In this post, Caitlin returns to The Equestrienne Lodge. For the setup to this story, read the post Equestrienne Leather
The invitation was delivered by courier shortly after I had returned home from my holiday at The Equestrienne Lodge. It was printed on a cream textured, card with gold text and a gold border, a hunter jumping a hedge was embossed in gold on the top right hand corner. The wording was formal, the presentation professional. It was tasteful and classy, designed to impress.
“Your presence is expected at The Equestrienne Lodge this upcoming weekend. Plan to arrive on Friday evening.”
That was it, no pleasantries and no signature. I had no doubt it was from Emmette; it was just her style: commanding, anticipating a positive response, not even considering that her wish might not be granted. I was putty in her hands and both she and I knew it. We both knew that I would dash out of work early on Friday afternoon in a rush to beat the weekend traffic, and that by early evening, I would be announcing myself in the lobby of The Equestrienne Lodge.
Despite how formal and short her invite had been, she was all warmth when I walked into the lobby. She was dressed, as usual, in her riding gear: a cream, silk ruffle under a navy blazer, jodhpurs and boots completing the outfit. Tall and slender with her blond hair pulled back in a pony, her presence was commanding yet her manner was gracious.
She hugged me warmly and her familiar scents rushed right back. The divine fragrance of Black Opium, traces of vanilla that tantalised and promised, the earthy scents of her own body after a full day’s work, the lingering smell of leather, saddle soap and wax; I melted into her neck and savored them all, anchoring myself in the present, reminding myself that this was not a dream.
We went straight to her private suite; I was staying as her personal guest this time. She suggested that I get undressed in her room while she ran a hot bath; she just needed a few minutes of privacy, she said, to wash her teeth and freshen up.
A few minutes later, she summoned me in. I felt self conscious, wandering around her quarters undressed, wondering how it would all play out and whether I should really have come at all. I pushed her bathroom door open slowly, and then stopped short, shocked, but somewhat stimulated by what I saw. Emmette was standing with her back towards me, her legs apart, her arms stretched up and wide, holding onto the shower curtain rail that ran above the bath.
The sight of her willowy body, the gentle curves and well toned muscles would all have blown my mind, but that is not what took my breath away. Three angry welts, vivid hues of reds and purples, seemed to have been slashed across her bottom, perfectly parallel lines of agony, perfectly spaced.
I was stunned; a confusion of thoughts tumbled around my mind: who could have done this to Emmette, when was it done; how could such a strong women have been made to submit to this? Did she scream when she was whipped, was she made to sexually perform? Where did it take place, did she offer herself up or was she forced? Was I jealous of the other person who must be involved, but what right did I actually have to be jealous at all?
I just stood and stared; time seemed to stand still.
Emmette broke the silence first; she must have sensed my confusion even though I was standing behind her back.
“What do you think, Cait? Do you love them or are you repulsed?”
“Who did this to you? When? Was it after I left?”
The words burbled out in a gush of confusion, my voice sounding thick and my breathing strained.
Emmette dropped her arms and turned to face me. The glimmer of a smile danced at the corners of her lips but whether it was sardonic or one of amusement, I couldn’t tell. There was a look in her eye though that I recognized from our trysts in the stables: it was a gleam of arousal, a flicker of desire. The tip of her tongue caressed the inside top of her lip, sensuality budding and waiting to burst out.
All at once she pulled my head close, her lips meshing angrily with mine, all sensuality gone, her actions driven by a desperate need. She kissed me hungrily, forcing her way in deeply, in what seemed like a desperate attempt to quench her lust. Our breasts brushed together in a far more sensitive caress and I could feel my nipples harden as they responded to her touch.
The pressure of her hands on my shoulder became insistent, gently forcing me away and down, onto the cold, tiled floor. All thoughts of baths were driven from my thoughts as I struggled to come to terms with the sight I had seen. I felt her light touch behind my head, guiding me, edging me forward, connecting my lips to her pouting sex. Arousal hardly describes it; juices were flowing and her lips were full.
Her state of arousal was contagious and I felt own heartbeat pick up and a delicious warmth spread across my own skin. As my tongue connected with her cunt, my fingers slid up and down my own slit, strumming my own clit, feeding off her pleasure. I could feel the warmth of her taut thighs as they occasionally bumped my shoulders, sensed the tenseness of her muscles as they strained for release. Her frantic breathing egged me on, driving me inexorably on towards my personal peak. Her strong fingers twisted in my hair, twisting and tugging at me in a delicious blanket of pain. I felt myself being crushed against her, sucked up in her passion, fused to her by her rush. She came first, a wonderfully exuberant release, one that excited me and pushed me over the edge.
She was remarkably composed as she helped me off the floor, cuddling me tightly and stroking my hair, tenderly trying to put me back together again. She led me back into the bedroom, and steered me over to the bed; I watched with open eyes as she reached into her wardrobe and pulled out a dressage whip that had been hanging there.
I realised then what had caused the welts; it was with a mixed emotion of fear and renewed arousal that I watched her approach.