Equitation

(Brief thread on yrnz equestrian-themed [not ponyplay though] bondage because....yeah)

“Now, Piers...demonstrate a posting trot.”  Milo’s words are still cheery and friendly, even when they’re in this position. He really sounds like an instructor of some kind, firm but encouraging, and Piers almost whines at the tone.   

”C’mon, I know you can do it. Your form is always amazing!” 

 It should be too smarmy, too aggressively positive, but from Milo’s lips the words never sound anything but genuine.   

Piers starts to move, raising his hips up and forward, then sinking back into his seat. It would be difficult enough if he weren’t getting impaled on Milo’s cock with every movement. Up, and back. In, and out. Milo isn’t overly large, but the girth of his shaft is immense, stretching out every last delicious inch of Piers’ body as he fucks himself in a steady rhythm.   

“Remember, the movement comes from your thighs, not your calves,” Milo reminds him, and Piers swallows as his thighs start to burn with the strain.  In one of Milo’s hands rests a half-whip, the long kind used by dressage riders, an elegant cruelty softened by a leather pad at the end. 

A simple flick of Milo’s wrist has it biting into Piers’ leg, and his pace falters, a broken noise echoing around the gag in his mouth. Pain blossoms up his leg, and if he weren’t hard and leaking from it, he might consider complaining.   

“Ah-ah. Chin up, chest forward, shoulders back. A good rider keeps their posture no matter what happens.” This time the crop taps the outside of his bicep, muffled by the blazer jacket he’s wearing. Peering down, he has to look over the ruffle of a cravat to see Milo’s steady smile, and starts his “demonstration” once more.   

It hurts. His thighs are burning, and yet every time he sinks back, Milo’s hips roll up suddenly until Piers can feel the press of his length in all the deepest parts of himself. He’s trying so, so hard to be good.  

A futile effort, really.

“Two-point position. You know where to put your hands.”  

Piers pants, but pairs his fists against Milo’s sternum, knuckles brushing against the curling reddish hair there. Another swat to his thigh has him keening, and he arches his back as far as it will go. Milo chuckles at his struggle, even as solid hands grip Piers’ waist.

“You’re the one who wanted to learn to ride right, ain’tcha?”   

Then he starts thrusting up brutally, and all Piers can do is take it. It doesn’t matter if he hurts or not—he wants it, needs it. Milo might be his “steed” in this scenario, but he’s the one in charge, and the sooner Piers gives in, the better.  His belly drops lower, cock brushing against Milo’s body. The crop snaps again, and pain spreads beautifully under his eyelids. Each thrust pushes him higher, and yet he can’t get away from the strain in his thighs, his waist, his lungs. Can’t think around the immensity of pleasure and agony both.   

And all to hold position, to look perfect. Drool drips around the gag and spatters his knuckles, still clenched around imaginary reins as Milo shoves inside him, the lewd sound of their hips warring with the thudding of his heart in his ears.   

“Good boy. Two more minutes, and then we can practice cantering!”