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"Here we go." She hung a mirror on the wall in front of him. It was like a locker mirror, about a foot square, but it let him see what she was putting on his head.
He'd seen the full pony masks employed at the club, which were mostly featureless. This was not that. This was a custom-made fetish piece. As she slid it over his face, the mirror before him showed a proud stallion. The rakish fall of mane and the molding of the features around the eyes and long nose conveyed a badass attitude. The decorative browband across the forelock was embellished with silver chain and spikes.
The mask blocked his peripheral vision. Now he could only see directly in front of him. The mirror provided him a scant few inches of rear view on either side.
"Yeah, you're realizing I've taken care of those wandering eyes, haven't you?" Her fingertips slid down the valley between his shoulder blades. "Putting blinders on a horse narrows his distractions, minimizes what makes him nervous."
He wasn't nervous. If she couldn't read him any better than that...
"You'd deny this makes you nervous, and I'd agree. That's not the word I'd use for you. Any emotions you perceive as weak--nervous, afraid, defensive--you merely channel into aggression, taking the offensive tactic. You seek the high ground, in the battle sense, not the moral one. It's what a predator does."
She used additional straps to secure the mask to the harness she'd put around his shoulders, and did the same with the saddle, so it couldn't slide back.
Her fingers slid over the collar on his throat as she did that, but didn't linger. He'd looked for some hint of her feelings about putting that piece on him, because most Mistresses went a little starry-eyed over it, even if they only intended to keep him for a night. He hadn't picked up anything from her but efficiency in getting the task done. She appeared so not-engaged in the act, she could have been going through a laundry list in her head. A stab of disappointment about that irritated him. Why should he care? He didn't get starry-eyed over that kind of shit, either.
Whatever she'd done to secure the mask had also locked his head in a raised position and increased the tension at the corners of his mouth. Now, in addition to being unable to move his head side to side, he couldn't drop it down, either.
She shifted back and attended to the stomach strap she'd left loose. A clink of metal, a whisper of straps against his leg, and he realized she'd threaded the band through another strap. He grunted as she tucked his cock beneath the crisscrossed pieces and bound his rigid organ to his belly with the girth. She then pulled the other piece up between his legs, his balls and buttocks before securing it to the back of the saddle. When she tugged on it, he bit back an oath as it compressed his hardening cock against his belly further and dug into his ball sac, separating his testicles.
He growled against the bit as she positioned a wide ring, sewn into the strap, between his cheeks, right where it would give her access to his rectum. He didn't need a fucking safe word for this? Okay, yeah, everything she'd said had been right. He wouldn't use it, but skipping it, not giving him the choice, that was wrong. No matter how stubborn he was, she was supposed to be the responsible one. She didn't usually go this route. He thought he'd known what to expect from her.
She put her hand on one of the lines running to the bit, so he felt the tug on it, the degree of restraint. It tilted the stallion's head toward her. His head. Bent in such a way that it looked like he had it bowed to her. "Your only task is to obey my commands, heed my touch. You are not Marius, the man that fucks with Mistresses' heads for reasons that don't bring you any pleasure or peace. You are a horse. My horse."
Now what was she doing? She retrieved another thing from the cabinet. As he watched, gagged from speaking and mostly blinded, he saw only glimpses of her face when she bent before him. He did feel the incidental brush of her body from her movements. She curled his hand into a fist, her fingers too-briefly upon his flesh before she released the cuff on his arm and replaced it with a glove-like piece that enclosed his fist and forearm up to the elbow. Hoof mitts, designed to look like a horse's front hooves, depending on how much the pony player spent. He expected these looked pretty damn realistic. When he shifted, the bottom piece, where the knuckles of his fist were resting, clopped against the boards of the platform.
Velcro straps secured the mitt to his wrist, arm and elbow, effectively restricting the use of his hands. She'd given him hooves.
Now that he was properly outfitted in mask, hooves and tack, she returned to touching him, a thorough and maddeningly dispassionate evaluation of his shoulders, biceps and forearms, as if she were a trainer testing the soundness of his "legs."
It made him feel restless and he tossed his head. The lifelike reaction of the mask and hooves were unsettling, melding with his physical movements. Damn if he wasn't feeling like a damn horse. She crooned to him, her big, powerful animal, her stallion, one that would need a good rubdown after she gave him a hard workout. She slid her hand from his shoulder to his upper back above the saddle, fingernails scraping his flesh there before moving to his buttocks and upper thighs. She pressed gently on the fading bruises, and somehow she seemed to know which ones were from Siren and which were from the fight, because she passed over the former, refusing to acknowledge another Mistress's attempt to claim him.
He could assume that possessiveness was there, use it to his advantage, but he didn't have enough information. He tried to lower his head, throw it back, adjust his hips. The visual seemed to please her, because she chuckled softly, a hint of her throaty laugh that went straight to a man's cock. She slapped his flank, a stinging blow.
When she followed it up with a caress of his side, she came so close to his stiffening cock that his hips flexed, trying to force himself into her hands despite the binding straps. A breath later, a riding crop popped his flank, hard enough he jumped and hissed. "None of that now," she chided.
He pulled against the restraints in angry reproof. All he earned was her amused chuckle and the uneasy confirmation of how securely he was tied.
"You're a spirited mount. I'm going to enjoy that while I'm fucking you. I need to go and change, but there are cameras. I can see you in the dressing room. You're not alone." Her fingertips slid in one more lingering caress over his shoulder and backside.
Good. He knew how to handle fucking. She'd be done with him after that, and she'd let him go. She wasn't so different from other Mistresses. But he didn't like this. He was becoming far too aware of the restraints, the quiet she'd imposed on him, how little she was asking. He needed the bitch to ask for more, hurt him, demand everything from him. Then he could take all the pain, give everything to her she thought she'd wanted and spit in her face. Laugh at her, and let her see he'd given her nothing. What the hell was the matter with her?
What the hell was the matter with him? Reining in the odd surge of emotion--and ignoring how he was falling into horse metaphors--he focused on baser interests. He wished those cameras were two-way so he could see what she was doing, how she looked as she removed that tit-alicious tank. She had a powerhouse figure. Generous breasts and a taut, round, high-set ass. She didn't have stick legs, her thighs strong and healthy, toned pillows to cradle a man as he was plowing her cunt. Her slim auburn and black dreadlocks reached the middle of her back, the beads she seemed to like to use as embellishment clicking when she moved. She had long, elegant fingers, but her hands were surprisingly strong.
Her eyes...so dark. They were a rich maple syrup kind of color that had a touch of red when the light hit them the right way. Then they were back to being dark, coated in shadows hard to interpret, but sucking him in regardless.
Okay, he wasn't thinking about sex. He was thinking about her freaking eyes.
He stared at himself in the mirror. For a blink he forgot it was a mask and saw himself as a restless, angry horse, one that yanked against his bonds. The pull on the bit made his cock harder, and he stomped the hooves. He imagined covering her, driving into her, baring blunt teeth and latching onto her throat.
A peculiar feeling was coiling and uncoiling in his belly, like an agitated snake. Horses didn't like snakes. He stomped again, harder. He shook his head. The mane pattered against the mask and the tack jingled. The hooves made the dais vibrate, thanks to the wood beneath the thin rubber mat. His trapped cock convulsed beneath him, balls hanging heavy and loose on either side of that cutting strap. He had to suppress an animalistic urge to hump air, his rutting need to mate. Where the hell was she?
The bite of the bit at the corners of his mouth, the hold of the ropes keeping his head up, increased his agitation. He rocked, trying to loosen things, but she'd secured him too well. He was held fast.
It seemed like she'd been gone forever, but he knew it was only minutes. He needed to calm down, get a grip. He couldn't. Fuck it, what was happening? He didn't panic over hardcore shit, and this wasn't even half hardcore. He needed...
"Easy..." Her voice came through an intercom near his head. She'd said she had cameras in the room. She'd neglected to mention the audio function, but it was welcome. Too welcome. His senses strained to absorb her words.
"Settle down." Her tone became firm. "Your Mistress will be back with you in a minute. Behave for her."
