"Strip," she says.
The word hangs in the air, simple but final.
You inhale sharply, and your hands move before thought can intervene. Fingers clumsy, nervous. You start with your blouse-peeling each button open, revealing more of your chest with every inch. The fabric clings from sweat and tension. When you slip it off your shoulders, the barn air kisses your flushed skin. Your nipples are already stiff beneath your bra.
She says nothing-just watches.
Your skirt next. The zipper shivers open. You let it fall, stepping clear, and then reach back to unclasp your bra. It comes away slow. Your breasts lift and shift with your breath, bare now, skin hot, exposed.
Your panties come last-wet already, soaked at the gusset. They cling as you peel them down. You step out carefully, toes curling on straw, your whole body humming.
Naked.
You resist the urge to cross your arms. Vanna likes you open.
She walks behind you, fingertips tracing your hip with featherlight command.
"You're already dripping," she murmurs, low and approving. "Do you even know how visible your need is?"
You whimper, helpless.
Her fingers wrap around your wrist.
"Mount the horse," she says.
The whipping horse is solid and unforgiving-dark wood polished by years of use, the padded top slanted diagonally, like the back of something ready to be ridden. Leather straps hang from its sides. It's high enough to lift you off the ground. Spread you wide. Put you on display.
You climb onto it, limbs unsteady.
One knee. Then the other.
You ease forward along the padded curve, letting your belly rest on the leather, your breasts hang loose and free, nipples grazing the cool material. The width of the horse forces your legs apart. The exposure is instant, humiliating, delicious.
Your heart hammers. Your cunt throbs.
Vanna begins to strap you in.
First your wrists-pulled forward, fastened snug to cuffs attached in the horse. Then your ankles, tugged wide until your thighs stretch. You can still wriggle, twist your feet-but you're held. You can dance, but you can't escape.
You can't stop squirming.
She chuckles.
"Already restless. You know what's coming. You'll fight it, but your cunt won't."
You clench your fists. Your toes curl. You can't even close your legs now-your sex is exposed, wet, open.
You whimper into the leather.
"Shhh," she whispers. "Be good. I want to hear you sing."
You hear the soft hiss of leather whooshing through the air as she takes a practice swing.
The first blow doesn't come right away.
Instead, there's a long moment of silence. You feel her circling. Watching.
You tremble. Your ass twitches involuntarily, bracing.
Then-
CRACK.
A sharp line of fire blazes across the upper curve of your backside.
You scream.
Not from pain alone-but from the release of it. The anticipation breaking.
Your whole body jolts. Your hips grind into the horse on reflex, your clit brushing the padded seat.
She doesn't pause.
