Ultimate shoulder rides

Here’s one young woman who likes to use her slaves my husband and other slaves who come into my power as human horses. It’s one of my favorite sports.

Riding horses is fine I like to do that too but nothing gives me a thrill like riding on the shoulders of another human being who’s in my power. It’s hard on the slave, of course, but he can do it. My husband is no muscle man, but I’ve made him carry me for miles before he collapses under me. I keep increasing the distance he has to go. I’ve even ridden female slaves, and pretty far too if they’re sturdy. They think they can’t do it. I show them different. I make them do it, with my whip and my spurs.

I always ride barelegged, wearing shorts or a miniskirt, because I enjoy gripping him with my bare thighs and calves. Sometimes I wear boots, but mostly I use the kind of spurs you can attach to your bare heel. If I’m really going to let loose on him, I cuff his hands behind his back so he can’t grab at my legs when the pain’s too much for him. I ride on his shoulders, not his back, because I have greater control over him that way. I like to ride a new slave, breaking him to my will. And I love to see a woman enjoying her first ride on a slave’s shoulders. Here’s an experience I had the other day that will show you what I mean.

A friend of mine often brings her husband-slave over and we go riding together in the woods near my home. One day, when my friend was out of town, she sent her slave over with her younger sister, a sexy 18-year-old blonde, about whom my friend told me: “She doesn’t know about riding, but she has all the right instincts.” The girl, whose name was Betty, readily accepted my invitation to go riding. On a sudden impulse, I said: “Let’s swap mounts. You ride my slave, and I’ll ride your sister’s.” “That sounds like fun,” she said, “but will he obey me?” “Command him,” I told her. “If he doesn’t obey you, punish him.” The girl smiled. “I’ll do just that,” she said. I sensed that she would.

I summoned the slaves to where we were sitting outside. To my husband I said: “My friend’s going to ride you today. Now get us our riding gear, and hop to it.” He returned with whips, spurs and handcuffs. “You know what to do,” I told him. To the of her slave I said: “On your knees. Put on my spurs for me.” While he did so, I watched my husband kneel before the barelegged young blonde and fasten the wicked spurs to her heels. The girl leaned back lazily and watched the man at her feet with a cruel smile. “These spurs must really hurt,” she said. I nodded, and she said: “Good. He’ll have to jump when I give him the spur.”

When he was finished with the spurs, my husband, as I had trained him to do, bent and kissed the girl’s foot. She grinned delightedly. My mount was kissing my feet. I kicked him in the face and ordered him to get the cuffs. We cuffed the slaves’ hands behind their backs. The slaves knelt for mounting. I seated myself on the slave’s shoulders, tightened my legs around him and whipped him to his feet. Following my lead, Betty mounted my husband and said: “Now get up!” When he seemed to hesitate, the girl lashed his back with her whip. “Take that!” she said, her voice suddenly harsh.

I looked at the shapely teenager sitting on my husband’s shoulders. If at first she had seemed uncertain, now she was gripping his neck with her strong young legs as if determined to impose her will on him. ‘How hard can I ride him?” she asked. “You can do anything you want with him,” I told her. Why not? He was my slave to dispose of as I pleased. “Anything I want?” the girl said. “Then I think I’ll make him carry me till he drops.”

“Let’s go,” I said, and we both kicked our spurs into our mounts ribs. We rode along side by side on the shoulders of the sweating slaves, our bodies swaying in time to their labored steps, dominating them with our legs and punishing them at will with whip and spurs. Betty turned out to be a very good, very cruel rider. She knew she had the man carrying her in her power, and she used her power to make him do exactly as she pleased, punishing him frequently and laughing at his suffering.

At one point she said: “Faster! you have to go faster!” Then she lashed him furiously. The muscles rippled on her bare thighs as she dug her spurs into his heaving sides. My husband was sagging with fatigue under the weight of her body, but the pain his young rider was inflicting on him made him lurch forward, and she rode ahead of me. Betty turned in her seat on his shoulders and looked back at me laughing triumphantly. “Can’t you make your slave keep up?” she said mischievously. I gave it to my mount and soon caught up.

We stopped the slaves for a moment to share a cigarette. I could feel my mount panting in exhaustion under me, and I heard my husband groan: “Please, I can’t take any more. She’s killing me.” His pain-wracked face, framed between the girl’s pretty bare legs, was looking up at me with a desperate appeal. I looked him straight in the eye and smiling shook my head. “She’s riding you now,” I told him. “You’ll just have to take what she dishes out.” I looked at the girl sitting on his shoulders. “Do you feel like giving him mercy?” I asked, knowing the answer. “No,” she said, “but I’ll punish him for asking for it.”

“A girl after my own heart,” I said, and I kicked my slave forward. I rode over to Betty and embraced her. We sat on the slaves’ shoulders, each of us crushing her mount’s neck between her thighs, and as we kissed we could feel the exhausted men struggling helplessly in pain under us. “They’re in agony,” I said, and we both laughed. Betty kissed my cheek and murmured in my ear: “I have a terrific idea. Let’s lie on the grass and make them suck us off. While they’re sucking us we can torture them with our spurs.”
And that’s what we did. Then we mounted the slaves again, exhausted as they were, and made them carry us every step of the way home. “Thanks for a perfect day,” Betty said when she left. It was indeed a perfect day.

Mrs. Wanda J.
Trenton, N.J.