As she entered the barn, the horses shuffled about, scuffing the ground and snorting in a manner only horses can do.
She surveyed the inner barn area, taking a mental inventory of the tack area, each stall, the hay, the feed bins and the water pales and of course the horses themselves. She called each one aloud by name as though taking roll in her classroom: "Mabel!" "Barney!" ""Sierra"! "Ebony!" and of course her favorite "Ol' Joe!" Joe was a strapping black stallion whose presence permeated the expanse of the barn.
In the morning's Joe would exit into the paddock area to survey his domain. He would stand tall and erect with his neck arched and his regal mane flowing like a flag standard in the wind. His tail would be cocked and occasionally would twitch to flick at a fly. It was Joe's world. He knew it and stood so there was no doubt to anyone who passed by, neither man nor beast. When he had posed long enough, he would take a quick run around the corral in his natural gait. Joe was a saddle-bred Tennessee Walking Horse and his natural gait was a high stepping strut. He looked almost as though he were auditioning for an equine version of "Saturday Night Fever".
By day she taught kindergarten and childhood development classes. In the evening she took care of his horses.
He was a mature gentleman, 30 years her senior; tall with broad shoulders, rugged features, a chiseled jaw, salt and pepper hair, and deep blue eyes that seemed somewhat out of place with his hair color but were, at the same time exotic, compelling and captivating. His voice had a deep tenor and a strong, commanding quality that made her shiver, not out of fear but shiver none the less.
No. She never feared him but at the same time knew better than to refuse him anything.
They had met three years earlier when she was a struggling young teacher in her twenties and new to the area. He was a widower who picked up his grandson after school every day. At first it was just casual conversation... a comment...a word here and there... an update on the boy's activities and progress. Gradually words turned into comments and comments turned into drawn out conversations with the young lad tugging on grandpa's pant leg encouraging their exit.
For about a year this went on.
One day while they were chatting, he asked if she had any young friends with stable experience who may be looking to make some extra money working part time in his stable. Until then she had not known that he owned any horses or what he did for a living.
She recalled her youth on the farm in Ohio. She was up before dawn every morning following her father to the barn to ready the cows for milking. As her father tended to the relieving of the cows, she would slop the pigs, roust the chickens and check the feed and water for the horses.
After school she would rush home to groom them and muck the stalls. She actually missed tending to the horses. There was something about the grandness and the power of these majestic creatures that was humbling and for some reason she enjoyed that sensation of being humbled. She used to pretend she lived in a world dominated by horses and she was a slave to their every need. The horses would talk and order her around. Something about that gave her great satisfaction and a sensation of pleasure that, as a child, she had not yet identified.
Still lingering in her reverie of days gone by, she heard him call her name, not once but twice.
She startled and snapped back to reality. Suddenly she heard her own voice cry out: "I would like that opportunity, if you would consider me, sir?" He did. They worked out the details and for the past three years, this was her life.
For the first year and a half it was just work...
One Spring evening as the sun lingered on the horizon and she was completing her duties in the barn one of the horses backed into a ladder leaning against the loft and the chain reaction of tumbling chaos resulted in a shattered window. She quickly cleaned up the broken glass and went to tell Him what had happened so he could arrange for the glass to be repaired.
She entered the house and called for Him but he did not answer. She had never really toured the "Big House", as she referred to it. Less than a mansion but more than a simple farmhouse, it stood in stately fashion, an unconventional architectural hybrid. It was three stories of antebellum southern mansion melded seamlessly with a post modern element reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright. From the sky lights and solar panels to the palladium windows and gothic columns in the front it stood in stark contrast to the Disslefink Dutch design barn that shared its inspiring vista of the evening sunset and the valley below.
She called for Him again and still he did not answer. She moved quietly but carefully through from room to room. Finally on the third floor she saw a light coming through doorway at the end of the hall. Past an ornate bathroom and three apparent guest rooms she went cautiously.
When she finally reached the end of the hall she nudged open the door as she gently knocked and again called his name.
Time was momentarily suspended. Her eyes began a panoramic sweep of the room like one would see on a realtors website. It was a slide show of an unusual nature. At the far end he was attaching a harness to a chain suspended from the ceiling above the bed. Small riding crops and single tail lashes hung from one wall. On the other were a variety of restraining instruments ranging from simple handcuffs to satin ropes and leather wrist and ankle wraps. On a side table there were numerous other paraphernalia she had never seen before and most of which she did not even know the function: butt plugs and ball gags and nipple clamps and dog collars, both spiked and smooth.
