short stories : gift horse
You give yourself away, you know. You ask too many questions. How much do I love you? How much can I take? How far would I go?
Well, you know, they’re all really the same question. And if you really want to know, let me tell you – it’s scary how far you will go - how much you can take when you love someone as much as I love you. Really, really scary.
And if you really want to know…
We’re in the bedroom of your tiny box of a flat. You’re lying on the bed wearing grey jogging bottoms and a grey t shirt. And, even though I’m only feet away, by the wardrobe, I can barely look at you, because you just look so sexy.
While you’re relaxing in your supersoft lounge wear, I, on the other hand, am being granted no such comfort-based favours. I’m wearing a pair of very tight black lace knickers. In fact, the extreme tightness of this garment in particular is one of the reasons I don’t want to look at you too much, and get too turned on. Lacy knickers are just not built for such things.
I’m also wearing a matching black camisole, black stockings and a black suspender belt, topped – or rather bottomed – off with a rather uncomfortable pair of black patent ankle boots. (What can I say? I like black. I think it’s elegant and, like most cross dressers, I need all the elegance I can get.)
By the way, the not looking at you to avoid getting too turned on – so not working. Because I’m just getting off so much just on being dressed like this, despite the discomfort and how exposed I feel, that alone is making me ridiculously hard. I’m sure you’ve noticed.
Anyway, you seem rather pleased with my outfit so far. At least you’re smiling rather indulgently, which is always a good sign. I’m kind of expecting the usual next stage, which is for you to secure me to the bed using the cuffs I’m wearing on my wrists and ankles (which are, incidentally, also black), so you can take me with your strap on, but you don’t do that today.
Instead you say, ‘Simon, I think you need something else on.’
And I’m a bit stuck there because so far in our relationship my cross dressing has been limited to underwear. You don’t usually want me to wear much clothing. So, I don’t actually have anything else to put on – nothing that fits with what I’m wearing so far anyway.
But you’re way ahead of me, because you say, ‘Choose something of mine, from the wardrobe.’
And that’s how I come to be rifling through the very back of your wardrobe – which is startlingly big, considering the size of the rest of your flat. And that’s how I found it.
Right at the back of your wardrobe I feel I rather nice velvety texture, I spy a blackness of fabric, and – convinced I have struck gold - I pull a wonderful soft something from so far back in the depths it’s practically in Narnia.
‘Oh no,’ you say, quickly ‘not that one.’ But I already have it out in the open. And I look down to see that I’m holding in my hand a beautiful black velvet riding coat, with a pair of butter-soft, cream-coloured jodhpurs dangling off the same hanger. (And when I look down at the floor of the wardrobe I notice – yes – nestling in the back corner a pair of oil-sleek riding boots.)
I can’t stop looking at the clothes. They are so beautiful. I ignore the fact you asked me not to get them out and say, ‘I didn’t know you rode?’ And I can’t help being vaguely aroused by the idea of – I’m not sure quite what – the idea of you in these clothes, I guess.
‘I don’t,’ you say, ‘I don’t have a horse.’ And although you hide it quite well, I can hear the tiniest scrap of sadness in your voice.
And it’s that little exchange, not the rather excellent sex that the evening quickly develops into, that occupies my thoughts late into the night. Because, call me soft hearted if you like, I hate the idea of you being sad about anything – I really do. And I decide right then that you are not going to be, not if I can do something about it.
My first, and strikingly obvious, idea is to buy you some riding lessons or pony trekking or something like that. Sliding out of your embrace in the warm bed and creeping around while you sleep, I trawl through the Yellow Pages and find a couple of places that I think I could easily take you. Places where you could trot around to your heart’s content. But deep down I know a few hours on a borrowed horse isn’t really going to cut it with you. You want a horse of your own – I know that for sure – you’re a pretty all or nothing sort of person. But there’s no way I can afford to buy you a pony, let alone deal with the logistics of horse-keeping in the middle of a city. I end up filing the idea away, disappointed that I can’t make it work for you.
But then, a few days later, I’m walking home from the supermarket, and I realise how I can make you happy. I realise exactly what I need to do.
It’s not going to be easy. There a lot of factors. A lot of imponderables. But as soon as I hit on the plan I know I have to make it work. No matter what.
And that’s how much I love you.
First of all I need a few essential items: an outfit, some equipment and a venue, mainly. A, B and C. Now the venue could be tricky, really tricky actually. But I figure I can deal with that later. I might as well start with the simplest part of the equation. And that’s the outfit. And that’s where Jeremy comes in.
I’m so bloody excited as I work things through in my head that I don’t even go home with my shopping. I go straight to Jeremy’s and dump my carriers of groceries on the floor of his shabby rented workshop.
Jeremy is a professional leather worker. I met him at art school. And I have to say, he’s a bloody useful friend to have if you have, let’s say, ‘alternative’ tastes. After all, leather equipment is pricey - most of my collection would normally have been beyond my limited means - but Jeremy and I have a special arrangement. See, Jeremy has a little kink all of his own.
I’ve always been a reasonably proficient cartoonist – just pen and ink stuff. And what I’ve always drawn, ever since I discovered my talent, are little bondage cartoons. Pictures of myself, basically, in situations I’d like to be in: cross dressed, tied up, caged, you know the sort of stuff I like – the stuff that makes me squirm and pant. I’ve been drawing them for years.
I’ll show you some time – I’m pretty sure you’d like them.
Anyway, this one time, back when we were at art school, Jeremy somehow got his hands on a rather saucy picture I’d done of myself, naked, hog tied and gagged. And, in short, he liked the picture. He liked it a lot. Enough to suggest that in return for me letting him keep it he’d make me a little present.
The present was a leather gag; the rest is sort of history.
So, to get to the point, we now have a simple deal, I buy all kinds of leather gear from Jeremy with my cartoons (plus material costs.) He tells me what he wants me to draw (kinky stuff) I tell him what I want him to make (more kinky stuff). It’s the perfect deal.
Or, it was.
Because things don’t go quite that smoothly when I ask for what I want this time. To be fair, it is the most complex thing I’ve ever asked for. For example, it’s the first time I’ve ever had to do a series of drawings up front to show exactly what I want. And it’s the first time that Jeremy has asked for more than a few bondage cartoons plus the cost of the leather as payment.
‘You know I’ve always liked you, Simon,’ is how he puts it. And what he wants is really no surprise. He’s always been more than a little tactile with me. So I know he likes me. That part of it isn’t the shock. The shock is that he expects some rather more 3-D than my usual doodles as payment for my latest kinky specifications.
I’ve never sucked a man’s cock before. And you’ll have noticed that I had to use the word ‘man’s’ in that sentence, because you don’t just fuck my arse with your strap-on. In fact, sometimes, we never even get to that point. You know I like the way it looks – jutting out from your crotch, powerful, hard and ever-ready. It makes my mouth dry to see you wearing it, whether you’re naked and predatory or just have it on casually, peeping out from your pyjamas. I’ve licked my lips and begged to suck it more times than I could possibly remember.
So that’s what I do right now, when Jeremy drops his trousers and reveals his hard, glistening cock right in front of my mouth. I suck, greedily, thinking of you, and your big silicone phallus, and how happy I’m going to make you by doing this.
And when Jeremy grabs my hair so he can force himself deeper into my mouth, jerks hard and comes down my throat, the deal is struck. My outfit is taken care of.
And that’s how much I love you.
But that’s not quite all. I stay for a cup of tea and when I mention that I’m not sure about how I’m going to deal with the other stuff I need for your surprise, Jeremy smiles and says, ‘You know what, I think I might be able to help you with that too.’
Keeping Jeremy sweet, it turns out was a bloody good move on my part. First of all, he has a friend, Eloise, who’s a bit nifty with metal work. He’s certain she can make the piece of equipment I need, and pockets my design with a leave-it-to-me grin. Even more jaw dropping, though, is Jeremy’s second friend: Sebastian.
Sebastian, apparently, has a beautiful country estate in Berkshire. It has everything I could possibly want, including private woodland, a pretty secluded paddock and, very importantly, stables. It’s more than I could have asked for. It’s way beyond lucky. Or it will be, as soon as I can find a way of persuading him to let me use it.
But, that’s not going to be such a big problem. Sebastian isn’t quite as willing to do something for nothing as Eloise, but, like Jeremy himself, Sebastian has his soft spots. Which is where the party comes in. Apparently Jeremy’s friend holds a lot of rather wild parties, and the ever helpful Jeremy is willing to do a little bit of string pulling. I’m going to be a party guest. Well, maybe that’s not really the right phrase. I’m going to be a party favour.
And that’s how much I love you.
When party time arrives, Jeremy helps me with my outfit, after a rather strongly worded warning that this is not the place for any of ‘that trannie shit you waste your time with’ (Jeremy isn’t a big fan of my cross dressing). So I’m wearing a combination of my leather body harness and leather collar – all originally the work of dear Jeremy - and a borrowed pair of leather trousers, which are a touch too tight. I take a deep, nervous breath and think of you, as Jeremy’s little Hyundai scrunches its way up a majestic drive. In front of the house flaming torches are dancing. And my heart is banging.
As we climb the steps up to the main doors a beautifully dressed middle aged man strides forward to greet us and Jeremy hisses in my ear that this is Sebastian, our host for the evening and the person who I need to impress if I want use of his facilities.
I watch him hopefully. His feet are light and elegant on the beautiful sweeping stone steps, and when he gets to where we are standing, he stops just a shade too close for me than feels really right.
He eyes me up and down, looking a little like he’s planning on eating me. ‘So,’ he says after a good deal of this blatant eyeing, ‘this is the one who wants to borrow the stables for a little bit of horse play?’
‘Oh yes,’ says Jeremy, answering for me in a way that implies that I am not going to be talking very much in this little exchange.
‘Hmm,’ says Sebastian, ‘well, he must be very dirty boy.’ And he gives me an eyebrow flash as he lasciviously over pronounces the word ‘dirty’.
In response to this Jeremy pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. A piece of paper that I know contains my drawing of the exotic leather outfit that Jeremy is making for me. I shift a little in uncomfortable embarrassment and look at the ornate stonework beneath my feet.
The middle aged man makes a very appreciative noise. And then says, ‘Oh, how could I refuse?’
I’m still looking at the paving and he reaches out and lifts my chin, bringing my eyes to meet his. ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like trotting about my grounds more,’ he says, all softly indulgent.
And that sort of puts me at my ease a bit. I end up grinning right back. It can’t really be that simple, can it?
My job at the party is pretty simple, I’m top-up-boy. I’m given a bottle of champagne, wrapped in the obligatory snowy napkin and sent to waft around the effortlessly tasteful surrounds of this country house, looking cute and smiling serenely at the other guests, who range from middle aged care-worn types, like my host, to semi-naked pretty boys like, well, like me. Okay, I have to put up with the odd – uninvited - hand on my arse and one or two tongues in my ear, but hey – big deal, my venue is secured.
And that’s how much I love you.
Ten days later. Everything is set, planned to within an inch of its life. Jeremy has come good on everything he promised and his and Eloise’s creations are ready and waiting for me inside Sebastian’s wonderland.
Of course, you’re sitting in the passenger seat beside me, as we scrunch up a familiar driveway and pull up outside a familiar huge country pile.
‘Simon,’ you say, puzzled, as I bring the car to a crunchy halt, ‘what is going on?’
I jerk the handbrake and turn to look at you, grinning like a schoolboy. ‘Just wait. I swear it will be worth it.’
I leave you in a lovely, if rather chintzy, bedroom to get changed into the outfit I’ve brought along for you. Your jacket, jodhpurs and boots, naturally. I’ve also left you some instruction on the dressing table. It’s just directions down to the paddock and a request to wait for me there. Just that and a few words about how much I love you, but that’s a given really.
And while you’re slipping into your outfit in one of the great house’s infinite number of swishy bedrooms, I’m in another, where I’m supposed to be doing likewise.
But actually, I’m feeling a little panicky. My made-to-measure design is laid out on the bed, but my hands are shaking so much I can barely fasten the buckles. What’s more there are parts of this outfit that I know I couldn’t fasten myself, even if my fingers were steady as a surgeon’s. I swallow and think of you, probably dressed already and making your way down to the grounds, wondering what on earth is taking me so long.
So, I’m about to venture into the house and look for someone to help me – not a request I really relish making – when there is a soft knock at the door.
I might have known. Jeremy.
‘Hi,’ he says, breezing in without being asked and taking in a good eyeful of my semi naked body. ‘You’re never going to get into that outfit on your own you know. I made it, and I understand better than anyone all its more fiddly parts.’
I simultaneously sigh and smile at him, helplessly agreeing to his implicit offer, partly because he is so relentlessly incorrigible, but mostly because I don’t have any choice.
And it’s with a surprisingly brisk and workmanlike air that Jeremy begins to strap me into a close fitting body harness that forms the main part of my outfit.
The harness has anchor points on the back for my wrist cuffs, which secure my arms high and tight out of the way, somewhere in the middle of my upper back. I yelp slightly when he fixes them in place, but can’t help liking the way the position pushes my chest out and makes me stand just as straight and proud as a real thoroughbred.
But I don’t get much of a chance to enjoy my new posture, as Jeremy is already brandishing the next part of my transformation – the bridle.
Cold straps quickly encase my head; holding blinkers and an icy metal bit, which feels alien and clunky in my mouth. In fact, the bit makes me start to drool a little, and I have to hold my head up a very high to stop this little humiliation. I’m happy to drool in front of you – if that’s what you want to see – but somehow I don’t really like drooling in front of Jeremy.
I know you really like gags. You like to strap things into my mouth and watch my mortified face as my saliva pools in my mouth and then eventually escapes my invaded lips and runs down my chin. You love the noises I make when I’m gagged. You love it when I try to beg. You’ll strap a too tight, too big, red rubber ball into my mouth and tell me to beg to have it removed, laughing when the only sounds I can make are muffled gibberish. That’s why I knew, right from the start, that you would love the bit. Which I guess is why I made it so real, hard metal, big and uncomfortable. All to make it more enjoyable for you – and far more uncomfortable for me.
But I don’t have to worry about holding my head up to stop the drool factor for long, because a second later I don’t have a choice about it. Jeremy fixes in the short strap that connects my head harness to my confined wrists, forcing me to stand proud and high, with my head pulled back, whether I’m worried about drooling or not.
Right then I’m so focussed on the sensations I’m feeling, being strapped and pulled and made helpless, that for a moment I don’t notice when Jeremy pauses, standing square in front of me and staring into my eyes.
‘Simon,’ he says gently, ‘I know this is taking a terrible liberty, and I know you blew me, and everything, which was great, but I’m greedy. I couldn’t stop thinking about doing this all the time I was making this outfit for you, and I know you appreciate all my hard work.’
I stare at him, which is practically all I can do. I have no idea where this is going, but the bit in my mouth is stopping me from asking. In fact, what with the blinkers and the head strap tightly in place I can’t even look away from his earnest face.
‘So, this is just between us, okay.’ And then – sudden and quick - Jeremy kisses me, right on my bitted mouth. He presses his soft lips against my tortured ones, flickering his tongue around the tide-line of my lips and then pushing his way inside. I’m helpless to resist – I can’t even close my mouth properly.
He kisses me for a long time, his hands tight on my upper arms. And when he pulls away, I moan and crane my neck to try and follow his lips.
Jeremy just laughs. ‘And now,’ he says, deliberately ignoring my whimpers, ‘the final stages.’
I let Jeremy pull down my underpants – not that I really have a lot of choice at this stage. My cock jumps out, already eager and hard, partly from my current delicious bondage predicament and partly from Jeremy’s eloquent kissing. Jeremy laughs again, and sets about replacing my underwear with an arrangement of straps to match the ones encasing my torso and head. I can’t actually see what he’s doing but it does feel rather wonderful as he encases me in tight, soft leather.
I decide to try and squirm a little, just to test how well held I am, and when I can barely twitch, my whole body starts to fizz with excitement. I realise how helpless really I am. My eyes close and I think of you. I’m so convinced you’re going to love every aspect of this just as much as I – so obviously – do.
And I’d probably have disappeared into an oblivious rapture, about you right then, if I hadn’t felt something pressing up against my arsehole at that very moment. Because, in my diagram, the horse had a tail, and Jeremy hasn’t failed to deliver.
With a little pressure, he slides the butt plug home. I’ve worn them before, with you of course, but this time it is slightly different, because I can feel the long leather strands of the ‘tail’ brushing the backs of my legs. I gasp and jerk, but I don’t think it is actually possible for my cock to get any harder unless it were suddenly made of adamantium.
And with my tail in place, which I give a few practice swishes, I’m fully dressed. Fully dressed in nothing but and arrangement of leather straps and a pair of sturdy boots. And all I can think about is how much I know you’re going to love it.
With a sly grin Jeremy takes hold of the reins that are attached to either side of my bridle and leads me out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
And that’s how much I love you.
Eloise’s beautiful handiwork is all ready and waiting for us behind the stable block. A pretty little cart. Small and light as it can be, with a padded chair (which is for you, of course), and elegantly curving struts emerging from the front, designed to attached to the heavy D-rings which jingle at my sides.
Jeremy raises is eyebrows. ‘Nice, huh?’ he says in a sort of half whistle.
And I say nothing, because I can’t.
Once I’m hitched to the cart Jeremy bids me goodbye, with a sharp pat on my bare backside, and I trot around the side of the stable block, with the cart trundling behind me, to where you stand in the paddock, looking just amazing.
And when you see me, you try to be cool about it, but from the way you smile, the way your feet sort of leave the ground for the tiniest, tiniest moment, I know I’ve made you happy.
And that’s how much I love you.
I bet I look pretty strange as I pick my way across the muddy earth to where you are standing. I’m grinning like an idiot, but with the bit in my mouth it probably looks more like a deranged grimace. You’re so cool, though. As you watch me coming you’re all ice princess, wryly amused by this latest little whimsy of mine.
But you play your part so well. Once I’m stood in front of you, you give me a cursory inspection – all uninterested surface, but with real excitement burning, somewhere behind your eyes.
I’m helplessly straight and erect (actually, I’m sure you’ve noticed, erect everywhere!) while you circle me, checking the straps of my harness, taking up the slack here, allowing a little extra movement here. It’s so intimate, so special, letting you play with my body like this – teasing me with how easy it is for you to give my already sore muscles a little extra comfort, or, of course, restrict them even more tightly.
I shiver slightly when you take your touch away. It’s cool in the paddock. But I don’t think the breezes whirling around my limbs are going to be bothering me soon, because, with a creak and a jingle, you settle yourself into the carriage.
At first you go easy on me. You let me find my own pace, learning the patterns of the ground, the hidden dangers in the terrain. I quickly find out which parts of the paddock are boggy, which are pitted, which are ridged. I walk and I trot. I even try a little run once I feel confident that I’m not going to fall – a real worry with my arms bound and my sight impaired by the blinkers. But soon, sooner than I would have thought possible, I start to feel less vulnerable, more confident, strong. Oh, and the cold? Really not a problem anymore, not now I’m more concerned about the sweat running into my eyes as I work for you.
That’s when you stop me of course. You sense my growing confidence easily; you’re so perfectly tuned in some times. Sometimes, to me, when I’m feeling so helpless, just a piece of flotsam, buffeted around on a sort of sea of your whims, your instinct seems kind of magical. But I suppose that’s what you do.
In a soft voice you tell me how you want me to move. How you want me to lift my knees high when I trot, how you want me to respond to your voice commands, how you are going to tap me with the crop on my shoulder when I don’t. For a moment I wonder where the crop has appeared from, and the delicate piece of sugar that you push into my mouth, but only for a moment. A second later you are back in the driving seat, the last crystals of sugar are just a gossamer memory on my tongue, and we’re off again.
This time you train me harder. You want faster, slower, this way, that way, stop, start, stop again. I race up and down the paddock, until my lungs and my shoulders are burning. It’s so exhilarating I could fly. And then, when I am starting to feel quite exhausted and my mouth is dusty dry, I hear a familiar jingling noise, and manage to turn far enough around that I can see another horse and carriage trundling into the paddock. I’m so lost in my horsey world I find it hard to understand for a minute what is happening. But then the mist clears.
I might have known: Jeremy.
Or, to be precise, Jeremy and Sebastian. Jeremy is the one in the harness, and Sebastian is in the carriage - all smiles and waves. I double take.
Sebastian hails us as soon as he is within braying distance. Or, at least, he hails you. ‘Hello, my dear, how is he handling?’
‘Like a dream,’ you call back. (I love the way your voice sounds so proud.)
‘I knew it. So, would you care for a race?’ Sebastian sounds so ridiculously matter of fact, like he’s offering you a cup of tea. ‘It’s so much more fun with a little element of competition.’
Jeremy has been pulling Sebastian’s carriage closer and closer during this little exchange and now he is alongside me. I can see he is wearing exactly the same harness as I am – my design. The carriage is exactly the same too. I can’t stop looking at him. He looks wonderful. He looks obscene. I never realised I looked like that. A human made into a horse, a pony, pulling a little carriage. I feel myself get a little harder just at the thought of how I must look right now – strapped and bound like Jeremy, displayed and tortured, and – in my case certainly – flushed and sweaty from trotting and jumping.
You are talking to Sebastian, agreeing to his suggested race. What was once my own little scheme is now twisting and dancing out of my hands. I’m left with no choice but to give up control of this project to you. But, I’m cool.
And that’s how much I love you.
It’s all agreed. The race is on. It’s you and me against Jeremy and Sebastian. Once around the paddock on a route the Sebastian has suggested and involves us racketing around a very narrow track at close quarters. It almost feels like it’s going to be some kind of roman chariot race. And I really like the idea of that. I wonder if next time we do this – and there really is no doubt in my mind that there will be a next time – we could get hold of roman style carriages, so you could be standing up as you drive me on, ever harder, ever faster.
But that’s not happening now. This is a rather simpler proposition.
‘Would you like to make a wager?’ Sebastian is saying to you. ‘I would certainly add to the excitement, give you a reason not to spare the rod on your lovely boy.’
Sebastian’s voice sounds ridiculously filthy when he says that. I sort of know he’s playing a part right now, but he really does play it well.
And, although his wager idea is fair enough, you have a better one. ‘Silly for us to have a bet,’ you say, ‘when we could make things far more interesting than that. Why play for boring old money, when we both know what we’d really like to win.’
Suddenly Sebastian’s eyes are on stalks. I get the distinct impression that this is what he was really after all along. ‘Really?’ he gasps. ‘You’d really bet your boy?’
‘My pony, yes. My pony against yours. If you win, you can take both of them for the evening. If I win, I get them. What do you say?’
‘You know I couldn’t say no, but, really, are you sure. You’d risk losing him?’
And in my head I can see your smile as you say. ‘I don’t think it’s much of a risk, really.’
I think you have a point. After all why drive me on with a shout and a crop when you can use something far more potent: the thought of not being with you this evening. The thought of not getting to share the end of this amazing day with you. Of course I’m going to give this race everything I’ve got.
There’s just one problem, which becomes very apparent, very quickly, as soon as the race begins: I’ve been training with you for over an hour, where Jeremy is fresh and perky. I might be running on sheer adrenaline, but he still takes an early lead with his newer legs. And Sebastian is frantic to win, screaming and shouting at Jeremy as we crash around the course.
My feet pound the dirt as I skirt pot holes that might upturn the carriage and brace my calves in the muddier soil. And there’s my advantage right there, I might be more worn but I know the ground much better, having already completed several circuits of the paddock today. Jeremy isn’t so lucky, running at full pelt he manages to miss one of the paddock’s biggest pits, but the carriage doesn’t and it topples, ending up in an easily overtaken heap and we lope to victory.
And that’s how much I love you.
While Jeremy and Sebastian recover from their tumble with a few small dents to their carriage and a few much larger ones to their egos. By the time they are upright, I’m standing leaning on the fence by the gate, giving myself time to recover after my crazed exertion. You’ve dismounted and you’re standing next to me, stroking my side. I can tell you’re pleased. But I’m not, not entirely.
You see, during the race I was totally focussed on the winning. Not winning meant spending the night with Jeremy and Sebastian rather than you, and that was unthinkable. But now we have won, I realise the flipside, winning means you’ve won Jeremy, which means, at a rough guess, you’re going to forgo a romantic evening a deux, for getting your two pony boys to put on a little floorshow for you. And, although I’m trying to feel okay about that, I’m really quite disappointed at missing the one-on-one afterglow. And then you lean in close to me, and I can feel the warmth of your body against the chill of my sweat cooled skin. And you whisper, ‘Don’t worry about it, baby.’
So I don’t.
And that’s how much I love you.
Much later, after warm blankets, warm showers, hot dinners and hot sex, we are up in one of the bedrooms – the one you used to change in, just lying on the bed together.
Jeremy is there too. He turned up as soon as we retired, all fresh faced and ready to perform his duties as prize. But you are so many steps ahead of him I doubt he can even see you. Which is why he’s spent the evening tied to a chair in the corner, with one of the pony bridles on to keep him quiet. It’s worked too. I’ve almost forgotten he’s there. I certainly didn’t notice him when you pinned me down on the bed and straddled me – showing me how much you enjoyed your day. And that you really do know how to ride.
And that’s how much I love you.