The sky glowered purple at the spindly winter trees studding the perimeter
of the outer fields.

"Doesn’t look promising, does it?"

She continued to stare soundlessly at the juncture between the wall and the
ceiling, her chin held high by the cup molded into the top of the leather
dickey wrapped tightly around her neck.

He really wasn’t expecting an answer anyway, given the size of the bit
between her teeth. And if her eyes betrayed her, he couldn’t see them around
the blinders.

February is never a good month for outdoor activities, he reminded himself.
Too much rain, too much cold, too much mud. A difficult and frustrating
season for all living creatures. Especially those straddling species.

Such exquisite composure. Patiently awaiting instruction without fidgeting
in the slightest. So rare and enviable. No wonder her master was elated with
her progress.

He slipped a finger beneath one of the myriad leather straps and pretended
to check for unwanted slack, even though the halter girdling her groin and
torso had been tooled specifically to her measurements. They both knew he
just wanted an excuse to touch her pale, perfect skin.

His hand slid down to the cincher buckled fast around her waist. Quite
unnecessary in terms of her carriage, but a lovely effect nonetheless.

He could feel her heart beating faster as he shifted his attentions to her
left breast, tracing lazy circles on the taut flesh that bulged so
enticingly through the metal ring.

She inhaled sharply through her nose when a finger strayed against her
nipple.

"Your tail is a mess," he announced in a voice that was practically a
whisper. Actually, it was perfectly groomed, but the strokes of the curry
brush had a marvelous effect on the lengthy plug that attached the long
black strands to her bottom.

98…99…100.

"Much better," he lied, watching the tiny trickles of sweat stream down from
under her arms, only to collide and dissipate against the harness straps.

As the binder behind her back shuddered imperceptibly, he found himself
thinking there were few things he enjoyed as much as the smell of warm
leather intermingled with the secret scents of a woman.

His gaze wandered back to the window, now streaked with matching rivulets of
rain, then over to the double-door entrance to the livery. "Le cheval est
roi à Chantilly," read the inscription carved above it.

He wondered what Patrick and Geric were doing over at Domaine today.
Probably putting their mounts through their paces on the all-weather sand
field. Such fanatics…180 stables, 20 paddocks, 8 irrigated regulation
fields, even an obstacle course.

Such a pity to waste it on polo.

And that maniac Yves Bienaimé, who somehow inherited the Grandes Ecuries and
turned it into Le Musée Vivant du Cheval. Completely over the top. Almost as
crazy as the chateau, although he enjoyed wandering through its halls and
chambers en route to his regular viewing of Raphael’s miniature portrait of
the three muses.

Much better to keep things quiet. Low-key. Hidden from the prying eyes of
tourists who wandered by accident up the drive. Thank God for Jeanpierre and
his rusty pitchfork, screaming and gesturing obscenely at the petrified
Germans en route to Disneyland in their rented Renaults. One look at his
decrepit shack at the entrance to the estate, and they figured he was a
crackpot best left alone. Those who persisted were bullied into the purchase
of a bottle of his badly-fermented wine squeezed from the tiny grapes that
somehow grew on his decaying vines. But most backed down the gravel road at
speeds that rivaled the T.G.V.

"Putting on a show for the fucking Nazis," Jeanpierre liked to say with his
crooked, leering smile. Unlike so many in France these days, the old man
still remembered.

He returned his attention to his charge, positioning himself directly in
front of her, his fingers resting on the hook that stuck out maybe an inch
from the front of the chastity strap. He pushed down slightly, knowing full
well the effect the pressure was causing on the cumbersome missile lodged
between her tender lips.

"Much too miserable to train outdoors," he said to her as the drops drummed
noisily against the roof. "But we still need to work on your pacing."

He looked down at her new boots. Amazing what a craftsman could do with
reinforced arches…this particular design didn’t even require heels. And real
horseshoes under the toes…he was terribly impressed, as always with her.

He continued to press on the curved metal as he pondered an appropriate
exercise. Not enough room in the barn for the cart…perhaps stop-and-go
commands in the outer hall…some advanced dressage…he found his thoughts
drifting to more traditional forms of recreational exertion, specifically,
the small gymnasium he maintained for guests who derived some sort of
pleasure from picking up weights and strolling miles to nowhere on a rubber
belt…

Ah, the walking machine…what do they call it? Yes, the treadmill. That had
possibilities worth investigating.

He released his grip on the hook between her quivering thighs and picked up
the reins dangling from the sides of her mouth.

"Allons."

He led her into the sheltered breezeway, walking briskly through the wet air
thick enough to use as paint, the clatter of her hooves against the ancient
cobblestones echoing off the stone walls of the main house.

He was pleased with the way she lifted her legs high as they climbed the
narrow stairs to the exercise room. So poised and confident in her steps.
None of the petty insolence regrettably prevalent in most fillies. Charging
her master for board while he traveled was practically criminal.

From the third floor, one could almost see the racetrack where they ran the
Prix du Jockey-Club every June. He surveyed the fields that stretched to the
horizon, meticulously maintained in perpetual homage to the once-fearsome
Bourbons and Condés. They may have made Chantilly the pastoral envy of
forever-urban Paris, but Napoleon himself had ordered the execution of the
last of the line more than a century ago.

But some things never change, he noted as she huffed softly in the center of
the gym.

He motioned to the treadmill, and watched her step gingerly onto the
walkway.

"Wait."

He slipped out of the gym and hurried to the stockroom down the hall,
selecting a handful of items and returning before more than a moment had
passed. He could tell by the twitching tail that her nerves were starting to
get the better of her.

Quietly standing by her side, he placed his forefinger and thumb around one
of her nipples and began squeezing it. When he was satisfied it could be
coaxed no harder, he made it disappear between the plastic-coated tips of a
heavy clamp.

After the process had been repeated, he wrapped and knotted a long piece of
cord to the handrail directly in front of her, then tied the two ends to the
clamps so her breasts stretched out in tremulous suspension.

He tied another piece of thin rope in a similar fashion to the metal ring
jutting out from the strap cinched around her groin, the twin lengths
dangling downward all the way to her feet.

Kneeling, he buckled the well-worn leather manacles, permanently curved and
smooth to the touch, around her ankles.

He threaded one of the ends through a ring on the left cuff and hitched a
knot that afforded precious little slack between its two destinations.

And again with the remaining cord and her right cuff, taking his time to
savor her trepidation.

He stood and strolled slowly to the front of the machine, studying the
control panel behind the handrail from a backward perspective. It wasn’t too
complicated, he realized. One apparently manipulated the speed with the
large knob in the center.

He dialed it down to zero and pressed the power switch.

Her eyes stayed properly focused on the ceiling, but he could see them blink
rapidly as the hum of the motor filled the room with an ominous rumble.

He returned to her side, then reached over to the control knob and twisted
it a few degrees clockwise.

"Walk."

He was more than ready to assist her if she should stumble, but she
responded to his command at the exact moment the treadmill began to move. It
took her just a few seconds to adjust her pace to keep the rope stretching
horizontally from her nipples from getting taut. But there was nothing she
could do about the relentless bobbing of the hook between her legs. Each
step caused the cords that were fastened to her ankles to jerk in a manner
that undoubtedly created a great deal of activity on the part of the prod
inside her.

He watched her appreciatively, then gave the knob another nudge.

"Trot."

Her feet began moving faster to match the speed of the whirring rubber
sidewalk, obviously desperate to find the proper gait that split the
difference between the strain on her nipples and the delicious agony in her
pussy.

He leaned back against the wall, content to admire her impeccable form, and
wondered how long it would take before female biology overcame her
well-toned muscles and turned her thighs into something resembling the
consistency of marmalade.

He was pondering the exact setting for "canter" when a frantic pounding on
the door shattered their solitude.

"Monsieur! I must speak to you immediately," cried the voice in the hall.

It was Diane, his apprentice. He was proud of her development over the past
few months, but she was having a terrible time dealing with her latest
project. He was a callow young man who had been left in their charge by his
new wife in hopes they could address his regrettably-negative attitude
toward "getting with the program," as Americans liked to say.

He sighed and turned off the treadmill.

"Stop."

Her breathing poured out of her nose in hot, ragged snorts.

"Feet together."

He reached into his pocket and fished out a padlock, then bent down and
snapped it between the cuffs around her ankles, denying her any hope of the
release he knew she craved so desperately.

He briefly considered inserting a vibrator between her pressed-together legs
and demanding that it remain there without fail, but Diane’s wails
distracted him before he could make the necessary arrangements.

"Oh, monsieur, he is simply impossible," she blubbered as soon as he opened
the door to the exercise chamber. "I tried everything you said, but nothing
seems to work. He’s the devil’s spawn for sure."

Exactly what his wife had said when she had delivered the boy a fortnight
ago.

Henri was definitely a handful, but he had to admire the pure dedication to
the calling. Like all who placed themselves under their tutelage, Henri came
to the estate of his own accord. It was always challenging to develop
appropriate punishments for those who enjoyed pain, but he often thought
Henri could serve as the illustration next to the dictionary listing of
"masochism."

Diane had indisputable skills as a trainer, but the boy was proving to be a
formidable task. When it came to encouraging compliance, whipping Henri did
absolutely no good, nor did the usual clips and clamps and prods and plugs.
After a few frustrating days, he had suggested that she work him like a
plowhorse, a tactic which had only served to make him more obstinate.

He knew he should reprimand Diane for interrupting, but now seemed like a
good time to listen.

"There, there…come, let’s go sit in the salon…tell me what the lout has done
this morning."

He looked back at the girl standing so still on the treadmill and decided
her imagination would more than suffice as entertainment, so he slipped into
the hall with Diane and closed the door to the gym without another word. She
has certainly endured far worse, he thought as he led Diane down the stairs
to his sitting room. Make that "will endure," he corrected himself as he
contemplated which number on the machine’s digital readout would equal
"gallop."

When they had settled in a pair of comfortable chairs, Diane poured out her
tale of woe. She had gone to the barn this morning and found Henri in his
stable completely unbound and masturbating furiously; apparently, he had
somehow managed to extricate himself from his sleeping yoke. Even worse, he
had been utterly contemptuous to the point of insolence when Diane insisted
he stop touching himself. A tussle ensued, and she was able to restrain him
thanks only to the collar still padlocked around his neck. She confessed
there had been a scary moment when she thought Henri was going to overpower
her, but she had managed to clip a chain hanging from the ceiling to a ring
in the collar and ultimately wrench his wrists into handcuffs behind his
back. Getting him into a gag required her to pinch his nose for an eternity
until he finally opened his mouth, spewing lungfuls of obscenities.

He didn’t say a word until he was sure Diane had finished her story.
Obviously, Henri was going to require a different approach, but this could
be an ideal opportunity to help Diane learn and grow in her abilities.

"Sometimes, cheri, the ponies resist the bit and bridle for no reason other
than they can," he began, speaking softly. "They buck and they whinny and
they prance around the ring with the impertinence of a satyr, practically
daring you to break them."

She snuffled a bit, her eyes wet and gorgeous, and nodded her head in
agreement. Such a vision in her tight white blouse, beige jodhpurs and
gleaming black boots. His mind started to form an image of her kneeling
before him, wrists buckled behind her back, but he forced himself to stay in
the present. Another time, he promised himself. Soon.

"You see, they’re too proud to obey for the simple sake of obedience. They
want to respect the one wielding the whip. But that respect is difficult to
achieve when the colt enjoys the sting of the crop. He knows that
disobedience is the fastest route to what he craves. The worse he behaves,
the more forceful you become in your punishments, and his happiness is
assured."

She subconsciously twirled her long auburn hair as she contemplated what he
had said. He felt his groin stir. Perhaps an extra bottle of wine tonight at
dinner…

"To him, there’s no reward to be won by acquiescence. So perhaps in this
particular case, a carrot may prove more effective than the stick."

"I am open to your suggestion, monsieur."

He resisted the urge to lend voice to the vivid image of her delectable ass
exposed to his whims, and instead pressed his fingers together in an
approximation of deep concentration.

"You say you caught him masturbating?" he finally asked.

"Oui, but I don’t think he had achieved release."

"Very good. We can start from there."

He stood up and walked over to the telephone.

"I know of a woman in Paris who manages the schedule of some of the most
appealing escorts the world has ever seen. The pleasure of their company is
quite dear, but the expense is well worth the investment."

He began dialing.

"I think we shall engage the services of one…no, make that two…of her most
attractive and experienced girls to provide an afternoon of inspirational
entertainment for our Henri."

He directed his attention to the telephone receiver. A moment later, he was
chatting pleasantly with someone whom Diane presumed to be the madam. As he
began to tell the person on the other end of the line what he wanted, she
smiled.

When he finished, she had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from
laughing out loud.

"Excuse me a moment while I look for the proper accoutrements," he said,
winking as he opened the door to the hallway.

When he had departed, she clapped her hands in relief and unmitigated glee.
She was to return to the stables with a spreader bar, a pair of thumb
restraints, a very special harness, and a bowl full of ice. She was first to
cuff and string his hands high over his head and secure his feet far apart.
Then, while waiting for the arrival of the Parisian femmes, she was to
manipulate his cock into a long, slow, painful state of excitement. When she
sensed he was seconds from forbidden release, she was to massage his balls
with the ice until the erection subsided. This process was to be repeated
until she was notified that the girls had been delivered to the estate. At
that time, she was to shrink his manhood a final time and secure him in a
harness designed to stretch his shriveled cock several centimeters. It would
be compressed between three thin metal rods welded to two rings that he
described as "perhaps more appropriate for fingers" in terms of
circumference. With the help of some lubricant, these narrow circles were to
be positioned around the base and beneath the head of his penis. Locking
leather straps would hold it in place around the top of his scrotum, with
the added benefit of squeezing his balls so they were pleasingly vulnerable.

Once the harness was in place, he assured her Henri could not possibly
remove it without assistance, nor could he achieve any semblance of an
erection. But the shaft and especially the head of his penis, not to mention
all his other body parts, would remain easily accessible to the attentions
of the practiced hands, mouths and orifices of his companions, who would be
instructed to make it their mission to drive him to the brink of madness for
a period that would most likely include tomorrow’s sunrise.

A permanent stiffy, as the Brits might say…she closed her eyes and imagined
them taking turns riding his fettered cock while the other one sat on his
face until they both reached the kind of endless orgasms that cause
aneurysms. Of course, it would be prudent for her to stay close by Henri’s
stable at all times to ensure the safety of the participants. In fact, they
may even need her assistance on occasion, in case he abused the extreme
privilege of wearing nothing but thumb shackles.

When the girls had returned to Paris, Diane was to inform Henri that the
harness would remain in place for the remainder of his stay at the estate.
However, if his disposition improved and he showed progress in his training,
she might be persuaded to remove it while he was prepared for his voyage
home. Perhaps she could even arrange to look the other way for a minute or
two before he was restrained for travel. Granted, his wife had been very
explicit on this topic, but accidents happen, non? Along those same lines,
wouldn’t it be a shame if Diane were to inadvertently misplace the key to
the tiny padlock?

"I’ll have to send Jeanpierre to fetch our guests, as I have another errand
to run this afternoon," he said when he returned to the salon with the cuffs
and the harness, which Diane immediately noted was both longer and narrower
than she had expected. "I sincerely doubt we will win many new friends if he
shows up in his decrepit old truck. Do you mind if he takes your car?
Diane?"

He gave her a gentle nudge to break her out of her reverie, pleased she had
recovered so well from her earlier dismay. She was going to be a good one,
perhaps his best ever.

"Look, the sun is breaking through the clouds," he noted. "An excellent omen
of better things to come."

Like me inside you, he found himself hoping, although he had already
resigned himself to spending this evening once again alone.

"Begone," he commanded her in a joking tone. "And tell Jeanpierre that he
should first stop at the vintners in St. Germain to restock the cellar. You
know those Parisian girls," rolling his eyes in mock lunacy.

Diane laughed, gave him a kiss on the forehead, and danced out of the salon
as if spirited by angels.

He looked at his watch. Plenty of time to finish the demoiselle’s morning
lesson in the gymnasium, but given Diane’s more pressing engagement, he
would have to perform her post-workout rubdown himself, following of course
the taking of his own pleasure…most likely from her ass, once more thinking
of his apprentice.

Then it was off to Orly, where he was to pick up a most unusual pair of
guests flying in this evening from America. He had received a peculiar phone
call a few weeks ago from a man who spoke absolutely the most atrocious
French his ears had ever heard. After tolerating a few garbled fragments, he
had almost slammed down the receiver when a woman got on the line. She
explained in much more fluent terms that they wanted to stay at the estate
for a week and take advantage of his facilities, as it were. At first, he
was hesitant, especially when she insisted they had no need for his or
Diane’s services, but the woman eventually charmed him into an arrangement.

Most curious, he mused as he mounted the stairs back to the exercise room.
When he had discreetly inquired as to whether they would require accessories
for a filly or a stallion, she had replied "both." Regardless, he found
himself looking forward to making their acquaintance, although he was still
unsure how exactly he was to recognize them at the airport.

"Trust me," she had said disingenuously. "I’ll be the only one from JFK
wearing the pride of Oise. Just look for the shoes."

From the third floor landing, he could just make out the spires of
Chantilly’s castle glistening in the struggling sunlight. Staring at the
endless green expanses of the département, it suddenly dawned on him that
the American woman was referring not to riding boots, but rather to the
region’s previous preoccupation, the one that was quite the opposite of
leather.
 

copyright © 1998 by adrian hunter. all rights reserved.
please do not repost nor repurpose without permission.
 

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