Over dinner, Beef Wellington with truffles and Caesar salads, Henry had apologised for being so busy and told her that he’d make it up to her in the morning. The delivery from Mr Pink had arrived. They’d go for a ride in their new riding clothes. He’d show her the property. Would seven be OK?
In the morning? Ouch. Wanda agreed that seven would be just fine, if she could get an early call.
‘I’ll have Sandy bring you a light breakfast and your new outfit, at five-thirty then?’
Wanda had nodded. She’d have an hour and a half to get herself fully awake and dressed. That was doable. Of course it was.
After dinner, she excused herself to go up to bed. It’d been years since she’d ridden. She’d need to be well rested. Tomorrow, she’d be spending the entire day alone with her Henry. Perhaps he intended to mount more than his horse. Wanda couldn’t think of a better cure for her erotic fantasising than real sex.
She woke at five, ready to get up and go. By the time Sandy arrived with a gigantic cardboard box and a breakfast tray, Wanda had showered and trimmed everywhere that could possibly need trimming.
All she had on was the tiniest and flimsiest of her thongs. Wanda grabbed a bedspread to drag over her lap.
Sandy said, ‘You are so beautiful, Miss!’
With that reaction as encouragement, Wanda tossed the spread aside. Sandy was pretty cute, herself, in her navel-baring short-shorts and ‘tied under the ample boobs’ shirt. Wanda couldn’t help but wonder, with all the good-looking girls on his staff, how many of them Henry had …
She asked, ‘Does Mr Henry mind the way you dress, Sandy?’
The girl smiled down into her own cleavage. ‘I’ve had a woman or two disapprove, Miss, but never a man.’ She grinned at Wanda. ‘Do I offend you, Miss?’
‘Not in the least. You have a lovely body, Sandy. I was just wondering about how they like things around here. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.’
Sandy gave Wanda a long slow look, up and then down again. ‘Miss Wanda, you’re gorgeous. Mr Henry is a lucky man. I’m sure he’d approve of you taking advantage of your looks. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, and you’ve got it.’
‘My mother doesn’t agree.’
‘Oh, mothers! What do they know?’
Wanda considered that an excellent question.
There were hot croissants with fresh butter and apricot jam, plus a single fig on the side. The coffee was divine. As Wanda ate, Sandy unpacked the box. She giggled.
Wanda turned to see the girl holding up something in satin, with dark-green and gold vertical stripes – the same colours as Henry’s plane. His livery? Was he somehow ‘taking possession’ of her? She really hoped so.
‘It’s a waspie, Miss,’ Sandy said. ‘You’ll kill in this.’
Wanda felt a femme fatale mood creep up on her. A tight waspie, sheer hose, stiletto heels and a cigarette in a long ivory holder, and she’d be ready for … What? Just about anything naughty, she supposed. Please let Henry have something ‘naughty’ in mind!
Wanda had to step into the waspie to save unlacing it. Sandy worked it up over Wanda’s hips. Inevitably, there was some skin-on-skin contact but neither of them acknowledged it. The situation was far too fraught with possibilities.
There’d been pictures that Wanda had seen, years before, pictures that she shouldn’t have looked at. If Sandy had been dressed as a sexy French maid while Wanda was leaning forward and supporting herself stiff-armed on the dresser while Sandy tightened the waspie with her knee in Wanda’s back and Henry had walked in on them … Well, the outcome could have been delicious. He’d have been dressed for riding, of course, and carrying a crop.
A crop.
Stop! She hadn’t indulged in that sort of fantasy for ages. Having those particular images in her head would have been unbearable, considering how long she’d been forced to remain celibate.
‘Pull tighter,’ she told Sandy. Perhaps being constricted at her waist would squeeze the dangerous thoughts out of her head. ‘Tighter!’
Sandy tugged hard.
When breathing became a struggle, Wanda allowed, ‘Enough! Now, what else goes with this outfit. I suppose that there is more to it, or am I to do a Lady Godiva?’
Sandy giggled. ‘You’re bad, Miss Wanda.’
She was the second person to tell Wanda that, in two days. No – the other had been Kitty, in a fantasy. Perhaps her life was going to imitate her erotic dreams? Wouldn’t that be a blast!
The riding habit was dark-green velvet. Its skirt was ankle-length and double-circular. There was a gold silk shirt with ruffles at the throat. Neither Wanda nor Sandy mentioned the possibility of her wearing a bra under it. The short jacket had puffy shoulders but was tight at her waist and wrists. If Wanda hadn’t been wearing the waspie, Sandy wouldn’t have been able to get the seventeen cloth-covered buttons done up.
The boots were matching green, in supple kid leather, with three-inch Cuban heels. Wanda had to point her toes and strain on the boots’ tabs to get into them but once they were on they felt like slippers.
When Wanda checked herself in the mirror, she might have stepped out of an English movie, set in the days of highwaymen and carriages.
‘Your hat,’ Sandy said.
It was reinforced and similar to a top hat but not so high and with a jauntily tilted crown. The long trailing ribbon was gold, of course, as was the cockade. There was no doubt, Henry was dressing her in his livery colours. Something trembled in her tummy.
‘And …’ Sandy said.
Of course, there had to be a riding crop. It was made of green suede, plaited, with a leather loop for her wrist that had ‘Wanda’ embossed on it in gold.
How did Wanda feel about her outfit? She wished she knew. Excited? Scared? Thrilled? Wicked? All of those, and more.
‘May I do your make-up, Miss?’ Sandy asked.
The way Wanda’s fingers were trembling, it was a good idea for someone else to apply her paint for her. She nodded, set her hat aside and sat at the dressing table. Sandy made her lips very red and tinted her eyelids with green and gold. The effect was a bit over the top for seven in the morning but Wanda didn’t say anything. Somehow, coming up with words seemed a bit beyond her capabilities, right then.
Henry and another of the pretty girls, Elaine, were waiting right outside the front door. Wanda’s mount, obviously hers, was a stunning Palomino mare with a long almost-white tail and mane. Henry’s horse was an enormous and glossy-black stallion. Her fiancé was wearing a masculine version of her hat, sans ribbon or cockade, a black swallowtail coat, a beige cravat at his throat, beige whipcord pants and black leather boots that were so shiny they looked almost transparent.
He introduced Wanda to the animals. ‘Blondie, for obvious reasons, and Satan, but he’s a pussy cat, really.’
‘For you he is,’ Sandy said.
‘Blondie is your horse now,’ Henry told Wanda. ‘Apart from exercise, no one else will get to ride her.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t all the girls want ponies?’
Wanda felt like throwing herself into his arms and kissing him but not with the two girls there. Perhaps he’d let her express her gratitude more fully when they were alone. She settled for stammering a stream of ‘thank yous’ that didn’t stop until he laid a hand on her arm.
Henry produced a camera and took pictures of Wanda before she mounted, while she mounted, with Sandy’s help, and after she’d mounted.
She’d asked if he wanted her to ride side-saddle but he assured her that wasn’t a good idea if they were going to ride for long.
Wanda adjusted her skirts. It took a moment to get used to a saddle without a horn again and her naughty side insisted that there be nothing between her soft pubes and hard leather but her flimsy thong. That was part of the joy of riding, after all, that and having a great powerful beast clamped between her thighs.
‘Comfy?’ Henry asked, smiling.
Had he guessed what she was doing? No, of course not. That was a girls’ secret, unsuspected by the opposite gender. Wasn’t it?
Henry swung up into his saddle with one fluid movement. Wanda nudged Blondie with her knees. The mare ambled forward at a slow walk. Henry, on Satan, followed a few feet behind. Obviously, he was checking how she sat before they really got going. To show him that she was a capable rider, she encouraged Blondie into a canter.
Wanda soon adjusted to her mount and matched their rhythms. Every forward movement of her hips slithered her sex against hard leather. She might as well have left her thong off for all the protection it gave her. Thank goodness for her voluminous skirts. Without them, Henry might have heard the slippery sounds Wanda could feel that her pussy was making.
She’d already been shown the buildings close to the ranch house. Henry led them cross-country, past paddocks with pregnant mares and with mares with colts. The stallions, Wanda presumed, were kept elsewhere.
As if reading her mind, Henry told her, ‘We mainly use artificial insemination, but I do keep a few studs to take care of things the old-fashioned way once in a while. It seems fairer to the mares, to me.’
Wanda almost asked if she could watch, but bit the question back.
Henry’s ranch seemed to go on forever, even though he’d said it was a modest thousand acres. There were streams that they jumped or waded but he didn’t take her over any fences or hedges. It was nice that he was protective but she’d have liked the chance to show her skills off. Then again, what if she’d set Blondie at a tall hedge and the mare had balked? Wanda might have been thrown. She’d fallen off a horse once and hadn’t come to any serious harm, but still …
Blondie would likely have taken off, out of shame, leaving Wanda without a mount. Satan was an enormous beast, perfectly capable of carrying two riders at once. Henry would have simply scooped her up and sat her before him. Her back would have been pressed against his broad chest. His breath would have been hot on her nape. That always made her shiver.
And they’d be rocking, hips forward and back, forward and back. That’d be nice, co-ordinated, but nicer if she rocked back as he rocked forward. That might send him a not-so-subtle message.
Fuck subtle!
She pushed back as hard as she could, grinding her bum against his crotch. Henry handed her the reins. His right arm circled her. The buttons of her jacket popped open as if of their own accord. The same happened to those of her blouse. That big hand took hold of the naked softness of her left breast and palpated it, the way she loved.
From the feel of it, he was unzipping his pants. Wanda sucked air, hoping she was right. His left hand fumbled up under her voluminous skirts until his palm covered her bare tummy. His little finger brushed down to find the protruding button of her clit.
It was so good. What next? Something kinky, she hoped.
Somehow, he pushed down on her back, forcing her to wrap her arms around Satan’s mighty neck. The stallion was hot from the gallop. With her cheek pressed against his glossy coat, she could feel the ripple of his powerful muscles. She inhaled the musky aroma of horse sweat. One beast beneath her, another over her … She was trapped between two incredibly powerful male animals and she never wanted to be free.
Henry reared up, over her. He dragged her skirts up to her waist, leaving her bare bum exposed. Somehow, her thong had been lost.
It pressed down, parting her cheeks. She relaxed those special muscles. The pressure became almost painful … and then her sphincter parted and accepted the great dome of Henry’s erection. It paused for a split second before forcing her to accept deep impalement. She was owned.
Satan pounded. Henry thrust. The movements syncopated, then opposed each other, crushing Wanda each time they came together. She had no choice but to surrender, body and soul, accepting the dominance of her beloved master.
Satan accelerated, heading straight for a hedge that had to be six feet high, at least. He soared. Henry pulled back a fraction while they were still in the air.
And Satan thudded onto turf, safe and sound, but that final deepest impalement drove Wanda’s poor body into the most powerful orgasm she’d ever experienced.
Henry, riding Satan beside her and her mount, said, ‘You really gave Blondie a workout there, Wanda. You’re quite the horsewoman. You have an excellent seat.’
Seat? Did he mean …? Of course not. He couldn’t know what she’d been fantasising about, could he?
She said, ‘I’m getting a bit peckish, Henry. Are we far from home?’
‘Can you last another two miles?’
‘Of course.’
‘Come on then.’ He galloped ahead. She cantered after him. Wanda was too drained to gallop.
Two miles took them to a stream that widened into a pond with an impressive weeping willow drooping over it. There, beside a spread-out rug, was a cooler and a great big wicker picnic basket. How on earth had that come to be?
Henry helped her off Blondie and led her by her hand to sprawl on the rug. Their mounts ambled over to the pond to drink. Wanda supposed that Henry knew what he was doing, leaving the horses untethered. He was a horse trainer, after all. If they ran off, she hoped he’d give her a piggy-back all the way home.
‘There’s vichyssoise, three kinds of pâté, some cheeses, a chicken, cold cuts, garlic potato salad, fruit, crackers, butter and fresh baked bread, from Consuela’s kitchen.’
‘In the cooler?’
‘White wine, champagne, sangria and various pops and waters.’
‘We’re here for the week?’
‘That’d be nice. Here, see what you think of this.’ He reached over and held a cracker piled with creamy pâté to her lips.
Wanda lifted up to prop herself on stiff arms. She knew the pose suited her. As she nibbled on the treat, she talked with her eyes, looking straight at Henry, hoping he’d interpret her steamy look correctly.
For a quiet half-hour, he fed her tidbits and sips of wine. Wanda moved her shoulders closer, to emphasise her breasts. Judging from his downward glances, the manoeuvre wasn’t wasted.
Henry drained her glass for her and set it aside. Wanda, anticipating, lay back flat. His face loomed above her. It was the nearest she’d seen it from. It passed close inspection. He leaned in closer. Firm but gentle lips brushed her. Wanda resisted the urge to slip her tongue into his mouth. That initiative was his, the first time. Once the benchmark had been passed, she’d feel free to take the lead. In Wanda’s mind, that was the way with all sexual activities. Once he’d fondled her tits, she’d be justified in guiding his hand to them, when that was what she fancied, which was most, if not all, of the time. The same, or similar, went for intimate fondling, fucking, oral play and anal. Once Henry opened those doors, they’d be permanently unlocked, both ways.
Door one?
He nibbled on her lower lip. She relaxed it, parting her lips slightly. There was a hand on her jacket, flipping buttons undone. He’d been faster in her fantasy. That couldn’t be helped.
With each button that surrendered to his touch, his nibbles became more forceful. As he brushed her jacket open, his tongue, finally, slid into her mouth.
Was this it? Was this the beginning of the rest of her life? Their wedding day would be a milestone, for sure, but if he ‘seduced’ her here, now, that would be their true first union. She had to make sure that they continued to consummation.
She kissed him back, putting all the passion she could into it. His mouth was cinnamon and honey. When his hand passed the barrier of her blouse and cupped her breast, she moaned into his mouth. Daring, she reached behind him, hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants and pulled him fully on top of herself. He squeezed her breast. She sighed. He gave her nipple a little pinch; she gasped and humped up at him. With this much encouragement, no man could retreat. Her thighs spread. Should she steer his hand up under her rumpled skirts? Would tugging his zipper down be more effective? Before Wanda could decide, something buzzed.
Henry lifted up, with a sigh and a ‘Damn!’ He produced a cellphone from somewhere. ‘Yes?’ His face went cold. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Very well.’ He put the cellphone away.
‘Emergency,’ he told Wanda. ‘We have to go back. I have to be in London by ten in the morning, their time.’