Mistress Hunter & Mistress Cassandra’s Foxhunting Frolics

As keen horsewomen, it was probably inevitable that Mistress Hunter and myself would hit if off.
At university we had many recreational clubs and one which I am proud to say that I helped to set up was the Horseriding Club. I suppose riding a horse is much like riding a motorcycle.
In both cases you get to enjoy a hot, throbbing beast between your legs!
I’ve always loved riding and the power which I felt it gave me.
It was only as I developed that I realised that power over horses was much the same as power over men. I can tell you, at uni, when we had a riding club days and us girls turned up in the cafeteria in our jodhpurs and boots, and armed with whips and spurs, the lads could hardly control themselves! Of course, we all knew that and would play on the fact, and would make a special point of bending over the food counter to collect a banana or whatever.
It was great to see the guys drool. And it was amazing that if you sat and toyed with your riding crop, how many blokes would tease you about having a bit of hanky-spanky. I was always one for a bit of a giggle and on many occasions would take them up and challenge them to let me use the crop on their arse.
Inevitably they would end up in tears, begging me to stop.
Suddenly, when hit with the reality – and the whip – most chaps decided that perhaps they should keep their big mouth shut in the future.
Anyway, I digress.
Mistress Hunter – the only name by which I ever knew her – was.
As I mentioned, also very keen on horseriding and joined our club.
She was the kind of young lady who kept herself to herself and was always very serious. Men found it strange that she never used her first name, but not too many ever dared to question why.
She had a steely glare which could cut a man dead at fifty paces, and a wardrobe which would make her look at home in anything from a war movie to a sci-fi flick.
On our first excursion with the riding club, eight of us drove down to the stables in convoy.
It seemed good sense to double up on cars and I took a lift with her.
To my surprise, and approval, Mistress Hunter was the proud owner of a very old Mercedes which was jet black and had enormous bucket seats.
The smell of leather inside it was like an aphrodisiac to my nostrils.

Of course, I was into leather jackets, leather jeans, leather boots, leather belts, leather anything, but the scent of this car was unreal! As we drove along in silence, I thought I’d ask her if we could have some music on. What I had in mind was some good old solid, heavy metal stuff. But, to my surprise, without a word, she turned on the radio and a stream of very odd German ballads played one after the other. It was obvious that our taste in music was not the same!
Arriving at the stables, we all attached out spurs and the horses were brought out. A couple of the posh girls nicked the best ones before we had a look in, but I was a bit surprised when Mistress Hunter quite deliberately passed by some of the fine looking thoroughbred-cross hunters and made straight towards a huge, ploddy looking animal which must have been over seventeen hands tall and looked like it would be at home pulling a dray. Anyway, we all had a fantastic ride and I for one was feeling as randy as hell. To achieve an orgasm whilst doing the rising trot is an experience which every woman should have! I got into the front passenger seat of the Merc and opened my mouth to say what a wonderful ride I’d had, only to have it filled with Mistress Hunter’s tongue.
She kissed me so passionately that I thought she was going to suck my lips off! But it was fantastic.
Her hand grabbed my crotch and squeezed it like a vice.
It was weird, but she was stronger and more powerful than any man who had ever screwed me.
And that includes some real rough-tough bikers! Within seconds of her grabbing my mound, the front of my jodhpurs were soaking wet.
And when she put her mouth around my tits and rolled her tongue around my nipples. I just exploded.
The sensation was so extreme that I virtually passed out. And so, this was the start of a bond between myself and Mistress Hunter which can never been broken.
Our horseriding club grew in strength and numbers. We had twenty nine members on campus, of which only one was a male.
He was a bit of a skinny little weed for my tastes, and had a terrible stammer, but some of the girls seemed keen to try and procure his services as a stud. Malcolm was one of those very supercilious males who believed that everyone should listen to him.
In a discussion about a horse, or riding, he was always right.
His views, or so he thought, were better than anyone else’s.
And boy did he promote his own views! He was one of these bloody “new men”.
He believed in green issues and giving more money to the dole scroungers, funding morons to make statues out of shit, banning battery farming, banning make-up, banning fridges, giving mansions to the homeless, letting off burglars, rewarding rapists, blocking roads, wrecking runways, and anything else which made him feel superior.
In short, he was a wanker! But for all his tosspot ideas, Mistress Hunter never once made a comment about him – good or bad.
After some time, the members of the “horsy set” as we had been dubbed by the other students, agreed that we needed to inject more excitement into our pastime. After a fairly routine riding session, Mistress Hunter suddenly turned to me and said simply, “foxhunting”. The issue was discussed and about fifty per cent of our membership thought that the idea was superb. What better excuse could there be for getting dressed up? It was obvious from her tone that Mistress Hunter did not like foxes – unless they had been skinned and made into an elegant coat or hat or stole. The idea of galloping full pelt across the fields and hedgerows in pursuit of vermin certainly appealed to me. So it was decided. Those who preferred not to participate would continue with normal horseriding while the rest of us would go find a fox to chase!
I contacted the local hunt and they said that they would welcome us with open arms. Noticing the bulge in the trousers of the hunt master while I was talking to him, I realised that he probably would! However, after discussing the matter with the other girls, we decided that the local hunt was just too far away – about thirty miles.

It was then that Mistress Hunter came up with the idea that we should form our own hunt. After speaking to various farmers and landowners, it was obvious from the bulge in their trousers that they too would welcome us with open arms! And so it was that UNILEF was formed – UNIversity Ladies into Exterminating Foxes. We all thought it was a really funny name, except Mistress Hunter who would have preferred something more direct – like CULL – but we really couldn’t think of anything which would fit the letters. We also loved the irony of our chosen name.
Although it was strictly out of season for fox- hunting, we were itching to get out and see what vermin we could catch. We told the farmers and landowners that we were just going out to have a practice run, and I think that they were so taken aback at the sight of fourteen ladies on a summer’s day, dressed in skimpy tops, that we could have been out hunting pink elephants for all they cared! We had a small pack of hounds which the university principal agreed to let us keep on campus. To be perfectly honest, it was only after Mistress Hunter had been to his office for a private chat that he agreed! We never did find out what happened there!

We galloped across field after field in the sunshine of springtime as happy as can be. The dogs were loving it. We saw them catch several baby rabbits and other small mammals. But the fox was still illusive. It seemed that every one of them had gone to ground.
Then, in the distance, we spotted one. With horns blasting, hounds bounding, and horses racing, we pursued the critter. It looked like a male – which pleased me. The little vermin ran and ran until finally it went to ground.
In went the hounds and, just as we arrived, we saw them doing their job. It was a mad flurry of activity. There was barking and shrieking and scrapping and scraping going on. I looked across at Mistress Hunter and detected the merest hint of a smile. From this I knew that she must be overwhelmed with joy. After a few minutes the spectacle was over. This being my first experience of hunting, I could now understand the thrill and enjoyment of it. It was brilliant to watch the hounds at work.
Mistress Hunter cracked her heavy whip and snapped the hounds into line. She dismounted from her horse and strode towards the savaged carcass. We all followed.
She kicked it and rolled it over with her boot. “It’s a male,” she said, idly flicking the remains of a little penis and pair of testicles with her toe. Then she pulled out an ivory-handled penknife and proceeded to cut away the genitals, slice off the tail and split the stomach open. I glanced around and not one of the girls was looking away or showing any expression of disgust. In fact, quite the opposite, they all looked rather pleased with themselves. There were even a couple of smirks.
Mistress Hunter’s forearm dug deep into the fox’s stomach and scooped out a handful of steaming organs which she casually threw to the hounds. As I have said, I am not well versed in the ways of foxhunting, but Mistress Hunter was keen to teach us about the customs of the sport – namely, blooding. Wiping blood from the animals entrails, she proceeded to anoint each of us in turn, smearing our faces and hair. But there were no objections. On the contrary, I think we all felt rather special at being initiated in this age-old customary fashion. We left the dogs to finish their meal as we smoked and chatted. The atmosphere was fantastic. We all felt that we had shared a wonderful experience. And none of us could wait to remount and experience it again.
Unfortunately for us, our luck was out for the rest of the afternoon. From the silence and the expressions on the girl’s faces I knew that everyone was bitterly disappointed – especially me! As we rode slowly back, our attention was drawn to something happening in the lane adjoining the field. By the gate, some people were gathered. As we rode further, a number of them spilled through and started to flock towards us. Within seconds I realised that they were protesters. Soon we could hear their voices, shouting and chanting. They waved banners angrily above their heads. But, looking at my compatriots, it was obvious that none us of were in the least bit concerned.
There, at the head of the rabble, stood Malcolm. He was wearing what looked like a bed- sheet which was smothered with what I can only assume was tomato ketchup. He looked ridiculous! He was holding a rickety placard above his head and yelling such idiotic phrases as, “foxes have rights” and “down the hunt!” His moronic chums were yelling equally as inane and boring slogans.

We rode on and they blocked our path.
He asked me why we were hunting. “Because we love it,” I replied. Mistress Hunter was not quite so polite and barged her horse past him, making sure to give him a bonk on the head with the butt of her whip as she passed. Malcolm made an awful fuss, clutching his head and muttering that he would sue us. His pals surrounded him and gave him hugs and sympathy as we rode casually back to the stables. Sitting in the cafeteria the next day, we were approached by Malcolm, his head wrapped in a ridiculous looking bandage.
“IIII’m going to ttttake you lot to cccourt,” he threatened.
“Really?” replied Mistress Hunter.
“Yyyou ccan’t hunt foxes, it’s against the law. It’s tttoo early in the year,” he argued.
“We weren’t hunting foxes,” I said.
“Yyyyou were. Yyyou were cccovered in blood,” he insisted.
“So were you,” I said.
“Nnnno. I hhhad tomato ketchup on me,” he retorted.
“So did we,” I said.
Malcolm stood for a moment and thought. He had no argument. He was a law student and he knew that he had absolutely no evidence to back up his accusation.
“Yyyou shouldn’t hunt foxes,” was his limp reply.
“Well if you feel such an affinity for the foxes,” Mistress Hunter said, “then maybe you should join them. Go on, leave the cafeteria and go up to the woods for your lunch.”
We all laughed. Malcolm looked most put out.
“Go on then,” encouraged Miss Hunter. “What are you waiting for?”
“Yyyyou could go dddd…”
“Dancing?” I interjected, relishing his embarrassment.
“Dddrag hunting,” he blurted.
We all burst out laughing at the idea. What kind of fucking creep was this? Drag hunting! Chasing some dickhead wearing a scented jumper! Some dickhead who would have to try and outrun a horse! Some dickhead who would inevitably get caught and then… I could see that Mistress Hunter’s mind was working along the same lines as my own. Perhaps there was some mileage in this imbecile’s idea after all.
“Yyyou volunteering?” I asked, taking the piss out of his ridiculous stutter.

“Yyyes,” he answered. “I wwwouldn’t mind being in the fox’s place.”
Mistress Hunter leaned forwards and coolly advised him, “Then the job is yours.”
Malcolm sat for a moment, surprised at how readily she had acceded to his moral dogma. Two days later a UNILEF hunt meeting was organised.
The other girls didn’t seem convinced that there could be any enjoyment in chasing a bloke across a field. However, Mistress Hunter and myself thought differently. We knew that an afternoon’s manhunting would be every bit as exhilarating as an afternoon’s foxhunting. In the stable yard, we tacked up and saddled our horses. Mistress Hunter opened the boot of her Merc and pulled out a leather mask and G-string, and the fox’s tail.
Malcolm looked on nervously, wondering why she was rubbing the items vigorously together.
“There, put them on,” demanded Mistress Hunter, chucking the mask and G-string into the dirt.
“IIII’m not wwwearing those!” He exclaimed. “I’ll wear a jjjjjacket or something.
Mistress Hunter smiled and assured him, “The point is, my dear, a jacket will cover up your natural scent. If the dogs can smell two scents, yours and the foxtails, you will confuse them and you’ll probably be able to elude them completely.”
I looked across at Mistress Hunter and she gave a little wink. Malcolm thought about what she had said and, after some time for deliberation, agreed to wear the garments. He disappeared into a stable for a couple of minutes and re-emerged looking quite ridiculous. Mistress Hunter gave his mask another rub with the foxtail. Then, as she moved to apply more scent to the G-string, Malcolm objected and tried to push her away. I grabbed his arms and told him to be still. Mistress Hunter rubbed the fluffy foxtail around Malcolm’s crutch and we giggled as we could see him stiffen.
“There, all scented up and raring to go,” Mistress Hunter announced. “Now we will give you twenty minutes head start. You can go wherever you like, provided you stick to the fields and the woods.”
I think Malcolm wanted to pull out, but the hounds were now snarling and snapping in his direction.
“Frightened?” I asked. “YYYYYY… YYYYY…”
“Nothing to worry about,” assured Mistress Hunter. “Just keep running and we probably won’t even catch you.”
“Bbbbut wwhat if you do?” he simpered.
Mistress Hunter nonchalantly shrugged, “Then we’ll all go home. Twenty minutes,” she reminded him, looking at her watch.
Malcolm started to walk away, glancing back nervously over his shoulder. Mistress Hunter picked up her bullwhip and cracked it with an almighty, thunderous blast. Everyone was startled. The horses bucked nervously and the hounds snarled like wolves. Malcolm looked petrified. He started to jog. Mistress Hunter raised the whip again and he suddenly dropped his head and bolted like a whippet. Mistress Hunter smiled. We knew that she did not have to crack her whip again.
“We’ve got a surprise for you lot,” I told the others playfully. And with that, Mistress Hunter and myself retired to the changing room. There was a gasp as we walked back out into the sunshine. We were both wearing long, lustrous boots and kinky capes. I had on a shiny PVC number underneath mine, and Mistress Hunter had on a fantastic leather and net number. The girls giggled excitedly and insisted on feeling us all over.
“Mount up!” called Mistress Hunter.
I climbed aboard my fiery gelding and gave a sharp yank back on the reins to check that he was paying attention. I rubbed my heels into his sides and tickled him up with the whip. His ears pricked and he knew that I meant business. Everyone was ready and we set off at a trot in the direction of open land. As we reached the first field, the hounds were let loose. My heart was thumping with anticipa-
tion at what was going to happen – or what I hoped would happen. Mistress Hunter kicked her gelding on and we all followed. I gave my lad a swift one behind the saddle with my whip and we were off.
I think more for effect than anything else, one of the girls started blowing her hunting horn and crying out, “Tally-ho!” But I surmised that Malcolm would hear, and by now would be absolutely shifting himself! Excellent, I thought.
We hurtled along at breakneck speed, jumping hedges, leaping over ditches and crushing anything in our path. The excitement had, by now, become intensely sexual for me. I could feel my pussy lips expanding and my clitoris swelling.
I felt hot and sticky. A hedge approached us quickly and I gave the gelding a good slap of the whip to help him over it. I felt as if I was flying. We seemed to clear the obstruction by several feet.
On and on we galloped, with the hounds barking their little throats out as they bounded along in front. The countryside went flashing by and I could hear the gelding gasping for air with every breath, and I could feel his huge chest bulging beneath me. Thwack! Thwack! “Get on!” I shouted. I didn’t feel that my boy was giving me his all. We were dropping back from the hounds, and the others were getting away – except Mistress Hunter who seemed to be having similar problems with her idle gelding.
As Mistress Hunter and myself spurred and whipped our geldings along, side by side, I was almost beside myself at the prospect of missing out on “the kill”. Then, with the gelding’s sweat and saliva whizzing past my ear, I suddenly caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. “Whoa!” I cried and yanked on the reins with all my might, standing up in the stirrups to ensure that my full weight was being utilised. I had bridled the gelding with a very severe bit and I knew that he must come to an immediate halt unless he wanted to have his mouth cut to pieces. Of course, I was right and he stopped in an instant. Realising that something was afoot, Mistress Hunter had also hauled up her gelding and now turned him to join me.
“Over there,” I indicated with my whip. “I saw something move. Could’ve been a skunk or a rodent.”
“I can smell him,” sniffed Mistress Hunter.
And I believe from the tone of her voice that she actually could. Without a second to lose. we whipped up our geldings and raced down the field towards a copse. I kept thinking to myself, I hope I’m right. Please be here, please.
The others were, by now, far, far away and out of sight. If we could get to the beast first, we could have all the fun and thrill of the kill! As we neared the copse, we pulled our geldings up as quietly as we could. I was a little surprised to see Mistress Hunter sniffing the air, but when she turned to me and nodded, I knew that we were onto something. We waited at the edge of the wood and listened, intently. Mistress Hunter dismounted and started exam-
ining the ground. After some seconds, she 41.1 stood up and pointed eagerly into the thicket. I followed on horseback as she went ahead, scouting along the footpath, looking for clues.
For about ten minutes we snook silently along the tracks, twisting and turning whichever way the clues took us. Then, suddenly, Mistress Hunter stopped. She smelt the air, she listened – to the breeze, she concentrated her mind. A twig snapped. A branch creaked. The leaves rustled. Mistress Hunter turned to me and indicated for me to be completely silent.