The Commuter Belt

Photostory by

Rogue-Hagen & Cherry Schneider

I was but a spotty youth at the time this incident took place. I lived in the South East of England, in what was commonly called the “Commuter Belt.”
It was quite posh and there were beautiful leafy, sunny lanes and an abundance of horses in the area. I would spend many a happy hour peering through a pair of binoculars from an upstairs window at jodhpur-clad young ladies as they trotted down our lane. How those splendidly rounded buttocks would bob up and down and rub backwards and forwards along a smooth, shiny, leather saddle. And, on occasions, if I was lucky, a car would pass by and disturb the horse and make it fret or shy. Inevitably the young ladies would deal with this problem with a sharp slash of the crop to the horse’s rump and a prod with their shiny, steel spurs into the animal’s flanks.
What ecstasy to see a sexy young woman gain total control of a large, mettlesome beast.
Such was my excitement at observing the spectacle, that not for a minute did I ever consider the pain or suffering caused to the horse. Until one day on a hot summer afternoon when I was ambling along with my best chum, chatting and picking blades of grass to suck, when a set of events occurred that would change my life forever. As we walked, every few minutes we would be forced onto the verge by a passing horsebox. My friend showed no interest in this, but merely complained at being forced to step off the road into prickly grass and stinging nettles. For my own part, I became quite excited as I studied any young woman who was travelling in a horsebox and who happened to glance back at us as we endured the pain of having our legs stung.
Many were, of course, quite haughty, even though they were young and beautiful.
In fact, I am certain that many smiled upon observing us rubbing our legs as they sped by. Like everything else, life was just one big game to them. They had money, they had power and they had horses.
Continuing on our way it seemed obvious to me that the horseboxes (and the young ladies within) must be heading for a nearby horse show.
Although it would have appeared odd to express any interest in a horse show to my pal, I kept walking at a pace in the right direction. The sound of horses’ hooves on the road ahead kept me focused on my goal.
Then, at the end of the lane, we arrived at a T-Junction. There, pinned to a tree, was an arrow, cut out of thick cardboard and felt-tipped all over in red. It was obvious that this was the guiding arrow to all the horseboxes. What a wheeze it would be, I thought, if we were to turn the arrow in the opposite direction.
Without a moment’s hesitation I walked up to the tree and twisted the arrow through a hundred-and-eighty degrees. Then, as we heard a horsebox approaching, we shuffled into a hedge to enjoy the confusion. The lorry stopped, the young lady who was driving looked to another young lady, her navigator, there was a brief discussion, and we watched as the heavy steering wheel was hauled round and the vehicle chugged off in the wrong direction. We laughed and laughed. What made it even funnier was that she really struggled to turn that wheel – in the wrong direction! How ironic! How stupid!
We walked away in the direction of the horse show, my friend oblivious to the fact that it was my intention to casually suggest that we go and spectate. I looked up as I heard a horse trotting quickly towards us. A fantastic looking brunette was bouncing up and down in the saddle. As she rode rapidly closer I was transfixed by the sight of her breasts jiggling beneath a tight, white blouse. Her cleavage was completely exposed; and totally amazing! Then, just as we stepped to one side to let her pass, she hauled fiercely back on the reins and shouted “whoa!” to her horse, a fine dark brown gelding.
“Turn it back!” she yelled at us, pointing at the arrow on the tree with her long, menacing riding whip.
“I never touched it,” my chum replied.
“Not you,” she snapped, “you!” And directed the tassel of her whip towards my chin.
“I haven’t touched it,” I claimed, my temperature rising by the second. “I saw you,” she barked.
Her horse flicked its head and jumped sideways slightly.
“Stand still!” she yelled, raising her whip and bringing it down with a stinging slash on the gelding’s bottom.
However, this just seemed to make the horse more nervous and more irritable.
She shouted and brought her whip down again and again. For me it was the most amazing sight I had ever seen. The horse bucked and reared and the more it did, the harder she laid into it. Then, with its mouth foaming and its rump sweating, it was brought to heel by the woman with the vicious backhand.
“Now turn it round,” she commanded me, holding the whip right by the side of my face.
I hesitated and she glared at me, her strong, slender fingers tugging the reins from side to side as she wrestled to keep the gelding still. I saw her thighs tense as she tightened her boots on the horse’s belly and it stepped towards me.
At this point my pal reversed rather briskly with a look of horror on his face. Holding up my arm, the horse crashed into me and knocked me down.
Above me I saw its hooves hovering and stamping. I noticed that its cock was hanging down slightly and I thought it might pee on me. Rolling to one side I escaped being crushed by a whisker.
“Now turn it round,” the woman hissed at me, her face full of fury.
For a moment I didn’t move. Then, in a split second, she leapt from the gelding’s back and jumped on top of me, her boots landing on my chest.
Before I knew it, she was leaning over me, her boobs crashing about around my face and had me gripped by my shirt collars.
“Turn it round – now!” she ordered, lifting me half off the ground and then bashing my head down on the road.
My pal challenged her actions and she sprung to her feet, whip raised, and marched directly towards him. Needless to say he beat a hasty retreat. Then turning back towards me, as I was scrambling to my feet, she slashed her whip down across my shoulder.
Bells began to ring in my head and I had a weird taste in my mouth. I couldn’t hear properly and my vision was fuzzy. She was shouting at me and gesticulating.
I saw the shape of her superbly bulging blouse as she raised the whip again. But she did not have to hit me again. I stumbled back towards the tree as quickly as I could and twisted the arrow back to its original position.
She remounted the gelding, pointed her whip at me and warned, “You ever touch one of those signs again and next time I’ll take the skin off your bloody hide!”
And with that, she dug her heels in and rode off back up the lane. I let out a deep sigh, totally shell-shocked at what had happened, and shook my head at my pal. My legs were like jelly and I felt completely exhausted. This was the effect of just one stroke of the young lady’s whip.
Imagine what it must be like to be a horse, I thought! Then, as I was still recovering, a horsebox approached. I was in such a state of shock that I didn’t take any notice. There was a loud hiss as it braked sharply and came to a standstill. As I looked up I saw a young woman jump down from the cab.
She was holding a short, leather riding crop. “Did you change that sign round?” she demanded.
“No, I never touched it,” I pleaded.
She stood before me, glaring at me, then suddenly slashed the crop down across my leg. I jumped and shrieked.
“Liar!” she snapped.
I sunk to my knees before her. The outline of her crotch was almost thrust into my face, her snow white jodhpurs stretching tightly around her thighs. I began to whimper and she brought her knee sharply up into my face and knocked me over. She gave me another crack of the crop, across my burn.
And as she jogged back to the lorry, her beautiful curvy buttocks swinging magnificently, I could hear her co-pilot laughing hysterically. Oh what happy days!