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Whipped into Shape #1
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.
“Yer bare thighs against the leather. How about it?”
His voice was assertive. Nervously, I began to giggle, but at the same time, did as I was told. I undid my jodhpurs, freed my legs and put my boots back on. I stood in front of him in lacy knickers and a riding jacket. He looked me up and down appreciatively and proclaimed, “Perfect.”
“Why thank you, Master,” I joked, curtsying.
“Hop on the saddle, Missy,” he quipped, getting into his role.
Once positioned, the polished hide rubbed against my skin. Now the saddle felt more like a horse.
“I need some reins to make it real.” I stated.
He threaded a rope through a hook on the barn beam above and told me to raise my arms. Then he tied my wrists above my head.
“Now it’s all about your legs, gal. Feel the hot meat beneath you.”
“The horse? Right?” I chuckled.
“Concentrate,” Angus scolded, then shortened the stirrups so I could put weight into them and stretch my leg muscles tight.
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