My name is Ranulph and I am 23 years old. I have a large house left to me by my parents and it has riding stables attached. I have always thought that girls who ride horses are some of the sexiest girls around, especially when they are dressed up in their gear for competitions or what have you, and they are used to the concepts of control and command, and to the use of riding crops and whips on the horses. It seemed to me, therefore, that it should be relatively easy to find girls who will jump at the chance of having good stabling and training facilities for their horse, but be open to suggestion from a suitably dominant male regarding their submission to my command and control, not to mention the use of whips and crops for purposes other than schooling the horses.
Most of these girls are so preoccupied with their horses that they have little time for boyfriends, yet I refuse to believe that bouncing around half the day with half a ton of live animal between your thighs doesn’t arouse the carnal side of the female nature. Offer some opportunities to relieve all that pent-up sexual energy and everyone can benefit!
I first realised this when as a teenager I played with the other kids on my father’s estate. I was probably about the oldest but as the son and heir of the manor, nobody was going to tell me that at 17, playing with the local kids was something I couldn’t do. There were some quite impressionable early teenage girls there who even then I felt looked up to me, and could be manipulated to my will. When I myself had been about 12 or 13, we had often played, boys and girls together, in the woods and there were 2 incidents which conditioned me for later life. I remember one of the girls had been captured in a game and tied to a tree. One of the boys said they were going to take her knickers off as a torture and she screamed as one boy did so then held her skirt up as the rest of us examined her still girlish sex slot at close quarters. One of the girls touched her there and her sigh of pleasure was not lost on me. Several weeks later we were again playing the game and I realised the girl was playing to be captured again. I was strangely excited at the thought that she had put herself willingly into this situation of being forcibly exposed to our prying eyes. This time the girls held her while the boys undid not only her skirt but her blouse and these were unceremoniously removed. Her vest was dragged off over her head and then her knickers were pulled down and off. During all this she put up no more than token resistance and was clearly enjoying herself. She was naked and while the girls held her, we boys took it in turns to feel her small dimpled breasts and her damp girlish slot before she was tied naked facing the tree. We took it in turns to castigate her bottom with some willow shoots that we picked and the rising excitement as her young and tender body rubbed against the tree was at least plain to me to see.
Since then I thought long and hard about this aspect of the feminine psyche, and decided I could put it to my advantage. In my position I could adopt an attitude that would be the perfect foil to this masochistic and submissive part of the female nature. If these girls and women wished to be powerless, to obey, to be physically exposed, to be humiliated, and to be castigated on their naked flesh, then who better to be their master than myself?
Rachel is a case in point. I first knew her as a 12 year old when I was 19. Even then she made it clear that she viewed me as her superior, and although I was 7 years her senior, when the kids indulged their childish games, whenever I was around she, like the other girl years earlier, was always the one to allow herself to be caught, to be exposed and touched up, and to be punished by the willow twigs, just so long as she knew I was watching. Sometimes she would give me a shy smile, as though to say that this had nothing to do with the other kids, but was totally for my benefit.
I will let her tell you her story later, but for now let me just say that in the fullness of time she became one of my most faithful and adoring protégés, hence her willingness to play a role in attracting other new young women into my fold.
Looking for new talent, I go to events within a reasonable distance of my stables. I am careful how I dress as it doesn’t really do to be too identifiable right away in case a girl objects, and it adds to the mystery of it all which stokes the curiosity factor in some girls. I generally dress in black and wear a fedora to shield my face so that it is unlikely they will get a good look at me till I am ready for them to do so. When I sense a girl is reacting positively I gradually reveal my identity normally with the help of one of my existing girls to build up the expectations and judge when I can as it were reel the new girl in to my web.
I first saw Emma at a dressage event. She seemed quite self-contained, and was a stunning good looker, just like Rachel, though in her early twenties I thought. I stood and watched her, admiring the tightness of her jodhpurs clinging to a tight little bottom, and no panty line showing, so she was consciously displaying an asset for men to gaze on. Her blouse looked nicely filled, her breasts not too large but firm and high. I liked her long blonde hair, which she would have to roll up in a bun in her hairnet under her riding hat. The way she moved was elegantly sensuous, and when I caught her sneaking a look at me as she prepared her horse I knew I had her in my sights.
I left her and checked out the list of competitors. From the number I had seen lying on the ground by her 4x4 I deduced her name was Emma Robbins. I went to the dressage arena to await her test. Mounted on her grey gelding she looked superb. She did an excellent test, so I thought she would be interested in extra tuition to go just that bit further. As she left the arena she turned to look at me, confirming the earlier interest I had detected, and I touched my hat in salute to her. But not to satisfy her curiosity too quickly, I slipped away, knowing there would be another day.
The following weekend I went to a competition with Rachel, and Emma was there again. Rachel was primed to play her part of course and I was amused that Emma was early and wandered around, clearly looking for me, then hung around some trailers where she thought I wouldn’t see her and watched Rachel and me. As Rachel prepared the horse I gently caressed her buttocks through her jodhpurs, then when she straightened up, I slipped one hand round her and palmed her breast through her shirt till I could feel her ardent nipple growing into my hand. Rachel sighed and leant into me, her eyes half closed, and I knew she wasn’t acting for the effect, she was enjoying my caresses.
Emma disappeared again and she and Rachel went into the practice arena together. I didn’t have my fedora on so that she could get a better look at me. I went to watch Rachel ride and while she took the horse back to the trailer I waited for Emma, who had two tests to do. At the end of her first test, she looked me almost defiantly in the face, and I nodded and smiled to her before turning away. Leaving her wanting more I was sure, and before her second test, Rachel joined me, and we stood to watch Emma again.
I held Rachel close with my right hand firmly on her bottom, and my left hand round the front of her blouse just holding her breasts. When Emma finished she approached where we were standing on her horse, and we both smiled and nodded to her. She smiled and nodded back just as I allowed my left hand quite openly and obviously to squeeze Rachel’s right breast. She noticed and in acknowledgement raised her whip to her hat in salute. I knew then that she had got the message and probably couldn’t wait for me to make a further advance. But rather than satisfy her frustration there and then, Rachel and I drove off while Emma was still cooling down her horse, and I knew she would be almost desperate for our next encounter.
I asked around and found out where she would be training that week. I sent Rachel there to train too, and with instructions to hint to her that she could move to my stables if she satisfied my requirements. She reported back that Emma had wanted to know more, and was clearly hooked. It was time to step up my game plan.
About a week after I spoke to Rachel, I received a letter in the post. At first I thought it was an advert for some product, but as I read it I realised with a shudder of emotion through my body that it was from Ranulph. I quote it in full:
“You are a beautiful and talented young woman in need of some strong guidance and discipline in your chosen field of expertise. You strive to exert command and control upon your trusty steed, and you clearly concentrate single-mindedly on the task in hand. But you could do better, much better. What is stopping you? What is missing in your life? I think I have the answer.
As I think you well realise I have been watching you for a few weeks now. I sense that the single mindedness you focus on the dressage is all too easily potentially distracted by the presence of a young man watching you. To me that means only one thing. You are not getting the attention of a man to keep your life forces in balance.
I can bring you the satisfaction of meeting your need for submission; of fulfilling your desires, which are no doubt deep-seated; of exerting the command and control on you that you exert on your horse; and of drawing out your particular brand of sexuality so that once these needs are being regularly and reliably met, your inner consciousness can focus entirely on your horse skills.
I have done these things for other young women such as Rachel. You saw how content Rachel was to trust me with her body, even in public. You will also trust me totally with your body. You will feel no false sense of modesty; no shame in exposing your most intimate body parts; no reluctance to learn through knowing your limits even if they expand exponentially with every day you are with me; no guilt.
Rachel will pick you up at your stables after lunch tomorrow. You will come as you are in your standard dressage training gear, prepared to start a new life of total obedience, prepared to trust me, and prepared to go on to higher goals in the dressage world.
That night I slept naked and had another dream.
I was in a stable-yard in working gear and just finishing my tasks for the day. There was nobody else around as I set off down the steep granite stairs to the tack room. Before I could accustom myself to the abnormal gloom, a black cap descended over my eyes and was expertly tied behind my head, while two pairs of arms held me. I felt no fear or panic. This was somehow ordained and I knew not only that I would submit, but that I wanted desperately to submit.
The hands silently pushed me forward until I came up against an object which I identified (because my shoe-caps hit it) as a large chest somewhat out of place. Then the hands reached inside my waist-band and started to pull up my shirt. There was no particular sound except the small breathing of somebody nearby, and an occasional foot shuffle, but I somehow knew that the converted stall was full of people.
By now my shirt was pulled up well over my head, and it impeded my arms too. Also there was fumbling with the hooks at the back of my bra. My breasts of course needed no bra in ordinary life, but I had worn one when riding to prevent them from jiggling up and down. They were, evidently, stripping me naked, which was to my subconscious the epitome of submission, to be stripped in front of a crowd of strangers. The shirt vanished when the sleeves were pulled off my arms, and then the bra. I heard their soft flop on the floor nearby. The firm grip on my arms relaxed slightly. Then the grip tightened again, and I was turned round and pulled down onto the chest.
Things were now moving fast. My shoes were off. My jodhpurs unbuttoned and unzipped. A strap was deftly buckled over my middle as the jodhpurs slid down and away into the void. Were there young stable lads there watching? I imagined their arousal standing erect in some kind of half darkness. Somebody lifted me at the pelvis briefly and my panties went the same way as the rest. I really was naked, Iying on that hard chest. Hands took my legs apart, so that my feet hung down on either side almost to the floor.
Meantime there was a fugitive, half-familiar scent which I could not quite place, and somebody whispered something. This was the first time since I entered the room, that I had detected a voice, but I could not hear the words. Then there was a slight sloshing sound, like somebody painting a door or grooming a horse. No crowd had ever looked at my secret intimacies before. The scent was now stronger and continuous. A voice said “O.K.?” And then came a cold wet fuzzy sensation on my labia, while hands, lots of hands, held my legs, my knees, my thigh muscles tightly open. I remembered in some deep past dream being told that the man who I now thought of as Ranulph had wanted me shaved down there. Although part of my subconscious thought I had shaved, part of it told me this was a dream and I also had to be shaved in the dream world I inhabited. The brush lathered my pubic triangle, the deep outsides of my vuIva, the crevices on either side within my thighs. Then my legs were run up till my still wide-open knees touched my ribs, and the brush stroked in the surroundings of my anus. I couldn't believe it, and, to my surprise, I liked it. I let out a sigh which everyone present recognised. The brush was now coming up the middle, over my vagina to my clitoris. I had never seen a male erection in full public view: was I showing anything publicly now? At this point a voice said “We're going to shave you. Keep still”.
It was not a harsh feeling at all, as they began in the valley between my buttocks, working steadily on both sides of my back entrance and then up the right side and then the left of my protruding sex. At this moment there was a pause. Some sounds of shoes on the floor, and a minute or two later I sensed somebody stepping onto the side of the chest and then bestriding me. A pair of warm buttocks and the soft vulva between them began to press down upon my breasts, and a pelvis momentarily touched my chin, before the unknown operator leaned forward. She covered my quim with her left hand and began to razor my labia with strong upward strokes, her long middle finger slowly pressing into the slit, as she raised her wrist to let the right hand cross underneath to the other side. The exciting operation unfortunately took only a short time - two or three minutes at the most - and I, bemused, was rising in the delicious moment when it ended. The finger and hand were removed.
“Lovely job!” somebody said. The pelvis briefly moved back and then the operator got off me and vanished. I wondered how, if at all, the job could really be called ‘lovely’. People were obviously moving for some reason. The moment, very short in itself, was interrupted by the squeak of a tap and then by the astonishment of a strong jet of cold water which might have knocked me over if I had not been on my back already. It kicked my entrances stingingly, and sprayed my belly, my breasts, my shoulders, my armpits and probably half the room, I thought. It finally rested on my anus with a reduced and less coarse pressure. The fact that I had surrendered made the sensation delicious. I relaxed, and felt the intermittent penetration up my body. And then it was turned off as suddenly as it had started. I blinked under the wet mask. Then towels began to be applied in the safer parts until I was more or less dry.
They took off the blindfold. I was aware that all the stable staff were there, standing interestedly in a horseshoe at the foot of the chest. One of the stable lads was there too, his breeches bulging enormously at the crutch as I had suspected. Another had his hand in his pocket. Rachel was the only girl I recognised, and she was naked and holding up a large mirror in which I could see myself as others saw me. I didn’t really register Rachel’s nudity, as I looked in the mirror and saw my smooth hairless sex. I felt really wicked but in a good sort of way.
“Now for Part Two”. The blindfold was tied on again and the strap over my waist unbuckled, but I lay acquiescently during long minutes, while some apparent scene-shifting seemed to be taking place. A door creaked and a latch clacked : probably a cupboard, followed by a deeper more sustained sound, which I identified as a wide roller supported gate into the rest of the stables. And then a heavy object, perhaps a table, was being moved: for I heard the breath-catching and the slight bump as it was being put down.
“Ready?” Rachel said. Nobody actually replied, so I inferred that they (whoever they were) must have nodded. Some more moments lumbered on while things - what things? - were being got out of a cupboard.
And then somebody took me firmly by the left arm, and motioned me upright. The runnel-tiled floor was, of course, wet under foot as I walked the few steps.
“Step up”. I put a foot forward, found the solid wooden thing - presumably a box - and lifted my foot further. It was surprisingly high. I now knew that my guide was Rachel because our naked thighs had come into contact as I walked across the room. I made the high step up, imagining myself now to be on a sort of plinth. Rachel pushed me gently forward by a hand on my bottom, until I felt a polished rounded double surface against my belly with, in the centre between the two globes a thick bunch or tail of unmistakeable horsehair hanging against my shaven pubic area and between my knees.
“Bend over”. Now I knew. This was an old instructional model, very rarely used in teaching but sometimes useful in the early stages of saddle-making, which was kept in the stable because it was too big to get up the stairs to the saddleroom. It must be all of a century old. Its crupper was surprisingly comfortable. I reached forward and found a girth, into which I hooked my fingers. A strap was inserted from the front under my left armpit across my back, and forward under the other armpit, and then tightened forwards. Obviously the arrangement was designed to prevent me slipping off the crupper. I expected the mounting box to be removed, and I was right. I was not actually hanging, but there was no support for my feet. Then a horse-blanket was thrown over me. Someone said: “Bare-arse, we're starting now”.
Starting at what? . . . Not too hard to guess. The faint high whistle came so quickly that it gave no warning of the sickening thin sting across my bottom. I let out a strangled unintentional squawk.
“What was that, Bare-arse?” “I don't know”, I said. That thin sting was repeated, and then again. “Ow”, but I noticed that it did not seem to bruise, or to curl around my thigh.
“"What was it?” “A quirt?” I hazarded. “Good for you”, said Rachel. I heard something (presumably the quirt) being put down on the table and something else being picked up. “Here it comes” I thought.
It was a lower windier sound, and the impact was not at all like the quirt. For one thing, it seemed to take up more space on my buttocks; for another, there was a spread onto my right thigh.
“Birch”, I said, promptly. “Dead right”, a surprised voice said. “Alright! Let's try this, then, Bare Arse”.
I heard the back-stroke, then a sort of air-flick, and then it came. The lash, for it was obviously a lash or several lashes, struck my behind almost at the crease. It was a hard sensation nevertheless, and made pain roll up my belly.
“What was that, Bare Arse?” “A martinet?” “Wrong. Two more”. The next two strokes came higher, one on top of the other.
“What was it?” I remembered the knotted martinet which an Aunt had once used on one of my cousins. It wasn't exactly like it, but it seemed worth trying.
“A martinet with knots in it?” “Wrong again. Three more”. As the flailing sounds restarted, I thought like mad. Presumably the number increased indefinitely till I got it right. One . . Not a quirt, not a . . two . . birch, but a multitailed whip which was . . . three . . not any sort of martinet.
“What was it, Bare Arse”. My buttocks were beginning to feel painfully hot. “Er, I'm not sure”. “Four more”. These strokes came, it seemed, more slowly, but, judging by the air sounds, more violently. “Agh . . .” Very hard to think. Mustn't yell. Multitailed. “Cor”. “One to go”. Of course! Oh that hurt. “What was it?” “Cat o' Nine tails”. “Correct”. I heaved a sigh of relief, not so much for my bottom as for the effort of thinking. The relief did not last long. The faintest, highest whistle ended in a furious narrow sting which sent horror up my body, from the left hand curve of the buttocks across the apexes and then round onto the bony part of my right thigh. “Careful . . .” a voice said, “I was marked for months”. “What was it this time, Bare Arse?” “I think it was . . . I think it was a racing whip”. There were appreciative noises all round the room. The whip had been dropped onto the table, and then a clatter showed that something else had been dropped onto the floor. It did not sound leathern or metallic on the tiles as it was retrieved, but it made a strong sound in the air and a hot bruising sting which reached across both curves.
“That was a good one! Absolutely symmetrical”, a voice called.
“Shut up, and don't give the show away”.
“Well, Bare Arse?” Definitely not a leather. We've had a quirt, a birch, a racing whip, what can be left? DifficuIt to sort it all out . . .
“Can't think”. “Oh! Perhaps we'll encourage you”.
It came through the atmosphere onto my swelling buttocks like a blast of hot lightening, and then again.
“It must be a cane”. “Yes . . . What kind?” “I thought there was only one” . “Try one more and think again”. A single stroke flashed across my rump.
“I think its a, a, I don't know what its called, but a nobbly one”.
“A malacca. That's it . . . Never had the cane before?”
“No”. “Now for that last”. I settled myself mentally for the end of the story. The curious thing was that I was beginning to feel at ease, as if it might go on tolerably for some time yet. “OK? Bare Arse?” “Yes” It came without any warning sound audible to me. “Stre-u-th”, said I fervently. “Hurt?” “Yes ! !” “What was it?” I considered. “Quick!” “Two more”. This time I was readier, but they still made a shocking bruising jolt. “A-a-g-h. Aa-a-a-gh !” There seemed to be no time, but it was rather like a leather. I decided to chance my arm. I went on, because I now remembered something from a casual talk with my saddler. “I think it's a saddle-master's thong”. “So it is!” Rachel said, carrying surprise in her voice. “How did you guess?” I assumed that this was a rhetorical question. They put the mounting box back and unstrapped me. Then they guided me down and for a moment left me.
And at that point I woke up, writhing naked on my bed, one hand on my turgid breast and the other on my dripping sex. On reflection I considered that not only had I endured quite a punishment but I had enjoyed the sensation of being totally exposed to both male and female view. Perhaps that was also a part of being submissive. I felt that I was learning through my dreams and moving into a different and new world. I brought myself to an urgent climax before drifting off to sleep again.