I threw the saddle over my horse, Big Sam, while he pawed the ground impatiently. I remembered the time when I would happily have ridden bareback.
Born into a Romany Gypsy family. Our caravan was small, but we were proud and kept it impeccably clean. That was all I knew. Life on the road. I hardly ever went to school. We were rarely in one place long enough. But I had a ferocious appetite for books and read anything I could get my hands on. I truly believe learning has got to come from within. Another thing I didn’t need to be taught about was horses.
As a toddler I was plonked on top of our pony, Minstrel, and led along. Soon, I knew how to kick to get her moving. By the time I was twelve, my idea of fun was cantering downhill, gripping her mane. Riding was in my blood; the breeze on my face, and the smells of the countryside filling my nostrils. It was a good life.
Looking back, I think we were blessed as a family. Until Dad died. Gypsies are traditionalists. He’d been the bread winner. Mum cooked, cleaned, and looked after my sister and me.
It was sudden. He earned money as a mechanic and was working on a car when he keeled over onto the bonnet. The doctor had said he wouldn’t have known a thing. One minute alive; the next, dead. It happens like that to some.
I was twenty and Jess three years younger. Mum said she’d look for work but was deeply distraught. Everyone told me I took after dad: hard as nails. I felt it was my responsibility to find a job. But what to do?
I only knew one thing: horses.
We pitched up on the edge of a farm bordering Scotland, with a massive working stable a few miles away. A good opportunity for me to sell my skills, and that’s what I did.
The owner, Mrs. Glenn, saw straight away I could handle horses; but once she realized I’d never ridden with a saddle, she told her son, Angus, to teach me the ropes, so to speak.
When I saw him, something stirred inside. Never happened before. I was tongue-tied and could feel the back of my neck tingle as he spoke. I couldn’t stop staring at his face. His nose was too big and smile lopsided. But altogether it worked. Well, it did for me. Immediately, I became defensive and probably a little rude.
At the end of my first lesson he remarked,“Katelyn, if you don’t wanna be here, then I’ll bid you goodbye.”
His brown eyes twinkled, conflicting with the frown on his brow. He sat down on the wooden stool outside the stable, crossing his long legs; assured of himself and his place in the world.
My brain went into overdrive. I couldn’t lose this job. I needed to forget the attraction and box clever.
“I’m sorry. Things have been a bit difficult recently. I’ll be brighter tomorrow.”
At that moment a couple of swallows swooped by within an inch of our heads, making for the barn. We both ducked, sharing a moment of laughter. Things got better from there on in.
During the following week, my skills improved but I was struggling to master the combination of saddle, bit, and bridle. I’d never steered Minstrel with anything more than old rope and a kick in the belly. Perched on the saddle, everything seemed slippery, like I might topple off at any minute.
My bodily reactions to Angus were under control, but that hadn’t stopped me living out a fantasy in the dead of night, rubbing my slit until in my dreams he was inside my head and my cunt. Afterwards, I’d sniff my fingers and look forward to the following day. I really didn’t know if he felt the same. I suppose I was attractive. Athletic and yeah, I got a lot of wolf whistles, but I’d never been seriously interested in a lad before. Had a few casual fucks. But I felt anything but casual about Angus.
After a few weeks I noticed a lingering hand when he gave me a leg up into the saddle. But still, and maybe because of this, my progress was slow.
Mr and Mrs Glen were away and Angus was at the helm. He asked me to stay after work one afternoon. He had a proposition.
I agreed, and he led me into one of the barns. On top of a wooden bench, he’d set up a saddle with stirrups attached. He told me to get on and feel where my heels should be and how to slot my bottom and legs into the right place.
I did as he instructed and felt more confident. “Good girl, now let’s have some dinner, Katelyn.”
He lit up the BBQ and threw a few burgers and buns onto the rack. Grabbing a bottle, he filled two tin cups and handed me one. “Cheers,” he smiled. “I think we deserve a break, as we may have made a wee break-through.” I laughed at his wee joke, then sipped the red wine. Immediately it went to my head.
I was assured and my defences lowered. Sidling up to him, I pushed alongside as he turned the meat over. He responded immediately, an arm slipped around my waist and for a moment he nestled into my neck, sniffing my hair.
As we ate, we seemed to have so much to say. Then, with the food and wine finished, I found myself in his arms. Pulling back, he said, “I’ve an idea. Perfect time to get you used to the saddle; being so relaxed. But I need you to really grip it with yer legs and there’s one thing that might help,” he paused… “Yer bare thighs against the leather. How about it?”
His voice was assertive. Nervously, I began to giggle, but at the same time, did as I was told. I undid my jodhpurs, freed my legs and put my boots back on. I stood in front of him in lacy knickers and a riding jacket. He looked me up and down appreciatively and proclaimed, “Perfect.”
“Why thank you, Master,” I joked, curtsying.
“Hop on the saddle, Missy,” he quipped, getting into his role.
Once positioned, the polished hide rubbed against my skin. Now the saddle felt more like a horse.
“I need some reins to make it real.”
He threaded a rope through a hook on the barn beam above and told me to raise my arms. Then he tied my wrists above my head.
“Now it’s all about your legs, gal. Feel the hot meat beneath you.”
“The horse? Right?” I chuckled.
“Concentrate,” Angus scolded, then shortened the stirrups so I could put weight into them and stretch my leg muscles tight. Taking off his neckerchief, he blindfold me. It rested just above my nose. I could smell his sweet sweat. Then, holding the rope above I truly rode that horse. I centred and swung my hips forward, heels down. Feeling the rhythm as I moved.
“Ah, good gal. You got it now.”
Each time my crotch lifted and returned, the saddle smacked against my clit and compelled me to repeat. My breathing quickened and without my sight I lost a little self-control. Tits bouncing as I moved; body yearning for more. In my head, I was on the horse. Hot flesh between my thighs.
Without thinking, I began to moan, needing a release, yet wanting the stimulation to continue.
“Katelyn. Are you okay? I can untie you?”
I carried on pushing down into the stirrups and raising up, pulling on the rope for help, then letting myself back down into the saddle for the slap on the cunt reward. My desire was taking over as I screamed, “I want more.”
“You need the whip, gal.” His voice deepened.
I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. But in the darkness, not only was I riding a horse, I was that horse.
“Teach me now!” I screamed.
The crop landed on my arse as I raised it from the leather — a sharp, quick shock that spurred me on, and I began to gallop. Falling back into the seat, a lash caught the bottom of my back. In retaliation, I lowered my head and raised my bum high; a jockey, riding in the grand national.
“You are a horny bitch, for sure,” Angus muttered, and without hesitation he landed a few cracks right across the middle of my fleshy cheeks. But I just kept on riding, waiting for the next bite of the whip.
Eventually, I could feel my breathing becoming shallow and realised I had to stop. I sank into the heart of the saddle and he grabbed my waist, pushing his face into my navel.
“Good gal. It’s like riding a bike; you won’t forget.”
Untying my hands, he pulled me onto the itchy straw bales. The blindfold was still secured. But now that my hands were free, I wanted to bare the rest of my flesh.
I undid my shirt buttons, exposing my breasts to the evening air; leaving him in no doubt what I wanted. His fingers pulled at my nipples and our mouths savoured the moment. Sucking on his bottom lip, I pushed my hips up to meet his pelvis; my senses so alert. His cock still trapped in jodhpurs dug against my mound and I whimpered with arousal. Pulling away, he straddled my chest, and I knew he must have undone his fly because I could smell the warm mustiness of flesh inches from my face. I didn’t need to think too long. My mouth welcomed the silky smoothness of his shaft.
I tried to grab his dick, but he clasped my hands above my head and angled his cock into my mouth, reprimanding me.
“No touchin’ the goods.”
Fuck; that was hot and all I needed to give my best impression of a cocksucking slut. I licked, sucked, slurped, massaging his cock.
Rubbing himself on my cheek, he muttered, “Beautiful soft skin… but I think you’ve still got a few more lessons to learn before I’m finished with you.” In one movement he’d flipped me over, front down on the bales.
The sharpness of the hay blades dug into my supple tits. Just as I was getting comfortable, I heard the crack from the riding crop and felt a sharp sting on the top of my thighs. I screamed out, but my cunt showed its own appreciation, clenching against its wetness.
Two more thwacks and my knickers were yanked down.
His knee forced open my thighs, and then — what bliss — his knob nestled against my damp heat, pushing between the folds. My muscles clasped the intruder. Then… he began.
His nails dug into my shoulders as he filled my cunt; back and forth in time with the movement of my own thrusts. Each time he pulled out, his cock pushed slightly on my already swollen bud. It just made me grind against him more.
We were fucking, alright — like our lives depended on it.
I could hear his breathing, heavy and laboured. I lifted my pelvis to let him take all he needed from me. He did, noisily, eventually falling forwards and pushing me into the hay.
We laid quietly; hearts beating in time for a few minutes before he turned me over, burying his head between my legs, soothing and caring for my clit. After such a hot warm-up, it didn’t take me long to climax. I began to rock, stifling my wanton cries.
Night was falling. I was disorientated but happy. I found my feet and got dressed.
From then on, I was broken to the saddle, but learned to ride Angus without one! Soon, we worked and lived together. The riding crop, well, it’s kept in our bedroom, not the barn…
This story – first appeared on my Medium Profile.
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