel his greedy eyes devouring my jodhpur-encased rear. This knowledge thrills me and makes my hips roll for his enjoyment. I sashay—just a little—as I move through the barky mulch explaining the fineries of smooth transitions. I appreciate his attention, really I do.
I have a spare riding crop stuck into my left boot; it leaves my hands free for adjusting stirrups, tightening girths and gesturing to the letters around the school; it’s a quirky habit I’ve always had. As I’m stepping toward his daughter the slightly pliable rod slaps against my thigh, flicks backward and forward in time with my pace like a musician’s metronome. “Here you go, Emily,” I say, whipping it out and handing it up to her. “You need to get used to holding a crop even if you’re not going to use it.” I smile at the pretty ten-year-old as she nods and adjusts it into the grip of her reins.
I throw a glance at her father. His eyes hit me full on, steady and unwavering. Drinking me up like a man dying of thirst. My knees weaken, my ears buzz and my chest tightens. In the otherwise formal, asexual world of dressage he’s a refreshing dose of pure, unadulterated testosterone. He looks positively wild; a barely contained stallion, cooperating with his tamer—just.
I wish I’d brought a crate to sit on. Each week he affects my blood flow more and more, reduces my concentration and sends my highly regarded teaching skills into a scatter of nerves. He’s so tall, so broad and so damn handsome.
Today he’s wrapped in a dense, black winter coat, one gloved hand shoved deep into his pockets whilst the other circles a mug of steaming liquid. Maybe I just imagine him watching me each week. I’ve never even heard him speak. I only know he breathes because of the plume of cold air steaming around his head like a bad boy’s halo. Excitement churns through me at the thought of how bad someone like him could be. What would happen if the hunger pouring from his eyes demanded to be satisfied? What would happen if I was the one to satisfy it? I clear my dry throat and return to explaining the next exercise, try my hardest to focus whilst wrapped in thoughts of sating his appetite.
This final lesson of the day draws to an end and I instruct my six riders to dismount. They lead their horses into the chill of the winter evening, past the dark hay barn and into the long row of amber-lit stalls. As forecasted it’s starting to snow, and big, determined flakes float through the weak lights of the yard and settle on the straw-littered cobbles.
It will take half an hour for the juniors to untack their ponies, buckle New Zealand rugs and give the saddles a soap. It’s a clever ploy to add “stable management” to the end of the last lesson; the youngsters do what’s essentially my job and their waiting parents pay for the privilege. I’ve added a free coffee machine in the viewing area and no one seems to have cottoned on to my devious, but nevertheless, entrepreneurial idea.
I decide to make the most of this free time and head into the cavernous barn to load nets for the liveries. The sweet scent of hay fills my nose like a wave of incense and I pause at the entrance to let my eyes adjust to the inky darkness. Kids have been playing in here again, mounds of bales have been arranged to form a staggered wall and what looks like a tall castle turret. I smile; it’s what they should be doing, who cares if it’s not the neatest barn in the world.
My feet are silent as I move to a half-used bale and bend to unhook its tight orange string. It’s awkward and with my butt in the air I fumble in the darkness, struggle to release the sharp cord of knots.
Suddenly I’m aware of a long, thin pressure on my left buttock. Firm and solid it presses against the give of my flesh.
My breath snatches. I know exactly what it is.
It’s my own crop!
I don’t bother to straighten. Instead I twist my torso and see a silhouette standing at my left shoulder. Broad, square shoulders and a mop of wayward curls tower next to me. I should be indignant at the personal, inappropriate touch from someone I don’t know, but instead I feel a sudden knot of pleasure rock through my body. After all, I’ve been fantasizing about this man for weeks.
The chilled skin on my buttock soars to hypersensitivity as the crop continues to exert a confident pressure. A deep roll of excited anticipation lurches in my stomach. He’s so close, only feet away. Lining my crop up against me, touching me intimately but at the same time distantly.
He says nothing—neither do I.
After a moment of bending before him I shift my backside a fraction, the smallest twitch of a movement, just to s
ee what he’ll do.
The pressure releases, there’s a brief hiss in the cold air and then a sting sears through my jodhpurs and onto the delicate skin of my butt. A shard of lightning, a second of sweet torture. It heats my cold flesh and buzzes my pain receptors to life.
A squeak of shock escapes my lips; I can’t believe he did what I wanted him to do—I didn’t even know I wanted him to do it! My hands curl into the string I was struggling with. He hit me, he’s never even spoken to me but he’s so self-assured he’s gone straight for a kinky, sharp spank. My head floods with excitement; it’s been a long time since I felt something new.
I let the heat travel and pool between my thighs, and to my surprise it swells my hidden folds and a pleasurable hum settles in my clit. A thought enters my head that if he treats the other cheek the buzz will multiply. I stay bent over the hay bale, shift slightly and to my delight he takes full advantage of the opportunity. He lines up the crop on my right buttock and my nipples peak to attention beneath my thermal top. I hear it sail through the air and that brief nanosecond between knowing it’s coming and the pain of the hit is the most delicious anticipation I’ve ever known.
I revel in the heated discomfort, lap it up; he’s given it so easily. The hum in my clit escalates to a hungry pull and I feel myself turning full on. Who is this guy?
I straighten and face him. He can see my lusty expression because the orange glow from the yard is flowing around me, but he’s as black as night to my eyes. Only the rough curls of his hair and the shape of his tall outline are visible. He is perfectly motionless, not even a twitch of the crop that now hangs limp from his hand.
I want more. Much more. No man has ever touched me like that and my desire is so sudden and all consuming that my head is no longer in control of my body.
I neglect my fine leather crop, which I presume he’s returning, and step backward into the deeper shadows of the barn. I climb over scattered bales and disappear around the tall turret the children made. I lean my back against the scratchy wall and beat down thoughts of rational, lucid behavior; I don’t want them interfering with my moment of revelation.
I wait in the dark silence; the biting cold now a welcome blast to my fevered state. Will he follow me? Did I read it all wrong? Damn, what’s going on?
His bulky presence rounds on me, draws up at my side and immediately invades my personal space. It’s so pitch black the whites of his eyes are the only thing I can truly make out. That and the heat blazing off his body like a roaring fire.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice husky and needy even to my own ears.
He takes a step closer and I sense him staring down at me, though how he can see I have no idea. After a few, painful, drawn-out seconds, just as I’m about to bolt, my mouth is caught. Hard and urgent his lips press down and his tongue forces mine to part for his delicious invasion.
I melt, open up for him, thoughts of bolting fly from my mind. He tastes of strong, black coffee, warm and intoxicating. A whirl of male pheromones floods my senses and cranks up my lust level. I let my body lean against his and curl my hands over his shoulders. His coat is rough under my open palms; I want it off, I want to feel him, make sure he’s real. I slip my fingers under his collar and shove. He doesn’t seem to mind and the weighty garment drops with a whoosh to the hay-filled floor. I return to his marble-hard shoulders and sense a thick woolen jumper covering unnervingly powerful muscles. He could have hit me so much harder. I shiver at the thought.
His arms have locked around my puffer jacket, one secured around my shoulders and the other around my waist, squeezing me tight as he kisses as though his life depends on it. I pull away a fraction, fighting to breathe and his lips dip to my neck, sending a stream of fluttering butterflies across my scalp and down to my aching tits. Damn, he’s one hell of a kisser.
He releases me and I miss him instantly. I hear the zipper on my jacket. Fast and urgent it whizzes free and he shoves it to the floor the way I shoved his. The cold doesn’t even register; we’re creating our own fiery heat in the shadowed depths of the barn.
His hands run down my torso, dip into my waist and over the flare of my hips, travel farther to the raw heat of my still supersensitive buttocks. I let out a little whimper but he silences me with his mouth. Big palms squeeze through my jodhpurs, kneading and massaging the sting; my legs turn to jelly at the reminder of searing pain. I want more.
He seems to sense this because he sinks to the floor and pulls at my riding boots, first one then the other. He pushes to his knees and I can’t resist running my hands through his thick hair while he undoes my jodhpurs and rolls them down my legs along with my knickers. With an impatient tug they are removed and my entire bottom half is exposed to the elements. Cool fresh air rushes to meet my hot, private flesh and reminds me where we are. We can’t do this, not here. Surely not.
I feel him lift my leg and realize he’s pulling my boots back onto my bare calves. A tidal wave of panic spreads over me: What if someone comes? Some kids or one of the parents. What if someone comes and I’m standing in long black boots and a thermal fleece but minus my jodhpurs and underwear? My reputation as the best show tutor in the county will be in tatters!
I wriggle against his determined hands and step back, with every intention of finding my jodhpurs. I need to get them on and make a break for it.
I’m forcefully shoved against the hay and it scratches mean little points into my buttcheeks. “Hey,” I protest in a whisper. But then I feel him drop and loosen my thighs with his hands. His cheek presses against the hot skin over my left hip bone. I tremble in his grip and forget about making a run for it. I can barely dare hope what he might do next; how the hell will I stay standing up?
And then he sets to it. With a skillful swirl of his mouth he parts my ripe flesh and his tongue arrows through the soft folds surrounding my clitoris. He catches the hard little nub in a wet kiss and begins a gentle sucking motion. Stars explode before my eyes and I jab my hands onto his shoulders for support, pull in a long, low hiss of air.
I arch my back as his questing fingers search out my juices. I’m so wet for him. His suction releases and his tongue begins to flick over my clit as a cool finger finds my opening. He pushes in and stretches me. I let out a tight sigh and collapse against the hay wall behind me. He adds another finger and they bend within me, hit that supersensitive spot with scary accuracy. “Oh, god, I can’t…I can’t stand up for this,” I moan quietly, as the friction inside becomes overwhelming. I’m close, so close. Rubbing against my G-spot is making my clit pulse in warning, it’s swelling and demanding relief. I drop harder onto him and feel the pressure from his mouth increase. The sizzle of an impending release shoots along my spine. So close. I’m going to come in the barn. So close.
Then he’s gone, out, away. I’m empty, alone.
I open my eyes to the blackness, ready to scream with frustration. I was just about to have a raging orgasm and he pulled away. Damn him!
But he’s still there, in the shadows, right in front of me. He kisses my mouth to silence my despair and I can taste myself on his lips, musky and feminine—the opposite of him. God, I want to sample his flavor.
Hands spread on my shoulders and he spins me to face the hay tower. He raises my hands above my head and with his foot pushes apart my legs. My body feels boneless with frustration, weak and indignant. I’m at his mercy. I love it.
“More?” he growls, a demand as much as question. Lust drips from his deep voice and I feel the crop press on my bare buttocks. This time there will be no material to soften the blow. I do want more. I want to know what it feels like to be spanked on naked flesh. But can I? Dare I? Here?
“Yes,” I plead into a bale. I need to know; it’s all I need to know at this moment in time. “Yes.”
The crop cracks across my right cheek, hard and sharp, a single blow. Just as I think it doesn’t hurt too bad the pain blossoms to a rising heat, getting stronger and hotter. “Ah…ah… ah,” I mouth into t
he hay.
I feel something in front of my face, it’s not his lips, it’s a glove made of thick fleece material and he offers it to bite on. “Shh,” he breathes by my ear.
I nod. I’ll be good. No more sounds. I just want him to do it again. I want to feel that heat bloom to my clit and make it pulse and jump some more. A few seconds later another burst of pain breaks right through the first one, then there’s a third leathery thwack against my tormented skin. I grip the hay, pull out handfuls and chew down on the glove. I don’t like it, I can’t stand it. I adore it; I want him to go for a fourth.
He swats at my cheeks again and then aims one for my thighs, the pain changes, endorphins are being released. Now it’s all pleasure; every single stroke buzzes me to a wonderfully hypersensitive state. Reality fades and I feel the orgasm calling again. It will take so little to tip me over. He strikes some more, controlled but heated, each hurt a blur as it builds the bigger picture. I reach down and push my hand between my own legs, fumble for a way of releasing the pressure.
“SHERRY… SHERRY…!” A teenage voice breaks through my crazy new world with all the grace of an earthquake. “ARE YOU IN THERE, SHERRY?”
I freeze every bodily function I possess. Even my heart stops beating.
One of the youngsters is in the doorway of the barn. Shit, shit, shit, rings through in my head, a mantra of panic. There will be no time to dress or hide if she ventures in to look for me.
She shouts out again. “SHERRY, ARE YOU IN THERE? I THINK ROCKY’S SADDLE IS SPLITTING ON THE POMMEL. CAN YOU TAKE A LOOK?”
Neither of us moves; we don’t make a sound, we don’t even breathe for fear of discovery. I couldn’t care less about a split pommel; all I can think of is my naked ass being beaten in public by a complete stranger.
“Is she in there?” A familiar voice joins the hunt for me.
“No, I don’t think so, Emily. She must be down the bottom field.”
“Just wait for her to get back; it’s too cold to go all that way. You can clean the bridle for now.”