Prance

Dildo Ride

Despite her modest salary as a copy-editor for a prominent magazine in Manhattan, Valentina was fortunate to have found an affordable apartment mid-town, just a few blocks from Central Park. Not a weekend passed where she didn’t wander over to sit on a bench in a remote part of the park and watch the horse-drawn carriages pass, the horses trussed in their studded leather harnesses, the heavy clop of their hooves on the pavement resonating through her, the intermittent snap of a crop sending a shiver down her spine. On the occasions she could afford it, Valentina would indulge her whim with a carriage ride. She would sit in the plush diamond-tucked leather seat and listen to the jangle and clang of the horse’s studded leather harness and hardware as it moved. She would marvel at the ornate halter, the leather blinders, and the feathered plume that opened up like a fountain atop the horse’s head. What was most alluring though was the prancing animal’s rear end, all a cross of leather strapping and buckles, framed by the breeching belt across the hindquarters and the loin straps draping the contours of the animal’s beautifully shaped butt. Valentina would watch as the horse’s hindquarters sashayed with each stride, savoring the sight of the animal fully trussed in the delicious straps of leather, quietly envious.

Years of fascination about the harnesses and halters, and the divine crack of a crop, had evolved into a secret Valentina had never dared share with another person. Too embarrassed at what she felt might be perceived as a perversion–hiding a yearning that bordered on kink, combined with the fear of shaming and rejection–she had never even hinted at it with any of her lovers.

At twenty-eight, Valentina had been left somewhat dismayed that her sex life had never achieved the depth of arousal she experienced watching the trussed up carriage horses prance through Central Park. Over the years lovers of all races and genders had come and gone from her bed, Valentina in desperate search, striving to achieve that glorious sensation. Sadly, seeing a carriage horse fully trussed in studded leather harness and the coachman in command with his leather crop, delivering those delicious cracks across the animal’s rump, were the zenith of sexual experience for her, everything else suffering a dullness that left her terribly longing.

Valentina wrestled eternally with what she was starting to perceive as a perverted albatross and had to constantly reassure herself she was not crazy or twisted. In fact, with the exception of her secret fetish her life was painfully ordinary. Still, it was a secret she longed to one day find a willing and understanding accomplice who might understand, and together they could fully immerse themselves in.

Some years ago, with the dilemma weighing heavily on her demure shoulders, Valentina had made a tentative step toward realizing her fetish and partially indulged her whim, acquiring an accessory that spoke to her secret desire. Sadly, she kept it safely tucked away in the dark recesses of her closet with hope of one day bringing it–and her secret–out into the light of day. For now, however, and as it had been all these years, her secret remained hers alone. Valentina continued to quietly ply her fantasy in private, sitting alone on a park bench, listening to the splendid clop of hooves and that delicious snap of crop against a rump. Occasionally, using her folded coat in her lap as cover, Valentina would brave to slip her hand between her legs to gift herself some vague stimulation to acquaint the lovely sounds of the carriages passing, with the snort of a prancing horse and that lovely jangle of harness rewarding her naughtiness.

˜˜˜˜

One Saturday in March, the day arriving vaguely warm and sunny, Valentina found herself in an unusually pleasant mood. She decided to spend what she couldn’t really afford and indulge a carriage ride through Central Park. She had her breakfast and then dressed in jeans and a simple blouse and sweater, a scarf wrapped around her neck, and headed for the park.

As she approached the Plaza Hotel, where the carriages were lined up awaiting fares, Valentina took notice of one of the coachmen in particular. She had never seen him before. He was perhaps thirty-five and, unlike many of the other coachmen, held himself with the air of an athlete, his trim, muscled physique exemplified by his red coat and tails, perfectly creased white flared bleechers, and black knee-high boots. His carriage was polished white with gold trim and had large white spoke wheels. As if drawn by some vague magnetic field, Valentina made steadfast for him.

As she approached the carriage, the horse, with its perfectly groomed brown coat beautifully trussed in harness, feather-plumed head dipping into a feed can, Valentina took note of the coachman’s careful attending of his animal. She watched as he removed his top hat to crouch down and cinch up the horse’s belly strap, his large hands gingerly but firmly drawing batıkent escort the strap snug. In that one simple action was the spark of arousal for Valentina. She peered over the buggy’s side into the open interior, plush red leather seats diamond-tucked with hammered brass fittings.

Unnoticed, Valentina stood there awkwardly for a moment before uttering, “Excuse me, are you free?”

Her voice stood him up from adjusting the strap. He was tall and handsome. Caught out, he fumbled slightly with his top hat, placing it over his silky black hair in an effort to achieve some sense of decorum.

“Yes–yes, I am.”

There was a moment of silence between them.

“Are you interested in a half-hour, or the full?” His voice carrying a gentle tone of command.

Valentina, slightly embarrassed, “I can only afford the half-hour.”

“Alright then,” he said as he opened the small door of the coach, offering his white-gloved hand to assist her stepping up into the carriage.

She let her hand be taken in his, feeling of the soft white glove.

“Careful, it’s a bit of a reach to the step,” he advised.

Exhibiting uncanny familiarity, Valentina adeptly raised her foot onto the buggy step and was about to make the ascension from street to coach independently before catching herself and coyly allowing him to take some of her weight. The firm grip of his hand on hers and the subtle strength of arm easing her into the sanctity of the coach flushed her with a wonderful blush.

“You do that rather gracefully,” he admired.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Valentina returned as she settled into the wonderful smell of leather.

“Well then, I’ll have to ask you to be patient with me, it’s my first day.”

“Really?”

“Not to worry, I’m fully trained, accredited and licensed.”

“I’m not worried,” Valentina, enjoying a little flirtation. “Am I your first?”

He smiled, “Sorry… sixth.”

She watched him as he pulled himself up onto the coach box seat, granting her an unobstructed view of his exquisite backside against the bottom cushion. She lightly bit into her lower lip when he reached out his gloved hand and drew the crop from the whip holder. He then snapped the reins and guided his horse from its place at the curb. The gentle clop of hooves settled Valentina back into the soft leather seat as she set her gaze on the coachman’s immaculately groomed horse, hindquarters a wonderful cross of studded leather strapping of harness.

Making their way through the avenues of Central Park they engaged in small talk. In short order Valentina learned that he had been at medical school when he realized he’d rather be doing this. Further chitchat revealed that, similar to her, he had enjoyed the horse-drawn carriages since he was young, finding a kind of unparalleled fascination with them. He had decided, against his former girlfriend’s protestations, to drop out of medical school and become a carriage operator. It was a decision that had taken her from “fiancée,” to “ex.” He hadn’t yet decided if dropping out of school and taking up this livelihood was foolish. Valentina quickly declared openly that she found it quite bold.

The moments of silence in their banter was filled with the glorious sound of the horse’s hooves against the pavement and the rattle and clang of the harness and its heavy lacing of studded straps and hardware. Valentina was enraptured, responding to the luscious sounds and feeling the movement of the carriage pulse through her. When he unexpectedly snapped the crop against his horse’s rump she absently let out a breathy little exhale.

As the ride continued she studied his broad shoulders, his trim waist exemplified by the fitted jacket with studded tails. She traded between glances at his white gloved hands and the horse’s rear end, deliciously wrapped in the loin straps, the breeching belt hanging just below the animal’s privates, the tail combed up through the crupper, his hands expertly snapping the reins, the thin leather lines draping the horse’s spine. He exhibited a tantalizingly gentle yet firm command of the animal, its head bobbing with each stride, the feathered plume pleasantly accenting the divine movement in a show of pride.

Familiar with the carriage routes, Valentina noticed they’d gone past the normal turn around spot for the half-hour tours.

“Excuse me, but I think you’ve missed our turn,” Valentina said, assuming it to be an amateur’s mistake.

“I’m well aware. I just thought I’d give you the whole hour,” his voice came back over his shoulder, “you seem to really enjoy it.”

She thought how the coachman couldn’t possibly know the truth in that. Between the clopping hooves, the top-hatted coachman’s fine ass pressed against the seat, and the teasing snaps of the crop against the horse’s hindquarters, Valentina felt herself getting wet. She sneaked a run of her hand down between her legs for a little rub of herself through her jeans. With beşevler escort the press of fingers against her crotch while watching his torso move in confident command of the reins, and the crack of the whip against the horse’s heinie, Valentina felt she might actually be able to bring herself to climax.

A daring little game of chance began to unfold, with Valentina wondering just how far she could take herself behind the coachman’s turned back, sitting in the open carriage, the sidewalls of the tall coach concealing her actions from passing joggers and bicyclists. She kept her eyes fixed on him should he decide to turn to address her. An excitement coursed through her, warming her skin, Valentina making her most robust daring to date. Maintaining a light pressure against her crotch, rubbing herself through her jeans, Valentina wished she could be so audacious as to push her hand down past the waistband and feel of the flesh of her womanhood. She imagined her fingers finding the moist lips of her vagina, rubbing her clitoris in those delicate half-circles she’d come to refine so perfectly to suit her exacting desires–skaters and joggers be damned.

With the coachman’s attention drawn to cross traffic ahead, and Valentina situated well above the vantage point of passersby, she decided to chance a touch. She slipped her hand into the waistband of her jeans, easing her fingers inside the elastic band of her panties and over the softness of her shaved skin, finding the glorious moistness of her labia.

Carefully monitoring the coachman’s distraction with the surrounding cars and bikes that were merging into a bottleneck, Valentina managed to brave a finger up inside herself, the wetness easily accepting the venturing digit. Feeling wonderfully exposed in the open coach, with life and movement all around her, the brisk air and the clop of hooves and rattle of harness, she enjoyed a surprising pleasure that put her on the path to climax. She dared some audacious venturing of fingers against her clit, which took her further onto that plateau of release.

Then, as the coachman navigated the carriage past the bottleneck, Valentina saw him relax and begin to turn. She quickly withdrew her hand and settled it innocently in her lap just as he half twisted in his seat to address her.

“It’s crowded today,” he offered. “That was a bit nerve-racking,” relaxing, “chalk it up to experience, I suppose.”

All Valentina could do was meekly smile and try to settle her rapid breathing and hope he didn’t ask her a question, as she’d have to answer in a kind of embarrassingly panting breathlessness, rousing suspicion. It all contributed to heightening her naughty little indulgence, which, even though interrupted, possessed its own kind of excitement.

He turned around again and looked at her. “Are you cold? Your face is flush.”

“No,” she managed with a faint little whimper of voice, “I’m fine.”

“Here,” he said, as he handed a folded plaid wool blanket back to her.

Valentina took the blanket, a gift from the heavens, for now she could indulge her endeavoring in secret, courtesy the plaid camouflage. She opened it up and spread it out over her lap, drawing it up around her shoulders. With the warm March sun filtering in through the trees and the sounds of the city all around her–roller skaters, bicyclists, and joggers passing within a breath of her–Valentina ran her hands under the soft wool and unfastened her jeans, pushing them down around her thighs. It felt wonderfully titillating to be partially naked beneath the blanket. She indulged her pussy in an intoxication of explorations, fingers sticky with her excretions.

The clop of the horse’s hooves, the rattle and clang of the heavy, studded harness, with the sun strobing her in the open carriage, Valentina let her fingers carry on their business in private beneath the plaid blanket. With legs spread as far as the jeans would allow she rubbed herself in syncopation with the horse’s stride, staring at the coachman’s ass bouncing against the seat cushion.

She watched, unblinking, as the horse sauntered beautifully and poetically along, its hindquarters crossed with the thick leather breeching belt and the loin straps draping the perfect curve of rear end. Her arousal was heightened with each crack of the coachman’s crop against the horse’s fanny. For a fleeting second Valentina saw herself as the horse, securely bound in full body harness, the weight of studded leather heavy on her small frame. She imagined a bit pressed into her mouth, the coachman tugging on the reins to draw her head back in absolute control, imagining a plume of ostrich feather atop her head bouncing with each stimulating swak of the crop against her ass. The coachman was unaware of the effects his actions were having on his charge, presently taking herself up onto that divine pleasure, the excitement unwittingly amplified by each snap of the crop against his horse’s rump.

Valentina lost beypazarı escort herself in the stimulation, close to forgetting where she was, her pleasure ushered along by the festival of sounds, fingers continuing the venturing of her wetness. Mouth slightly agape, body shuddering under the deluge of sensation, suddenly Valentina saw the Plaza Hotel come into view, signaling the untimely end of the carriage ride was upon them. Reluctantly she withdrew her hand and pulled up her jeans, fastening them beneath the blanket, taking a few deep breaths to bring her heart rate back to normal.

In the remaining moments of the ride, as the coachman expertly steered the horse and carriage around to take up along the curb, Valentina was feeling much too amorous to allow it all to end like this. So, she deigned to gamble.

“Thank you for giving me the extended ride,” she offered awkwardly, wishing for some clever words to find her.

“Happy to do it, besides, you’re my last fare of the day.”

And in that momentary pause Valentina found her voice. “Well then, can I repay you with a coffee?”

He turned, his face slowly finding a pleasant expression. “Okay,” thinking, “but I have to take the carriage and horse back to the stable, break down the gear and tend to her. Shall I meet you somewhere?”

“May I come along for that? I’d love to see it.”

“Alright, sure.”

And on that he steered the carriage down the avenue.

Valentina enjoyed a new experience in trekking the city streets by carriage, the clop of the horse’s hooves echoing through the towering canyons of high-rises. When they reached the Hudson River the coachman steered the carriage to the Clinton Park Stables. Entering into the ancient building Valentina was overcome with the smells of hay and animals, the place bustling with horses being groomed and fed, and the wonderful sound of half a dozen harnesses being removed or trussed up, with the glorious clang of hardware ringing throughout.

The coachman kept a running diatribe as he backed his coach into place and unhitched his horse, explaining each facet of the routine. Valentina then followed as he led his horse up the ramp to the second story of the stables where the stalls were. She watched intensely as he expertly unfastened the buckles and snaps of the studded straps, carefully removing the heavy harness from his horse. She admired his hands as he adeptly removed the bridle and bit, affectionately stroking his horse’s mane. It was all serving to keep Valentina in a heightened state of arousal.

After brushing out his horse’s coat and filling the feed bucket the coachman wiped his hands off and, looking at Valentina, said, “Well then, where shall we go?”

“My place,” she answered unhesitatingly in a kind of far off voice. Catching herself, “I live close by,” adding, “and I make a great cup of coffee, better than anything you’ll find down here.”

He looked at her for a moment, “Alright.”

As they descended the ramp to the street, his tall black boots tapping the slats, he said, “Maybe I should shower, I smell like the stables.”

“No,” Valentina said abruptly, “I mean–I don’t mind, actually, I like the smell.”

“Okay, suit yourself.”

The two then turned up W 52nd Street, making small but actually so very important and revealing talk, his boots and her shoes clacking out a syncopation of steps.

A few blocks on they arrived at her building and took the aged lift to the fifth floor. Valentina unlocked the door and invited the fully attired coachman into her small but quaint apartment. After inviting him to settle on the couch she went into the kitchen to prepare coffee, her fingers a nervous mess of coordination as she fumbled with the pot and coffee, spilling some onto the counter.

“I see you like classical music,” he called out from the living room, evidently perusing her CDs. “So do I.”

After an awkwardly embarrassing visit to the living room where she fumbled through some banal chit chat about living in New York–all due the reality of a fully attired coachman sitting on her couch–Valentina was saved by the boiling of the coffee maker and returned to the kitchen to try and gather her wits. The nervousness did not abate and she trembled the saucers as she filled the cups. Taking a breath to calm herself she picked them up and made for the living room.

Settling alongside him on the couch they quietly took sips of coffee. He found some rather sophomoric words to flatter her about what a good cup of coffee she made, feeling as inept for having said it as she did for her girlishly nodding response. They sat there tenuously, each wanting for the same thing, but neither in apparent capacity to make it happen.

“Did you…” he started–at the same time the exact words coming from her–“Did you…” They laughed, easing the nervousness of the moment.

“You first.”

“No, what were you doing to say?”

“I was going to ask, when did you first think about becoming a coachman?”

“Well, that goes back quite a ways.”

“I’d like to hear,” Valentina asked with genuine appeal.

“I’ve just always loved the horses, the carriages–” then, unwittingly touching on a deeply erogenous emotion for her, “–the clop of the hooves, and the clanging of the harnesses.”

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