Spanked and Fucked in a Stable by a Stranger
- 1 month ago
- 22 min read
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Six Sundays in a row his brooding gaze has scorched from the twilight shadows of the ménage. Black eyes narrowed, expression sulky, he’s visually devoured my body with a fierce intensity as I’ve struggled to maintain my cool, professional image.
Standing alone as he was, away from the more sociable parents, I initially assumed he was concentrating on his daughter’s dressage skills, but before long I realized it was me, her tutor, he was fixating on each week for a full hour and a half.
Now, as I turn my back to watch the trotting ride, I can feel his greedy gaze devouring my jodhpur-encased rear. This knowledge thrills me and I roll my hips for his enjoyment. I sashay—just a little—as I move through the barky mulch explaining the fineries of smooth transitions. I appreciate his attention, really I do.
I have a spare riding crop stuck into my left boot. It leaves my hands free for adjusting stirrups, tightening girths and gesturing to the letters around the school and is a quirky habit I’ve always had. As I’m stepping toward his daughter the slightly pliable rod slaps against my thigh. It flicks backward and forward in time with my pace like a musician’s metronome. “Here you go, Emily,” I say, whipping it out and handing it up to her. “You need to get used to holding a crop even if you’re not going to use it.” I smile at the pretty teen as she nods and adjusts it into the grip of her reins.
I throw a glance at her father. His attention hits me full on, steady and unwavering and drinking me up like a man dying of thirst. My knees weaken, my ears buzz and my chest tightens. In my otherwise formal, asexual world of dressage he’s a refreshing dose of pure, unadulterated testosterone. He looks positively wild. A barely contained stallion cooperating with his tamer—just.
I wish I’d brought a crate to sit on. Each week he affects my blood flow more and more, reduces my concentration and sends my highly regarded teaching skills into a scatter of nerves. He’s so tall, so broad and so damn handsome.
Today he’s wrapped in a dense, black winter coat, one gloved hand shoved deep into his pockets whilst the other circles a mug of steaming liquid. Maybe I just imagine him watching me each week. I’ve never even heard him speak. I only know he breathes because of the plume of cold air steaming around his head like a bad boy’s halo. Excitement churns through me at the thought of just how bad someone like him could be. What would happen if the hunger pouring from his eyes demanded to be satisfied? What would happen if I were the one to satisfy it? I clear my dry throat and return to explaining the next exercise, try my hardest to focus whilst wrapped in thoughts of sating his appetite.
The final lesson of the day draws to an end and I instruct my six riders to dismount. They lead their horses into the chill of the winter evening, past the dark hay barn and into the long row of amber-lit stalls. As forecast it’s starting to snow and big, determined flakes float through the weak lights of the yard and settle on the straw-littered cobbles.
It will take thirty minutes for the juniors to untack their ponies, buckle New Zealand rugs and give the saddles a soaping. It’s a clever ploy to add stable management to the end of the last lesson. The helpers do what’s essentially my job and their waiting parents pay for the privilege. I’ve added a free coffee machine in the viewing area and no one seems to have cottoned on to my devious, but never the less, entrepreneurial idea.
I decide to make the most of this free time and head into the cavernous barn to load nets for the liveries. The sweet scent of hay fills my nose like a wave of incense and I pause at the entrance to let my eyes adjust to the inky darkness. Teens have been playing in here again, mounds of bales have been arranged to form a staggered wall and what looks like a tall castle turret. I smile. It’s what they should be doing, who cares if it’s not the neatest barn in the world.
My feet are silent as I move to a half-used bale and bend to unhook its tight orange string. It’s awkward and with my butt in the air I fumble in the darkness, struggling to release the sharp cord of knots.
Suddenly I’m aware of a long, thin pressure on my left buttock. Firm and solid it presses against the give of my flesh.
My breath snatches. I know exactly what it is.
It’s my own crop!
I don’t bother to straighten. Instead I twist my torso and see a silhouette standing at my left shoulder. A man with broad, square shoulders and a mop of wayward curls towers next to me. I should be indignant at the personal, inappropriate touch from someone I don’t know, but instead I feel a sudden knot of pleasure rock through my body. After all, I’ve been fantasizing about this bloke for weeks.
The chilled skin on my buttock soars to hypersensitivity as the crop continues to exert a confident pressure. A deep roll of excited anticipation lurches in my stomach. He’s so close, only feet away. Lining my crop up against me and touching me intimately but at the same time distantly.
He says nothing—neither do I.
After a moment of bending before him I shift my backside a fraction, the smallest twitch of a movement, just to see what he’ll do.
The pressure releases, there’s a brief hiss in the cold air and then a sting sears through my jodhpurs and onto the delicate skin of my butt. A shard of lightening, a second of sweet torture. It heats my cold flesh and buzzes my pain receptors to life.
A squeak of shock escapes my lips. I can’t believe he did what I wanted him to do—I didn’t even know I wanted him to do it. I curl my hands into the string I was struggling with. He hit me, he’s never even spoken to me but he’s so self-assured he’s gone straight for a kinky, sharp spank. My head floods with excitement. It’s been a long time since I felt something new.
I let the heat travel and pool between my thighs, and to my surprise it swells my hidden folds and a pleasurable hum settles in my clit. A thought enters my head that if he treats the other cheek the buzz will multiply. I stay bent over the hay bale, shift slightly and to my delight he takes full advantage of the opportunity. He lines up the crop on my right buttock. I hear it sail through the air and that brief nanosecond between knowing it’s coming and the pain of the hit is the most delicious anticipation I’ve ever known.
I revel in the heated discomfort, lap it up. He’s given it so easily. The hum in my clit escalates to a hungry pull and I feel myself turning full on. Who is this guy?
I straighten and face him. He can see my lusty expression because the orange glow from the yard is flowing around me, but he’s as black as night to my eyes. Only the rough curls of his hair and the shape of his tall outline are visible. He is perfectly motionless, not even a twitch of the crop which now hangs limp from his hand.
I want more. Much more. No man has ever touched me like that and my desire is so sudden and all consuming that my head is no longer in control of my body.
I neglect my fine leather crop, which I presume he’s returning, and step backward into the deeper shadows of the barn. I climb over scattered bales and disappear around the tall turret the teens made. I lean against the scratchy wall and beat down thoughts of rational, lucid behaviour; I don’t want them interfering with my moment of revelation.
I wait in the dark silence. The biting cold now a welcome blast to my fevered state. Will he follow me? Did I read it all wrong? Damn, what’s going on?
His bulky presence rounds on me, draws up at my side and immediately invades my personal space. It’s so pitch black the whites of his eyes are the only thing I can truly make out. That and the heat blazing off his body like a roaring fire.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice husky and needy.
He takes a step closer and I sense him staring down at me, though how he can see I have no idea. After a few, painful, drawn out seconds, just as I’m about to bolt, my mouth is caught. Hard and urgent his lips press down and his tongue forces mine to part for his delicious invasion.
I melt, open up for him, thoughts of bolting fly from my mind. He tastes of strong, black coffee, warm and intoxicating. A whirl of male pheromones floods my senses and cranks up my lust level. I lean against him and curl my hands over his shoulders. His coat is rough under my open palms. I want it off, I want to feel him, make sure he’s real. I slip my fingers under his collar and shove. He doesn’t seem to mind and the weighty garment drops with a whoosh to the hay-filled floor. I return to his marble-hard shoulders and sense a thick woollen jumper covering unnervingly powerful muscles. He could have hit me so much harder. I shiver at the thought.
His arms have locked around my puffer jacket. One secured around my shoulders and the other around my waist, squeezing me tight as he kisses as though his life depends on it. I pull away a fraction, fighting to breathe and his lips dip to my neck, sending a stream of fluttering butterflies across my scalp and to my aching tits. Damn, he’s one hell of a kisser.
He releases me and I miss him instantly. I hear the zipper on my jacket. Fast and urgent it whizzes free and he shoves it to the floor the way I shoved his. The cold doesn’t even register. We’re creating our own fiery heat in the shadowed depths of the barn.
He runs his hands down my torso, dips into my waist and over the flare of my hips, travels farther to the raw heat of my still supersensitive buttocks. I let out a little whimper but he silences me with his mouth. Big palms squeeze through my jodhpurs, kneading and massaging the sting. My legs turn to jelly at the reminder of searing pain. Still I want more.
He seems to sense this because he sinks to the floor and pulls at my riding boots, first one then the other. He pushes to his knees and I can’t resist running my hands through his thick hair while he undoes my jodhpurs and rolls them down my legs along with my knickers. With an impatient tug they’re removed and my entire bottom half is exposed to the elements. Cool fresh air rushes to meet my hot, private flesh and reminds me where we are. We can’t do this, not here. Surely not.
I feel him lift my leg and realize he’s putting my boots back onto my bare calves. A tidal wave of panic spreads over me. What if someone comes? Some teens or one of the parents. What if someone comes and I’m standing in long black boots and a thermal fleece but minus my jodhpurs and underwear? My reputation as the best show tutor in the county will be in tatters.
I wriggle against his determined hands and step back, with every intention of finding my jodhpurs. I need to get them on and make a break for it.
I’m forcefully shoved against the hay and it scratches mean little points into my butt cheeks. “Hey," I protest in a whisper. But then I feel him drop and loosen my thighs with his hands. His cheek presses against the hot skin over my left hip. I tremble in his grip and forget about making a run for it. I can barely dare hope what he might do next. How the hell will I stay standing?
And then he sets to it. With a skilful swirl of his mouth he parts my ripe flesh and his tongue arrows through the soft folds surrounding my clitoris. He catches the hard little nub in a wet kiss and begins a gentle sucking motion. Stars explode before my eyes and I jab my hands onto his shoulders for support, pull in a long, low hiss of air.
I arch my back as his questing fingers search out my juices. I’m so wet for him. His suction releases and his tongue begins to flick over my clit as one of his cool fingers finds my opening. He pushes in and stretches me. I let out a tight sigh and collapse against the hay wall behind me. He adds another finger and they bend within me; hit that super sensitive spot. “Oh, God, I can’t… I can’t stand up for this,” I moan quietly, as the friction inside becomes overwhelming. I’m close, so close. Rubbing against my G-spot is making my clit pulse in warning, and it’s swelling and demanding relief. I drop harder onto him and feel the pressure from his mouth increase. The sizzle of an impending release shoots along my spine. So close. I’m going to come in the barn. So close.
Then he’s gone, out, away. I’m empty, alone.
I open my eyes to the blackness, ready to scream with frustration. I was just about to have a raging orgasm and he pulled away. Damn him!
But he’s still there, in the shadows, right in front of me. He kisses me to silence my despair and I can taste myself on his lips, musky and feminine—the opposite of him. God, I want to sample his flavour.
His hands spread on my shoulders and he spins me to face the hay tower. He raises my arms above my head and with his foot pushes apart my legs. My body feels boneless with frustration, weak and indignant. I’m at his mercy. I love it.
“More?” he growls, a demand as much as question. Lust drips from his deep voice and I feel the crop press on my bare buttocks. This time there will be no material to soften the blow. I do want more. I want to know what it feels like to be spanked on naked flesh. But can I? Dare I? Here?
“Yes,” I plead into a bale. I need to know. It’s all I need to know at this moment in time. “Yes.”
The crop cracks across my right cheek, hard and sharp, a single blow. Just as I think it doesn’t hurt too bad the pain blossoms to a rising heat, getting stronger and hotter. “Ah… ah… ah,” I mouth into the hay.
I feel something in front of my face, it’s not his lips, it’s a glove made of thick fleece material and he offers it to bite on. “Shhh,” he breathes by my ear.
I nod. I’ll be good. No more sounds. I just want him to do it again. I want to feel that heat bloom to my clit and make it pulse and jump some more. A few seconds later another burst of pain breaks right through the first one, then there’s a third leathery thwack against my tormented skin. I grip the hay, pull out handfuls and chew down on the glove. I don’t like it, I can’t stand it. I adore it, I want him to go for a fourth.
He swats at my cheeks again and then aims one for my thighs, the pain changes, endorphins are being released. Now it’s all pleasure. Every single stroke buzzes me to a wonderfully hypersensitive state. Reality fades and I feel the orgasm calling again. It will take so little to tip me over. He strikes some more, controlled but heated, each hurt a blur as it builds the bigger picture. I reach down and push my hand between my legs, fumble for a way of releasing the pressure.
“SHERRY… SHERRY…!” A teenage voice breaks through my crazy new world. “ARE YOU IN THERE, SHERRY?”
One of the helpers is in the doorway of the barn. Shit, shit, shit, rings through my head in a mantra of panic. There’ll be no time to dress or hide if she ventures in to look for me.
She shouts out again. “Sherry, are you in there? I think Freddie’s saddle is splitting on the pommel. Can you take a look?”
Neither of us moves; we don’t make a sound, we don’t even breathe for fear of discovery. I couldn’t care less about a split pommel, all I can think of is my naked ass being beaten in public by a complete stranger.
“Is she in there?” A familiar voice joins the hunt for me.
“No, I don’t think so, Emily. She must be down the bottom field.”
“Just wait for her to get back then, its too cold to go all that way. You can clean the bridle for now.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
To my giddy relief their footsteps drift away and their high-pitched chatter fades.
I drop my hands from the ragged hay and release the glove from my mouth. My arse is on fire, my pussy demanding attention, but I can’t do this. Not here. Not now. The risks are too great. That was too bloody close.
He apparently has other ideas and before I can utter a word he’s on me. His tongue plunges into my mouth and his arms pull me to the floor beneath him. “We can’t…” I whimper, fighting to hold onto my thin thread of sanity.
“Sh…” he soothes, his dense weight pinning me to the carpet of hay. Sharp little spikes prod at my bare bottom and the tops of my legs. He kisses me hard and I feel his erection shoving against my naked mound, offering its glorious length and girth even through his trousers, rubbing me, tempting me.
Thinking gives way to feeling.
I kiss him back. We have to get on with this—quick.
He takes the hint and rocks to his heels. I make out his bent shoulders, hear the zipper of his fly and smell latex from a condom. Then he’s back over me, determined and heavy. He’s going to be big and hard and in one hell of a rush. I throb with longing and tremble with anticipation.
But he has other ideas, instead of going for a fast missionary he grabs my legs and folds my knees onto the thick material of the top I’m still wearing. He then loops my booted feet over his wide shoulders and pulls my burning buttocks up onto his bent knees. I whimper in frustration. I need to be filled. Now. I just want him to get on with it in the most efficient way possible. Nothing fancy when we’re playing with fire.
He nudges with his cock to find my damp opening, takes aim and then in one sharp thrust buries to the hilt. The whole length of him pushes up against my cervix and his width spreads me wider than ever before. I go to cry in pain and delight but no sound emerges. His hand is clamped across my mouth. I can’t tell him how good it feels to have his hard wedge of flesh burning me on the inside the same way he’s scorched me on the out.
He pulls back a fraction and then shoves in with a barely audible grunt of approval. Totally dominant, perversely confident he’s silk on steel. I can hardly move as he thrusts again and again.
He removes his hand from my mouth and I bite hard on my lip, taste a draw of blood. The hay weaves into my hair and clothes as I’m rammed several inches upward and then pulled back down with his demanding thrusts.
Swirls of delicious, greedy sensations pump through my vagina. Breath-taking electricity jumps to my clit. The tension builds, grows, mounts, one more hard pound and I’ll rollercoaster over the edge of heaven. I need it now. I hold a breath in tormented anticipation of the explosion.
“What the fuck!” he swears and backs out of me with a slippery jump.
The hay by my ear rustles and I tense to the point of actually breaking bones. My legs drop from his shoulders and I feel a pressure land on my chest.
It’s the damn stable cat.
“Get the hell out of here,” I hiss furiously and push to my elbows to shift Fluff’s inquisitive body.
“Meow…” He leaps with suitable indignation and melts into the darkness. I can feel my heartbeats skipping dangerously. I may well be having a heart attack. “We should stop, this is too dangerous,” I gasp.
Within a second I’m flat on my back and being rammed into again, unable to voice any further opinion. His tongue plunges into my mouth in time with his thrusting hips. My legs are free at his side leaving his pubis perfectly positioned to connect with my clit. Over and over and over he grinds. I arch my hips to greet his. This is too good to walk away from. Could a person die of pleasure? Could a person die of shame?
I’m panting, desperate for oxygen. The cold whooshing into my lungs and mixing with the heat of his urgency is a potent drug. Sweat rises over me and need races across my nerve endings. “Don’t,” I whisper by his ear. “Don’t stop…”
His lips find my neck and he sucks—hard—to the point of more pain, and I know he’s loosing control. Deep within me his cock goes as rigid. He’s as near to coming as I am.
“God, yes… yes,” he hisses into my hair, his voice harsh and hoarse.
His approval sends me reeling. Heat erupts on my flesh as my eyes flash open to the darkness. A low, guttural moan rumbles to the tip of my tongue only to be devoured by his hot mouth. His hips jerk with unimaginable power as his cock flays my nerve endings into a blissful state of no return. Pleasure overtakes me, holds me high on the precipice between the build up and the inevitable convulsions, and then, then I let myself fall into oblivion.
His whole body bucks above me and he joins me in the same climactic moment of euphoria. “Oh, yes… there, baby, that’s good… God, you’re so fucking good.” It’s the most he’s ever said to me.
He drives deeper still. My internal muscles spasm and clench him, squeeze out every second of his orgasm and mix it with my own in a wild caress of joy.
His cheek slides against my face, rough and sharp with stubble. He tries to internalise his primeval groan but doesn’t manage. I cushion it in my mouth to keep us as quiet as possible.
His weight slumps, squashes down on me. He’s heavy and uncomfortable but I rejoice in his all-consuming exhaustion. The exhaustion I’m responsible for.
The moment doesn’t last long. All too soon he’s up and out, leaving me empty and hollow. My jodhpurs land in a heap on my lap and he pulls at my boots. With shaking, fumbling fingers I undo the knot of my trousers and knickers and slip them on. He offers his hand and pulls me upright. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. God, what did we just do? It was foolhardy, irresponsible, kinky and daring. My breathing is barely under control.
I slip into my boots and hunt for my jacket. It’s strewn on a bale to the right. I shrug it on and he twines his big fingers with mine, straightens his own heavy coat and runs a hand through his wild hair.
We walk around the turret and into the window of light dribbling in from the yard. At the doorway we stop and look at the fat snowflakes floating silently from the night sky. I don’t want to speak and spoil the magic of our post coital moment. This feels too perfect.
After a full minute he turns to me and says, “I’m Blake by the way.” He offers a tilt of his lips, a smile but not quite.
“Sherry,” I say, and then feel stupid because he knows my name.
A stampede of wellies suddenly heads toward us. Emily and her friends skid across the yard, snowballs filling their palms and hoots of delight echoing around the stable block. “Hey, Dad, take this,” she shouts, hurling a lump of snow through the air.
Blake ducks and it lands inside the barn, missing its target. He straightens and turns to me and I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen his expression anything other than sombre. His whole face is alight. He looks happy, alive. Creases gather around the corners of his dark eyes and I notice how white and straight his teeth are as he laughs. He should do it more often.
Still smiling, he reaches out and dips his fingers into my hair and retrieves a long piece of hay with a seeded end. He shows it to me briefly before tossing it over his shoulder. “You want to go get some food?” he asks.
I see a sinful flash in his eyes and know it’s an offer of wicked dessert rather than a wholesome dinner.
I nod. I’m still hungry.
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