Whipped into Shape #1

My bodily reactions to Angus were under control but that hadn’t stopped me living out a fantasy in the dead of night

Photo by Ch Jawad: https://www.pexels.com/photo/rider-leaning-on-horseback-19591234/

I threw the saddle over my horse, Big Sam, while he pawed the ground impatiently. I remembered the time when I would happily have ridden bareback.

I was born into a Romany Gypsy family. Our caravan was small, but we were proud and kept it impeccably clean. That was all I knew. Life on the road. I hardly ever went to school. We were rarely in one place long enough. But I had a ferocious appetite for books and read anything I could get my hands on. I truly believe learning has got to come from within.

Another thing I didn’t need to be taught about was horses.

As a toddler I was plonked on top of our pony, Minstrel, and led along. Soon, I knew how to kick to get her moving. By the time I was twelve, my idea of fun was cantering downhill, gripping her mane.

Riding was in my blood; the breeze on my face, and the smells of the countryside filling my nostrils. It was a good life.

Looking back, I think we were blessed as a family. Until Dad died. Gypsies are traditionalists. He’d been the bread winner. Mum cooked, cleaned, and looked after my sister and me.

It was sudden. He earned money as a mechanic and was working on a car when he keeled over onto the bonnet. The doctor had said he wouldn’t have known a thing. One minute alive; the next, dead. It happens like that to some.

I was twenty and Jess three years younger. Mum said she’d look for work but was deeply distraught. Everyone told me I took after dad: hard as nails. I felt it was my responsibility to find a job. But what to do?

I only knew one thing: horses.

We pitched up on the edge of a farm bordering Scotland, with a massive working stable a few miles away. A good opportunity for me to sell my skills, and that’s what I did.

The owner, Mrs. Glenn, saw straight away I could handle horses; but once she realized I’d never ridden with a saddle, she told her son, Angus, to teach me the ropes, so to speak.

When I saw him, something stirred inside. Never happened before. I was tongue-tied and could feel the back of my neck tingle as he spoke. I couldn’t stop staring at his face. His nose was too big and smile lopsided. But altogether it worked. Well, it did for me. Immediately, I became defensive and probably a little rude.

At the end of my first lesson he remarked,“Katelyn, if you don’t wanna be here, then I’ll bid you goodbye.”

His brown eyes twinkled, conflicting with the frown on his brow. He sat down on the wooden stool outside the stable, crossing his long legs; assured of himself and his place in the world.

My brain went into overdrive. I couldn’t lose this job. I needed to forget the attraction and box clever.

“I’m sorry. Things have been a bit difficult recently. I’ll be brighter tomorrow.”

At that moment a couple of swallows swooped by within an inch of our heads, making for the barn. We both ducked, sharing a moment of laughter. Things got better from there on in.

During the following week, my skills improved but I was struggling to master the combination of saddle, bit, and bridle. I’d never steered Minstrel with anything more than old rope and a kick in the belly. Perched on the saddle, everything seemed slippery, like I might topple off at any minute.

My bodily reactions to Angus were under control, but that hadn’t stopped me living out a fantasy in the dead of night, rubbing my slit until in my dreams he was inside my head and my cunt.