The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 5 – The Symphony of Pain

The Pit

Raven returned to the tack room early in the afternoon. She did a quick inspection of the leather belt that I had been shining, and grunted her approval. That same condescending smile flickered on her lips as she held the strap up to her nose and sniffed it; the lingering smell of my juices that I had used to add the final polish was obviously evident, but not unexpected.

Moments later, I found myself mounted on the saddle that was sitting on the trestle. My hands had been shackled again, and the chain was attached with a sturdy clasp to the pommel. Raven tugged the stirrup straps tight, and pulled them as short as they would go; once again I was in that most vulnerable of positions, with my bottom high and spread and my hands pulled forward.

“I think you are becoming quite accomplished at adopting this position!” she smirked, “I heard all about it from Emmette.” My thoughts flashed back to the my visit the previous weekend, when Emmette, to my intense embarrassment, had found me abusing myself on this same saddle and had strapped me as punishment. It was a shameful episode and one that I would have preferred to have been forgotten. Instead, it seemed she had spread the word amongst the staff; I would never be able to feel secure that my humiliating secret would be forgotten.

I had come to hate that position, even though I had only known it for a week. It represented all things I despised about myself: my proclivity for self abuse, my inclination to rub myself on unsuspecting surfaces, my yearning for shame, my sordid desires, my wish for submission and my achievement of sexual satisfaction through totally surrendering control.

The position was physically degrading as well, offering unfettered access to my sexual parts, exposing my cunt’s lips and even my most private part of all: my bottom hole. My tender surfaces were exposed, where the pain of a simple pinch or flick was magnified in measures; a light kiss from the tip of a strap in any of these spots would be an agony I couldn’t bear.

Raven languidly slapped my raised backside with the strap; half a dozen strokes in quick succession that burned like hell and caused me to yelp. I felt my bottom sway in a futile attempt to wish away the pain and to avoid further contact from the strap, but there was no relief possible and no where to go. Her hands felt cool as she rubbed my agitated flesh, but when her fingers dipped between my crack and touched my pussy lips, I knew that it was for more than sensual reasons that she was stroking my skin; she was testing my arousal, seeing whether I was turned on.

“A bit engorged, slightly damp, but not very turned on,” she pronounced, “we shall have to see what we can do about that!”

I wished she hadn’t announced it so loudly, it was something I felt should be kept between her and me; I was acutely aware of Emmette, out of sight, but chained to the low beam in the room next door. That situation for Emmette didn’t last very long; I felt Raven lay the polished strap down on my back, and then with a slap on my raised rump, she went behind the mirror door. I heard the low murmurings of an exchange between her and Emmette, and then the sound of shackles being shaken and flesh being smacked.

I watched enraptured as Emmette was lead out, her hands chained in front of her, her head bowed in submission. She was taken to a second trestle about ten feet from my own, and reinforced with a vicious cut across her backside from a crop that Raven now held, she was encouraged to lean lengthways along the bar. Her tummy rested on a thick saddle blanket that lay across the top and her face was towards me, an expression of submission in her eyes. I watched  her spread her legs wide; Raven attach her ankles to the trestle legs with sets of leather straps.

Symphony of pain

Raven was the conductor, a role which she relished.

That now familiar, supercilious smile twisted at the sides of her bright red lips, and she leant forward across Emmette, as if mounting her from behind. She  rubbed the crop lightly through Emmette’s cunt lips, angles gently changing as she sought to illicit a tune. She played Emmette like a violin, the black crop moving back and forward rhythmically, tweaking out notes of pleasure, the warm up to The Symphony of Pain.

Emmette’s gasps of pleasure excited me, and I found myself moving sliding along the saddle in concert, my movements timed by the bow in Raven’s hand, my breathing an accompaniment to Emmette’s moans. I was oblivious to the shame of my arousal, the juices of my passion lubricating the saddle; I was part of an orchestra playing a score, and my soul was at one with the other participants out there.

I was in awe of the harshness of the opening bars but it didn’t slow me down or dampen my play. Raven  launched into vigorous set of three cuts across Emmette’s backside, followed by an ominous triplet of three soft taps. Emmette bore these stoically, but, perfectly timed to the luscious repeat of another bar, her sweet voice began to sing. Her cries of agony were marked on the score as fortissmo, and her solo performance didn’t disappoint; her eyes screwed tight in concentration, and her mouth opened wide in a erotic song of pain.

Raven turned to me next and played with my exposed flesh, as if it was a delicate instrument to be plucked; she pinched and released my pussy lips, flicked my engorged clit with her nails. I squirmed and struggled and tried to escape, but I knew from Emmette’s perfromance, that these were just the opening bars.

There was little burtality in the leathering I got, as she rather showed her mastery through the finesse she had developed. She carefully picked places for the strap to bite, and in a few short moments, I was howling in pain. An excruciating flick on my pussy lips was quickly followed by the strap’s tip biting into my bum crease. A kiss of the leather tongue on my bottom hole was enough to unleash howls of distress; a wickedly aimed slash across the crease where thighs meet bottom, created a welt that would ensure I would not sit comfortably for days.

The realisation struck me later, that while Emmette had dommed me into submission, Raven played a different game, getting off on her sadistic ways.

As a conductor of The Symphony of Pain, she delighted in the musical responses we offered. Our bodies swayed in rhythm to the tune, matching the beat of her baton; we were our own audience, turned on by the performance we gave.

And for Emmette and I, the other’s pain was piquant, delivering a pleasantly biting arousal, on which we would later get off.

The Final Movement

I had often wondered how it would be, if there were three in bed; who would lead and who would follow, what would the other’s role be?

While Emmette had been dominant with me, her manner in bed was always sensual. She delighted in her femininity, took pleasure in the gentle ways of the domme. Silken bonds, heady perfumes, a delicate touch to arouse, a smack to encourage compliance. When she had leathered me in the tack room that day, it had been as punishment for a transgression of mine rather than a draught to slake her sexual need.

Raven was very different, even though she was femme to the core. She got off on others’ pain; their cries were a powerful aphrodisiac, igniting a burning thirst that needed to be quenched.

The final movement of our symphony, picked up on themes from earlier that day. It was a beautiful piece that had touches of it all,  as we all had fires that needed to be put out.

Emmette’s gentle kissing and stroking was accompanied by a more brutal pounding from Raven, her animal lust driving her need to be fulfilled. While Emmette took delight in my passionate response, Raven used us like human sex toys, her sadistic power being the key to our on/off switch.

She rode my tongue hard, as she crouched over my face, the juices of her lust flowing fast and free. She was uninhibited as she wiggled around on my mouth, making sure that I pleasured her bits and satisfied her needs. When my efforts flagged, and I felt that I needed to stop, Raven would ensure that I carried on; a twisted nipple or a slapped breast motivated me while re-kindling her fires.

And while this was all happening, sweet Emmette was between my spread legs. Her tongue was gently nibbling my cunt, her thumb urgently strumming my demanding clit. I could feel her mounting my lower leg, putting pressure on her own lubricated parts, sliding up and down in a frictionless hump, desperately trying to cum on her own.

We all lay together in Emmette’s bed after that, Raven getting up only to order us a meal. 

Oh, the benefits of sleeping with the proprietor of an establishment, where room service consisted of champagne on ice and two hot bodies to slake any thirst.


The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 4 – Shackled and Shamed

Down the Bridle Path

The walk down the Bridle Path to the stables was less traumatic than I imagined it would be. I did worry about being seen; perhaps a chance, off-season visitor would visit The Equestrienne Lodge, or perhaps a gardener would be out pruning the shrubs before the onset of winter. We saw no-one, and apart from the occasional tap on my rear from Raven’s paddle, the five minute transit was mercifully not witnessed.

On the few occasions that she did rap me and urge me to get me knees up, or to pick up my pace,  or to hold my head up high, or to push my shoulders back, it was more the shock of the paddle’s sudden impact  than the pure pain that surprised me and caused me to yelp. I found myself responding to her commands instantaneously, no longer trying to reach back futilely with my manacled hands. 

The sweat was pouring off me by the time we got to the stables; it dripped down my forehead, ran in streams from beneath my armpits and I could feel it dripping down from my stomach into my pubis.

Raven looked me up and down, then reached forward into my personal space. I watched horrified as she extended an index finger and then ran it from the bottom up to the top of my sweaty cunt.Tracing her way down again, she wiggled it, and then gently pushed it forward, penetrating my depths. She found no resistance; my state of arousal welcomed her in.

Whether it was by chance or design, I cannot say, but I do know that the tip of her finger rested on a most sensitive spot. Still inside me, her fingers hooked up, she started to massage a spot that nearly made me go wild. I wanted to pull away, to break free from her spell, but the urge to ride it out got stronger with each moment that passed. I felt I wanted to squirt, to cum, to whimper in delight; to my horror, my arousal grew and my juices flowed like a river, showing me up for the wanton slut that I really was.

She was looking me in the eye, a trace of a smile playing at the corner of her lips; a look of cruelty mixed with compassion, disdain with understanding. She pulled out suddenly, leaving me high and dry, with me wishing that she had finished me off, desperately glad that she hadn’t and that she had left me alone.

“Got a bit of a sweaty box, now, do we?” Raven inquired cruelly, “Well, wait until it dries out and then feel how uncomfortable it will be.”

I flushed with shame, and followed her self consciously through the stables to the tack room. I had been there before; it was where Emmette had witnessed my shameful acts of self abuse as I rode a saddle that had been resting on a trestle, where Emmette had leathered me unmercifully for using her tack without her permission, and from where Emmette had led me away at the end of a halter and down to the pools to wash off and make love under a full moon.

The Tack Room

The tack room was large by any standards and it provided plenty of space for Emmette’s debauched activities that were staged there! I followed Raven to the back corner where a pile of straw was stacked and a few odds and ends were laid out neatly along the edge of a coarse saddle blanket. Despite my being behind Raven, I kept my knees up and parallel to the ground with each step and endeavored to keep a straight posture, for who knew when she might turn around suddenly?

She pointed down at the blanket and commanded me to kneel.

“This will be your spot until I come to leather you, do you understand? You are not to move off it.”

I knelt and looked up at her, tears starting to run down my cheeks. Despite my aching thighs and tender backside, they were tears of self pity rather than tears of pain.

“Oh for goodness sake, girl, stop the blubbing already! You are so pathetic!”

She squatted down at my side, and picked up a foot length strap of leather, a shoe brush and a tin of polish.

“By the time I get back, I want this strap to be polished as shiny as a pair of soldier’s boots. If it meets with my approval, I will whip you with it. Do you understand? And do you understand the consequences of it not being mirror clear?”

I nodded glumly; I could only guess.

“What I suggest is that you buff it first with the polish and the brush in order  to get a surface, and then use the balls of cotton wool to French polish it. Spit and polish my girl, just like they do in the army.”

I tried to absorb what she was telling me to do, but my mind was elsewhere: where was Emmette and when would she come to rescue me?

A chain ran from a eye-bolt in the closest wall, and ended in a few coils on the blanket. Raven reached forward and looped the end around my right ankle; a simple padlock closed the loop and left me shackled. With my wrists manacled and now my ankle restrained, I felt a sinking feeling of helplessness. Raven pocketed the padlock key and threw me one of her supercilious stares.

“Now listen to me girl, you are not to go anywhere until I get back to punish you, do you understand!”

The craziness of this last statement was not last on me, but I was too down to respond.

She must have realized how silly she was being, or perhaps she had a momentary flash of compassion, for she unexpectedly reached down and unlocked my wrists, throwing the manacles, with a satisfying clatter, into a heap at the edge of the blanket.

And then she was gone, the door locked behind her, the only light coming from a few disconsolate shafts of diluted sunshine that filtered through the small, grimy windows.

I rolled off my knees and into a more comfortable sitting position and looked around to take full stock of the situation. My blanket, though coarse, was relatively well padded by the straw beneath it, and despite being naked and chained, I was sure that I would have privacy until Raven returned. A bucket lay at the edge of the blanket along with a pitcher of water and an enamel mug; I realized that I wouldn’t go thirsty and had somewhere to pee if necessary!

My blanket was close to the corner and a mirrored door led off to the side; something to explore later, I decided. But first I had better get my polishing task done before Raven returned.

Sighing, I picked up the tin of polish and the brush and began to shine the thick leather strap.

Polishing the strap

As I sat there, I was aware of the coarseness of the rough saddle blanket beneath my rear, the sweat from my trot down the Bridle Path that caused an unpleasant patina on my skin, and the discomfort of my tender  flesh that had been pummeled by Raven’s paddle; they all combined to create a toxic mix of physical distress. I found myself squirming around, desperately seeking relief but finding none. It was fortunate that the polishing chore gave me something to distract myself; the discomfort and ignominy of being chained naked  to the floor like some disgraced animal would  surely otherwise have brought me to tears.

I worked at the leather strap with the brush and polish and with a glimmer of self satisfaction, I started to see results. I lost track of time, hypnotized by the circles that I was rubbing in with my balls of cotton, the time punctuated at intervals as I spat onto the leather. As time moved on, I was pleasantly surprised at the gloss that I was creating.

The leather felt supple in my hands, and I stroked it appreciatively, amazed that I could see some semblance of my own reflection when I looked at it closely. What, I wondered, was it going to feel like as it lashed my bottom? Would I scream? Would it be worse than the lashing that Emmette had given me? Would Raven show any compassion or would she ignore my tortured cries?

As the thoughts flickered through my mind, I tentatively slapped the front my thigh with the strap, enjoying the the sensation, loving the warmth.I got back onto my knees, and lent forward animal like, balancing like a tripod, on my knees and my left hand. With my free arm, I flicked myself a few more times on the outside of my right thigh, trying to reach back to plant a few strokes on my bottom’s cheek. The leather burned, biting viciously where the tip dug in, and it left a set of red welts that shone brightly against my pale skin.

I looked up at the mirror and was rather taken by what I saw, stimulated by the sight of myself being chained and of the welts on my thighs. I moved around slightly to study my backside, to examine the rosy hue that her paddle had caused.

My senses were inflamed by the image that stared back: a naked girl, chained by her ankle, gently punished flesh waiting for the main event to occur. Watching enraptured, I slid the leather between my thighs and used it to massage my engorged cunt. Kneeling back on my heels, with my knees spread wide, it was as if I was watching a stranger as I began to slap myself with the leather strap.

My inner thighs reddened and started to burn with pain, and with every stroke I felt my arousal grow. Breathing hard, I looked down at my spread legs, and wondered if I could really do it, lash my own cunt. I started with a gentle tapping at first  on those tender lips. I found that as my arousal grew, I could whip myself a bit harder, the slap of the leather driving me further on.

My image continued to stare back from the mirror door, a slut on her knees; depraved and sordid as she used a leather strap on her cunt. I stopped the whipping when the tenderness became too much, and rubbed the strap across my pussy lips, carefully collecting the juices of my lust. Grabbing a ball of cotton, I feverishly polished the surface of the leather again, using my juice as the polish, an intimate act that sexually bonded my strap and I.

Feeling that I had to finish myself off, I rose to my feet and moved close to the mirror door. With the chain creating a delicious tension on my ankle, I opened myself wide, my semi-squatting position straining my thighs. As I whipped my flank with my leather strap, my left hand plunged into my gaping sex, frigging myself unmercifully in an animal like show. I did not climax quietly and like the chained animal I had become, I howled and moaned as my body shuddered to a release.

I was still standing and trembling, looking at myself in the mirror, when a voice from behind the mirror door broke the spell. It was like deja-vu; we had been there before.

“Bravo, Caitlin, that was quite the  act!”

Emmette’s voice was unmistakable; I realized then that I should have learned from my first foray into the tack room a week ago.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Caitlin, if your ankle chain is long enough, would you mind coming in here and letting me down?”

I limped across to the mirror door, the ankle chain acting like an anchor that was holding me back. Emmette was looking at me from within the room that was behind the door; her hands were chained above her to a low wooden rafter, her body was naked, her arousal was on show. Her nipples were erect, her cunt lips were engorged, and a becoming flush spread from her neck to her breasts.

“Just so that you know, Caitlin,” she explained, “the mirror doors are one-way glass.Your performance was truly wonderful; sexual deviance at its best, sordid activity when you thought you were all alone.”

If I could have reached her to whip her with ‘my’ leather strap, I am sure I would have, but my ankle chain kept us a couple of yards apart.

I limped back slowly and sat on my blanket. With the door open now, and under her open gaze, I picked up a ball of cotton wool and once again began to polish my strap. I could feel my cheeks glowing; it was a flush of anger as well of shame.  

I intuitively knew now, how Emmette had received those vicious cane marks she had been so proud to show off. I hoped fervently that when Raven returned, that it would not only be my bottom that felt the strap’s bite.

The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 3 – The Walk of Shame


The night was as all nights should be: passionate hugs with kisses that were insatiable, gymnastics and innovation, cruelty and tenderness. My limbs ached from being contorted, my fingers from overuse. At the end of it, I felt used and stretched, satisfied and content.

We spent the night snuggled up to each other, Emmette’s sweet breath washing over me, our scents of arousal and sex mingling with perfume to create an exotic blend that clung to the sheets and the pillows, to our bodies and our skin.

She was gone when I woke up in the morning; despite The Equestrienne Lodge having closed for the season, the proprietor’s job was never done. There was an end of season cleaning to supervise, a skeleton staff to direct and the lodge’s account’s to manage and close off. She had opened the curtains before she left, and the sun was streaming through the windows when I finally woke up.

Moments later, the door opened, and Raven walked in; she was Emmette’s trusted assistant and I had seen her around The Lodge: she supported the staff at the check-in desk, assisting when necessary, did the books, and managed the housekeepers. She was olive skinned and slender, her high cheek bones adding to her striking looks. I had observed her at work and while her manner exuded efficiency and her presence was commanding, she was always pleasant and accommodating, doing her best to please.

The dissonance between what I knew of Raven and what I was seeing bewildered me: a pair of shiny, steel manacles dangled from her hands, a solid looking paddle hung from a clip on her belt.  I was still lying in bed, stunned, as she ripped the top sheet away from me, leaving me naked to her gaze, defenseless to her moves. Before I could respond,  I felt my wrists being grasped and shackled; I instinctively knew that this was not a game and that I was in beyond my depth.

Walk of Shame

“We are going to the stables,” Raven nformed me, “I heard you had fun there!”

There was an edge to her voice, a malice that I would never have guessed she possessed.

She gave me a slight push from behind, propelling me towards the door. I hesitated; I was naked and there would be no privacy beyond the door. While I knew that there were no guests booked in, I was sure that we would bump into the staff that remained.

“Now move it!”

I felt a sense of panic as I walked out of the room, knowing that she was just a pace behind. It wasn’t only panic though; it was with a feeling of shame for my nakedness, shame for my shackles, shame for my obvious submission.

Raven rapped my bare bottom with her paddle, not too hard, but hard enough to make me yelp. My chains rattled as I jerked aside in a futile attempt to escape any further smacks. My hands tried to reach back, but were restrained by the manacles.

My feeling of shame was matched now by a feeling of fear; I knew that the paddle was not for show and I knew that I was the only target in sight.

“Lift your knees right up. I want to see them parallel to the ground.’

I complied, feeling ridiculous. We walked past an open bedroom door; mercifully the maid who was spring-cleaning it did not look back as we passed. At the end of the corridor, I stopped.  I had two choices, left into the kitchen or right into the dining room. Stopping proved not to be the wisest thing to do. I heard woosh of air followed by a loud splat; as if on cue, a searing heat spread through my bottom. The blow from the paddle made my whole mind go numb. I frantically swung around, desperate to avoid another spank, fearsome of what might come next.

“I never told you that you could stop marching!” Raven scolded, “but seeing as you have, we will have a change of tempo. Now, I want you to trot, knees up high. You will not stop until I tell you to. If we have to stay in one place, you will trot on the spot.”

She gave my tender bottom a sharp slap with the paddle.

“Now start trotting!”

I started to trot on the spot, lifting my knees up high. Unsupported, my breasts jiggled around ferociously, seeming to build up a momentum of their own. They bounced and swung around at will, but I did my best to ignore them, focusing on getting my knees up high so that I would not be struck again with that paddle.

“Into the kitchen; I want to speak to Merle.”

Merle was the cook, a huge cheerful woman, who loved to walk around the kitchen brandishing a huge wooden spatula, laughingly threatening to spank her helpers if they didn’t do her will.

We came to a stop in front of her, and mercifully Raven told me to stand still and rest my legs. I was breathless, and felt trickles of sweat winding their way down from my armpits, seeming to pool in the crease beneath my breasts.

“Ooh, she’s a spirited one!” Merle cackled gleefully. “Where are you taking her?”

“We are off to the tack room; her backside needs a good leathering!” came the response from Raven.

Merle stepped close to me and looked me in the eye. A cheerful smile crossed her lips.

“Oh, you are going to be in a lot of pain, filly, Raven loves to break Mistress Emmette’s girls in!”

Merle seemed to delight in my indignity and revel in my impending pain; perversely, that excited me and I could feel my nipples flesh out and my lower lips begin to swell. She reached up and plumped my breasts. As she withdrew her hands, she grasped each of my nipples and twisted them at the same time. I gasped in pain, the sudden-ness of it shocking me.

“And a feathery little bush she has too, Raven! I am sure you are going to have fun plucking this little birdie.”

I flushed; the humiliation was almost worse than the pain. For a moment I wondered if Emmette would walk in and stop this torment, but then I pushed it from my mind; I did not want her to see me in this situation. I did wonder where she was, but it was a fleeting thought as I was quickly brought back to the discomfort of my own predicament.

“Well then, Merle, I must get her to the tack room and get her locked down for the morning. If you want to look in and watch her polishing the leather we will use on her this afternoon, feel free; I am sure she will enjoy your company!”

The paddle swung again and I jerked forward, my manacles chinking.

“To the tack room girl; knees up and breasts out.”

Flushed with humiliation, I pranced out of the door in front of her, and trotted down the bridle path to the stables.

The Equestrienne Lodge – Part 2 – Return to The Equestrienne Lodge

In this post, Caitlin returns to The Equestrienne Lodge. For the setup to this story, read the post Equestrienne Leather

The Invitation

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.

The Lobby

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.

Emmette’s Suite

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.