Auberon was in ecstasy. His head was thrown back, his eyes were closed and a series of appreciative moans escaped from his throat.
The ends of the leather she crossed over his chest, then she looped them over his shoulders so his balls and penis were bunched in one mighty mound of flesh that lunged to greater size as the man revelled in his sweet restraint. After that, she passed the end of each thong through each ring – that hung like bangles behind his balls – and fastened them securely.
Observant enough in daylight to know where everything was kept, Penny took two items from the custom-built metal shelf against the wall. One was a simple riding crop, the other a lunging whip.
Now it was easy not to look into the blackness. Everything, they say, gets easier with practice, and in this case it was certainly true.
Bondage had been something that she and Mark had got up to when desires and emotions were too far beyond the normal level of tension. Even so, she had been enthralled by it, experiencing more powerful releases than straightforward sex could ever satisfy.
With professional efficiency, she cracked the whip then smiled with glee as she saw the reaction on Auberon’s face. The fear of pain that flashed there she knew to be only pretence. Deep down, beneath that terrified facade, she knew his body was aching for pain, longing for the thin strip of leather that would raise redness over the taut hardness of his flesh.
Her eyes dropped to his trapped cock. It lurched, reared with bottled-up excitement and, just for a moment, she thought he might shoot his load before she was ready for him to do so.
There was delight in her own action. Much as this man wanted her to pleasure him, she also had her own satisfaction to think about. No matter. First, she would deal with him, whip him to a trembling mass. Then she would take him purely for her own pleasure.
His trembling loins shivered as she walked around him. She trailed her fingers from the hard shoulder muscles down to his round cheeks. She teased each one, tracing lines, each one terminating in the tight cleft between. Instinctively his buttocks squeezed like they had earlier when her finger had probed at his puckered anus.
The fingers travelled on around his pelvis to his throbbing member. She saw it rear; saw it jerk as if it could take flight if set free. But it would not be set free. It was trapped pinched between two bonds of leather.
Sharply her fingernails traced more circles around the bulbous head of his cock. Her eyes opened wide. Never could she have believed that such exquisite pain could spur one to greater things, to a greater size. With enjoyment and without protest, she entered his world and took pleasure in the sublime pain she saw fit to endow. Amid pleasurable murmurs she hissed through her clenched teeth as she drew her nails down over his stem. Surprised at her own reactions she watched with interest as the veins of his neck stood in sharp relief against his skin. A moment later he threw his head back and howled at the rafters.
This was pure delight, pure power. Thoughtfully her fingers dipped into the slippery mixture that was brimming through the length of her labia. So far this little act had been all his. She had given him a lot; he had given her little.
In time with her rapid breath her breasts heaved as power mingled with sexual excitement.
Again she cracked her whip. She heard his sharp intake of breath and sensed his apprehension as he attempted to gauge her timing.
Stretching his throat again he threw his head back and let out a yell as the fine end of the lunging whip curved over his buttocks. She saw them tense, fold one in upon the other as if he were holding something in between. She smiled. She was beginning to enjoy this, and her imagination was beginning to work overtime.
The whip rose and fell again. His cry was a rich mix of pain and delight.
Breathless, her breasts pouting to the point of ecstasy, she dropped her arm to her side, then reached out to run her hand over the quivering behind. Hot flesh trembled beneath her palm, and tight cheeks closed over the nub of her probing thumb as it dived and teased the prim ring in between. It excited her, and made her stomach tighten and her clitoris rise in rapture from its sheath of dewy petals.
‘More,’ she heard him breathe. ‘Give me more.’
Unable to resist the lure of the stretched torso, she ran her hand from his armpit, over his ribs, and on to his hip, then across his stomach. She clenched her fist so her fingers formed a talon. He screamed soft and low as the claw ran from navel to phallic stem, pinching at his glistening glans, before digging into the soft flesh that hung beneath.
‘I’ll give you more,’ she growled, now unable to stop herself from entering the full spirit of the scene. ‘Just wait and I’ll give you more.’
The whip stung again and again across his bunched shoulders, his arched back, his round behind, the shuddering muscles of his thighs and calves.
She changed position, altered her aim so the whip fell in a long curl of leather across his heaving chest and stretched stomach, lightly kissing his jutting penis as it landed with stinging accuracy over his thighs. His knees bent slightly. Sweat glistened on the abused muscles.
But now her throat was dry and her sex soaking. Penny knew her own body well enough to know when its just desserts were due. Her aim had been strong and true, and now his flesh was glowing nicely with the searing heat of perfect pain. The sight of his cock, leaping up and down with each new dealing of sublime ecstasy, was too much for her to bear. She had to have him. At the same time, she had to satisfy his own more specialised pleasure.
The head of the lunging whip was thick, not as thick as his penis, but thick enough. Imagination rich in original thought took over as she eyed his twitching buttocks and the handle of the whip. Her mind was made up.
‘Now it’s my turn. There’s nothing for you to do but go along with it.’
‘Whatever . . . whatever you want to do to me, do.’ The whimper in his voice seemed more of an entreaty than a reproach.
That to her was confirmation enough that what she had in mind would delight him. At the same time it would get her what she wanted.
With the helpful rubbing of the handle against an odd piece of saddle soap, she slid it between the tight orbs of his behind. Slowly, she entered him. She heard him moan, wondering for a moment if she was doing right or if it would hurt him.
She glanced around to the front of his body at his jerking penis and smiled. It positively glowed in the semi-darkness, a pearl drop of moisture crowning its gleaming head. Auberon, she guessed, was in ecstasy.
With one hand holding on to the half-submerged handle that now stuck out from his anus, she brought the rest of the whip around the front with her, running its declining thickness through her fingers until she was facing him.
Her gaze dropped to his penis before returning to his face. Beneath half-closed eyes he watched her, his mouth open, jewels of sweat hanging from his nose and chin. She dropped down, poked out her tongue and transferred the pearl drop from tip of penis to tip of tongue.
She did not stop there, but continued her journey with the thin end of the whip until she was back where she started and could tie it round the portion of the handle that stuck obscenely out from between his cheeks. It would not fall out.
With the riding crop in one hand, she dragged a bale of straw in front of the restrained Auberon. At first she knelt on it, her eyes filled with the sight of his pulsating cock, trembling as her nails followed their previous course, leaving slight indents in the purple flesh as they went. At each dig he moaned in ecstasy and begged for more, though his moans verged on squeals of sweet pain.
She wrapped her arms around him, drawing his pelvis to her as her mouth enveloped him, the soft down of his sac caressing her chin.
As she enjoyed the sensation of her mouth drawing in then retrieving along his entire length, her hand found the half-hidden handle and began to move that back and forth.
Above her he groaned and his knees sagged slightly. She felt his thighs tremble and his penis leap in her throat.
Not yet, she said to herself; not until I’ve had my reward.
She loosed him from her mouth and, with her foot, moved the bale of hay to one side, then rested that foot on it. Everything was in place for her to take what she wanted.
Breast meeting breast, she brought one hand round to the front, closed it around the imprisoned penis and readied it to guide it between her well-oiled lips and into her waiting vagina.
It slid in. She moved forward, then buried it to the hilt.
Delicious waves of pleasure spread upwards from where she gyrated on the rampant member. She mumbled her pleasure against his chest, apologising in a stupid sort of way for being unable to resist such a stout harbinger of satisfaction.
Unwilling to allow his cock to shrink from its splendid size, one hand went back to the whip handle and began to manipulate it as before, moving it gently in and out of his anus. Just to remind him who was in charge, she flicked every so often at his bare flesh with the riding crop, her strokes getting more erratic but much more virulent as her own climax began to spread from her loins.
With one leg up on the bale of hay, it was easy to manoeuvre her clitoris so it received the full impact of his thrust against her each time she pushed on the handle of the whip.
As though now going into full gallop, her movements got faster. Trickles of sweat ran between her jiggling breasts from him and her, then ran off to saturate further the slippery wetness that sucked and gulped between their thighs.
‘More! More! More!’ Now her tongue stuck to her mouth, her arms quivering with a current of impending explosion.
Higher and higher the current of climax ascended before tumbling down in a sparkling shower of sensitive bliss.
One, two, three, four more thrusts of the whip handle, then Auberon, too, gave all he had to give. Within her, the bunched-up and heavily engorged cock throbbed like an airlocked water-pipe as he cried his release to the high rafters and unsettled the roosting pigeons.
There was only a soft rustling in the darkness once they had finished and Auberon had licked the last vestige of her own secretions from her hot and well-used pussy.
Even so, she thought to herself, there is always someone who hopes for an additional encore or who hangs around the stage door hoping for a last word or an avid leer. She wondered only briefly who it would be, and dared not hope it would be the object of her wager. All the same, she hoped she had made a good impression.
‘Nice night.’
Sir Reginald had come from somewhere behind them as they left the stables.
‘Splen . . . splendid,’ stammered Auberon.
‘Nice night for being out walking,’ said Penny.
‘Yes,’ Sir Reggie chuckled knowingly, his dark eyes twinkling. ‘Yes. Nice night for a lot of things. Very satisfactory, don’t you think?’ He chuckled again before wandering off along the gravel path and into the darkness.
Ears, if not eyes, tuned to the night, Penny looked into the darkness and was aware of other footfalls joining his.
5
‘CLEAR ROUND!’
The hollow echo of the loudspeaker announced her performance to the crowd of pink faces that thronged around the main arena.
This was Penny’s first horse show since coming to Beaumont Place and, although it was only a county show of secondary merit, she’d done well and felt pleased with herself.
Hoofs thudded beneath her and clods of earth flew out behind, lifted by the animal’s iron shoes. She felt the creature’s muscles between her thighs, and thought as she had so many times before, just how incredible it was that she could exert her own will over such a powerful animal.
‘Well done!’ There was triumph in her voice and a smile on her face as she patted the sweating neck of the rangy chestnut before exiting the arena and coming to a halt.
Beaming brightly, perhaps too conceited for her own good, she nodded at Auberon as he made ready to try his round. His hand tipped politely at his hard hat. His smile was faint and he blinked a few times.
Just for a moment, she thought she saw him blush like a nubile girl and she smiled. Was he enamoured of her, or just highly appreciative of the performance she’d made him go through the night before?
She had asked him later if he had known they were being watched. He had blushed then, too, and had stammered his answer.
‘Um . . . Well . . . possibly . . . perhaps.’
He knew, she decided. He just didn’t want to admit it. Did such a thing embarrass him? Obviously. But she didn’t feel that way. There was added excitement in performing such a delicious task when an audience was present. Just the thought of last night made her flush beneath her tight white breeches and black wool jacket.
But Auberon, sweet as he was, loved being submissive and, in all honesty, she had found the role of the dominator extremely enjoyable.
‘Good round,’ said the stable-lad who held her horse’s head. He had dancing green eyes, copper-coloured hair and was called Stephen.
‘So far so good,’ she replied, her face still flushed from her ride and her breath still hurried. But she was still smiling, almost laughing. She felt good.
He helped her dismount before throwing the customary soft brown rug over her horse’s steaming flanks. Her on one side of the chestnut, and him on the other, they led the horse back to the horsebox which was painted light blue with ostentatious gold lettering along the side.
‘Well, here we are,’ she said appreciatively, happy to have done so well, and even more happy that this particular horsebox was like a palace compared to the rattly old Bedford she had arrived in. She still had it, of course. Gregory had parked it safely until she had need of it again. Safety, she guessed, didn’t even come into it. Her old horsebox just wouldn’t have matched up to the Beaumont standard, whereas this long and weighty machine had six wheels with double axles.
‘I could do with a shower,’ she said. She’d already loosened her white silk cravat – formal and required wear when actually jumping. Now she also undid her top button. She saw him look; had meant him to.
The ride had made her glow and her flesh hanker after other things. Riding did that. Her plush sex had slid and bumped against the unyielding saddle in easy, gentle rhythm one moment, fast and furious the next.
She glanced with interest at the young man. His smile was inviting and the sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of his nose gave him a boyish, almost impish expression. His skin was creamy-white. She imagined his body being very white, as cool as milk or blue-veined like frosted ice. Like a youthful Pan, she thought, russet hair, snow-white skin and eyes the colour of a summer meadow just before sunset. Although his body was slim and not fully matured, he was poised on that threshold when the energy of youth outweighs the technique of experience. She eyed him, wondered about him, and her loins tingled.
That’s not what I’m here for, she told herself. But all the same, the lad’s muscles rippled like a shoal of darting fish beneath the clinging tightness of his black T-shirt. What harm was there in extending a little more than friendship and straying slightly from the path to her main objective?
His fingers curved over hers very briefly as he handed her the reins of her second mount. She thanked him.
‘Need a leg-up?’
‘Please.’
He looped the chestnut’s reins over his arm before grasping her shin and foot and propelling her upwards to sit astride the grey, which was over sixteen hands of pure muscle. His hands lingered on her foot as he assisted her to slide it into the stirrup. Through the leather of her boot she could vaguely discern the sweaty heat of his palm. There was a questioning look in the merry glint of his eyes. She knew what the question was. She also knew the answer. Perhaps later, she told herself, and returned her concentration to the job in hand, refastening her button and retying her cravat.
‘Have a good ride,’ he said as she turned the grey’s head towards the arena. He grinned as he said it and there was joy in his voice.
‘I always do.’
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She glanced at him; saw hope in his face and fever in his eyes. Perhaps it was the sheer bravado that she always felt when competing in equestrian events, or more likely the arousal caused by the friction of the saddle, but she returned his smile and let her tongue travel purposefully over her teeth. That, she judged, was enough to tell him that she too felt a high fever rising in her loins and would not be averse to a mutual quenching of it.
But, for the moment, she left him and made her way back to the showjumping arena.
Nadine glanced at her as she halted her horse in the collecting ring, the place where those about to jump or those who had already jumped waited their turn or caught their breath.
Penny nodded in greeting. Nadine’s eyes left her and went back to what was happening in the arena. Nadine was a professional when it was warranted. Stopwatch in hand, she noted every timing of every competitor, every movement of hand or heel as each Beaumont rider urged their animal over the obstacles.
Even her clothes today veered towards businesslike and were, so Penny thought, vaguely reminiscent of a middle-management executive. She wore a black trouser suit, crisp white blouse, black-and-white tie and black sombrero. The latter had a thick cord hanging from behind it which normally would have fastened under the chin. The familiar cheroot was gripped tightly in the corner of her mouth, and her earrings were exactly the same pair as she had worn the day before.
Dramatic people draw curious looks, and Nadine was most definitely dramatic, even when soberly suited. Curiosity was rewarded with a cold stare. From what Penny had learnt, a cold stare was stage one. Expletives ranging from purely sarcastic to downright obscene were stage two. Stage three was not for the faint-hearted, though apparently one brave journalist at some past horse show had pressed his luck, so Penny had been told. With icy-cold stare accompanied by an equally cold smile, Nadine had grabbed at his balls. The colour had drained from his face and he’d stood on his toes, not daring to return to earth until she had let go of his family jewels. He’d scurried off clutching his groin. Nadine, he had swiftly learnt, was best left alone.
The Stallion Page 9
