“The same rule applies to this leash as I mentioned for the collar,” he said solemnly. As he spoke, he tugged her gently toward him. “You can’t remove either unless you have my permission.”
Her legs ached from the tension of trying to hold still and she happily stumbled in the direction that he pulled. She knew that no one else would appreciate the collar and leash he had given her but, in Cindy’s eyes, that only served to make their meaning more personal. If it had been appropriate she would have happily embraced him and smothered him with a thousand grateful kisses. She almost wanted another stranger to walk past so her master would be forced to conceal her gifts as he had done before. Even though she dreaded the concept of any living soul learning of her servility, she would have happily faced that danger if it meant her master would kiss her again.
“Do you like them?” he asked.
She almost laughed at the understatement. “No. I don’t like them. I love them.”
He nodded approvingly and pushed a coin into her hand. “This is your final present,” he said quietly.
Cindy glanced down at her palm, not sure what she was looking at until she studied it closely. The steel disc was drilled and fitted with a split ring so it could be attached to her new collar. The side she could see had been engraved with her name and, when she turned it over, she saw the master’s address and phone number were printed on the reverse. His name was written under the words, OWNER’S DETAILS.
No longer caring about etiquette, and after taking a glance around to make sure no one was watching, Cindy pushed herself into his arms and hugged him. Her corset-flattened breasts pressed eagerly against his chest and her yearning for him had never been stronger. Coming to a sudden decision, confirming their mutual arousal by casting a quick glance into his eyes, she lowered herself to her knees. His erection pulsed hard against the tight constraints of his pants and she could see the shape thrusting at the fabric. Lovingly, she traced a finger over the swollen lump.
“Cindy?” he asked curiously.
She cast another glance around, just to confirm that no one was watching, then unzipped him. His length sprang through the slit immediately and she had a moment to realize she hadn’t misjudged his excitement. The bulbous glans of his erection was a dusky purple and glistened with a smear of pre-come. The shaft was solid and hard and, before she could allow her fears of discovery to overwhelm her, Cindy pushed her mouth over the end.
“Are you sure we should be doing this here, Cindy?” he asked quietly.
Concentrating on her task, she didn’t answer. She worked her mouth back and forth along him, sucking gently and languishing in the thrill of his taste. His pulse beat firmly at the back of her throat and, each time she tried to swallow him, she was reminded of the pernicious weight of the collar that hung around her neck.
A part of her wanted to recoil from what she was doing – they were in a public place and the danger of discovery grew greater with every passing second – but Cindy knew she had to show him her gratitude. As always, the fear of being found out, even the niggling worry that someone might surreptitiously notice, added to her spreading wetness. Her inner muscles trembled and her clitoris throbbed with a desperate urge for stimulation. Still revelling in the shameful prospect that would come from discovery, Cindy guzzled greedily along his glistening shaft.
He tugged on the leash, pulling her face briefly away, and she was stung by the fear that they had finally been found out. She cast a panicked glance around, grateful to see that there was no one observing them, and then wrapped her mouth hungrily around him again. Attacking his flesh with renewed fervour, she licked and sucked until his explosion spattered against the back of her throat. His seed was rich and thick and sickeningly noisome.
Swallowing each mouthful, her tightening throat constricting with the gentle pressure of the collar, she kept him in her mouth until he was totally spent. Remaining on her knees, she tucked his flailing length back into his pants before easing herself from the floor and smiling warmly for him.
“That was very kind of you,” he said, fastening the name tag to the buckle of her collar. “And I’m sure you know I appreciate the gesture.”
She wondered if he knew how much she appreciated everything about him, from the thoughtfulness of his gifts to the consideration he showed in keeping their relationship so discreet. He continually teased her with the threat of exposure, summoning her to assignations in public places like this shop, then firing her with a need to do something outrageously private and run the risk of discovery. But he always kept the secret of their relationship and Cindy was confident that he always would. Even in a public place like this one he had managed to dress her in a collar, leash and name tag without anyone noticing. He had even filled her with the grateful urge to openly take his erection in her mouth, and no one was any the wiser.
“Come this way,” he said abruptly.
“Where are we going?” She was reluctant to walk toward the door without her coat because she could glimpse a concentration of shoppers queuing at the checkout. She tried to retrieve her coat from his arm but he deliberately kept it out of her reach.
Smiling indulgently he tugged gently on her leash. The collar pulled at her neck, making the name tag jangle musically, and she was forced to stumble toward him. “You can have your coat back once we’re outside,” he allowed. “But we have to pay for your gifts at the checkout before we can take them home.”
Cindy’s fingers went to the collar and she flushed crimson at the thought of the torment that lay ahead. She could picture her master leading her to join the queue while he still held the leash. She could imagine him artlessly exposing her secret to everyone in the queue, and making no apology or excuse as the girl behind the counter scanned the three items they were purchasing. Eyes growing wide with panic, Cindy scrabbled for the buckle and implored her master. “Please, sir,” she began hastily. “May I take this off?”
His smile was thin as he reminded her, “Not without my permission.”
Lilith Broken to Bridle
Molly Weatherfield
The two men trotted their horses down the path. It was early morning in April, not a fashionable hour for riding in London in 1890, and they encountered few other horsemen. But coming toward them, visible in the distance because her horse was galloping down over a rise, was a woman on a large chestnut, her own long mane of hair – chestnut as well – tumbling over her shoulders, loosed by the speed at which she was travelling.
“Unusually good seat for a woman,” the older of the men commented. “Almost as though she were part of the animal. Damned unusual.”
The younger man murmured something under his breath, which the older one took as agreement.
Damned unusual indeed, Lord Robert Arthur Ashleigh, 12th Earl of St Bartlemas, murmured to himself again, his eyes flooding with a warmth he hoped his companion wouldn’t discern.
He’d begun to notice her the previous summer, galloping by with her hair tossed and her face flushed. Her horse was harnessed in the fashionable “bearing rein” style – head much too high for comfort, probably bridled with the knobbed “gag bit” as well. Cruel to the animal, he’d thought, showy and unpleasant; she was clearly a shallow, fashionable, most irritating young woman. He’d forced his thoughts brusquely to other things – the statues he was casting in bronze in the barn of his country house at Overton. And the beautiful roan mare he was exercising.
But he’d had to admit she was striking. Slender, upright, a marvellous, fearless rider. It had taken him an additional month to observe – because he’d tried so hard not to – the odd symmetry between herself and her stallion. For she was as extremely and compactly corseted as the horse was tightly and smartly harnessed. Why – he’d found himself wondering idly from time to time – why lace herself so tightly when she’d be slim with no corset at all? It couldn’t be comfortable to ride in that condition.
But it had only been idle speculation until a tedious rainy afternoon lat
e in August. Trapped in his sister’s back parlour and leafing through a copy of The Englishwoman’s Domestic Companion (that’s how hideously bored he’d been), he came upon a letter to the editor describing the “delightful sensation of feeling the tightly borne up horse spring under you when you are equally tight-laced.” Signed by a Lady Catherine Andrews.
The London humidity was oppressive. His breath came raggedly.
But there was some benefit to be gotten from a sister who knew all the town gossip and delighted in sharing it. He had no difficulty learning that the Lady Catherine was “of unimpeachable breeding, a little withdrawn since she was widowed in that horrid boating accident a few years ago. But utterly devoted to her little boy. He’s really her only occupation, except for riding. I hear she’s a terribly smart rider. Rather pretty, I suppose, if you like that very severe look.
“But why do you ask, Robert? Lady Catherine isn’t the sort to interest herself in a lazy lord who sculpts in a barn. Actually she doesn’t seem to care about men or marriage at all – not that she hasn’t had offers. Well, she’s rich enough, I suppose, not to have to . . .”
The weather was clearing. He needed to take the roan mare for a ride.
Of course she wasn’t out that day. Or the next. And then he had to go to Overton to attend to some repairs.
“And should I go ahead and tear down that small shed near the barn – where we used to keep the donkey cart when you and your sister were babies, sir?”
That had been the plan he and his steward had agreed upon. But no, he said. No, he’d changed his mind.
“Very good, sir. And if you don’t mind my asking, what do you intend to do with that shed?”
“Remodel it, Wright. A personal project.”
“Not into a new donkey shed?”
“Oh no. A folly, Wright. A folly was what I had in mind.”
He worked night and day on the folly, servants and tenants staying away at his instructions. He’d get back to the bronzes some other time. And now that it was finished – shiny and painted, the leather and gleaming metal hung just as he wanted – he had to face the possibility that he’d never use it.
But there she was, on the paths. It was autumn now, the leaves ruddy in the crisp air. Wait, she was dismounting, her brow knit. She bent over her horse’s leg, whispering, patting and comforting him.
He walked his horse over to her and asked if he could help.
Her dark eyes were large and liquid above a straight nose, a pointed chin.
“Oh no, thank you,” she said, “Lucifer just has a stone in his shoe that I can’t get out. It will be a long walk back to the stables, though.”
Sorry, Lucifer. And thanks.
“You can ride my horse and I’ll lead him back,” he offered. But she wouldn’t dream of leaving Lucifer when he was in pain.
And so they led their horses back together.
“You haven’t been out for a few weeks,” she said. He wouldn’t have minded if she’d said it flirtatiously, but she didn’t.
“I noticed you,” she explained, “because you ride well, and because you’re handsome, and because you obviously disapprove of my riding style.”
He nodded, not knowing how to answer.
“There’s cruelty, you know,” she added, “and there’s . . . cruelty.”
“But can a horse tell the difference?” he asked.
She paused before responding.
“I think,” she said, “that Lucifer loves me. Or pities me, more likely. In any case, he indulges me.”
He cleared his throat. Say it, idiot. Before you lose your nerve entirely.
His voice surprised him by sounding quite natural.
“Actually, I’ve been considering . . . your riding style. I’ve recently acquired a new mare. And I’ve been doing some research. But I need a bit of help.”
“Help?” She smiled and met his eyes.
“She’s a magnificent chestnut,” he said, “slender and high-strung, and with extraordinary character, I believe. I’ve resolved to start training her tomorrow.”
Her black lashes swept over her cheeks.
“And you want my assistance.”
“If you had the time,” he murmured. “And the inclination.”
She looked up at him again, for a longer moment than either of them had expected.
“I do have the time, Lord Robert. And do you know, I believe I have the inclination as well.”
She’d been silent, but pleasantly so, on the way to Overton the next morning.
Ah, she said, stepping out of the chaise, it’s good to move again.
She made polite compliments on the house and grounds. He thought the house had never looked so venerable, the grounds so lush, as with her striding through them in the austere black and white of her riding costume.
No, she didn’t want any tea, thank you. Perhaps later, afterward.
They walked out past the barn to the folly, which was a small trim stable hung with shiny tack. There was a little training ring next to it, its fence painted bright white. He’d enjoyed building the fence.
“And the mare?” she asked, smiling.
He didn’t answer.
“What’s her name?”
“I call her Lilith,” he answered. “The first woman,” he added before he could stop himself. “Well, really the first woman,” he said.
The look she returned was calm, amused.
“How will you begin?” she asked.
“I need to make sure her tack fits,” he answered. “I’ve never bridled her.” Were her breasts swelling slightly over her corset? Her white stock front was so crisp it was hard to tell for sure.
“I don’t know,” he added, “if she’ll submit willingly.” And yes, a sigh escaped her, though her mouth retained its curve.
A moment of stillness. He turned to examine a riding crop hanging from a nail; slowly, he ran a black-gloved finger down its length.
And when he turned back, she’d begun to unbutton her coat, She undressed quickly, pausing only to hang each garment on one of the brass hooks mounted in a row on the wall. The sky was changeable, shadows sweeping through the little stable’s open doorway. The lights and darks of her body shifted balance and combination with each garment she removed.
The jacket of black wool faille shrugged off her white shoulders. The white stock unwound from her long white neck. She’d stepped quickly out of the narrow skirt and lace pantaloons, revealing white thighs above black boots laced to her knees, taut white belly over dark triangle. He’d taken the riding crop down from the nail and was balancing it in his right hand.
“Part your legs slightly,” he said. “And then turn to show me your hindquarters.”
“My hindquarters?”
One said derrière to a lady. Or perhaps, in certain situations, arse. Her voice was husky, savouring his inappropriate word. A small dimple deepened at the right corner of her mouth.
He flicked the riding crop at her left flank.
“You won’t be able to speak,” he said, “after I’ve bridled you. But even now, you must respond silently and immediately to my commands.” He hit her again and she turned to display the white, curved rump thrust out by her corset. It looked wider than it was, in contrast to her constricted waist. His fingers tightened around the riding crop.
She’d wear a tail, of course. He’d exercised some ingenuity designing that apparatus, with the help of a very understanding lady in London who’d been under his protection for some time.
But he didn’t want to get ahead of himself.
He slapped her rump with his gloved hand, to communicate that she was to turn again to face him. She’d lowered her eyes, thick black lashes casting shadows on her flushed cheeks.
He put the crop into his boot and wrapped his hands around the waist of her corset. He wouldn’t need the measuring tape in his pocket; his hands would never forget her waist’s span. Or the other distances: small of back to top of the corset’s bust; curve of hips beneath
. Next time she visited, there would be a leather corset, with many cunning rings and buckles, to be used for . . . well, for all sorts of things.
So much to do. He cautioned himself to take his time. But he couldn’t help the next impatient gesture. He’d waited quite long enough to see her breasts, thank you; he cut away the chemise from over the top of the corset with a penknife. Champagne goblets, just as he’d hoped, the nipples pink, erect, obedient: they stood at attention, swelling proudly beneath his gaze. He’d mount silver bells on clips with little spring mechanisms. He’d adjust the clips with jeweller’s tools; they shouldn’t bite, just pinch a bit. Cling to her flesh to fill the air with clear, shivery jingling as she moved.
She breathed calmly, eyes still lowered. How must it feel, he wondered, to accede so completely to the gaze of another?
“Outside.” He prodded her to the door. “Where the light is better.”
The clouds had passed, the sun glared on the bridle in his hand, the knobbed, arched metal bit that could make a horse froth at the mouth.
He raised her chin with the riding crop until he saw the bit reflected in her eyes. Or perhaps the spark he saw was fear instead. Well, she’d be a damned fool not to be a little afraid. But she forced herself to be calm, to relax and even to part her lips.
And to send him a haughty glance.
Fear had made her imperious, as he’d rather hoped it would. Still, it wouldn’t do. She gasped – and then softened – at his hard swipe against her thighs.
Oh yes, much better.
But how could he bridle her with all that hair coiled at her nape? He pulled out the pins, sending the hair tumbling almost to her waist. He brushed it with a wire currycomb into a tail at the top of her head, tying it clumsily with a leather thong. She’d need a groom, he thought; delightful and diverting as all this preparation seemed to him today, in time he’d find it tedious.
And her eyes? Calm, wary. If anything, they’d softened a little more as her mouth opened, moistened to receive the bit.
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