THE STABLE GIRLS

copyright: Lesley Tara, 2009

My name is Molly Connor; I am a 22 year-old redhead and, as you may have guessed, of Irish descent. After graduating from college in the summer, I got a job at a riding stables for a few months, aiming to earn some money in an enjoyable way for my planned ‘gap year’ trip around the world. I grew up on a farm and love horses; I rode my first small pony aged five and have quite a lot of experience. I am five feet ten inches in height, broad-shouldered and full-figured, with a well-curved ass. When I look in the mirror, I see a fit and healthy-looking vigorous young woman, who usually has her striking auburn hair tied back in a pony-tail.

The Honourable Amanda D’Arcourt-Essington is youngest daughter of Lord Hartlebury, and lives at the manor house in the nearby village; the family stable their horses here. She is a spoilt little bitch who has just turned 17, arrogant and haughty, always complaining and making difficulties. Physically she is quite pretty, with a slim figure and long blonde hair which is pinned up when she rides, and the costume of boots and tight jodhpurs shows off her best asset, her pert and shapely butt.

It was a chilly and dreary Thursday in late October, and the stables were deserted – the owner and her chief assistant had gone to an auction in the next county, leaving just myself to deal with the very few customers who were likely to turn up. In fact, only one person did so – the Honourable Bitch, as I mentally called her. She had just passed her driving test – of course, doing so at the first attempt, a few days after her seventeenth birthday, which had only boosted her insufferable sense of superiority, as she arrived in the expensive little car that her indulgent father had presented her with.

She strode into the shelter of the warm barn, where I had just finished stacking some bales of fresh straw and was squatting on my haunches to sort out some bits of tackle and bridle which were getting worn and needed repair. I heard the scrunch of boots behind me, and turned and stood up; when I saw who it was, I put on the politest mask that I could manage, and asked nicely if I could be of assistance.

‘Well, I hope so,’ she snapped waspishly, clearly in a foul mood despite the new car, ‘although you were useless last time! Rainault [this was the typically pretentious name of her horse] needed a much better rub down, and you didn’t clean the bridle straps properly as I told you to – I want much better service this time, or I shall complain in the strongest terms!’

I gave a non-committal grunt, not trusting myself to speak to the little strumpet, and turned away to pick up a piece of harness from the floor. Before I could do so, I gave a startled cry – as I had bent over, the arrogant bitch had lashed me with her riding crop across the rump of my tight jeans!

‘Did you hear what I said, you stupid cunt?!!’ she shrilled, outraged that I had turned my back upon her dismissively.

This was too much to put up with, job or no job! I reacted almost without thinking, and slapped her across the face. She let out an amazed shriek, dropping the riding crop in her shock at any reprisal. Then she hissed and leapt at me, claws extended, her face turned ugly in the rictus of her anger, and for a few seconds we struggled like spitting cats. Of course, it was a typically stupid move on her part – I was taller, heavier, stronger from my physical work, and had some knowledge of judo. The outcome was never in doubt, and in a moment I had her down on the ground, flat on her back. I sat astride her, my weight on her stomach holding her down, and I pinned her in place by gripping her upper arms. She struggled and heaved, with quite interesting results as her body pressed against the crotch of my jeans, but there was no way that her slight frame could get the force or leverage to throw me off. I looked down at her, steaming with anger as all my resentment of her past snotty and insulting behaviour rose to the surface.

‘I’m gonna teach you a lesson, you little bitch!’ I snarled, and I shifted my hands from her shoulders to her breasts, which I must say made nice little handfuls. She yelped in shock as I squeezed them through the thin material of her white cotton shirt, and then again – more loudly, and with a slight note of panic – as I pulled and twisted her nipples. She cried out in protest and writhed beneath me, but somehow with less force than before, and I suddenly realised that her body was responding sexually to my rough treatment of her breasts, and that I was arousing her. I continued to grope her mounds firmly, as she gazed up at me in amazement, her mouth slightly open as she bit on her lower lip. She made no sign or sound of resistance as I undid the top buttons of her riding shirt and slipped one hand inside it, first to massage her breast in its bra cup, and then slipping my fingers inside to pull it free, fondling the smooth warm soft flesh and kneading the swollen nipple between my fingers. She moaned, and arched her back – but in evident pleasure, no longer making any attempt to dislodge her assailant.

I was now thoroughly aroused – she was an attractive piece of girl-flesh, and when I first encountered her I had fantasised about getting into her panties, until I found out what a cow she was. I continued to caress her breasts with one hand, whilst reaching behind me with the other to grasp her crotch. She gave a shudder and moan when she felt me seize her there, my thumb digging into the groove of her pussy slit through the tight material of her jodhpurs. Her reaction was all the encouragement that I needed, for she limply spread her thighs, opening her legs to give me easier access to her sex. I released my grip in order to push my hand down inside the waistband of her jodhpurs, and then into her panties to feel for her cunt. It was no surprise to find it wet with arousal, already partly open, and my assertiveness returned as I curled my index finger around and dug it into her. She groaned, shutting her eyes tight and arching her back, pressing her body against my jeans, and the tremor that shook her was unmistakably one of orgasm. In its wake, she flopped limply, and then looked up at me in complete surrender.

‘You like this, you fucking slut, don’t you?’ I asked softly, still stroking her breasts and slipping my finger in and out of her pussy.