骑马的文章 英文

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骑马的文章 英文


Through the tattered wisps of morning fog trotted a young ponygirl and rider, advancing down a cobblestone road through the picturesque meadows of the Stark estate. They had been traveling for an hour, since just before sunup, and the little pony was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Her rider, Mistress Stark herself, had shown more concern for the speed of her transit than for the comfort of her mount.
"Lift those feet, Whimper!" snapped Mistress Stark impatiently. "I'll not have you shuffling and shambling up Madame Carenot's driveway!"
Whimper, bent under the weight of her Mistress, lifted her hoofbooted feet higher as she maintained the queer bounding stride of a full gallop. Her thighs had been strapped together by a pair of tightly buckled belts, her ankles hobbled by a cord only eighteen inches long.
The pony's nostrils flared as she struggled to fill her lungs; the enormous bit between her jaws prevented her from breathing through her mouth. She could not contain the copious strands of saliva which spilled incessantly over her lips and chin. They dangled there, cavorting grotesquely, slowly lengthening.
"Not much farther now," said Mistress Stark. Her voice carried no hint of sympathy or concern for her pony's distress. "Just over the next rise."
Whimper cringed as she saw the road ahead climb the gentle slope of a broad hillock. But she knew that Madame Carenot's mansion lay only a few hundred yards ahead; she had visited the Madame's home on several occasions in the past, though never as a mounted beast.
She trudged doggedly up the incline, panting heavily. Mistress Stark leaned forward in her little riding saddle, as if to urge her pony up the hill. She bent her knees, sweeping her stirruped boots backward.
Whimper groaned piteously. The stirrups were suspended from heavy clamps piercing her aerioles, and her Mistress's movement pulled harshly at her sensitive breasts; indeed, the clamps might have been ripped from her breasts altogether if not for the stirrup bar which Whimper held in her hands. This bar was attached to the straps of the stirrups, just below the clamps on Whimper's breasts. She gripped this bar in her hands at all times, supporting most of the weight in the stirrups with her arms.
Mistress Stark's tawny legs were much stronger than Whimper's arms, however; as the Mistress bent her knees and pulled her feet back, the pony's breasts were inexorably stretched. The pain finally wrenched a cry of misery from Whimper's throat, and the first tears of the journey welled in her eyes, streamed down her cheeks.
"That's a good girl," purred the Mistress, and through the haze of pain, Whimper could feel her rider squirm in the saddle.
They finally reached the crest of the hill, and before them lay the expansive Carenot estate. The little cobblestone road continued two hundred yards, down the hill and over a tiny stone bridge spanning a burbling brook. Beyond this lay the Carenot mansion, squat and imposing behind a ten-foot brick wall.
Mistress Stark uncoiled her long legs, stretching them out before her so that Whimper's breasts were now pulled taut in the direction of the Carenot home.
"With grace and aplomb," advised the Mistress tartly as they descended the hill. She held her whip absently behind her, so that the leather rubbed against Whimper's vulva.
The ponygirl concentrated on maintaining her stride as she came down the hill, so that she would not lose her footing and throw her rider. She shuddered to think of the consequences of such a mistake.
They reached the foot of the hill and crossed the little bridge, the dainty clop-clop of Whimper's hoofboots sure and steady. The little ponygirl felt a sudden exhiliration, knowing she was near the end of her arduous journey; already she could almost feel herself stretching out in the luxurious straw of Madame Carenot's stable, feeding on thick slop from a trough. Mistress Stark would doubtless spend the entire day with her friend, and Whimper could face the long agonizing journey home on well-rested legs and a full belly.
Mistress Stark directed her pony between the open ironwork gates of the brick wall, to the footpath which led to the pillared porch. She reined Whimper to a halt there, slipped her feet from the stirrups and dismounted.
"Wait here while I make arrangements for our visit," she told Whimper, then turned on one high heel and strolled up the front walk.
The little pony, watching her Mistress advance up the path, felt a sudden overwhelming surge of pride. Mistress Stark was magnificent -- statuesque, imperious, beautiful. Whimper, of course, was none of these things. Half a foot shorter than her Mistress, thirty pounds lighter, deferential and obedient.
Mistress Stark stopped at the huge oak door and lifted the brass door knocker. It was fashioned in the image of a grimacing female face, the rapper itself formed from her heavy breasts -- a bit of maudlin humor on the part of the artisan, no doubt.
The Mistress's knock was answered in a matter of moments by a lovely young blonde girl with a lean figure but ample bosom. She was very simply attired -- or, rather, scarcely attired at all. Frilly pink cuffs adorned her wrists and ankles, and a small silver bell dangled from each large nipple. Snug about her slender throat was buckled a pink leather collar, studded with silver.