Funny how a simple etching from years ago can both fire my imagination and drench my sex simultaneously. I’m not laughing at this view, I’m panting, I’m in heat.
The sweet girl pictured, let’s call her Lilly, doesn’t fancy herself an equestrian, her heels are not pressed down, she’s not even trying to approximate a good seat in the saddle. She identifies more as the Equus. Lilly sees herself as a wild filly, the one who needs to be trained, ridden hard, worn out, broken.
Lilly is not in this posture as a punishment, though punishment is coming. She found the over-sized rocking horse in the attic of her dear uncle’s summer home. Uncle Seth, now retired from the military, became part of Lilly’s family by marrying Lilly’s mother’s sister, Edna. With Edna’s passing last year, Uncle Seth, also called “the Colonel” just seems to putter about his large estate in Saratoga. Lilly loves visiting her uncle, his maturity, military bearing, experience. This morning, having discovered the rocking horse in the attic, Lilly convinced the Colonel to get it out of storage, show her the basics of horsemanship. Lilly showed no propensity for grasping even the basics, as you can see. Her uncle left her to practice posting at the trot, has come back an hour later to discover her under-dressed and waiting for him.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid that I’m absolutely no good at all at riding…”
The Colonel’s eyes grew large at the sight of Lilly, but a wicked smile played upon his lips as he replied, “I take it that your corset, petticoats, and gown were getting in the way of your efforts…?”
The boldness of her answer, and the way she stared back at the Colonel directly in the eye bespoke her predicament, “I found that they were getting in the way of my rubbing my sex against this horse’s back! Once they were ‘out of the way’, I’ve enjoyed ‘riding’ ever so much more… Do you think I’m a scandalous slut for being so wanton?”
Diplomatically, the Colonel replied, “I’ve known other women who found riding to be sexually exciting. They might have been more circumspect, but I must say that I admire your naked honesty…”
Lilly decided that naked honesty was her best approach to getting at her needs.
“After about half an hour of riding this way, I found the gusset of my bloomers sodden with my secretions. I tried to wipe it away with a moistened washrag from that bathroom,” she nodded to the nearby lavatory, “but only succeeded in dampening the entire seat of my knickers…”
“I can see that they’re nearly translucent, and sticking to the flesh of your hindquarters…” her uncle observed. As if being remarked upon made them sit up at attention, Lilly’s prominent posterior seemed to thrust back at the Colonel all the more obscenely.
“Well, I feel a scandalous slut! I’ve had convulsions and spasms down there as I’ve ridden. On the one hand, I felt powerless to stop. On the other, I hope my virginity is intact, for the sake of my mother’s sanity and my reputation. I ought to be punished for acting like a lascivious whore…!”
“Yes, I suppose you ought to be,” the Colonel said as if the task were onerous and burdensome, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he took off his belt, doubled the leather in his hand, and stepped up to take aim at the luscious target.
Twenty loud reports methodically rent the air as the uncle cracked the belt across his niece’s nether buttocks. The sound was ear-splitting, the pain felt as though it was fanny-splitting. She rocked upon the steed furiously as the military officer pronounced sentence.
He stopped flailing her abruptly. “I can see that, though your flesh is reddened and abused, your sex is engorged and still spasming. You need harsher treatment.” He put the belt down and picked up a near-by riding crop. He took a step closer to her left flank and administered ten sound lashes with the slapper of the crop punishing Lilly’s right buttock, then shifted position and used the implement back-handed to match this punishment on her left orb. Lilly cried out as if this was horrendous, but, both partners in this pas-de-deux realized that she was still achieving sexual release. “Stay right there, don’t dismount, especially do not rub your insatiable sex against that horse, am I clear, young lady?” Lilly nodded.
The Colonel went back to the attic, got what he was looking for, and returned in a matter of a moment.
“What is that, sir?” Lilly asked tremulously. The Colonel wondered if her vocal state was from the pain he’d inflicted or from the pleasure she seemed to achieve from the pain. Lilly knew better.
“A dressage whip,” he answered. I’m going to give your backside a good hiding with it. Unless I’m mistaken, it’s going to rip through the fabric of your bloomer’s seat as it welts your buttocks. I think you need what’s in store. Take a firm grip with your knees, keep your bum thrust out, and prepare yourself, young lady…”
Lilly was about to answer with a polite, “yes, sir,” but her uncle didn’t give her that chance. The whistle of the lash through the air made Lilly flinch, the sting of the lash made her flex. Neither participant kept count; the Colonel wanted to see the miscreant girl’s body language proclaim that she was exhausted, the girl wanted to keep pumping on the horse, letting the pain build, take it until she couldn’t take any more. To get there, a cataclysmic orgasm built inside her. She loved the course horsehair of the fake horse rubbing against her unfettered nipples, against her engorged vagina, she craved the blinding pain of the whip lashes across her backside, she feared but needed the tsunami that ravaged her insides. Then it all burst forth, tears gave way to screams, her pumping muscles froze, her internal muscles wrung themselves out, she climaxed, then slumped, spent.
It was all too much for the old man. It was poetically beautiful and profoundly raw and intensely erotic, and without touching his manhood, he climaxed inside his riding breeches as if he was a teenager again having his first wet dream. The vision of the naked feminine sexual explosion emptied his reservoir of all his seed.
Lilly came to from unconsciousness untold minutes later. Her uncle had lifted her from off of the horse, wrapped her in a blanket, gotten her a glass of water from the bathroom, and was solicitously patting her hand and calling her name.
When the power of cognition and speech returned to her, Lilly smiled and whispered, “I don’t think I’ll ever be an equestrienne, but as soon as my backside has sufficiently healed, I want another riding lesson. I need to experience that again… and again…”
“If we make a habit of your frequent, unsupervised visits, I think your mother might become suspicious,” the Colonel replied.
The twenty-two year old girl looked crestfallen hearing this truth spoken aloud. She’d just visited heaven on earth, had an experience that fantasies and self-spanking and touching herself with fingertips had not come close to replicating. She had an addictive personality and knew her drug of preference. But society’s strictures threatened to interfere.
“Do you know the nursery rhyme ‘Jack Sprat’?” he asked.
The dejected girl wasn’t fully listening. “What? I dunno…”
“Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean, but between them both, they licked the platter clean,” he recited. Lilly continued to look forlorn. “They had complimentary tastes, both had a good appetite… and were married…”
Society in 1910 looked favorably on a man of accomplishment who had attained a great deal in life, and at the age of sixty or so, taking up in the safe bonds of matrimony with a sweet young thing of twenty-something. (It always has, including up to this modern day, if you consider Hollywood celebrities.)
“Do you mean…?” she said with a smile growing across her pretty face wider and wider.
“I do,” he returned with the assurance he always seemed to display.
“Then I do, too, with all my heart!” she kissed him in a decidedly un-familial way. His hand gravitated to her still-smarting bottom, and the kiss became even more passionate.
And thereafter, there was a lattice-work of welts that continually graced Lilly’s lovely backside. This patchwork of painful imprints sometimes were evidenced from her delicate shoulder-blades down to the backs of her knees, across her youthful titties, even on the fronts of her thighs and pudendum. Lilly, never a true equestrienne, became expert in assuming vaulting positions on horseback, turning backwards in the saddle, offering herself to the whip. She found that her first two decades of dreaming were realized in this distinguished and dapper but decadent gentleman. He had found his soulmate; age became irrelevant. Once they were married, these fearsome thrashings were prologue to a prolonged second act, where aroused sexes were joined and rubbed to eruption.
“Ah, there’s the rub,” said Shakespeare. Their age difference seemed to make no difference in bed. With her “pump so well primed” on the horse first, Lilly was “a veritable orgasm organism,” as the Colonel often smiled. She inspired him to take-up the paintbrushes he’d put aside as a child, and this accomplishment led him to experiment in other medium. He made this etching of his devoted and desirous Lilly as a fifth wedding anniversary gift.
Every play session started in the same way. A naked lass writhed on the back of the rocking horse, a piece of furniture that dominated the main room of the house, as it dominated all aspects of both partner’s lives.
“Whip me, lover,” Lilly taunts. “Whip me hard. You can’t whip me too hard, for too long. But try…”