The Stallion

The Stallion by Georgina Brown Page B

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Authors: Georgina Brown
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couldn’t have pushed him that hard, yet there he lay, gasping among the straw, a film of her moisture shining like silver around his lips. He looked cowed in body, yet there was an undeniable glint of desire in the bright hazel of his eyes. He was playing a part and enjoying it. Well, she’d really give him something to remember; she’d really use and abuse him for all she was worth. He yearned for it, she needed her own climax, and the watchers in the shadows expected it.
    ‘Hands and knees!’ she shouted at him. ‘Get on your hands and knees!’
    He rolled over and did as she ordered. She walked around him, proud in her nakedness, showing herself off for those whose eyes watched from the darkness.
    If Mark could see me now, she thought to herself with a lewd smile, he’d take me and take me until we were both exhausted. But Mark wasn’t there. Auberon was.
    Auberon had a good body and, despite her determination to play for the crowd, she admired it. With long, sweeping strokes she smoothed her hands down his back, then smacked each cheek so that pinkness replaced the perfect whiteness. There, between his thighs, his balls hung in their soft sac. She raised her foot beneath them so they sat warm and weighty, first on her toes, then on her instep. She rolled them on her foot, enjoying the warmth, enjoying the feeling of power it gave her. She heard his breath quickening, then realised her own was racing, too. In time with the rising of his desire, hers, too, rose and waited.
    ‘Stand up,’ she ordered.
    Hesitantly but with obvious subservience, he got to his feet.
    ‘Don’t hurt me,’ he wheedled.
    Even that, she knew, was just play-acting. Of course he wanted her to hurt him. He enjoyed being hurt, enjoyed that evolution of pain that led him to that final throb of a spent member.
    ‘I will do as I please,’ she told him, and held his prick as if it were just his handle and made of something harder than normal flesh and blood.
    She bound him with items of leather harness that hung on the wall. The ends she found looped up easily into iron rings that hung from a wooden beam above his head.
    She stood on bales of straw to reach the iron rings, then fastened the ends of the harness back through the pieces she’d already looped around his wrists.
    His arms were raised full-stretch and the tautness of his muscles were outlined by a compliant moon. He hung there – like a sacrificial offering on some pagan altar – waiting for his moment, for his time of giving.
    Surprisingly she found other matching rings in the floor. She bound him to those, too, so his legs were stretched apart, thigh and calf muscles hard and unyielding beneath the softness of her hands and the tightness of the leather.
    When she had finished she stood back to survey her handiwork. She was well satisfied. He formed a near perfect ‘X’, his prick still proud of his body, limbs stretched to full extent, buttocks tightly clenched.
    Like a preying panther she circled him, trailing her fingers over a body that was unburdened with superfluous flesh. There was only muscle, hard, primed to perfection.
    Her eyes wandered over him shining with delight, and she realised suddenly just how much those other eyes in the darkness must be shining, too.
    Her body trembled in anticipation as she admired the tension that rippled his muscles and quivered in hard spasms over his taut behind.
    All the time she laboured, exploring with just the tips of her fingers. The more pressure she applied and the greater the sharpness of her nails, the more his penis grew.
    ‘How does that feel?’ she asked him. ‘Now you’re stretched to my liking.’
    He groaned as she raked her nails over his stem, then groaned more when she squeezed his balls in her hand.
    The sounds from his throat were unintelligible until she had released his balls.
    ‘Glorious,’ he murmured.
    Even now, she knew he would appreciate her abusing him that little bit more until she judged him ready

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