Ride him, cowgirl

It's been a while since I've written anything. But I'm going to try to get back into it. Thank you all for being patient with me.

For today, we're going out to a ranch. To a story written for a long time supporter of the blog. I hope he likes it.

Ride Him, Cowgirl

 I like this game.

I spend the morning riding around the ranch, making sure everything is where it's supposed to be, making sure the hay is fresh enough, making sure everyone is doing their jobs. It gives Chestnut some good exercise, and lets me ride around a bit. Afterwards, I take her back to the stable, brush her down, and take off the saddle myself. I do all the important parts of taking care of her. I don't muck her stall, though; I have boys for that.

Once Chestnut is back in her stall, I walk back to the house. My skin is damp, my throat a bit dry from the dust of the trail. I'm dirty, but it's a good kind of dirty, the kind that says you did some work, that you earned your meal. But before I eat, I get to play a little bit.

I call him Eduardo. I don't know if that was his real name before, but it's his name now. He's milking a cow when I spot him today. Not paying any attention to the world around him, just focused on his work. I watch and let him finish, or almost finish, before I get started. I still feel a little bit ridiculous twirling the lasso over my head, but my aim is much better now, so I don't look as bad. The rope flies through the air and gently lands around his throat.

I pull hard. It yanks him backwards off his stool, his hands going to his throat with a strangled cry that is music to my ears. I pull him through the dirt a little bit before finally letting go enough for him to get a breath.

Not that I'm going to let him catch it. As soon as he pulls the rope loose and takes a desperate breath, I slam the pointed toe of my boot into his side, blasting the air right back out of him. Another kick to his leg, still with the point, makes his muscles spasm and tense up. He curls up to grab his leg, and toss out another kick. This one is more gentle, with the top of my foot rather than the toe, but it slaps him across the face, throwing him onto his back again.

He winces in pain and coughs for breath. I step up and put my boot on his throat. If I pulled it hard and to the left, my spur would slit his throat. If I put my weight down on my foot, I'd crush his throat. So many ways I could just kill him, right here, right now. I could kill him, bury the body, and no one would ever know but me and the slaves I ordered to do the burying for me.

I stay there, bending my knee and giving him enough pressure to make sure he knows what I can do, to make sure he thinks about it. I smile down at him with the cruelest smile I can manage, and I wait for his eyes to open again. I wait for the moan of pain, for the slow open of his eyes. I wait for his hands to grab my boot at the heel and the toe, as if he could somehow push me off him.

He moves to grab my boot, and I force myself to stay still. There's a little scar on the back of his left hand, from the time he cut himself on my spur. We're both more careful, but I know that sometimes he panics for real, just for a second. So it's my responsibility to make sure he doesn't hurt himself. I don't want him injured. I just want him in pain.

Once he has a grip, I can push down a little, putting more weight onto my foot. He's strong enough for that. His eyes do bulge out of his leathery skin a little bit, but he doesn't say anything or tap out, so I keep the pressure on.

“I'm bored,” I say, resting my chin in my hand and my elbow on my knee, as if I didn't realize that would increase the pressure on his throat. “I went and rode around, but now I'm bored.” I look down at him. “And my boots are all dirty.”

I take my foot off his throat and smile at the little gasp for breath. Then I put my foot on the ground next to his head, stomping hard enough to raise a little cloud of dust and to get my spurs to make that nice little sound like champaign glasses clinking together. He coughs a little bit, and the dust probably stings his eyes, but his tongue presses against my boot before the dirt settles.

I tap my other foot as he licks the thick brown leather of my boot. He moans softly, as if he enjoys it. But I know he's probably wondering what's on the boots, if I stepped in anything while I was riding. Still.

“So dirty,” I say. “And now you're licking them. Your saliva mixing with the dirt. Do you know what means? Water and dirt. The more you lick, the more my boots are covered in mud. Do you like eating the mud from my boots, little slave?”

He knows better than to answer. I laugh as he finishes cleaning the boot, then pull my other foot away as he tries to move on to the next. “That one isn't dirty enough,” I say. “Leave it be.”

A frown flashes across his face. He hates it when I don't let him do both. Eduardo needs a sense of symmetry, and until I let him clean the other boot, he's just going to keep looking at the difference, keep feeling like the job is unfinished.

“But--”

I would have let the frown go, pretended I didn't even see it. But he spoke. And that is not okay.

The toe of my boot clips his testicle, and he coughs for a breath that won't come. I grab his hair and start to walk him towards the fence. He crawled along, his foot sliding through the dirt as he tries desperately to keep up with me. I pull just a little bit faster than he'd be able to comfortably crawl. When we get to the fence, I throw him into it, his chest smacking against the wood. He coughs and whimpers, still trying to catch his breath.

I pull a halter and bit off the fence and shove the bit into his mouth. He tries to keep his mouth closed, but a hand squeezing his favorite part of his body gets it open pretty quickly.

The halter straps tight around his head, and the bit forces his mouth open just a little bit wider than can possibly be comfortable. If it were for a real horse, there'd be a problem. But Eduardo knows this one well. And he knows what's coming next.

He doesn't struggle when I put his hands in the hoof mitts. He doesn't resist the posture collar, or stop me from hooking his wrists to the collar. I know what he's thinking.

The tail is coming. The only question is whether I will just slide on his shorts with the little plug, or if I'd peg him until his ass is gaping wide and then slide the tail in.

I slap his bare ass a few times and lean in close to whisper in his ear. “You belong to me,” I say, “And don't you forget it.”

He makes a noise into his bit. I yank his reigns, pulling him awkwardly to his feet, and start walking towards the extra stable. The one that doesn't have real horses.

“You really need to be punished,” I tell him. “What should it be? I could hang you by your hoofs and whip you bloody.” I look back and smile at the sweat dripping down his face.

“Or I could chain you in the cellar for a few days, let you get nice and thirsty until you'll drink anything I offer you.” He shakes his head for that one. Desperately. Pleading. What a good boy.

We get inside, and I push him forward, tripping him with my boot as he goes. He lands hard, barely rolling enough to land on his shoulder instead of crushing his wrists. I kick him onto his back and pull a riding crop off the wall.

“If you move,” I tell him, “I'll sell you to the neighbor again. He certainly seemed excited last time.”

He didn't move, didn't even look up at me as I stripped, as I unlaced my chaps and pulled down my pants. He didn't look up at all until I was standing over him, my breasts hanging free, my boots pressing against both sides of his hips. Then he looked at me. And his eyes bulged a little. So did his cock.

I slap it with the riding crop. He winces.

“That thing better stay hard,” I tell him. “I'm all worked up, and I want to play with a real toy.”

I kneel down straddling him, boots still on, chaps still on, and slide myself onto his cock. “Use it well, slave,” I tell him. “Or I'm going to stomp on you so hard and grind your little dick until it's a worthless little mass of bruise.”

I slide him deep inside me, and we both groan.