Riding Lessons

Edward was a marvelous fellow, to be sure.

Not that Priscilla – Miss Priscilla Dowling of Longham Wood, a charming and accomplished young lady of infinite good breeding and taste – would have informed him of that fact. It was simply not her place to express such ardent admiration for a young man, certainly not one rather lower in social standing than herself. She was an heiress, after all – young, attractive, and unmarried – and therefore trapped within the elegant chains of social expectations and propriety that forbade her from ever speaking her mind or becoming too familiar with any member of the opposite sex.

Least of all a handsome young rake like Edward.

Oh, to be sure there were tales a-plenty of his past. The third son of a minor member of the nobility, and thus in no reasonable expectation of any part of the family fortune, he had tried his hand at just about everything – or so they said. He had wandered the Continent, some murmured. He had turned up in the dens of Peking, the markets of Bombay, the dubious neighborhoods of Constantinople. He had even been to America, some whispered – to the wild and savage West where, so the stories ran, shrieking and feathered warriors had sought in vain to tomahawk the dauntless young fellow who rode unscathed through their savage ranks...

Wherever he had been and whatever he might – or might not – have done, Edward did know how to ride. And so it was that upon his return, Priscilla's doting father had offered him a position as a riding master. "In her riding my daughter lacks not enthusiasm, but grace – not vigor, but good sense," he had chuckled that evening over their cigars and brandy. "I would be be infinitely obliged if you should take her in hand, young man. Teach her what it is to master the art of riding. Oh! I daresay you might find it tiresome, but you have my word that I shan't interfere, and that your compensation will be sufficient. She is nigh upon twenty years already, and we haven't a moment to spare if she is to become a truly accomplished young woman..."

Priscilla would have died rather than to admit it, but she could not have been more delighted with her father's decision.

***

She observed Edward now, watching with wordless admiration as he busied himself about her horse's tack. They had just returned from a two-mile excursion, and the recent rain had left both them and their steeds mud-spattered and damp. But no rain could dampen the enthusiasm that had been kindled within Priscilla during that ride – for with every word, every gesture, she had found her heart beating ever faster. That handsome face, those reddish locks, the muscled grace of his every move... To be sure, they were no different than they had been these past weeks. But today, for some unfathomable reason, they set his female companion a-tingle with a feeling unlike any she had ever felt before.

"You- you began to speak of something of interest to me," she began now, her eyes following Edward as he led her horse into its darkened stall with practiced ease. "You were telling me of how one is to- to take charge of one's horse, were you not? To master it with your hand and your mind, I believe you said? But how is one to do such a thing, precisely?"

The young man stepped forward, swinging the stall door shut behind him, and regarded her seriously for a moment. "Yes, that is indeed what I said, Miss Priscilla. I have learned that mastery over your steed – over another being – is more than physical. For when you ride, you must always keep in mind who and what you are..." He drew closer, his leather boots crunching quietly on the hay beneath them, and she felt her breath hitch as she caught the heady mingled scent of horse sweat and his own manly aroma. His voice softened as he spoke again. "You see, in riding there is always the rider, and the ridden – nothing in between. And you, Miss, must never forget which of those two you are..."

Her eyes ventured up to his, and it was as if a galvanic current had thrilled through her entire body. "I- I see-" she murmured, suddenly breathless and unquiet with anticipation. But his lips, full and sensual, curved upward into a slight smile. "Do you? Would you like me to demonstrate for you, miss?"

And then his hand was on hers, and she found herself drawn irresistibly toward the darkened stall at the far end of the stable. "Wait for one moment here," he ordered, and before she could protest the gate to the stall had swung closed behind him, leaving her standing in the dark upon the bed of straw. What ever could Edward be doing? No, this was most assuredly a bad idea- She should leave now- And yet the flush in her cheeks and the pounding of her heart, unnaturally loud in her ears, demanded that she remain...

It was not a minute later that it swung open once more, and Edward stepped forward, a bundle of tack in his arms. "You waited," he observed simply, depositing his load on the empty trough – and then his hand was reaching up to her silken cheek. "Good girl." Priscilla opened her mouth, but astonished as she was by his commanding tone, she could find no words. "Shhh," Edward soothed, just as he might with a spooked young mare. "Good girl. Steady on. You will be fine, I promise..."

Her eyes slid shut then as she felt his hand, and then another, slipping down to her shoulder, along her back to her waist. No, no, I shouldn't- And yet there she stood: paralyzed, fascinated, unable to move as Edward's strong hands caressed her limbs, explored her trembling form, ran deftly down along the buttons that imprisoned her palpitating body...

Her mud-spattered riding frock slipped unheeded to the ground, and then her petticoats. Her hair was coming undone, falling down her back in a rush: a gleaming chestnut mane, full and luxuriant and feminine. She shivered violently as his hands found her breasts, imprisoned within the whalebone corset beneath... then set them free with a touch. This man was stripping her naked, slowly and systematically, and yet she, a trembling virgin, could do nothing more than shudder in silence through the violence of her own mute longing...

"Good girl," he breathed in her ear once more, and she found the phrase repeating over and over in her mind like some strange Hindoo mantra. "I won't hurt you," he murmured, even as she felt the last of her underclothes slip free from her lily-white form. "A good rider never abuses his mare, miss. He encourages her..." heaven's, now he's removing my boots "praises her..." I am naked now, naked before this man! "teaches her..." Onto the straw, yes, yes. On my knees-

And as she knelt there before him, nude as a Grecian statue, her pale skin gleaming softly in the twilight of the barn, he smiled and began unbuttoning his own vest. "No rider should be encumbered needlessly by his own garments," he murmured, and as she watched with widening eyes, Edward easily slipped out of his riding boots, his breeches-

And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed. The phrase from Scripture echoed through Priscilla's mind as he stepped forward, glorious as a young David in his muscled nakedness, a strange leather contrivance in his hand and – of far more interest to his young mistress – his cock already sprung up in readiness. "Shh, good girl," he repeated, and as the young woman gazed up at him, her eyes mutely questioning, he bent down and slipped the device gently over her upturned head. "I shall be your rider today, miss. And you... you will be my mare."

The metal bit was cold as it slipped between her teeth, tugging her lips back into a mute grimace, forcing her tongue down into inarticulate subservience. She whimpered softly as she felt the leather straps tightening about her head, but Edward was quick to soothe her, his low voice soft in her ear. Then came the reins, slipping back along her naked body in his capable hands, tugging softly at her already dribbling mouth as if to remind her that she was no longer her own person...

Indeed, she was no person at all - or nothing like the young lady she has always felt herself to be. For what was this animal heat – this primal, fiery sensation blossoming between her bare thighs as she knelt here, naked and silent, before her riding master?

"There is the rider, and the ridden," he echoed once more, and she shuddered in mute pleasure as his hands set to work stroking her entire body: brushing back her long mane of hair... fondling her breasts as they hung, soft and womanly, beneath her... pinching her erect nipples and eliciting a muffled cry of shock and delight... sweeping back now along her buttocks, his fingers wandering through the soft reddish growth between her legs...

She gasped into the bit when he entered her. Oh, this- this- this must be what it is to- to fuck- She had read of such things once in a sordid leaflet she had encountered in the street one day, but she had never imagined it could feel so- so- "You will be such a good mare for me," Edward muttered, and she could feel him growing even harder within her as he thrust and withdrew... thrust and withdrew. "I am riding you, miss. Do you see? You- you are the ridden. You are obedient- tractable - and you must not forget that- ever-" His voice was strained now, growing hoarse with urgent need, and Priscilla moaned in response as she felt her own pleasure swelling within her, swelling and rising so ardently that it felt as though she might explode-

"Good girl, on! Faster, faster!" Edward was urging her on now as he pumped in and out – and then, with a sudden stinging swat, she felt the leathern reins descend with a crack upon her naked buttocks. But strange to tell, the sudden burst of pain only seemed to drive her pleasure even higher. And all the while, strange and wild thoughts were pounding through her mind: pounding like the hooves of a racehorse, like the galloping of her heart, like the frantic thrusting of Edward's prick deeper and deeper within her. Oh, he- my rider- he whips me- he's urging me on- just like his horse- I'm his mare now, truly- Edward- yes, riding me- his, his good, obedient mare-!

Rider and ridden, their mingled groans and muffled cries of pleasure resonated softly in the otherwise tranquil hush of the stable. And though it was less than an hour later that the young lady reappeared at last – disheveled, her hair unkempt, and an odd light in her flushed face – it must also be acknowledged that it was not more than three days later that she once again disappeared into the self-same stable with a gleam in her eye, a thumping heart, and a most unmaidenly dampness between her thighs...

Edward, you see, was indeed a more marvelous riding master than she could ever have imagined.