I walked up the Bridle Path to Equestrienne Lodge, the exertion of a walk in the foothills leaving me exhilarated and tired. Emmette was standing at the french doors admiring the view, and she greeted me with a warm smile and a nod. I loved that time of the year in the hills; the tourists had gone home and the mountain air was crisp and invigorating. The sun still had warmth during the glorious days, and the wild flowers still provided a flash of color in the meadows and glades.
Emmette was the manager of Equestrienne Lodge. Tall and willowy, she was an equestrienne at heart; the horses were her passion, the stables her back yard. She always dressed in riding gear: jodhpurs and boots, a cream shirt with frills down the front. Her silky blond was pulled back in a pony and one could often see her walking the around with her crop.
The Equestrienne Room was my favorite haunt; it was a huge lounge at the center of the lodge. A high thatched ceiling was supported by white-washed walls, and a log fire burned day and night, slowly devouring huge hardwood logs. An eclectic mix of horse related prints graced the one wall; hunters with packs of dogs jumping over hedges, race horses galloping into the final turn, horses in stables, dressage events, these are some of the scenes that decorated that wall.
It was the wall next to the fireplace that I loved the most. I would sit with a scotch in front of the blaze and dream of erotic fantasies as I stared at that wall. There were all sorts of tack that was displayed up there: bridles and crops, stirrups on stirrup leathers, steel bits and halters, blinkers and straps; it was a collection which fed my dark, erotic dreams.
One evening, with only four days to go to the end of my stay, I was staring at that wall when I made a rash decision: I was going to visit the Tack Room alone that night, and explore by myself, play with the leather gear there and fulfill some of my deepest and darkest desires. Knowing that I was the only guest staying at the Lodge, I felt safe walking out into the grounds in only my nightwear and my dressing gown. I walked barefoot down the Bridle Path, and entered the Tack Room through the stable side door.
The Tack Room
I had been into Tack Room before when the stable hands were there, but now that I was on my own, the tack had a new meaning for me. There was a trestle at the one end of the room that night, and a saddle was hung over it, the girth straps hanging down to the sawdust covered floor. I knelt down and buckled them together, then tested the saddle to make sure it was secure.
I could feel my heart rate rise and my arousal kick in as I slipped my panties and peignoir off and took measure of the scene. As I had learned to do in my riding lesson that day, I slipped my foot into the stirrup and hoisted myself up. The leather felt slightly cool against my bottom, but I knew that with touch, leather soon warms up. The steel stirrups pressed uncomfortably into the soles and sides of my bare feet, but it was a discomfort that I actually relished; I wanted to experience that cold steel against my warm female flesh, to feel that I was living right on the edge.
I had picked up a riding crop off the pile hanging from the wall; I now held it in a reverse grip, the whippy tip pointing to my rear. I rose slightly from the saddle, and transferred my weight to my legs.
Ever so slowly and gently, I began to ride that highly polished saddle. I slid backwards and forwards against the shiny spine, soaking up the sensations and delighting in the touch. With every additional pass, the lubrication built up, the leather began to glisten from the secretions of my shame. At the top of each forward slide, I paused for a moment of lust, to grind my clit against the pommel, to edge myself on.
I slowly increased my rhythm, moving from a slow walk to a gentle trot. With the start of each forward motion, I flicked the outside of my right thigh, whipping myself gently with the riding crop. It was that wonderful mix of pain and pleasure that enabled me to speed my pace up, from a trot to a canter, the rhythm of my pleasure increased with pain of my crop.
I began to whip myself in, riding the saddle faster and harder, my riding became a frenzy of unadulterated lust. I slide and I squirmed, I pummeled and ground, and squeezed with my thighs against the saddle’s flap and its skirt.
“Yes, yes, harder, harder, faster”, I urged myself on, desperate to cross the line, striving for that orgasm, the prize for the ride of my life.
I slumped forward across the beam on which the saddle was mounted, breathing heavily and satisfied, my objective achieved. My race had been run and my pent up sexual energy spent and it was time to head back to my room for the night.
The Kiss of Leather
“Bravo, bravo…what a ride!”
I looked up in shock to see Emmette framed in the doorway at the end of tack room, clapping, a sardonic grin playing across her severe face. She was dressed as if about to partake in a dressage event: riding boots, helmet and jodhpurs, lacy blouse and silk tie peeking out from under her tailored blue jacket.
I watched horrified as Emmette walked on in, stopping on the way to pick a selection of straps and chains off a hook.
I was still in shock as she wrapped a thin leather strap around my wrists, buckling them tight before tying them to a ring on the pommel. She adjusted the stirrups leathers to make them racing style short and secured my ankles to the stirrups with chains and a small lock. With my hands pulled forward, my bottom high up, I was crouched forward in a horse racer’s pose.
“You ran a great race, Caitlin, I really loved your show. Your finish was exquisite; I was left quite breathless by your style.”
I flushed with shame and embarrassment; my performance was not intended for show. I felt humiliated by her mocking tone and shamed by the ignominious position in which I was secured.
The problem I have,” she continued, ” is that you came into the Tack Room without my permission. I would call that trespassing! And to compound it all, you helped yourself to tack and used it for your sordid show! I think a little attitude adjustment is in order, even though you are a valued guest. If you wish your escapade to stay out of the public eye, then I think a light strapping will be what’s best.”
Using a stirrup leather she began to burnish my tail, to make me pay my penalty, to correct the error of my way.
She started softly at first, giving me time to become accustomed to the kiss of the leather. The rhythmic slap on my reddening flesh was accompanied by an ever deepening pain, a wild fire that seemed to be spreading across my haunches, leaving me gyrating my bum wildly, painfully out of control.
She held the leather like a tawse, grasping both ends before letting rip, her strokes becoming more deliberate, timed to the sway of my bum. I learned then that Emmette had a way with the strap, she definitely wasn’t a novice and I am sure she had done this before! In a haze of self pity I noticed her rhythm change as she began to pick her spots and build up my pain. The tender crack of my bum, a delicate flick at my inner thigh, a light kiss on my pouting sex, a slash across the back of my thighs.
From what seemed a long way off, I could hear myself sobbing and sniffling, desperately pleading with her to stop the torment. I heard myself promising to make suitable amends if only she would stop strapping me and let me go. The pain just seemed to mount and mount as she methodically whaled my tail. Just when I thought I might faint from the ordeal, Emmette mercifully stopped her whipping and put the leather aside.
I felt her palms massaging my flesh where she had strapped me so very hard, and then I felt her fingers tracing the welts where I had whipped myself with with the crop on my thigh.
A walk down the Bridle Path
“We need to get you washed down and watered, my pet, I hope you have learned your lesson now!”
Emmette quickly loosened the straps and chains that restrained me, and she helped me off the saddle, making sure that I came down in one piece.
She buckled a thin leather halter loosely around my neck and led me out of that enclosure like a winner of the race; the drill was to water and wash the sweat of my exertion and to prepare me for whatever came next.
I followed her down the Bridle Trail, naked and barefoot, tears streaming down my cheeks, my hands ruefully massaging my well whipped butt. I know that to some it might sound perverted to have allowed myself to be led away like that, like an animal at the end of a leash, a horse being led down a trail. Despite my distress, it was actually quite fulfilling for me, to have been dominated and tamed and taken away like that.
The moon shone down on the trail, making it all seem so surreal and right. She walked in front with the halter in her hand, a willowy and graceful figure, spotlighted under that heavenly light. As for myself, despite my pain and my halter, I felt wonderfully at peace and empowered, my yearning for submission had found an outlet at last.
We came to the piece of grass next to the stream where the water tumbled down the rock face; it created a secluded pool where I had often bathed and whiled away those glorious sun-fill days. Emmette tied my halter to a low branch, and while I was tethered there, she stripped her own clothes off, until, like me, she was naked and free.
Emmette undid my halter and set me loose and then took my hand and lead me down to the water’s edge. We stepped out towards the middle, until we were standing waist deep and let the water in that refreshing and healing pool cleanse our souls.
The moon shone brightly on us, and the air was pleasantly warm. Emmette took my face in her hands, and pulled me in close. We kissed there, under that star filled sky; her lips were tender and soft and her touch was sublime. I tasted honey and cream on her breath that night and her fragrance was that of an equestrienne, so fitting for her: fresh and feminine, light and flirty, it had hints of leather, smoke and pine. She was so gentle with me, showing a side I had not seen, and it came as a deep comfort to me to know that again we were alright.
The mountain stream water soaked the pain from my bottom and thighs, and as we hugged each other closely, my own fingers found her firm breasts to massage and explore. I found myself tracing delicate circles around her nips and I was delighted to feel her positive response as they hardened to my touch. Her hands slipped down from my face and down between her thighs; her kissing became more frantic; her moans more pronounced.
I loved her for her uninhibited performance as she climaxed in the water while we embraced, for just had she had watched my performance and in return, she exposed herself to me in the most intimate way.
We ran back up the path together our fingers locked together, two lovers running hand in hand, our souls in synch. We slept together in my room for the remaining days of my stay, lovers spooning, comforted by each others warmth, our closeness frequently fanning the flames of desire.
By day she did the rounds of the offices and halls of The Equestrienne Lodge and I went my own merry way, hiking in the mountains or reading by that stream.
But at midnight each day we rendezvoused in the Tack Room, slipping in through separate doors to meet in that place and night by night she trained me, schooling me in the deviant but erotic pleasures of the leather of equestrienne way.