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SADDLE BROOKE

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I had to go see some business associates in Newark, NJ -- ah, isn't web page consulting glamorous! -- and I was driving back up the Garden State (Not) Parkway. In a blinding rainstorm, just to make life more fun. And there, where it crosses Route 80 somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere near Paramus Mall, I saw a sign to "Saddle Brook." And I thought:

well now, there's an idea. And fuck it, why not?

Brooke has been a pain the past few weeks. As she'd put it: 'like, a pain, totally, I mean.' She's one of those bratty, desirable girls, the sort I seem to collect. I'd picked her up at an Upper West Side designers-

and-webmasters' party in a weak moment, then endured her for a while, wondering how on earth I could get her into shape.

So northeastern, preppy, Gen-X-y, it makes you grind your teeth.

Y'know? Every sentence ends with a rising inflexion, y'know? Or, like, a rhetorical question. And, like totally, self-centered. I mean, oh, totally.

And, what content? I mean, not much. She speaks just like that. Is it a new language?

But she is very cute, and shows all the right signs of submissiveness. I won't speculate why. I know her daddy, and I have some suspicions. You know how it often goes. Her dear mother is an 'ex' of mine, but that is not a small club by any means. And besides, Mommy Brooke (Alicia by name) is more 'ex' than most. Namely, she's long gone from this earth. She met an 18-wheeler head-on one day while deep in airhead conversation on her cell phone. I mean, like, y'know? Wow. You've got to be careful?

On another plane, though, Brooke is all business. Model quality.

She's tall -- about 5' 10," rail thin (yet she eats like a horse), an interesting ashy type of blonde (natural) with light blue eyes. And she fucks and sucks like a $10 shipyard whore. I'm kind of pudgy, balding and fortyish, somewhat protypically Italian, but she is all over me like a heat-seeking condom when given half a chance. Am I irresistible? Oh, maybe.

Is there some special secret? I'll keep it to myself, if I know what it is!

Do I have shitpiles of money? No, but I'm not short of it either.

What does Brooke do, exactly? Good question. In recent months, she's just hung around my place in the country, or my place in town, consuming everything, and paying in kind . . . No job? Well, not now.

There's no need, since she's getting fed, and I give her a good pile of spending money. It's a generational thing, this motiveless, unplanned existence, I'm beginning to believe. She went to a good school, has an English degree from Amherst. Has credits in about three different Master's programs. Is pretty and ditsy enough to have modelled, worked at four different ad agencies, sold cosmetics and lingerie at Macy's . . . the usual. But also bright enough to have run an agency's network, and fixed all the dumb account exec's PC problems, too. The only Masters' program that's doing her any good, I must say, is mine. And she is quite a quick learner in that department too, I'll agree.

So, I have a bit of time for young Ms. Brooke. She is a little annoying, but she is tolerated, in the hope that I may succeed in training her well. That's been my thing in recent years, almost a hobby, breaking young ladies in so they will be slightly useful to whatever big swinging dick they end up with after me, then playing on their guilt for 'stealing'

them by netting some decent business. Part of my success formula, if you will. Call me a pimp if you like, just gimme some business in exchange for some well-trained ass.

Now, I find myself thinking, this little geographic inspiration from the gods might be the place to start with a new phase of Brooke's re-education.

Because, up in my attic, there is indeed a saddle. Just right for her. A European jumping saddle, quite light compared to the great Western armchairs you see, but still pretty heavy. Beautifully handmade, in thick aromatic leather, well-used, lovingly cared for. I bought it in an estate sale, when I lived in Virginia (just some crappy DC suburb, really, but we all have to project things in a positive light).

Was I thinking of taking up riding? At the time, yes. But it proved to be not really my thing. I found horses too independent in nature.

(Women, on the other hand, are a nicer ride, and can be taught gratitude and obedience quite easily. And they don't bite or kick as hard.) After some dressage, a bit of messing around, I just put it away, and I had quite forgotten it. Until now.

First, there'll need to be a fitting.

When I get home, she is on the phone having one of those airhead conversations, which are either duplex or one-sided, because she never, ever stops. "Oh! Totally! I mean! Really? The pits! etc, etc."

When she's finally through she hangs up, turns to me and says:

"Tony, awesome! Hi! Where were you? Movie? Dinner? What?"

I grab her, give her the big Franco-Italian kiss, squeeze her ass, crush her to me. Let her feel my hard-on pressing against her skinny little body. Find the line of her panties under her dress at the back, get a grip on the elastic and pull it up hard so her panties are pulled up taut in her crotch. If she's wet -- and I'll bet she is -- I want her to feel it. Our idea of romance. She gets it, and is unbuttoning clothes, wriggling out of them. I help. She loves to fuck, I will say that in her defence.

I get her completely stripped, and rub her pussy until she's wriggling and purring happily. She's letting her muff do her talking for her now: she's not -- oh, great relief! -- a big bedroom talker, and is especially happy to be silenced with my cock in her throat. These WASP girls love to suck, take my word for it.

I lead her upstairs. She thinks we're going to her tiny bedroom, but no, we're going up another flight of stairs to the attic. It's cold, musty, dark. She knows not to bug me with flighty conversation, when I'm horny. Besides, she's concentrating hard: she has to move carefully, to avoid scratching herself on the rough woodwork, the protruding nails, the typical grunge and debris of an unfinished loft.

"What are we doing?"

"Looking for something."

I make her dig around under dustsheets, get filthy and bedraggled looking for it. Finally, we have it.

"Oh! What's this?" she whispers, getting the smell of it, and beginning to draw connections in her mind, I'm sure. "Wow! What's it for?"

"You'll find out," I tell her. "Pick it up, my back's bad today." I make her carry the saddle downstairs, to the dining room. She puts it on the table, very happy to be relieved of the weight by the time she gets there.

I have picked up a box full of cans of liquid polish, wax, fragrant old clothes, some brushes. I open it up, and she breathes in that scent, too. I tell her: "I want you to polish it up, like new. Shine all the metal parts, really take care of it."

She wrinkles her cute little nose, and asks, knowing the answer already, I'm sure: "Why?"

"Because."

I fix us both a drink, change. I come back, fifteen minutes later.

She's almost done.

"So what's the big idea, huh?" She tries to look clueless, but I suspect that she has a good idea. She loves the smell of leather, in all sorts of contexts, and has shown a taste for dressing up in slutty biker chick outfits, knowing they please me.

"You're going to wear it, darling, so get used to the feel and smell of it, Brooke dearest."

"Wear it, oh . . ." she looks bemused. "But . . .oh . . ."

"Like it?"

"Oh, it's beautiful but . . ." she's touching herself, quite unconsciously. One hand fiddling with a pierced and ringed nipple, the other slipping back and forth in her nicely shaved and waxed slit.

"And you're not only going to wear it, young lady. What else?"

"Uh, you're not . . . oh, you are, aren't you?"

She stares. I nod.

"That's like totally extreme, I mean, I don't think I could . .

.You don't mean? Uh, well, look, I'm too small . . ."

"Why waste so much money at the health club then?"

"Al-right, yes, I get it. You mean, oh, this is crazy, you mean you're really going to RIDE ME!! Ooooh! Look that's like totally . . ."

"Very good, Brooke. You're quick today. Well, and why shouldn't I?"

"Uh, I, well . . . you're kind of heavy, and . . ."

"I'm not very fat, just kind of solidly built . . . if that's what you're implying, and you, young lady, are a bigtime weightlifting babe, aren't you? You're always telling me how much you can press, getting me to admire your pecs and abs. So, it's time to make yourself useful . . ."

"But, well listen, I mean, that's all different muscle groups, oh, Jesus, you don't understand . . ."

"I do understand, Brooke. Now, get down on your hands and knees, young lady."

I place the saddle on her back, so the stirrups are swinging just inches from her breasts. The original girth and belly band are huge. But in the box of junk, I'd found a couple of short but substantial webbing straps that I can fit in their place. Not perfect, but they'll do. I attach them, then adjust and pull eveything very tight. I find a way to shorten the straps of the stirrups. She shivers, looks imploringly at me. From another box, I bring out a bridle and bit. The huge metal parts click and jingle. She stares wide-eyed, and gasps: "Oh, yuck! Look! Oooh! All that goop!!!! I mean, Tony, please! Be reasonable. Is that clean?"

"Whatever drooled on it became catfood twenty years ago, sweetheart. And horses are weggietarians like you, sweetie. Not many nasty diseases, really. Open your mouth, Brooke. You shouldn't find that so hard, darling."

The fat metal bar fits snugly between her perfect, even teeth. I fiddle with the various straps until I've contrived a way to get the bridle rings and chin strap positioned correctly. Now, she's effectively silenced, with the bit pulling her cheeks back, her tongue squashed down out of the way.

She starts to dribble. Ah. It's always delightful to make a snooty young lady do something she's been conditioned to avoid doing, something she dislikes, something 'yucky.' With Brooke, the highspot of our early games -- to me! -- was hiding the key to the rest room on my yacht one night, and locking away all her clothes. Then telling her when she got up next morning that she'd have to piss (or whatever) over the lee side, as we motored about 400 yards offshore near the Hamptons. I'm sure a lot of telescopes and binoculars got steamed up at the sight of her bare ass as she performed that morning. This drooling seems to fill her with similar discomfort.

(Recently she's become a bit more accustomed to my shameless style, though I did really make her face turn bright red when I sat her on my lap one evening and played her an edited video of the first results of a week of observations with the fabulous high definition 'potty cam' I'd installed in her little bathroom. Not the usual blurry, out-of-balance stuff, but real magazine-quality peeing and pooping, not to mention some surprising impromptu pussy rubbing. Now, that really made her blush. "Oho, look at that! I caught you wanking, Brooke!" I'd laughed myself breathless at the look on her silly face as she hissed: "You're the filthiest man on earth!!"

Oh, I doubt it . . . But she'd also stayed glued to the screen, wriggled in delight when I pulled her panties down and started fingerfucking her, and been an absolute vixen in bed later, pleading for even more grossness . . .

)

But back to the saddling. There's a fore-and-aft thin strap that dangles from the back of the saddle. I suspect this is something a stallion would look on with great nervousness. But for darling Brooke, it's an added treat. I lead it under her, attach it to the girth beneath her belly. A few adjustments, and I have it pulled up extremely tight in her crease, and kept snugly there by an elasticated section where the strap anchors to the saddle back.

Now, time to get into the mood. It's going to be spurs and cowboy boots for me, of course. A heavy riding crop, as if you had any doubts.

I figure that with a little practice, I will be able to get used to hitting her ass hard from a seated position astride her. And in the meantime, while practicing, the misses will be fun. Needless to say, Brooke is not a stranger to having her backside warmed up, though I have tended to use my hand or a paddle at this stage of our relationship.

What else? I find some little bells to attach to her bridle, and --

aha, what luck! -- some more bells on clips that I can snap on her nipples.

Jingle jingle.

Now the big question. Can she carry a 200-lb guy? Sure, she's very fit. I try her out, around the house. On the carpeted floors, she's anxious to avoid rugburn and doesn't hurry. On the polished wood floors, she's quite impressive. Then, having her push the doors open with her head, out we go. Onto the patio, down into the garden. Juan, my latest Mexican gardener, is raking leaves, and trips over his rake with a shout of amazement, as we come into view. Brooke is scarlet with embarassment. Juan is rather dense, and a true peasant -- I mean that without any pejorative sense, someone has to be -- and often lusts dumbly after the blonde bombshell. He follows along behind, Sancho Panza to my Quixote. What was his mule called? Dulcinea? Doris? Who gives a fuck. In this movie, the nag's called Brooke. Juan is staring at her ass like he's just seen the other (original) Madonna make an apparition. Uh oh, I've started something here. Well, if he does as he's told, maybe I'll let him prong her asshole in exchange for a cut in salary. Next week though, not now.

Could she carry me further? She's not flagging yet. Yes, I decide.

And she will, soon. Carry me right round the jogging trail at the local park one snowy morning at sunrise, with her completely naked but for her saddle, knee pads, running shoes, and gloves. She can enjoy the risk of being seen, the freezing cold. Poor Brooke. Now she'll regret waxing so well. That'll make her move faster.

And there'll be more. The park tour will be all just for a rehearsal. Because cute young Brooke is a total exhibitionist, like most self-centered girls are if you probe enough. Take my advice. They're convinced they're so beautiful everyone is looking, everyone wants to see.

And, you know, maybe it's true. I mean, guys are not very excited about seeing a little preppy puppy in clothes, but without, hmmm, maybe . . .

And there's another display option for our heroine that'll get lots of attention, I'm sure.

Meaning, she's going to come to the next scene party dressed like this, with me astride her. She'll ride there in the back of the Range Rover, behind the doggy grill, all ready and saddled up. Be ridden from the car park into the bar, and tethered to the rail while I get a drink, talk to some friends, hers included, about subjects of mutual interest:

interesting stocks, software, opera, polo, Italy, scuba diving. And for once, with the bridle in her mouth, she'll be quiet. Tamed, you might say.

I'll offer rides on her, to the other women in particular. Why women? A good reason. They can ride as long as they take their panties off first, to make the saddle sticky, and so she can lick it clean later.

Perhaps we'll have her climb up on the bar, so I can tell everyone about her, take out her bit, and feed her a piece of sugar, massage her ass and pussy while she talks dirty about herself, answers questions very honestly, with the possibility of a good shot across the ass with the riding crop if she says anything wrong. Yes, this fantasy is shaping up nicely. Some nice red stripes on her big white bottom.

Back indoors with her, via the kitchen. Conchita is there, cooking.

Juan is with her, excitedly talking about el hombre y la loca, when in I ride astride my naked companion. He's staring hotly again. But I detect a certain sapphic fascination on Conchita's face too. A little extra sweatiness on her olive skin, a new flash to her dark eyes. She's in her forties, and, uh, large. Juan is in his twenties, but I detect that they've been inspired by the sight of la loca Brooke to be thinking about checking the suspension of his '84 Lincoln when he gives her a lift home tonight.

I'm sure I'll be getting a fine 'ride' here, too. She loves this outfit. how can I tell? Well, for example, sniff the air. Or look at the stuff dripping down her thighs, and the state of her, already. She's panting, and it's not from overexertion. She's as horny as can be. She's so excited, from this first saddling.

So, back in the dining room I help her out of the saddle, trying to keep her from clambering on me. I cuff her hands behind her, have her straddle me sitting down, with her legs wide apart, so I can play with her, open her up, check how sloppy she is, manipulate her, talk to her about how she likes it. It's plain that she is going to be a very willing little pony, and wants her limits to be thoroughly tested.

I'm rubbing her hard, and she's very responsive. I begin to tell her about what I have in mind: the park, the trip to the bar, showing her nude and submissive to her friends. Whacking her bare ass in front of them.

The idea of having her lick up their pussy slobber. She's gasping: "No, no!

Oh god! I couldn't! Please! That's so mean. . ."

I laugh. "So, which of your girlfriends have seen you naked? Which ones have you done it with?" Quite a few of the former (at the pool, in the dorm, at crazier parties before my time). None of the latter, if she's telling the truth. (That's doubtful, all girls in this age group seem to be bisexual.)

"But you know that I regard sex with other women as a major priority for you, Brooke. don't you?"

"Yes . . ."

"And you know that I plan to show you naked in public, before long?"

"Yes, and I want to but . . ."

"So what's wrong with doing what I say?"

"I will, I promise . . . but not this, please? Tony, oh please, you know what they're like, they'll all talk . . ." She shudders.

"That's the idea. I want the word out. I want people to know you're bi, that you're a sub, an exhibitionist. It all underlines your 'star'

potential, cookie. Makes you a proper trophy slave, sweetness. Now, then, which of your friends would you most like to lick, bitch?"

She doesn't rush, but finally gasps out the names of Clifford, Lee, Reed -- yes, all girls, despite their names. WASP parents and their delusions, what can I tell you? I tell her: "Yes, they're all pretty cool.

I'm sure they'll want to, they seem the type. So, then. They'll be invited, fer sure! You can clean the saddles after them, but I think it's only fair that you thank them by nuzzling their snatches and making it clear you want something more than a sugar cube, huh? Especially if you've had your bit in your mouth and you've drooled all over your tits and have been wiggling your tongue at them, Brooke. . ."

She comes frantically, gasping: "Oh, baby, I'm so hot!" and begging me to really abuse and humiliate her.

"No prob. In fact, a pleasure," I tell her. Easy enough for me, because I enjoy giving a young woman a hard time.

Speaking of which, it's time for her to lower herself on my prong, which is quite ready for her . . . I think the riding crop is going to get some practice after years of neglect. After I've pumped her full of spunk, that is. She's pumping up and down, and I have her tits in my hands, squeezing and molding them.

I entertain myself by asking her: "By the way, did you see the way Conchita was looking at you?"

She swallows and nods, too engrossed to speak.

"Well, Brooke, this saddling can go two ways, can't it? Perhaps I should have her sit on your face, darling? Wouldn't that be delightful?"

Brooke moans and wrinkles her nose and mouth in disgust. The idea of the huge housekeeper using her for oral sex repels her. "Oh, no, please.

I'll be smothered. That's too gross. . . you mustn't . . .you can't expect me to . . ."

"Ah, good! That's what I wanted to hear, Brooke. Then so be it."

"You're a beast . . ."

"Glad you appreciate it."

A couple more orgasms from her, and I feel as though I've done my duty. I have her stand amd pull herself free, and walk her to the dining room table. It's not dinner time yet, so we have a few minutes. The crop, and Brooke's almost unmarked bare backside. It doesn't stay that way for long. I have her bend over, and hold her hands high behind her back. And I whip her furiously, delighting in her yelps of outrage. Two dozen good hard strokes. I see Conchita peeking from a doorway, and wave to her. The housekeeper has her hands under her skirt, as I'd expect. I'm sure Juan is lurking somewhere too. Neither comes to take a closer look, which is disapppointing.

Well, I mustn't cause too much household disruption, I decide. I like things to run on time. So, I pull Brooke to her feet and make sure that her tears are genuine, then bend her backward over the table, push my cock back in her, and slowly fuck her until I am ready to come, speaking slowly and steadily in her ear. She is writhing and sweating, really losing control. I decide to tease her about her reaction to the crop: "You were much more animated than when I spank your silly ass with my hand, Brooke dear. So, what gives? You like it with a crop?"

"Yes!"

"Why? Does it remind you of something?"

"School!"

"They used to whip you at school? I can't believe that!"

"No . . . but there was a cane for serious offences . . . oh!"

"Did you get it?"

"No . . .oooh, baby!"

"Ah. But you wish you had, is that it?"

"unh unh unh . . ."

"Well, then you will, honey. A raw ass coming up after dinner . . .

but concentrate now . . . I need to . . ."

By the time Conchita brings out the asparagus soup, Brooke is sitting demurely at her end of the long table, with that well-fucked glow on her face, and wrapped in a thin silk bathrobe. There are knowing smiles all round. A pleasant pause, then we'll resume with Phase III of this educational experience for the self-centered young lady. Yes, the saddle was an inspiration all right!

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