When I was a young girl, my uncle gifted me a horse. That story has a tragic end, one I rarely share. Yet, I still ride now and then, though never with the poised grace my grandmother expected of me. Truthfully, nothing I ever did seemed to meet her standards. My mother was livid about the gift, but my uncle had assured her that all would be taken care of—though it wasn’t, and ultimately, it was that neglect that led to my horse's demise.
Fast forward to now: I was visiting a family friend’s estate —a stunning, secluded property that hosted a small herd of her own horses. She offered to let us ride across the grounds, a vast landscape dotted with patches of autumn's final embers, and even a hidden waterfall. The day was like a dream unfolding: we’d ride through the golden woods, savoring nature’s last flourish, and return to the warmth of her old, stately manor, timelessly vintage in all its elegant imperfections.
I dressed carefully, donning one of my tailored riding suits, polished boots, and a chic blazer. Though these photos are now for my eyes alone, I take pride in my appearance. My friend, Maria Antonia, greeted me as I fastened my jacket, her brow lifting with gentle curiosity.
“How’s your journey going?” she asked, her tone soft yet direct. I knew what she meant, and I replied quietly, “One more month left… I’ve been given an ultimatum.” She arched a brow, gaze dropping to my left hand. “Your ring should be a collar,” she murmured, eyeing the band I never remove—a promise I’ve bound myself to, impossible to break.
“I’ve had my fun,” I admitted, a wry smile pulling at my lips. She only nodded, and we rode in silence, letting the stillness of the autumn woods seep into us.
When we returned, stable hands were ready to help with the horses, but I lingered, asking for a moment alone. I wanted to appreciate the magnificent animal before me, reminded of my uncle’s words: “Look at those powerful legs,” he’d say with reverence, and I’d smile in awe. Horses were second only to bulls in my family’s affections.
Inside the manor, the familiar scents of aged wood, worn carpet, and cooking herbs enveloped us. Family and friends gathered in the dining room, greeting me with warm embraces and the usual prying questions. An elderly British man I hadn’t met before turned to me, his accent so deliciously refined I was tempted to record it. “And what does your father do?” he inquired. Smiling slyly, I replied, “He’s a hitman for a very prolific Italian organization, sir.” His green eyes widened, and a smile broke across his face. It was the perfect escape.
Maria approached with a kind word about my outfit—a dress from Ralph Lauren, tailored to perfection, complete with a cape and a sleek ponytail. She commented on my serene demeanor after the ride, but before I could reply, a tall, striking man approached with a glass of wine in hand.
“Liz?” he called, a smile lighting his chiseled face. I was momentarily taken aback by his towering presence, Scandinavian features, and piercing gaze. “You don’t remember me?” He wrapped me in a hug. “Sebastian. We met last year; you told me about your work.” Memories flooded back. I remembered him with someone else then, and I’d brushed him off, feeling the ache of attraction I didn’t dare pursue.
Dinner was a lively affair, with fine wine and conversation that ebbed and flowed. Eventually, I excused myself, craving fresh air and a few private moments at the stables. I slipped upstairs, grabbed a few of my hidden treasures, including a sleek corset beneath my dress, a discreet whip, and a pair of sultry red heels tucked into my poncho.
Alone in the stable’s crisp night air, I began undressing, savoring the cold on my skin, the mist of my breath. Just as I slipped into a few suggestive poses with the horse, I heard a low voice behind me.
“Is that for the horses?” Startled, I turned to see Sebastian, his eyes glinting with intrigue. Caught, I scrambled to gather my things, but a few items slipped from my grip, falling to the ground.
A slow smile spread across his face. “You look incredible. It’d be a waste on the horses.”
Flustered, I glanced at the house, but he stepped closer, setting his whiskey glass on the stable wall. “Put your poncho on; you’re cold,” he murmured, his hand grazing mine as he lifted the fallen whip.
“Is this something you enjoy?” he asked, voice a silky whisper. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Our breaths mingled in the frosty air as his arms wrapped around me, warm and firm. “You look like a Dominatrix,” he teased, his tone deliciously low.
“I am a Dominatrix,” I replied, half a smile on my lips. He let out a soft laugh. “No, you’re not. Stop it.” I raised the whip to his cheek, letting it trace a slow line, testing his resolve.
“Two sides of the same coin,” I murmured, his eyes drinking me in. “Does your mother know?”
I laughed softly, and he joined in. “Sebastian, aren’t you involved with someone?”
He grinned, pulling out his phone. “Not anymore. I don’t lie; there’s no need.” He showed me his facebook profile, confirming his freedom. “And you? Anyone watching?”
I hesitated, pulse quickening, the quiet thrill of being seen filling the air. He leaned in closer, eyes locking on mine, his hand gentle but insistent on the small of my back.
“So, do you tell people what to do, or...?” His voice was low, a glint of mischief in his eye. I rolled my eyes, slipping the poncho around my shoulders, the whip still loosely clasped in my hand.
“Is that brandy?” I asked, noticing his drink.
He smirked. “No, whiskey.”
I took a sip, feeling the smooth warmth settle into me, easing the night’s chill. “First,” I began, “I only play with men I actually like. Second, yes, I tell them what to do because they want me to, and third…” I paused, eyeing him up and down, “you’re too much of a good boy for this.”
His grin widened. “I’m a bad boy, actually. I think I need to be punished.”
I laughed, and he took a step back, finding an open patch under the moon’s silver gaze, casting him in a perfect silhouette. “And what makes you think you’re worthy of my punishment?” I teased, taking another sip of the whiskey.
“Please, Mistress…”
I interrupted smoothly. “Master. I hate the word mistress.”
He accepted it without a beat, his voice low. “Please, Master Liz, show me how to be a good boy.”
His perfect face took on an almost statuesque beauty under the moonlight, and I smirked, feeling the pull of his gaze. “Why don’t you ask one of your model friends?” I taunted.
“They’re boring. And I’m no longer a model—soon to be a lawyer.”
“Get on all fours.”
He complied, settling onto his hands and knees. In his tailored suit, he looked almost absurdly elegant, pristine yet ready to obey, his face tilted up toward me, awaiting my command.
“Good boy.” My hand stroked his hair, silk between my fingers. I ran the whip down his back, trailing over his shoulders and thighs, then used it to lift his chin so his gaze was level with mine. “Do you want to be the Master’s pony?”
He nodded, and I smiled, slipping one leg over his back and settling into place. He held steady, not flinching beneath me as I crossed my legs and balanced my weight on him. With a swift flick of the whip, I tapped his backside, and he flinched, though his expression betrayed nothing.
“One might think submission would be hard for you,” I murmured, watching his response.
He shook his head, voice steady. “I can switch for someone like you.”
Satisfied, I uncrossed my legs, straddling his waist and settling in as though truly riding a steed. “Ride, pony,” I commanded, and he obeyed, each step steady, his muscles shifting beneath me, the rhythm of his movements measured and controlled. I could feel the power in his back, each motion sending a thrill through me as he carried me effortlessly, the stable’s warmth mingling with the night air.
He guided me over to a pile of hay, and with surprising deftness, he shifted, flipping me onto my back, lowering himself above me. I let the moment linger, his breath warm against my skin, lips hovering close.
“I want to ride you now,” he murmured, his words an unspoken question, his face so close I could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with mine. His chest rose and fell as he held himself steady, eyes locked onto mine.
I tilted my head, smirking. “I’m not a pony, you are,” I whispered, biting his lower lip gently. He responded with a kiss, deep and consuming, a blend of whiskey, wine, and raw desire that filled the space between us, grounding us in the quiet stillness of the stables.
The world around us melted into shadows and flickering light as he leaned close, every subtle movement drawn out with intent. The quiet creak of his leather belt as he unfastened it sent a thrill through me, each soft, unhurried motion somehow heightening the tension in the air between us. I bit my lip, anticipation pooling within me as he brought his face close to mine, his gaze steady, almost challenging.
"Does this turn you on?" he whispered, his voice like silk brushing against my skin.
Instead of answering, I met his question with a deep, lingering kiss, savoring the way his lips molded to mine. There was something in his touch—slow and assured—that felt both new and maddeningly familiar, a tantalizing blend of control and surrender. His hands moved with reverence, tracing the curve of my neck and shoulders, then lower, fingertips exploring, kindling warmth in their wake. My breath hitched as his touch found its way over my corset, his fingers grazing the delicate lace, his eyes tracing each line with a quiet hunger.Then, as he pulled back, a wicked glint sparked in my eyes. I bit down on his lower lip, not gently, tasting that sharp flicker of heat between us. He let out a low gasp, a quiet surrender in the way his shoulders tensed, then relaxed under my touch. There was a hint of something metallic, the faintest taste of iron, as he gave me a knowing smile, unflinching, as though savoring the thrill.
As he leaned in, his mouth found my collarbone, pressing gentle, lingering kisses along its curve before trailing downward. Each kiss sent a shiver through me, and when his lips brushed over my breast, I gasped, fingers threading into his hair, urging him closer. He responded with a quiet intensity, his mouth exploring slowly, teasingly, a delicious torment that left me aching, my senses heightened by every careful, deliberate touch.
With surprising tenderness, he spread his jacket on the ground beneath me, guiding me down as his hands trailed along my waist. The hay beneath us was fragrant, earthy, mingling with the scent of leather and faint wood smoke, grounding us in the moment’s heady intimacy. I met his gaze, my fingers slipping down his jaw, and he flashed a smile, the glint in his eyes both devilish and inviting.
“Too eager, are we?” I teased, letting my leg slide up his side, encouraging him closer. He grinned, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he moved over me, his hands skimming my thighs with a gentle, tantalizing pressure, sparking warmth along every inch of my skin.
He laughed, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. "With all due respect, I’m not the one dressed like that,” he murmured, gaze tracing the line of my corset with admiration.
Without warning, he dipped down, pressing soft kisses along my thigh, each one more tantalizing than the last. I laughed, a bold flick of my wrist bringing the whip down with a playful snap against him, drawing a grin from his lips. The tension mounted between us, every movement becoming a silent negotiation of power, and I reveled in the way he responded to each touch, each challenge
With a sly smirk, I brought the whip down in a light, playful tap against him. He laughed, his voice rough, his gaze never leaving mine as he settled over me, matching the intensity simmering between us. The stable fell into silence, save for the soft shifting of horses and the rustle of hay beneath us. Shadows and light danced over his face, accentuating every sharp line, every smirk, as he leaned in, his breath warm against my skin.
Our lips met again, this time hungrier, the kiss deepening as his hands found their way around my waist, pulling me close, as if the space between us wasn’t close enough. I could feel the strength in his hold, the way his breath mingled with mine, each touch building in intensity, creating a rhythm all our own. Every inch of him pressed against me, warm and alive, grounding me in the hazy glow of this moment, a silent pact that needed no words—just the language of shared heat, whispered gasps, and an unbreakable gaze in the dim, shadowed light. He hovered above me, his breath warm against my skin, eyes darkened with desire. "Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice low, each word charged with a promise. I held his gaze, letting a slow, knowing smile play on my lips before I complied, anticipation crackling in the air between us.
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