Some people enjoy LARPing and historical items. You take that a few steps further. Tonight, you have your eyes on a saddle so old, they even think it's haunted. You don't believe in such nonsense, but you might be proven wrong...
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'Tonight is THE night!' you tell yourself as you head for the stables with the dimmest light you could manage, just enough so you don't step on any unfortunate animals, but not enough to alert anyone else nearby.
You've been working at the farm for a few weeks now, and pulled your weight rather well too, if you might say so yourself. They expected a lot more complaining from your rich ass, raised in the big city, hydrated on cocktails around the pool, but they had no idea how much you found yourself loving the place. Among other things.
The smells, the animals, the sounds, the feeling of dirt under the manicure that you've already cut short as soon as you heard about your parents' plans for your summer...
Not to say you couldn't say no to them. Not only are you old enough to live on your own already, despite the struggles that cooking for yourself still raises, but you know exactly how low to lower your lip and scrunch your eyebrows at your parents to have them give up any ill will that they might hold against you. Deserved or not.
You didn't do it this time.
They thought it was because you were finally willing to take responsibility for your irresponsible choices, but that couldn't be further from the truth.
The true reason was waiting for you in the barn. Quiet, rugged from overuse, smelling like anything but the leather that it's made of: a saddle so old, nobody could tell how it even got there in the first place.
'Might as well be part of the ole land, at this point' their grandmother had said.
'I reckon it outlived five barns now,' the grandfather had said.
'Word is, it's haunted' their daughter had said. 'Don't go looking about the barn if ye hear any ungodly noises, hear me?'
There were no ungodly noises to hear, as you stepped closer and brushed your fingers all across its unkept seat... yet.
If all went well tonight and nobody went by the barn, same as both weeks you've been around now, some ungodly sounds might come out... out of your mouth, that is.
Despite its mysterious age, the saddle holds perfectly fine as you move it from its resting wedge and onto the saddle rack closest to the height you need for your plans. Smells like sweat, tobacco, horses and filthy things that you can only guess, and you can feel your body tingling with anticipation, as you muse about adding your own filth to it.
There's beauty in old things. You've always had a fondness to them, to the stories they might have lived through, the people who might have touched them. And old things in places as simple and unassuming as this, you can get to know them in ways that others might frown about... personal ways...
A horse whinnies in the pasture nearby and a dog barks with little conviction. You can hear the wind rustle the trees and grass around, but nothing human, nothing that could spoil your fun.
It's time.
Your night gown drops off you easily and the hay and dirt on the floor sticks to your naked soles. There might be something wet on the ground too, and it makes you feel dirty. A smirk pushes at the corners of your mouth. The barn smells like it should: dung, dried herbs, old iron, spent wood, grains and leather...
The saddle is rough against your belly as you wiggle your way on it. Not sitting, like one should, but bent across it, like a damsel kidnapped by some rugged wild west men, ready to rob some train, lose all their loot in the pub, and brawl over which one gets to show you a good time first, not necessarily in that order.
Maybe the one carrying you might not even wait until you stop anywhere...
You bite your lip as your breasts hang down, your attempts at adjusting your position without touching the ground, as you would on a horse, making them jump, gravitation pulling against them. Your heart takes off as your imagination mingles with reality, the saddle under you easing you in the scene. It's perfect like this, you know exactly what you want to hear, how to be held. Imaginary or not, you know you're in for a really good time.
Touching yourself over the saddle sounded much easier in your mind, but you've been eyeing this saddle for far too long to have come unprepared. There's something already inside you, just waiting for your instruction... at one press of a button...
Your smart watch is dead.
You could have sworn it was fully charged when you left your room in the farmhouse. You've been so meticulous too, made sure it worked on Bluetooth alone, if the signal was to fail you. There's a manual switch too..
If only...
If only you could reach around...
A rag and what could only have been another saddle fall from a rack above and miss you by a scrape of your head, taking off your hair tie. That's lucky. It could have taken off your conscience too, was it to fall any closer. Or worse? That would be a fun way to hit the news... good thing you wouldn't be there to see it.
You could get off, start the vibrator, and get back on before you hit the first orgasm. Would be harder to stop or control it, but that sounds rather exciting, now that you think about it. Your misfortune turned out for much better instead.
...
You can't get off.
Your toes can almost touch the ground, but your ribcage can't pass through the space between the racks. They must have misaligned when that saddle tried to end your career...
Oh, no...
