by Felix Baron
When Wanda checked herself in the mirror, she might have stepped out of an English movie, set in the days of highwaymen and carriages.
‘Your hat,’ Sandy said.
It was reinforced and similar to a top hat but not so high and with a jauntily tilted crown. The long trailing ribbon was gold, of course, as was the cockade. There was no doubt, Henry was dressing her in his livery colours. Something trembled in her tummy.
‘And …’ Sandy said.
Of course, there had to be a riding crop. It was made of green suede, plaited, with a leather loop for her wrist that had ‘Wanda’ embossed on it in gold.
How did Wanda feel about her outfit? She wished she knew. Excited? Scared? Thrilled? Wicked? All of those, and more.
‘May I do your make-up, Miss?’ Sandy asked.
The way Wanda’s fingers were trembling, it was a good idea for someone else to apply her paint for her. She nodded, set her hat aside and sat at the dressing table. Sandy made her lips very red and tinted her eyelids with green and gold. The effect was a bit over the top for seven in the morning but Wanda didn’t say anything. Somehow, coming up with words seemed a bit beyond her capabilities, right then.
Henry and another of the pretty girls, Elaine, were waiting right outside the front door. Wanda’s mount, obviously hers, was a stunning Palomino mare with a long almost-white tail and mane. Henry’s horse was an enormous and glossy-black stallion. Her fiancé was wearing a masculine version of her hat, sans ribbon or cockade, a black swallowtail coat, a beige cravat at his throat, beige whipcord pants and black leather boots that were so shiny they looked almost transparent.
He introduced Wanda to the animals. ‘Blondie, for obvious reasons, and Satan, but he’s a pussy cat, really.’
‘For you he is,’ Sandy said.
‘Blondie is your horse now,’ Henry told Wanda. ‘Apart from exercise, no one else will get to ride her.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t all the girls want ponies?’
Wanda felt like throwing herself into his arms and kissing him but not with the two girls there. Perhaps he’d let her express her gratitude more fully when they were alone. She settled for stammering a stream of ‘thank yous’ that didn’t stop until he laid a hand on her arm.
Henry produced a camera and took pictures of Wanda before she mounted, while she mounted, with Sandy’s help, and after she’d mounted.
She’d asked if he wanted her to ride side-saddle but he assured her that wasn’t a good idea if they were going to ride for long.
Wanda adjusted her skirts. It took a moment to get used to a saddle without a horn again and her naughty side insisted that there be nothing between her soft pubes and hard leather but her flimsy thong. That was part of the joy of riding, after all, that and having a great powerful beast clamped between her thighs.
‘Comfy?’ Henry asked, smiling.
Had he guessed what she was doing? No, of course not. That was a girls’ secret, unsuspected by the opposite gender. Wasn’t it?
Henry swung up into his saddle with one fluid movement. Wanda nudged Blondie with her knees. The mare ambled forward at a slow walk. Henry, on Satan, followed a few feet behind. Obviously, he was checking how she sat before they really got going. To show him that she was a capable rider, she encouraged Blondie into a canter.
Wanda soon adjusted to her mount and matched their rhythms. Every forward movement of her hips slithered her sex against hard leather. She might as well have left her thong off for all the protection it gave her. Thank goodness for her voluminous skirts. Without them, Henry might have heard the slippery sounds Wanda could feel that her pussy was making.
She’d already been shown the buildings close to the ranch house. Henry led them cross-country, past paddocks with pregnant mares and with mares with colts. The stallions, Wanda presumed, were kept elsewhere.
As if reading her mind, Henry told her, ‘We mainly use artificial insemination, but I do keep a few studs to take care of things the old-fashioned way once in a while. It seems fairer to the mares, to me.’
Wanda almost asked if she could watch, but bit the question back.
Henry’s ranch seemed to go on forever, even though he’d said it was a modest thousand acres. There were streams that they jumped or waded but he didn’t take her over any fences or hedges. It was nice that he was protective but she’d have liked the chance to show her skills off. Then again, what if she’d set Blondie at a tall hedge and the mare had balked? Wanda might have been thrown. She’d fallen off a horse once and hadn’t come to any serious harm, but still …
Blondie would likely have taken off, out of shame, leaving Wanda without a mount. Satan was an enormous beast, perfectly capable of carrying two riders at once. Henry would have simply scooped her up and sat her before him. Her back would have been pressed against his broad chest. His breath would have been hot on her nape. That always made her shiver.
And they’d be rocking, hips forward and back, forward and back. That’d be nice, co-ordinated, but nicer if she rocked back as he rocked forward. That might send him a not-so-subtle message.
Fuck subtle!
She pushed back as hard as she could, grinding her bum against his crotch. Henry handed her the reins. His right arm circled her. The buttons of her jacket popped open as if of their own accord. The same happened to those of her blouse. That big hand took hold of the naked softness of her left breast and palpated it, the way she loved.
From the feel of it, he was unzipping his pants. Wanda sucked air, hoping she was right. His left hand fumbled up under her voluminous skirts until his palm covered her bare tummy. His little finger brushed down to find the protruding button of her clit.
It was so good. What next? Something kinky, she hoped.
Somehow, he pushed down on her back, forcing her to wrap her arms around Satan’s mighty neck. The stallion was hot from the gallop. With her cheek pressed against his glossy coat, she could feel the ripple of his powerful muscles. She inhaled the musky aroma of horse sweat. One beast beneath her, another over her … She was trapped between two incredibly powerful male animals and she never wanted to be free.
Henry reared up, over her. He dragged her skirts up to her waist, leaving her bare bum exposed. Somehow, her thong had been lost.
It pressed down, parting her cheeks. She relaxed those special muscles. The pressure became almost painful … and then her sphincter parted and accepted the great dome of Henry’s erection. It paused for a split second before forcing her to accept deep impalement. She was owned.
Satan pounded. Henry thrust. The movements syncopated, then opposed each other, crushing Wanda each time they came together. She had no choice but to surrender, body and soul, accepting the dominance of her beloved master.
Satan accelerated, heading straight for a hedge that had to be six feet high, at least. He soared. Henry pulled back a fraction while they were still in the air.
And Satan thudded onto turf, safe and sound, but that final deepest impalement drove Wanda’s poor body into the most powerful orgasm she’d ever experienced.
Henry, riding Satan beside her and her mount, said, ‘You really gave Blondie a workout there, Wanda. You’re quite the horsewoman. You have an excellent seat.’
Seat? Did he mean …? Of course not. He couldn’t know what she’d been fantasising about, could he?
She said, ‘I’m getting a bit peckish, Henry. Are we far from home?’
‘Can you last another two miles?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come on then.’ He galloped ahead. She cantered after him. Wanda was too drained to gallop.
Two miles took them to a stream that widened into a pond with an impressive weeping willow drooping over it. There, beside a spread-out rug, was a cooler and a great big wicker picnic basket. How on earth had that come to be?
Henry helped her off Blondie and led her by her hand to sprawl on the rug. Their mounts ambled over to the pond to drink. Wanda supposed that Henry knew what he was doing, leaving the horses u
ntethered. He was a horse trainer, after all. If they ran off, she hoped he’d give her a piggy-back all the way home.
‘There’s vichyssoise, three kinds of pâté, some cheeses, a chicken, cold cuts, garlic potato salad, fruit, crackers, butter and fresh baked bread, from Consuela’s kitchen.’
‘In the cooler?’
‘White wine, champagne, sangria and various pops and waters.’
‘We’re here for the week?’
‘That’d be nice. Here, see what you think of this.’ He reached over and held a cracker piled with creamy pâté to her lips.
Wanda lifted up to prop herself on stiff arms. She knew the pose suited her. As she nibbled on the treat, she talked with her eyes, looking straight at Henry, hoping he’d interpret her steamy look correctly.
For a quiet half-hour, he fed her tidbits and sips of wine. Wanda moved her shoulders closer, to emphasise her breasts. Judging from his downward glances, the manoeuvre wasn’t wasted.
Henry drained her glass for her and set it aside. Wanda, anticipating, lay back flat. His face loomed above her. It was the nearest she’d seen it from. It passed close inspection. He leaned in closer. Firm but gentle lips brushed her. Wanda resisted the urge to slip her tongue into his mouth. That initiative was his, the first time. Once the benchmark had been passed, she’d feel free to take the lead. In Wanda’s mind, that was the way with all sexual activities. Once he’d fondled her tits, she’d be justified in guiding his hand to them, when that was what she fancied, which was most, if not all, of the time. The same, or similar, went for intimate fondling, fucking, oral play and anal. Once Henry opened those doors, they’d be permanently unlocked, both ways.
Door one?
He nibbled on her lower lip. She relaxed it, parting her lips slightly. There was a hand on her jacket, flipping buttons undone. He’d been faster in her fantasy. That couldn’t be helped.
With each button that surrendered to his touch, his nibbles became more forceful. As he brushed her jacket open, his tongue, finally, slid into her mouth.
Was this it? Was this the beginning of the rest of her life? Their wedding day would be a milestone, for sure, but if he ‘seduced’ her here, now, that would be their true first union. She had to make sure that they continued to consummation.
She kissed him back, putting all the passion she could into it. His mouth was cinnamon and honey. When his hand passed the barrier of her blouse and cupped her breast, she moaned into his mouth. Daring, she reached behind him, hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants and pulled him fully on top of herself. He squeezed her breast. She sighed. He gave her nipple a little pinch; she gasped and humped up at him. With this much encouragement, no man could retreat. Her thighs spread. Should she steer his hand up under her rumpled skirts? Would tugging his zipper down be more effective? Before Wanda could decide, something buzzed.
Henry lifted up, with a sigh and a ‘Damn!’ He produced a cellphone from somewhere. ‘Yes?’ His face went cold. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Very well.’ He put the cellphone away.
‘Emergency,’ he told Wanda. ‘We have to go back. I have to be in London by ten in the morning, their time.’
Chapter Nine
Despite the delicious sweetbreads, whatever they were, for dinner, Wanda was in inner turmoil. Henry had actually started making love to her, which was a long-overdue thrill. Their passion had been interrupted, by business. Business. Damn business! Damn Henry for letting business get in the way.
Now she was furious, on one hand, and so horny her teeth ached, on the other. Once she’d seen Henry off in his jet, she started into Beefeater martinis, accompanied and encouraged by Kitty. The thought of bedding her fiancé’s pretty cousin passed through her mind once more. That’d teach Henry to leave her hanging, not that he’d ever know, of course. It’d also slake her lust. She’d already done Kitty, in fantasy, so doing her in real life wouldn’t be that big a step, would it?
But she loved Henry. Damn it! She really loved the bastard!
By ten, her face was glowing and the tips of her fingers were numb. That meant, stop drinking. She had just one more, slurred her ‘goodnights’ and staggered up to bed.
In nothing but a short T-shirt, she snuggled under the bedclothes on the gigantic Mexican-style four-poster. By habit, Wanda’s hands were between her thighs. She toyed with her pussy’s lips, wet her thumb and slipped it on her clit, worked two, then three fingers up inside herself, but nothing worked. She tried imagining how it would have gone if that bloody cellphone hadn’t gone off. That didn’t work. Replaying her penetration-on-horseback fantasy did no good, either. Perhaps it was the booze. Maybe it was the conflict between lust and anger. Whatever it was, Wanda drifted off to sleep without the benefit of an orgasm.
And she dreamt.
There were voices coming from the big old red barn. One was male, and stern. The other was girlish, and pleading. The gargantuan doors were ajar. Wanda crept between them, leapt a moat that was filled with hairy crocodiles and landed on springy wooden planks. Chaff billowed up around her. When it cleared, and when her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she was on one side of a stack of hay bales. The people she’d heard were on the other side. One was Henry, terrifyingly masculine in his boots, pale jodhpurs and bare-chested. The other was Elaine, dressed as Wanda had last seen her, tight micro-shorts and a check shirt tied under her buxom chest, presenting them more than covering them.
Henry said, ‘You trained Blondie. Blondie threw my beloved Wanda. I’m holding you responsible. What do you have to say for yourself?’
Elaine snivelled and begged for mercy.
‘Perhaps it is you who needs further training,’ Henry suggested.
Elaine nodded and allowed, ‘Perhaps.’
‘Turn.’
Elaine turned her back to Henry. His big strong hands took hold of the collar of her shirt and ripped it in two, effortlessly. Ruined fabric slithered down her arms to drop on the floor. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her shorts, at the back. Those too were rent and discarded. The girl stood naked, one arm across her breasts, the other hand shielding her pubes.
‘Assume the position,’ Henry told her.
She bent over a sawhorse, her upper chest resting on the rough wood, chin beyond it, arms extended to the sides, legs straight and spread. With a few deft movements, Henry bound the girl’s arms to the crossbar, rendering her helpless.
Damn, but Elaine looked good like that. Her breasts were hanging free, showing themselves to the best possible advantage. Her slender legs guided Wanda’s eyes up past her shapely thighs, to the cleft peach of her delicious bottom.
Was Henry going to fuck Elaine? Was that to be her punishment? If so, Wanda planned to commit some sin at the first possible opportunity.
But no. Henry produced a willow switch, likely cut from the tree they’d picnicked under. That was more like a punishment. Dream-Wanda, still in only the short T-shirt she’d worn to bed, put her hand to her own sex. Getting off to this sort of scene would be a really wicked thing to do. That made it all the more tempting.
Henry swung. Elaine yelped. A red line blossomed across the girl’s bottom, crossing both cheeks. Henry’s arm drew back but before he could deliver another cut, as it can happen in dreams, Wanda became the one bent over the sawhorse and Elaine was hidden somewhere back in the hay, spying on the scene.
Naked, bent over, legs spread, Wanda felt thrillingly exposed. Delightfully helpless. Those emotions came from the part of her that she didn’t think about if she could help it. The dark Wanda.
She’d show the little bitch how a real woman takes a good switching! Yelp at the first blow, huh? Watch this and learn!
With Wanda as his subject, Henry’s approach changed. He came close and reached under her, to her pendant breasts. His manipulations of her flesh were firm enough to threaten but not so harsh as to really hurt. His other hand stroked her flanks and smoothed over the left cheek of her bum, much as she’d seen Henry caress a pony. His ha
nd dropped to her leg, just above her knee, and fondled its way up to the very top of her thigh, close to the lips of her sex.
He cupped her sex and squeezed. She felt her nectar run into his palm. He lifted his hand to his lips. Henry liked her liquid lust. She was deeply aroused. Was that shameful or something to be proud of?
He said, ‘You understand that I have to discipline you, Wanda, don’t you?’
‘What did I do wrong?’
‘Nothing. This isn’t a punishment. It’s discipline for its own sake. You understand?’
‘Yes, Henry.’
‘You’ll be brave?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘I know that you will. You remember your words?’
There’d been an article in Cosmopolitan, so Wanda knew to say, ‘Green, amber, red.’
‘Very good. I know that you will endure all you can but there is no shame, when it gets too much, to let me know. Understood?’
‘Thank you, Henry.’
He stroked her bum, compressing and releasing, seeming to enjoy the resilience of her flesh. That was nice but the anticipation of pain made her shiver.
‘Please, Henry?’
‘Please what?’
‘Start?’
‘Are you impatient for it?’
‘Anticipation is hard to take.’
‘Exactly. That’s part of it. Sometimes, I might make you wait all day, or longer.’
‘I couldn’t stand that.’
‘You’d have no choice.’
‘No, Henry, I wouldn’t. That’s how it should be.’
‘Good girl.’
His words were barely out of his mouth when she felt the first slash of the willow switch, across the backs of her thighs just above her knees. Wanda sucked air but she didn’t cry out. Gentle fingers explored the welt she felt was rising. He squatted and traced the line with the tip of his tongue. In a strange way, it was an incredibly intimate caress. Having her man lick the wound he’d inflicted was an experience most women would never get to enjoy. Wanda felt privileged.