those sleeping in the house. They might have thought they’d heard the death throes of some animal caught in a trap. Susannah almost fainted. The force of the blow made her swing to and fro like a human pendulum.
She waited to be whipped again, conscious enough now to worry about the way her breasts might be scarred. But waves of nausea swept through her as she braced herself, wondering where the next lash would land. He made her wait...
He must have moved his position without her hearing anything.
It was her already tender bottom that received the full force of the second stroke.
Again, she thought she saw lights flicker in the darkness under her blindfold, felt her mind detach itself from her ravaged body, float above somewhere to observe; for a few seconds, she supposed it took no longer, she looked down as dispassionately as she might look at slaughtered carcasses in an abattoir. Then as mind and body fused again, pain engulfed her.
***
‘Race you to the stones!’ he challenged her.
It was months after they had entered their strange, intense relationship.
The cairn, commonly referred to as ‘the stones’, had been there as long as they and generations before them could remember. There were references in local history books going back a long way. Some people said there was a slab under it that had been part of a pre-Christian stone circle. Beyond the cairn was a scarp, a sharp drop to the valley where the river ran its course. All along the valley the cairn was a landmark, perched in its prime position.
It was permissible to add stones to the cairn, although it was higher than Malcolm, who was six feet tall; the trouble was there were few if any stones on the level part of the heath. There was scree on the slope directly below the cairn but you had to be brave or foolhardy to scrabble about there just to add your stone for posterity; consequently the only people who did were young risk takers usually emboldened by drink.
Susannah had done it with a group of friends when they’d all been very drunk.
She thought for seconds that she might not follow Malcolm, who was riding his horse Major, but recognising he was trying to improve her foul mood, she urged her horse forward in pursuit. There was enough distance to the stones for her to give Malcolm a head start and still catch him in a contrived photo finish.
Once or twice he raised himself high in the saddle and took a look behind, judging the distance between them.
She gained ground, feeling the thrill of releasing the mare’s full power and her mood lifted. She pictured the way it would end, in laughter as it always did. They hadn’t yet grown tired of this little ritual. It might seem that Malcolm was in control, that he had the responsibility for engineering the perfect finish, but Susannah had her part to play, either by holding Silver Cloud back at the last second or coaxing a final surge. It wasn’t easy to control her at the end. Riders and horses had to be perfectly attuned. But finishing together was important or Malcolm had to win by a head or a length at most. It was part of the understanding between them.
The two horses were almost together, stride for stride, hooves pounding, the stones looming up before them. A few more metres. Susannah strained to judge it right, concentrating hard, trying to apply just the right amount of pressure to the mare’s flanks with her legs. She was on Malcolm’s left side…they flew past the cairn exactly together…and veered to the left. Suddenly she realised Malcolm was not turning but galloping straight ahead. He was leaving it desperately late. What was he playing at?
She saw him disappear over the edge, an image she would see over and over in her mind’s eye. He’d ridden straight ahead, not turning at all. She wasn’t aware that he’d lost control, there were no signs of panic, but it was only split seconds. He looked almost serene.
Afterwards she remembered she’d screamed out his
She waited to be whipped again, conscious enough now to worry about the way her breasts might be scarred. But waves of nausea swept through her as she braced herself, wondering where the next lash would land. He made her wait...
He must have moved his position without her hearing anything.
It was her already tender bottom that received the full force of the second stroke.
Again, she thought she saw lights flicker in the darkness under her blindfold, felt her mind detach itself from her ravaged body, float above somewhere to observe; for a few seconds, she supposed it took no longer, she looked down as dispassionately as she might look at slaughtered carcasses in an abattoir. Then as mind and body fused again, pain engulfed her.
***
‘Race you to the stones!’ he challenged her.
It was months after they had entered their strange, intense relationship.
The cairn, commonly referred to as ‘the stones’, had been there as long as they and generations before them could remember. There were references in local history books going back a long way. Some people said there was a slab under it that had been part of a pre-Christian stone circle. Beyond the cairn was a scarp, a sharp drop to the valley where the river ran its course. All along the valley the cairn was a landmark, perched in its prime position.
It was permissible to add stones to the cairn, although it was higher than Malcolm, who was six feet tall; the trouble was there were few if any stones on the level part of the heath. There was scree on the slope directly below the cairn but you had to be brave or foolhardy to scrabble about there just to add your stone for posterity; consequently the only people who did were young risk takers usually emboldened by drink.
Susannah had done it with a group of friends when they’d all been very drunk.
She thought for seconds that she might not follow Malcolm, who was riding his horse Major, but recognising he was trying to improve her foul mood, she urged her horse forward in pursuit. There was enough distance to the stones for her to give Malcolm a head start and still catch him in a contrived photo finish.
Once or twice he raised himself high in the saddle and took a look behind, judging the distance between them.
She gained ground, feeling the thrill of releasing the mare’s full power and her mood lifted. She pictured the way it would end, in laughter as it always did. They hadn’t yet grown tired of this little ritual. It might seem that Malcolm was in control, that he had the responsibility for engineering the perfect finish, but Susannah had her part to play, either by holding Silver Cloud back at the last second or coaxing a final surge. It wasn’t easy to control her at the end. Riders and horses had to be perfectly attuned. But finishing together was important or Malcolm had to win by a head or a length at most. It was part of the understanding between them.
The two horses were almost together, stride for stride, hooves pounding, the stones looming up before them. A few more metres. Susannah strained to judge it right, concentrating hard, trying to apply just the right amount of pressure to the mare’s flanks with her legs. She was on Malcolm’s left side…they flew past the cairn exactly together…and veered to the left. Suddenly she realised Malcolm was not turning but galloping straight ahead. He was leaving it desperately late. What was he playing at?
She saw him disappear over the edge, an image she would see over and over in her mind’s eye. He’d ridden straight ahead, not turning at all. She wasn’t aware that he’d lost control, there were no signs of panic, but it was only split seconds. He looked almost serene.
Afterwards she remembered she’d screamed out his
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