It is sometimes said that there is nothing sexier than a beautiful woman on horseback, all tight crisp, jodhpurs, gleaming boots and so on.  The reality of horse riding is a bit different. The ladies I know do not go for a hack in crisp white jodhpurs, their boots do not gleam, rather they are dull and flecked with mud. Neither are the horsewomen I know particularly beautiful.

Actually, I really only know two horsewomen. There is my wife, Mathilde. Then there is her mother Estelle. Estelle has been an equestrian all her life and still lives on the farm in Normandy where she grew up.   Mathilde too grew up here and learnt from her mother. It was to the farm that Mathilde brought me at the beginning of our relationship to meet her parents.

Unlike her daughter, I never found Estelle beautiful. Her features were rather angular, her nose aquiline, her hair, once Norman blonde, strawberry was starting to turn grey. At 53 she still had the figure, her active country lifestyle had kept her body taut and slim but there were days when I simply found her ugly. Maybe that was because I didn’t really like her.

Relations between us have been strained since we first met, on my first visit to the family farm five years earlier. I had found Estelle rather cold and aloof, haughty even, as if she didn’t think me good enough for her daughter. I wondered whether she had acquired some of the prejudices that French women allegedly have about Englishmen and their inadequacy as lovers. She had had a rich and varied love life, I knew that from Mathilde, and even though she has been single for a couple of years, I just know that she will hook up again. Estelle likes sex, she needs sex. And I have no doubt that she is an amazing lover.

Estelle fascinated me. I admired her equestrian skills, the way she controlled the chestnut stallion that had thrown Mathilde a couple of times. I can’t ride so I never rode out with her. Maybe if I had, things might have been different between us? Over time I became increasingly aware of her sexuality, the way in which it was revealed in a very gradual unveiling, something subtle, something almost evanescent, but something definitely there, something that once inside in your head would never leave. The fact that she wasn’t conventionally beautiful served to make her more alluring.

Estelle became an obsession. I masturbated to her after making love to her daughter, I found myself muttering her name as I went about my daily life, wondering how to go about suggesting to Mathilde that we go to visit her mother again. And each time, knowing that I would never have the courage to make a pass at her, I looked for other ways of being close top her.

So one bright, cold October Sunday morning I offered to help her muck out the stables. Estelle wore a jumper an olds pair of jeans tucked into rubber boots.   She had no makeup and her hair was pinned  up, but coming loose in strands that fell across her freckled face.  God, did I want her!

She handed me a shovel and a pair of rubber gloves told me brusquely what to do and we set to work, picking up droppings, shovelling wet straw. Estelle said nothing, cold and aloof as ever, but I watched in admiration her fluid, graceful movements. I was just warming to my task when she walked over to me, gently took the shovel from my hand and said,

“On your knees. You know you want to.”

And there I was, on my knees in the straw and the muck, licking at Estelle’s filthy rubber boots, the shoes, the shafts, and finally the soles as she pushed each boot in turn into my face.

When I had finished, she sat astride me, facing towards my bottom. I had no idea what she was going to do when she tugged at my jeans and forced them down to my knees. She then leaned forward, and I felt lube, cold, around my anus. I felt a finger go in, move briskly up and down my passage. Then she withdrew and the next sensation was that of cold metal. The shock of the cold made me clench my buttocks with a sharp intake of breath.

She slapped me hard on the right bum cheek. I started, then relaxed as the plug was inserted up to the flange. It sat there, tight, and when she rocked me from side to side I felt a swish of horsehair against my skin.

I had figured this must be a tail and when she strapped on the saddle whose straps were still warm from the ride Estelle had had on the grey mare, who was now back in her stall her head protruding over the gate as she observed with interest the scene unfolding.

She saddled me up, climbed astride me dug her spurs into my thighs until I yelled with pain.

“Straight ahead. Into the yard!”

“And Mathilde? What if she sees this?”.

“Mathilde already knows what I had planned for you. You haven’t really hidden your obsession with me have you? She showed me the notepad with my name written all over it and drawings of shiny boots. So want were we to do? I really don’t want a sexual relationship with my daughter’s partner.  But a slave I can always use.”

She slapped me on the thigh and I moved slowly forward through the stable door into the dirt yard. We did a round and she brought me to a halt by the back door of the house.

Estelle laughed.

“And I am going to write in your bottom.”

Estelle took a marker pen out of her bag and scribbled on my arse cheeks.  She took a photograph and showed me. I was astonished. She had even written it in Latin.


“Now go and show it to Mathilde.”

I walked into the room with my butt plug still in.

“Quis es” she asked, unsmiling.

“Equus sum Estellae servusque”

“You’re mine too. Now get on your knees.|”

I knelt and kissed her feet. I felt myself getting hard.  I needed her. We had fucked so often before but I was filled with the thought that in fucking Mathilde I was vicariously fucking Estelle. I was going to love my servitude.



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