The Saddle

By Cindy Carrier 

Accessories 2006 

Well Ladies, last year we cooked up some pretty hot accessories for our favorite man, revealing intimate details about him from his shirts, his buttons and his gloves.  We discussed what his sheets might have to say, or his hat or his gunbelt – or his saddle.  Yes, that saddle seemed to appear in many a conversation, but no one could really just get their – ahem – hands around it.  We just didn’t know what to start with because it is such an important piece of equipment holding such an important piece of anatomy.  Months have gone by without a word about the sheets or hat or gunbelt or saddle.  But finally, inspiration gleamed, creativity sparked and typing began.  So without further ado, I give you--- 

The Saddle 

Warning:  Any persons prone to fainting at the thought of buttocks caressing leather should not attempt to read this while sitting up! ;-)


A sliver of morning light through the small window stripes my side, and I know he will soon come for me.  Even as I contemplate the goodness of a warm and sunny day, I hear the door slide open and then footsteps coming for me.  I tighten myself, correct my drape, horn high, fenders straight, stirrups even.  There, I am ready and glowing for him with the polish of the oil he lovingly applied to me last night, wiping and wiping, strong hands massaging me, leaving me soft and clean, so clean for him. 

He enters all tall and straight, and his gloved hands reach for me, lift and carry me away.  I am secure in his clasp and soon I will return the feeling.  For the moment I enjoy the strong muscles of his arms, his strong chest and hip as we near the blanketed beast.  I hate that tall animal, and it doesn’t like me, either; it always swallows air, swelling its gut just as he cinches me tight.  Like always, I strain to help him get a good fit.  He gives my long leather strap a good hard tug and the horse grunts and bobs its head in indignation and I smile – stupid beast.  Thus snugly buckled, I willingly settle onto the blanket and he lets down my left stirrup from its perch over my horn.  I tingle with anticipation.

We head out into the sunshine and he checks my cinch and strap again, pulls the appendages just to be sure.  Then he gathers up the reins and a good fistful of mane, places a boot into my near stirrup.  With a long hand curled around my cantle he pushes up and then he’s quickly astride me working his right foot onto my other stirrup.  He wriggles just a little as I knew he would, adjusting himself on me.  I willingly receive him, revel in his quick scoot back and forth as he finds his position.  There, that spot - he settles bone and muscles deep into my seat and presses strong calves against my fenders.   I quickly warm under him and cannot help myself - I release a fragrant leathery scent of pleasure.

I cannot decide which of the three gaits I like more, the walk, the trot or the lope.  Each has its merits. He always maintains close contact at the walk, sits deep but straight, matching the beast’s plodding, nodding motion with heavy muscles and long legs, molding to me.  He allows no light between he and I at the trot.  Instead he hugs my seat close and rocks with the step of quick horse legs, thighs and calves making close contact even when that stupid beast starts to prance.  But I hold him secure and no light comes between us.

But the lope – ah, the lope.  The man holds to the lope better than any other.  At the first jump forward his knees tighten and his thighs contract.  His calves press close to my fenders, lifting them just a little.  Excitement surges in me as we hurtle forward and I wish I could reach up to pull him closer and tighter to me.  But we work in perfect rhythm anyway, his strong buttocks thrusting slightly as he grips and releases, grips and releases in pure undulating waves that roll over me.  We go for miles this way it seems, back and forth, back and forth in time to the gait, each scoot more pleasurable than before.  Then too soon he slows the animal and he’s coming back down to the trot, sitting deep to avoid bouncing. Again I marvel at his ability to stay centered and ride me the way I am intended to be ridden, hands away from my horn, long legs working with me, stroking me.  He’s happy – I can feel the pulse beating behind his knees, feel the sweaty heat there.  And then we are walking again and I’m holding him close, so close, my seat warm and damp and musky from him.  I release my scent again, soft and mellow, contented.  He adjusts himself one more time, muscles quivering slightly. I cup him securely to me, and I sigh with ultimate satisfaction.



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