High Society Dressage Mistress

The July sunshine blazed down on the rolling parkland of West Sussex, the ancient oaks and chestnuts giving welcome solace of dark shade. The beautiful colonnaded Georgian stately home sat peacefully and tranquil, a grand vista from every angle, fronting onto an immaculately manicured dressage arena, attractively lined in low white fencing, and lettered markers.
The big house was now used as a conference centre, banqueting hall, and a new venture, a maritime heritage museum. The old stables however, a beautiful self-contained mews with a white dovecote, planned around little lawns, had been restored to a standard way above their former glory, more like a Hollywood film set, filled with highly prized expensive horses, owned and ridden by self-prized and expensive young girls.
This equestrian establishment attained international fame as the best dressage academy, populated by a team of male grooms and trainee instructors below a famous international dressage celebrity.
Joe was one of these apprentice instructors, truly grateful of his chance to work in such a crack school, a chance many other eighteen year olds would give their eye teeth for. He was desperately concerned not to put a foot wrong, to qualify in his BHS exams, and to leave with an important reference.
Joe could be described as an obsequious, captive, subservient male, working out his time, simmering with resentment towards the rude, arrogant, dominant, competition obsessed young girls who kept their horses at livery, and under whom he had to work. They were privileged, spoilt, extremely snobbish and cliquey, boastful and could do no wrong. They treated the male staff at lower levels, like pieces of shit, standing about with their cut-glass country accents.
They were also, however, teasingly beautiful, with powerful svelte figures kept in the peak of fitness through a life of leisure, skiing, squash, swimming, and wintering in tropical climates. Dressage girls come with long legs, and look particularly alluring, and they know it, in their expensive designer co-ordinated skin-tight ‘Piquer’ breeches, Hermes scarves, silk shirts, flashy huge Gucci belts, and ultra high hand-made Schneider leather boots with rowel headed spurs..
These bitchy, ambitious dominas were constantly trying to upstage and outdo one another, whether it came to horses, fashion or men, and they seemed to have virtually bottomless bank accounts, the richer they were, the more horses they kept in training, the more dominant they were.
One particular young girl, Horretta, a fine strapping bronze brunette with big dark eyes, and an enormous bust, had an obsession with things purple – the rugs and bandages on her fine expensive horses were purple, her gloves and scarves were purple, her Herbert Johnstone hat was purple velvet, her jewellery was purple, her skintight breeches and jewelled leather belts were purple, her heavy lipstick and make-up was purple; so much so that she was called ‘The Cadbury Girl’.
She wore hand-made high leather dressage boots, however, in glossy glass-shined black, which she expected to be polished daily for her. Like the rest of the liveries, she had the pick of the smarter shops in Mayfair, no excess seemed to be too much for her.
Another young huntress, Katrina, was a honey blonde, with a gorgeous tanned outdoor complexion, narrow waisted, with big powerful thighs straight out of a body building magazine. Lipstick was her thing, lots of it, deep red, flashy crimson, applied layer upon layer, and she had the Marilyn Monroe lips and teeth to go with it. She was also well into ultra high leather boots, formidable silver spurs, and bondage garter straps, big belts, leather gloves, and spectacular whips, like them all, and one never knew whether they dressed to please themselves, or tease the males.
Some of the male staff were driven to distraction at this array of wealthy young myriads, who drew up on the white gravel in their expensive and magnificent cars, Porsches, Mercedes, SL sports, and Jaguar XJS convertibles. They came to exercise their mighty seventeen hand thoroughbred horses, and returned from their summer rides, faces flushed, elated, and aroused.
Serena was a big red-head, a busty fit and strong girl, with a passion for leather belts. “I love belts” she would say, and had an unbelievable collection, all dazzlingly ornamental, hugely wide, a symphony of brass, silver, jewellery, and polished leather. At twenty-five, she was the most experienced of the girls, she was also the most dominant, with a fierce-some vixen temper. She was married to a millionaire merchant banker, and took her pleasure and delight in humiliating males.
Her collection of belts ran to huge brown army-style ‘Sam Brownes’, but with solid gold buckles and ornamentation, there was another handmade Gucci affair about seven inches wide, with solid gold insert horse brasses, costing over a thousand pounds. Her expensive designer skin-tight breeches were especially modified with enormous belt-loops, to show off these magnificent accessories.
Serena, this July day, manoeuvred her immaculate white Jaguar XJS five litre convertible, with its white matching kid leather seats, into the gravelled enclosure, and closed the power operated hood.
Today she felt really wicked, and she strode into the yard, striking her whip against the highest leather dressage boots, aware that she was teasing and tantalising. Black was her colour today, she wore skin tight black breeches with matching buckskin strapping, and her special Schneider boots were adorned each, not with one garter strap above the knee, but two, kept in place by the little guiding buttons. These made the boots look even more magnificent, higher still, with a bondage effect.
She wore silver bitingly fierce rowel-headed dressage spurs, completely over the top, and her glass-like boots were set off by an equally glass-like black leather belt, about ten inches wide like a corset, with two huge silver buckles, and adorned with silver studding and chains. She sported long black leather gloves, tight black silk shirt, and matching hunting stock, secured by a huge gold pin with inset black ruby. She carried a fearsome four foot long dressage whip, tapering to a red point, with an ivory and silver grip, which she knew how to use.
She wore dark purple eye make-up, which perfectly set off her healthy tanned complexion, and blazing red straight hair, which was severely tied into a hairnet, under her expensive Herbert Johnstone high crown velvet cap. Her lipstick was film star blazing red, which she licked with her tongue, pursing her lips the way she knew drove men wild. She felt extra dominant today, and she was really going to have some fun.
Joe, the same as the others, did not bat an eyelid at this excess, as to stare or ridicule would invite instant dismissal, Serena kept six horses at full livery, and in the eyes of the establishment could take her pleasure whichever way she liked.
“Joe, fetch my horse” she commanded. “Come on, you saw me coming, you should be ready.”
Joe ran to the box, and Serena stood astride in the yard, savouring her whip. He led the fabulous 17.2 hand Hanoverian dark brown stallion, gleamingly groomed, encased in the leather trappings of high protective knee boots, colour-coordinated suede and leather Stubben saddle, and glossily oiled bridle, which smelt of neatsfoot.
Serena ran her black gloved hand over the horse’s back, like a guard’s officer, to inspect whether grooming had been completed to perfection. She held up her hand, and flicked two microscopic specks of scurf from her palms.
“Don’t think much of this. You’ve let yourself down.”
“I’m very sorry Ma’am.”
“I should think so. Come on, give me a leg up!”
Serena stood on the mounting block, and slid herself agilely and effortlessly into the saddle, slotting her boots and spurs into the stirrups, while Joe held the bridle.
“Can I do your girth, Ma’am?”
Serena took her left boot out, and lifted her thigh forwards, so Joe could pull the saddle buckles tight on the girth strap, her spurs and heels in a direct line with his left ear. As Joe pulled in the last of the three straps, Serena brought her spurs crashing down on his ear, in a vicious drive. Joe squealed in agony, horse danced on his hind legs. “That will teach you to fall down on the job” laughed Serena.
“Yes, Ma’am, sorry Ma’am” winced Joe. “Now, my boots and spurs are dirty, you can’t expect me to ride like that.”
“Shall I get a cloth, Ma’am?”
“No, my man, you shall lick them, you shall lick them clean!”
Joe was made to lick every scrap of earth, muck and straw from the sole of Serena’s boot, screwing up his face in revulsion, almost retching.
“Now kiss my boots. And my spurs!”
Joe kissed the polished black surface, the blacking tasted sweet on his tongue, which was then pricked by the sharp prongs of the rowel spurs.
Some of the other girls, high booted, belted and spurred, stood around laughing from a distance.
“Now, pull up my garter straps, that’s right, all four of them, really high!”
Serena softly moaned, and sighed, she really liked that.
“Now, Joe, you will walk in front of my horse, and watch me in the dressage ring!”
Joe stumbled along, and Serena worked her spurs into the huge horse, deliberately trampling Joe forwards, stamping on his heels. Joe was literally driven into the arena, like cattle being herded at auction.
“Now, will you listen exactly to what I say, Stand still” she barked, ice-cold, in command. “You will kneel down by Marker H, at the far end, do you see?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Yah, I hope you do” she drawled.
“You will not move when I ride into the marker. You will not move at all.”
Joe stumbled to the marker over the brown sand, which covered his shoes, and obediently knelt in praying position as he was ordered.
Serena sat deep down in the dressage saddle, feeling powerful, Mistress of all she surveyed, and deliciously gyrated her crotch on the pommel.
She enjoyed doing that, and this was the reason why she chose to wear black leather panties, colour co-ordinated with her black leather uplift bra.
She gave her horse the spurs, and rode a strong extended trot right up to the H marker, kicking sharp sand storms up into Joe’s face, passing a couple of inches past his out-stretched hands.
Joe yelped as the sand splinters caught him in the eye, and closed his eyelids in agony.
Serena gave out a girlish peal of laughter, and spurred on into a lovely collected canter, a lovely rocking horse motion, this horse was super.
Serena took the H corner superbly, her balance and position exactly right, but the horse spooked at Joe, and danced sideways into the next corner, Serena viciously compensating with spur and leg.
Like lightning, she raised her lethal looking dressage whip, and laid into the unfortunate animal, lashing it methodically behind her legs.
She weaved a red pattern with deadly accuracy, jabbing with her spurs, and only ceased on beating after not one, two, three, four, but eight strokes.
She sat down in the saddle laughing triumphantly, the horse steaming and subdued, his head hanging down.
“Naughty boy! What’s got into you?”
She drove on with her thigh boots and spurs, bringing the horse to a perfect halt. Joe had to admit that she was a fine horsewoman, if a little over-mounted.
And so the lesson continued, with some of the other girls standing to watch, thinking of how they might try to outdo the performance, in their high leather whipping regalia, boots, spurs and belts. Serena ordered Joe to shut the gate, and drove him back to the yard on his hands and knees.
“Now untack my horse” she commanded, as she lightly vaulted from the saddle, and stood astride in the classic dominatrix pose, elated and erotically aroused.
Joe trudged back from the yard to the tack room, carrying the saddlery over his arm, Serena striding on behind, her spurs jangling and leather boots and belt deliciously creaking. Her heavy heels marched with a thud, compared with Joe’s light hush puppies. The tack room was an elaborate building, where glistening saddles were displayed on wall racks, together with hanging bits and bridles, and every
sort of whip imaginable. The large room accommodated a carpet, chairs and a couch with a surprising amount of clear space over a wooden parquet floor, all protected with a sophisticated burglar alarm.
Joe bent down to replace the saddle on its rack, his back and rump exposed to Serena’s gaze. Serena stood over him astride, and with a smile of pure delight, brought the wire thin dressage whip down across his bottom, with practised ease and accuracy. The shear force and skill of the blow opened up a tear in Joe’s pants, through which blood started to trickle. A second thrash followed, then two more, in a merciless rhythm. Serena laughed out loud.
“Well, did I do well in my dressage, your comments please” she said sarcastically, adjusting and tightening her belt.
“You did magnificently, Ma’am, you really had that horse in control.”
“And I should think so. Now grovel; by now a trained slave should know what is required.”
Joe got down on his hands and knees, lay down and kissed her spurs, then her boots front and back, pulling up her garter straps. Serena caressed her nipples with her left hand, then manipulated her crotch, gently wanking herself through the stretch breeches and leather panties.
She sliced down another stroke with her whip, balanced exquisitely in her right hand, then touched herself again. and followed with a vicious sequel, a swishing, whistling sound, before a crack like a pistol shot.
“I love riding” she crooned.
The sound of the whipping brought Katrina and Loretta in, who stood astride Joe, selecting powerful lunging whips down from the rack. They tightened their belts, pulled up their boots and joined in the fun.
“1 don’t think his work is very good, too.”
“Yah, neither do I. Come on Serena we’ll finish him off.”
And they tried their best to out do her, exercising their competitive spirit to the full. Serena impetuously tossed her flaxen red hair, and petulantly drove her spurred heels into Joe’s hand, cracking one of the little bones. She kicked him viciously in the ribs, and Joe lay writhing on the floor.