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now that she has it. Her fingers are small
and delicate, and I pull them across my desk to grasp the other
side. "Keep your hands here." She doesn't question, doesn't
struggle, just does it. She's bent at the hips in this position,
her perfect backside perfectly presented for anything, everything I
want, and yes, I want it, want it all. I nudge her ankles, move
them shoulder width apart. I could take her now, and I very much
want to. But it isn't time yet, my day's not over and she can use
the wait. The key to training, horses and dogs, cats or women, is
patience. She's taken a risk, now she needs to know she judged
correctly, needs time to settle into this new role she's found
herself in, that neither of us imagined when we set out for the
evening races, a thousand years ago. I sit down and do my
paperwork, log my race results, plan the training for the week. She
watches me with interest, grows bored, looks around the room,
bookshelf and books, framed pictures, riding tack on pegs. I
concentrate, but I can't help but be aware of her firm, round
breasts moving with her breath, her scent mingling with the smells
of the barn. Soon. Very soon.
    I finish, stand up, she looks up at me. "Did
you forget about me?"
    I meet her gaze. She doesn't want control
back but she'll take it if she can. That's her instinct, she can't
help it.
    "No." I take a length of cord from the wall,
coarse and functional, watch her eyes widen. "Put your hands behind
your back."
    She hesitates. She has to make the decision.
If her courage fails it’s over, right here, right now, to end in
awkwardness and a long cab ride. Neither of us wants that, but is
she brave enough?
    She is. She holds my gaze, straightens up,
slowly slides her hands behind her. Only then does she look down. I
smile and move behind her, take her wrists and figure eight the
rope around them, one, two, three, wrap the crossover, finish with
a stop knot. She's breathing faster now as I undo her jeans,
slipping them down to her ankles, dark thatch of pubic hair showing
through sheer panties, wet in the middle. They’re plain, solid
coloured, comfortable, casual style. They suit her.
    "What's your name?" I push her forward, guide
her until she's bent full over, cheek against the cool oak
desktop.
    She tells me. There’s a catch in her voice as
she says it.
    I smile as I pick up my leather work gloves.
Like her underwear her name fits her well, both feminine and
practical.
    "Are you ready?"
    "Yes." She can barely whisper it.
    I nod, though she can't see that, pull on the
gloves, rough leather, worn smooth in the centre. Her buttocks are
smooth, invitingly curved. I pull her panties into the middle, pull
them tight so the bunched fabric splits her cunt, the swollen,
glistening lips swelling up around it on either side. She gasps at
my touch. One hand in the small of her back, raise the other, pause
a moment to see the anticipation in her face, bring it down hard,
hear the smack, see her jerk and quiver, hold her still. Raise it
again, bring it down, steady, rhythmic, over and over. An
involuntary cry escapes her lips as her ass blushes red for me. I
watch her face, set now with determination to not give in to tears,
to not give in to me. She's fighting it and it’s hard for her. It
would be easier for her to just surrender, but she can't, she has
to be brought there and there's only one way to do that.
    I keep up the rhythm, feeling the exertion in
my arm now, feel her buttocks growing warm even through the glove.
She bites her lower lip, her eyes misting. It hurts, and it’s
humiliating and that arouses her which is more humiliating still. I
watch her fight it, watch the struggle, feel the impact of her
flesh beneath my hand. Every smack brings a wince now and she
shakes her head unconsciously, trying to ward off the surrender we
both know is coming fast.
    It would be wrong to say she liked this,
though there's no question it arouses her. No more than I like
putting her through it, though