by Severin Rossett
Her hand in his, he led her up the stairs and along the corridor to the playroom. Her haughty arrogance had annoyed him when he first mentioned the room, the condescending way she had said “how interesting” when he had told her of his collection of toys. As If such things were beneath her, as if such a passion on his part could be no passion at all, but indicative of a solitary man’s sad life.
She had been persuaded to see, though, if only to humour him. And now she would learn, about passion.
“They are mainly Victorian in my collection,” he told her, as they reached a final shallow flight of stairs at the end of the corridor and mounted them. “The Victorians were not the dull people they are made out to be,” he said, as he produced a key and slipped it into the lock. “They too had their secrets, their passions, their dark desires.”
“Really?” she said, stifling a yawn as she waited for him to turn the key.
“Oh yes, as dark as yours,” he smiled, finally unlocking the door, and as he pushed it inwards he caught a glint of interest in her steel grey eyes. “After you,” he gestured.
The room was dimly lit, lights flickering to resemble weak yellow gas lamps, making shadows dance slowly across the walls. In the amber gloom she could make out cabinets and shelves bearing all manner of objects; soft toys and tin automata, porcelain dolls and carved ivory figures. In the centre of the room, though, dominating all and commanding her attention, was a large wooden rocking horse.
It stood the size of a pony, exquisitely carved, the wood polished and lacquered, its mane and tail of coarse white hair.
Slowly he led her towards it.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“There’s some craftsmanship there,” she conceded, touching her hand to its polished flank. The wood felt warm, as if the beast breathed, and she ran her fingers along it. “Yes, there’s no denying its well made.”
He let her stroke the horse for a moment, then asked, “Would you like to sit astride it, perhaps? Its polished flanks would feel so good against your thighs.”
She withdrew her hand sharply, as if the horse had snapped at her. “Oh, I think not!” she laughed nervously.
Of course! Such childish amusements would be beneath such a haughty woman!
“Just for a moment?” he pressed. “There’s no one else to see. And I did say the Victorians had their secrets. The horse is not all it seems to be.”
Her curiosity was piqued, she offered him a cautious smile. “Well…”
“Come on!” he grinned, his hand in the small of her back to urge her forward. “You could be a child once again. Laugh with joy for once, rather than out of disdain.”
“I’d have to pull up my skirt, or I can’t get astride it,” she said. “Help me?”
“Or naked perhaps?” he suggested. “Bareback riding? You could pretend to be galloping naked through the night.”
She frowned and hitched up her skirt, held out her hand to him. With his other hand steadying the horse, he helped her climb onto it.
“Now put your feet in the stirrups, take hold of the reins,” he told her, and when she was settled took his hand from the horse. It rocked gently beneath her weight, an inch or two forward, an inch or two back.
She smiled once more, her manner now less aloof. “I can almost feel its heart beating between my legs.”
“They say horse-riding can be exciting for a woman, all that raw power between your thighs. Lean forward,” he told her. “Take tight hold.”
Her fingers clenched around the leather reins, she bowed her head forward and the horse dipped a little.
“But did you not see the hole in the saddle?” he asked, stopping the horse’s movement for a moment.
“I did wonder,” she admitted.
“About its purpose, perhaps?”
“Yes.”
Grinning, he gave the horse’s rump a push and it rocked forward again. And as it rocked forward, as she bent over its neck, a polished wooden phallus slid up from the hole and slipped smoothly inside her.
“Good grief!” she gasped, her head snapping up, and the horse rocked back so that the phallus slipped out of her.
“Nice, eh?” he asked her. “With each dip forward it slips inside you, with each rock back it slips out. A silly place for a horse to have a cock, I know, but… nice?”
“God yes!”
He had only given the horse a gentle push, and soon it came to a halt. He looked into her face, his eyes questioning, asking… more?
She grinned back at him.
“Okay, gently now,” he said, and gave the horse another push.
It rocked, back and forth, back and forth, the phallus slipping in and out of her seven, eight, nine times.. She gasped and tightened her thighs, but with each rock the movements of the horse got slower, shallower.
“Does that frustrate you?” he guessed.
“Push me harder!” she demanded.
“One moment, I have an idea,” he said, set the horse rocking slowly so that the phallus just teased the lips of her cunt, and then moved away, crossed the room.
And then, just as the horse was slowing to a halt once more, she heard him return, his step quick, his stride urgent. She wondered, heard a “swish” along with his laughter.
“How do we make the horse go faster?” he asked, and struck a riding crop across her buttocks. “Why we beat it of course!”
She screamed as her body lurched forwards, driving the phallus deep inside her. Again he hit her and she sobbed, moaned, with each stroke she was made to bend lower over the horse until she was rocking back and forth in a frenzy.
“Gee up! Faster!” he said, and with each stroke she dipped lower until the only thing keeping her on the horse was the wooden cock inside her. “Ride! Ride like the wind!”
Her buttocks were stinging now, he stroked them with the crop as he let the horse’s movements subside until it came to a rest.
“But perhaps there is a gentler way to do this?” he mused, and she looked over her shoulder to see him taking off his clothes.
Naked, he climbed onto the horse behind her, wrapping his arms around her and starting the horse gently rocking again. He tapped the crop lightly against her thigh as he thrust his body against hers, increasing their movement, then brought his face alongside hers as he whispered, kissing her ear as he said, “But if you ride the horse and I ride you…”
“Yes?” she sighed, feeling the phallus begin to pump rhythmically in and out of her once more.
“Perhaps you should be wearing a bridle!”
Even as she opened her mouth to protest she felt cold steel between her teeth, leather straps around her face, binding her and cutting into her cheeks.
“A bit and a bridle! Now I can ride you!” he laughed, pressing his body hard against hers so that the rocking horse lurched forward and the phallus drove deeper than ever into her.
Then he leaned back, pulled on her bridle so that she had to stifle a gasp behind the bit. His added weight made the horse move faster, dip lower, rear higher. The phallus went deeper and harder inside her and he slapped the crop against her thigh as he urged her on. She gasped, but with pleasure now, and each time the horse dipped low his weight bore down on her, slamming her onto the wooden cock. It was as if the horse was alive now and she gave herself up to the pleasure it afforded. It moved as if of its own volition so he released the reins, moved his hands to her breasts to pinch her nipples as they fell back, squeezed them firmly each time they fell forward.
He kissed her neck, whispered in her ear as he galloped her to an orgasm, she moaned in time with the rocking motion and each time the horse dipped forward his own hardening cock now slipped up her back.
“I will come,” he warned her. “Over your back, over your buttocks.”
His promise made her shudder, she felt him hold her tighter still, as tight as her cunt gripped the phallus, and a cry escaped from deep inside her as his body stiffened, trembled. He was hard and hot and wet against her and the phallus slid in and out more slowly now, then slower still, slower, until it slipped smoothly from her.
Then they were motionless, his embrace was soft, her heart was racing and the power of the beast thrummed steadily between her thighs.
