“Settle down, love, we’re going to be fine.”
Her pink glossed lips grazed his ears as she spoke these words, brushing the soft skin enough to comfort but not to further arouse. Her right hand was placed carefully, lightly but knowing, on his trembling body, that beautiful muscular body already tensed and ready for what he knew was to come. Telling rivulets of fragrant sweat ran unchecked from his brow and skin, soaking into her skin, making them, as ever, one.
“Tacking up?”
The voice surprised her. Ana turned to see her trainer of twenty years, Jack Witherston, holding Mac’s bridle. Mac’s head bucked upward, tossing her hand from his withers. He was good to go, and go hard, in this, the greatest Olympic event in the world.
“Just doing the horse whispering thing, eh?” Witherston laughed, that deep, familiar laugh she’d first heard at age twelve, when her parents recognised that not only could she event with any horse, she could make any horse an eventer.
Yes, she was just that good, but Witherston had made her better, and in Mac, a 17.2 hands high warmblood gelding, he had found her the perfect match. He had turned them into one, one trusting body out of the separate masses of her tall frame and the horse’s huge yet surprisingly agile build.
Now, here they were.
Competing for Canada in the finals of the individual jumping event, her dream since as long as she could remember. She was acutely aware of the world’s eyes soon to be focused on her red jacket and white jodhpurs, on her body moving with Mac’s, on his hooves vis a vis each tender pole.
The fact that they needed just one more clear run before unseating the reigning world champion to earn that shiny glint of gold ran electric through her body, just as she knew it ran electric through Mac’s body.
Witherston threw the saddle pad over Mac's withers and turned to Ana.
“You’re tense.” Not a question, a statement of fact.
Ana immediately flushed, her eyes dropping to the barn floor. Now, the only thing she could think of was Witherston’s hands on hers, calming her as she had calmed Mac.
Just as the thought passed through her head, she felt strong hands grasping hers.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise as this man, this man whom she had always thought of as thinking of her as just another project, reached up, undid her chin strap and tossed her riding helmet aside. Kissing her, he was kissing her, faster than she could think.
“You’re going to do fine. Clear run.” Growling, he pinched a nipple through her white blouse, each in turn.
“You need to release your tension? Release it with me.
Her pink glossed lips grazed his ears as she spoke these words, brushing the soft skin enough to comfort but not to further arouse. Her right hand was placed carefully, lightly but knowing, on his trembling body, that beautiful muscular body already tensed and ready for what he knew was to come. Telling rivulets of fragrant sweat ran unchecked from his brow and skin, soaking into her skin, making them, as ever, one.
“Tacking up?”
The voice surprised her. Ana turned to see her trainer of twenty years, Jack Witherston, holding Mac’s bridle. Mac’s head bucked upward, tossing her hand from his withers. He was good to go, and go hard, in this, the greatest Olympic event in the world.
“Just doing the horse whispering thing, eh?” Witherston laughed, that deep, familiar laugh she’d first heard at age twelve, when her parents recognised that not only could she event with any horse, she could make any horse an eventer.
Yes, she was just that good, but Witherston had made her better, and in Mac, a 17.2 hands high warmblood gelding, he had found her the perfect match. He had turned them into one, one trusting body out of the separate masses of her tall frame and the horse’s huge yet surprisingly agile build.
Now, here they were.
Competing for Canada in the finals of the individual jumping event, her dream since as long as she could remember. She was acutely aware of the world’s eyes soon to be focused on her red jacket and white jodhpurs, on her body moving with Mac’s, on his hooves vis a vis each tender pole.
The fact that they needed just one more clear run before unseating the reigning world champion to earn that shiny glint of gold ran electric through her body, just as she knew it ran electric through Mac’s body.
Witherston threw the saddle pad over Mac's withers and turned to Ana.
“You’re tense.” Not a question, a statement of fact.
Ana immediately flushed, her eyes dropping to the barn floor. Now, the only thing she could think of was Witherston’s hands on hers, calming her as she had calmed Mac.
Just as the thought passed through her head, she felt strong hands grasping hers.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise as this man, this man whom she had always thought of as thinking of her as just another project, reached up, undid her chin strap and tossed her riding helmet aside. Kissing her, he was kissing her, faster than she could think.
“You’re going to do fine. Clear run.” Growling, he pinched a nipple through her white blouse, each in turn.
“You need to release your tension? Release it with me.
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You have no idea.” More a direction, as if she were to have Mac on a lunge line, than a question.
Fuck. His hands were now frantically down her jodhpurs, under her blouse, under her white lace bra, clothing falling, ripping, a frenzy of heat and sweat and perfume and barn smells swirling through her bewildered left behind mind.
“Down. Get down.”
She fell to the floor of the box stall, clean pine shavings grinding into her hands, Mac’s huge hooves inches from her face. She felt his hands lifting her legs and then... then time slowed impossibly, a fermata in an opera, as she felt his hands lifting her legs, tongue probing her suddenly sodden swollen needful sex.
Her mewling moans turned to muffled cries of need as his tongue circled her asshole, pushing into her most secret place. Her back twisted and arched impossibly, her wide hips pushing back into his face as his fingers dug into the pale white of her ass.
“You like that? More relaxed? Tell me you’re ready, tell me you’re going to throw a clear run.”
She nodded obediently.
“Say it, Ana. Say you’re going to clear that course.”
“Fuck... fuck, please Witherston -- Jack-- please... I’m going to clear that course, I promise, please…”
Her words faded off again into unintelligible desperate moans of want, just as he shoved a pussy-slicked finger into her virgin ass.
“Fuccckkk….”
The sound of a sharp smack across the ass ricocheted through the stall.
“Is that all, Ana? I’m not going to take your ass, not now, not unless you’re a good girl.”
“I’ll be a good girl, I promise. Clear run. Clear fast run. Best ever.”
She could barely breathe now, the pine scent and her own need making her breath come short and halting. God but she needed this, this particular fucking in this the most unusual of places.
Then.... oh God. He was in her. In her. Hard, hurtful, careful, gentle, soft... all at once somehow. She felt him thrusting, felt her own body respond, her brain finally catching up to the runaway train that was whatever this was here in this box stall.
They hadn’t much time. She cried out again, seconds before feeling his balls tense and the rush of warm liquid flooding her cunt and dripping onto the stall floor. And, just as his ejaculate dripped, he dropped her onto the pine chip bed as well.
“Get up. Get dressed. You’re on in ten. I’ll finish with the tacking.”
She stood on trembling legs, collapsing against the stall wall, breathing hard.
Ten minutes to the best run ever.
Fuck. His hands were now frantically down her jodhpurs, under her blouse, under her white lace bra, clothing falling, ripping, a frenzy of heat and sweat and perfume and barn smells swirling through her bewildered left behind mind.
“Down. Get down.”
She fell to the floor of the box stall, clean pine shavings grinding into her hands, Mac’s huge hooves inches from her face. She felt his hands lifting her legs and then... then time slowed impossibly, a fermata in an opera, as she felt his hands lifting her legs, tongue probing her suddenly sodden swollen needful sex.
Her mewling moans turned to muffled cries of need as his tongue circled her asshole, pushing into her most secret place. Her back twisted and arched impossibly, her wide hips pushing back into his face as his fingers dug into the pale white of her ass.
“You like that? More relaxed? Tell me you’re ready, tell me you’re going to throw a clear run.”
She nodded obediently.
“Say it, Ana. Say you’re going to clear that course.”
“Fuck... fuck, please Witherston -- Jack-- please... I’m going to clear that course, I promise, please…”
Her words faded off again into unintelligible desperate moans of want, just as he shoved a pussy-slicked finger into her virgin ass.
“Fuccckkk….”
The sound of a sharp smack across the ass ricocheted through the stall.
“Is that all, Ana? I’m not going to take your ass, not now, not unless you’re a good girl.”
“I’ll be a good girl, I promise. Clear run. Clear fast run. Best ever.”
She could barely breathe now, the pine scent and her own need making her breath come short and halting. God but she needed this, this particular fucking in this the most unusual of places.
Then.... oh God. He was in her. In her. Hard, hurtful, careful, gentle, soft... all at once somehow. She felt him thrusting, felt her own body respond, her brain finally catching up to the runaway train that was whatever this was here in this box stall.
They hadn’t much time. She cried out again, seconds before feeling his balls tense and the rush of warm liquid flooding her cunt and dripping onto the stall floor. And, just as his ejaculate dripped, he dropped her onto the pine chip bed as well.
“Get up. Get dressed. You’re on in ten. I’ll finish with the tacking.”
She stood on trembling legs, collapsing against the stall wall, breathing hard.
Ten minutes to the best run ever.
