The day of riding with Pasco and crew out from under the shadow of her tower had been absolute torture. First, Pasco had given her the choice of riding a horse by herself, or sharing his. Of course she had wanted to share his but she would last all of about five minutes that way, so she’d been forced to pretend to be demure and request her own horse. She’d then been given Sendia’s horse, and slender Sendia rode in front of Missa, Missa’s breasts bouncing at the horse’s rhythm, her nipples brushing Sendia’s back, and Ada swore they were both really fucking enjoying it.
And of all things, horseback riding. The classic female sexual awakening. The forbidden fruit of straddling the saddle. The royal folk said polite women only rode side-saddle because it looked more elegant, but Ada knew. It as because they saw how fucking happy all those women looked, straddling the saddle, rubbing in the seat as they galloped off into the field, high on freedom.
Pasco and crew had even offered for her to be topless, if that would make her more comfortable, and of course it would. But the thought of him, of Pasco, seeing her nakedness, admiring it, taking it in — nope, that would be bad. Ungood. It would be impossible to contain herself.
Of course, she spent the entire day seeing his partial nakedness, admiring it, taking it in. The way his skin rippled over the muscles of his back like the ocean she imagined. His long hair tied at the crown of his head and flowing out behind him, just like a horse’s tail. The smell of his sweat, mingling with the others’ and the horses though distinctly his, the musk and hint of cedar. The black, banded tattoos up his arm. Some were simple and bold, others fine designs, and he had more than any of the others. Did they mean something? Were they stories? Victories? Battles won? Lovers taken?
Ada had shifted in her saddle all day, side-saddle until her back hurt, straddling until she was on the edge, then back to side-saddle, trying desperately to be uncomfortable.
She tried to focus on her horse. Her actual horse. Not the fantasy of a man who had been turned into a horse by a witch, but still had all his man’s thoughts and needs and importantly consent and had come to her for help relieving the urges of his giant horse dick…
No her actual, animal, non-sapient, non-consenting horse. That, at least, she could focus on and be somewhat less aroused. Horses wanted to be brushed. Fed carrots. Allowed to graze. She tuned in to her memories of learning how to ride horses and tried to understand this horse’s gait, its temperament and personality.
What did Pasco like? What did he want? What were his memories of learning to ride horses? What was his gait, his rhythm, his temperament and personality?
That night, Ada lay awake in her bedroll. It took all her willpower to not masturbate.
It was going to be a long night.