Riding Bareback

SPANKING | WHIPPING | PHOTO ILLUSTRATED STORY

There was once a man who owned a large estate in the English countryside. One of his regular visitors was an arrogant young lady. Stephanie would stride into the stables with that haughty air, borne of a privileged upbringing, and of someone whose ancestors were accustomed to whipping horses and peasants.

In the early morning, she liked to ride naked around the man’s estate, faster and more furiously than Lady Godiva. He allowed this because what man in his position would not relish the sight of those pert breasts and round backside bouncing and flexing to the rhythm of a horse’s movements.
There was the added delight in that she inevitably returned hot, glistening in sweat and undoubtedly stimulated by the experience.

“I’ve just been riding bareback.” She declared one day, standing naked in the doorway, save for riding chaps and boots: daring him not to desire her.

“I saw,” he said. “Does an animal pounding between your legs excite you?”

She did not answer, but the flush in her face betrayed all.

“Perhaps that is why I saw you using the whip so often? I think you should find out what it is like.”

“You’re joking.”

Now he had her attention. She stood straight, nostrils flaring, like a filly deciding whether to defy him.
“I’m not. Hand it over.” She may have been in command on the horse’s back, but he was interested to see if she was going to let him master her?

Reluctantly, she gave up the riding whip.

“Assume the position,” he commanded. “You are about to be ridden hard.”

Naked woman in riding chaps and boots about to be bent over an disciplined

Naked woman in riding chaps and boots holding a whip

Naked woman in riding chaps holding a whip

Naked woman in riding chaps and boots bending over ready to be whipped

She pouted and bent over the bench. There was a long pause as he admired the view, then he flicked the crop across her rump.

“Aagh,” she neighed, her mane sweeping across her shoulders.

He applied the whip again, this time with a little more force. She gasped, breath hissed from her as he brought it down, painting stripes across her pale skin. She panted at each stroke as if she were moving up to a gallop. Her behind began to redden, her legs parted revealing her folds, silvered as if sweating as her mount had been.

“Yes, yes,” she screamed as she bucked against the whip, her body jolting with each consecutive strike. “Oh, fuck.” Her fingers gripped the edge of the bench, her knuckles white with tension.
Soon she was baying, her gasps echoing off the stalls. It was time for him to mount up.