Authors: Don Winslow
“Yes M’Lady,” the girl managed to get out through the tightness of her clenched teeth.
With a final yank that caused a shivering gasp, she released the girl’s head, which sank down between huddled shoulders while Flare panted for breath. The imperious Lady ignored her, and went on to continue her discourse.
“Of course the face is a paramount interest, even to a teenage boy, I would assume. Features must be finely drawn and not at all coarse. The eyes are naturally point of interest, for once you’ve learned to read a woman’s eyes she will have no more secrets from you. You may be surprised at what you find there. Oh, you’ll look for love, of course, and maybe you’ll see it, but an even rarer find is the look of sweet submission, like we find in the eyes of a well-trained ponygirl. The nose, here is straight and true, with the slightest flare. And then there are these lips, of course, seductive, succulent, one might even say… provocative.” With that the Lady Ursula took the ponygirl’s lower lip between her thumb and forefinger, pinched it, pulled on it, and rubbed a finger over the pliable lip.
“One should always be sure to check the teeth of a ponygirl.” To demonstrate her ladyship took Flare’s jaw in her hand and squeezed pressing the mouth open to reveal a clenched set of even white teeth. She pressed back the bottom lip.
“Good! Healthy, fit, and well-groomed,” she pronounced, running a hand down the girl’s haunches and giving her a little pat. She looked over at her nephew
“Ah, but you’re such an impetuous young fellow, aren’t you Geoffrey? Impatient, are we? Well, I quite understand. I saw you admiring our girl’s delightful little tits. You were about to cop a feel, I believe. Oh, I know how you’d love to get your hands on them, wouldn’t you? This one’s very proud of her breasts, you know -- as well she might be! Not very big of course, but wide and so firmly out-standing! Almost hard.” she mused, letting a hand trail down the girl’s front pressing with a single finger to indent the soft tittie-flesh before following the rounded curve of the left breast.
“Go on, you may touch her. I know how much you want to,” his aunt’s tone was that of a gracious monarch granting permission. She kept looking in Flare’s eyes even as she acknowledged the throb of longing in the watching lad’s soul. Geoffrey moved, reached out to the girl. His fingers made contact with a light tentative touch.
He used his fingertips to trace over them like a blind man feeling his way over those softly-yielding thickened disks. Flare’s breasts were warm, softly resilient, and wonderfully springy to the touch.
“They’re like fingerprints, uniquely expressive of each individual woman.” His aunt’s voice seemed far away.
Now Geoffrey was using both hands, his touch more sure; his hands, confident. He placed those flattened hands directly on her chest, and began rubbing the slight mounds, moving them liquidly over her chest, savoring the silky smoothness of the skin, the underlying resiliency that gave the taut mounds their springy elasticity.
He became aware of the nipples hardening under his flattened palms, stiffening into hard rubbery pebbles. Flare swayed slightly. She was breathing hard through parted lips as her healthy body responded to the pleasure of masculine hands fondling her needy breasts. What Geoffrey didn’t realize was that the girl he was pleasuring had been craving just the sort of attention he was now providing: his touch, the feel of his young strong hands. What he didn’t know, but had begun to suspect, was that the ponygirls were kept in a constant state of sexual randiness their satisfaction limited to what their own hands could do, or what the hands of another girl could do for them -- for those who were so inclined. But Flare, who clearly preferred male companionship found herself often frustrated, her healthy desires thwarted, except when Lord Basil choose her for some individual attention, or when a thrill passed over her from some incidental contact with one of the grooms. And now this boy, this lovely, gangly boy had come to her, and his big strong hands felt so achingly good. Her nipples, always highly responsive, were even now stiffening under his touch.
Geoffrey was now moving those delightful tits in a slow circular massage, rubbing deeply, and when his hands quit her chest it was so he could better study her excited nipples. They stood out flushing dark and ripe -- seductive nipples begging for attention.
Fascinated, he plucked a nipple between thumb and forefinger, tugged on it, stretching the pliant flesh. Flare’s lashes fluttered, closed down; she arched slightly. He rolled that thickened nipple between his fingers, squeezed, and got a tiny whimper. He tightened his pinching fingers; used a nail to dig into the pliant flesh -- another whimper accompanied the stab of pain that creased her brow as her eyes clenched tight. Still holding onto the girl on her tiptoes by the stretching nipple, he pulled and twisted, as he glanced over to see his aunt was watching him intently.
The ponygirl staggered forward a step. Her head arched back, and she gave out with a full-throated, open-mouthed moan.
“Easy!” his aunt warned the increasingly excited lad. “A girl’s breasts are quite sensitive you know. While it’s true a bit of pain may be desirable on occasion, such discomforts must be judiciously applied. In time you’ll learn that the most exquisite pain has its uses in enhancing the total experience. But while our girls learn to tolerate discomfort, and even find pleasure in certain types of pain, the true connoisseur of such matters appreciates the value of timing and personal restraint. Remember that although your uncle may loan you a ponygirl as your toy from time to time, she is still a living, breathing woman who submits willingly. Cherish her!”
Geoffrey wasn’t quite sure he understood all of that, but he took the cautionary words as a warning that he was to quit the ponygirl’s heaving, lightly-sweating bosom.
He withdrew his hand, leaving the girl standing there with hardened nipples protruding, as he turned to his aunt, fearful that she was about to call an end to his most enjoyable “lesson.”
“Yes, best to move on, I think.” The words elated him. She looked at her nephew thoughtfully. “Go on, darling. Touch her…down there… she wants you to, you know. Do you know how you can tell when a girl wants your touch? Simply place your hand on her pussy, and if she’s wet between the legs, as this one is, well, that’s a sure sign.”
Young Geoffrey needed no further urging. His fingertips barely touched the puff of curly hair on Flare’s mounded pubis. Her eyes flickered, but she didn’t move a muscle. Geoffrey sampled her pubic hair. His fingers passed over the softness of her vulva in a light caress and then drifted lower to slide along the slit. He gripped her, palmed her vulva, and through it all, Flare remained perfectly still; arms at her sides, body held rigid. Now the boy’s curious fingers began exploring those rubbery lips, and there he discovered the wetness that his aunt had predicted he would find between the ponygirl’s legs.
Aunt Ursula put a hand on his shoulder, leaned in closer. “Go on.” she urged in a low husky voice, her hot breath burning his ear, sending a shiver through him. “Fiddle around down there a bit till you find her hole, then use your finger…the middle one is best…stick it in her.”
Looking into Flare’s dark and brooding eyes, he cupped the girl’s furry sex, probed the moist folds with his middle finger, and was amazed at how quickly and easily it slipped right up into the tense ponygirl.
The pussy his finger explored was warm, incredibly hot, and wet. He moved the finger experimentally and felt the heat, the wet slickness, and the silky smooth inner walls of the female vagina for the very first time. He couldn’t believe it: he had his finger up a girl’s cunt! He was wildly excited. It was heavenly!
“That’s right, dear. Now move your finger….up and down.”
Flare’s eyes widened when the finger lodged inside her began to move. He poked even higher till he held the girl by the wet crotch with the finger completely buried up her cunt. Geoffrey knew what to do. He had read all about it. This was what they called “finger-fucking” -- when you stuck a finger up a girl’s pussy and jiggled it a bit.
Flare bit her lip; he worked her up with his fingers; jiggling his wrists, wriggling his probing finger. Her eyes widened and she moaned. And that little cry of passion fired his lust.
“Faster,” his aunt coached in a demanding hiss.
Driven by his own surging passion, his pumping hand sped up. The girl wiggled excitedly, fell forward. Her hips began to rock; tiny whimpers were coming from between her tightly-pressed lips.
The lust-crazed lad finger-fucked the girl even more furiously; his wrist became a blur. Her eyes were closed and she threw back her head and collapsed against him, rubbing her naked body up along his length. Her hips were churning as she urgently ground her swollen clitoris against his plunging wrist, humping, riding the pistoning hand that was sending waves of creamy pleasure ripping through her writing body. And in this way, the passions of Flare were unleashed by the boy, and the ponygirl rode to a thundering orgasm.
“I think we could declare your first lesson a success,” Geoffrey’s aunt dryly observed, watching Flare shudder massively, and with a long wavering moan, collapse to her knees.
But Weekends Are Mine!
Even though she had been with the company for almost two years, her fellow workers knew very little about Marcia Sokolowski. To them she seemed rather plain, mousy girl, small and slightly-built who never had much to say, and seldom smiled. Her clothes were drab and uninspired, mostly somber business suits. When she first started, her co-workers would drop in for a chat, but after a few weeks, she took to keeping the door to her office closed, and the visits soon stopped.
Marcia brushed aside the offers of friendship from the other girls at work. They found her cold, and mostly indifferent to happenings in office. The guys knew she was not a girl to joke around with, in fact she seemed to make no more effort to be sociable to the men in the office than she did to the woman. At first she was invited to go out with the gang for drinks on Friday afternoons, but she always seemed to have some excuse, and soon those invitations stopped coming. All in all, Ms. Sokolowki was written off as a rather dull, uninteresting type, whose life seemed to be limited to her small apartment and her two cats.
Marcia eased open her office door and cautiously stuck her head out, looking up and down quickly, to be sure the hallway was empty; her escape path, clear. Snatching up her purse and a light coat, she scurried in rapid strides down the carpeted hall toward the back stairway, her heart pounding all the way. At all costs she had to avoid the elevators and the front lobby with the ever-present Shirley behind her receptionist’s desk. By using the utility stairs at the back of the building, it was unlikely that anyone from the office would see her ducking out early, really much too early -- even if it was a Friday afternoon.
Once in the protective shell of the cement stairwell, she flew down the five flights of stairs, and plowed her way through the solid metal door at the bottom to find the freedom of the parking lot. Dashing across the asphalt, she jumped into her waiting Camry, and made her escape.
Marcia was sitting erect, her hands white-knuckled on the wheel, her body tingling in wild anticipation. She drove, much too recklessly, ignoring stop signs, speeding through the narrow city streets as she headed towards the beltway.
The silver Camry smoothly surged onto the beltway and began passing cars that whipped by in rapid blurs as Marcia drove with eyes straight ahead, her serious mien set in grim determination.
The Camry careened off the beltway ramp and onto the country road without slowing very much, taking her further into the softly rolling hills. This was horse country, unbelievably vibrant green fields, with their imposing estates and neat stables, secure behind mile after mile of white wooden fences. Another sudden turn had the little car swaying drunkenly, the wheels scrambling on a gravel path before finding the traction to send it speeding more confidently along the long and winding road towards the place they called “Chelsea Farms.”
The Camry came to shuddering halt in the gravel parking lot. Marcia grabbed her overnight bag, but left her purse and her keys in the car -- as instructed. Tingling with excitement she walked briskly to the path that would take her up a small hill to the training stables.
Striding with her head high, she was halfway up the rise when she was stopped in her tracks by a quiver of keen anticipation that knifed through her, taking her breath away. At that point, somewhere along that path between her car and the stable’s entrance, Marcia Sokolowski, businesswoman had become Silky the Ponygirl.
In time, the perverse desires of Marcia Sokolowski had crystallized to a need, the need of an addict, a burning, all-consuming obsession. Nothing else mattered. Every Friday, without fail, she headed straight from work to the training stables; early on Monday mornings she drove directly back to the office. She thought about nothing else all week long, going through the motions at work, her thoughts always returning to Chelsea Farm, to the weekend she would spend bound in her trappings, thrilled to serve…as a ponygirl!
With single-minded purpose, she scurried down the corridor to the changing room. It was a wide and spacious room, comfortably warm and well lit, with a row of lockers along the far wall; the side walls were mirrored from floor to ceiling. She was mildly surprised to find the room was empty. Still it was early; the others were bound to be rushing in later. By Seven, they would all be properly outfitted and in their place.
Now the plain-suited business woman stopped before the locker that bore the name “Silky” neatly lettered on a strip of tape. She opened the locker, and began taking off her clothes, her hands moving in a most perfunctory manner, simply undoing the two-piece business suit, slipping out of it, folding it neatly. With the same casual indifference, she removed the slate blue blouse that hung loosely past her hips. Reaching up behind her, her fingers found the catch of her bra. She brushed the loosely dangling straps off her arms, baring her modest breasts to the warm slightly moist air of the changing room.