Different Strokes

“Ready or not,” Dash called, brandishing his quirt, “here I come.”

He entered the stall. And stopped dead.

Merry crouched in the hay on all fours, hobbled and waiting. She wore only a horse blanket, pinned in front to keep it from sliding off. She’d scrounged up an English saddle from somewhere and cinched it to her back. An old bridle, complete with bit, had been modified to fit her human face. She wore her long hair in a pony tail.

They stared at each other. The moment stretched and went on stretching.

Dash swallowed. He pawed at the hay with a booted foot. His spurs jingled. Merry said something unintelligible. “What?”

She rolled her eyes, Merry fashion, reached up with her hobbled wrists and removed the bit. “I said, I thought we agreed on no spurs.”

“I was gonna take ‘em off before we got going.” He cleared his throat and pawed the hay some more.

Finally Merry said, “This isn’t doing a thing for you, is it?”

“Well, it’s making me mighty uncomfortable. I know that ain’t what you were aiming for.”

“Yeah.” She sat back on her haunches. The saddle slid over her butt. “The whole master/slave role play thing is supposed to be such a hot deal in town right now. I thought it would kind’a perk things up, y’know? I mean, this is horse slave gear, right? Bondage stuff?”

“You got the costume right. That part’s fine. Just … on you, it just don’t look right.”

“It doesn’t feel right, either. The damn saddle keeps sliding around. And the bit … Jiminy Christmas. How do your folk stand these things? I’m never making any horse I ride wear a bit ever again.” She looked ruefully at the hobbles. “Well, the mood’s spoiled now. Reckon I might as well take this garbage off. You want to give me a hand with these things?” She held out her bound wrists.

Dash didn’t move. “In a minute.”

“Dash!”

“Okay, okay.” He chuckled. “Bossy little filly. Should’a left the bit in your mouth.”

“Don’t make me kick you.”

Still chuckling, Dash knelt beside her. He removed the bridle and saddle as slowly and tenderly as if he were undressing a bride. Unpinned, the horse blanket puddled in the hay. He undid the hobbles last, kissing her fingers and toes as he did so. His whicker was soft, low and ragged. “There y’go. Whole worlds o’better.”

Merry dug her freed fingers into his long, thick mane. “Doesn’t seem fair,” she murmured. “Me like this and you all dressed. You gonna do something about it?”

“I was hoping to. This shirt’s too dang tight anyway. Why do humans wear these things?”

“’Cause too much bare male chest on display gets the girls all het up. You know if you paraded around like this all the time, I’d never get a lick of work done. Ow! I think I just cut myself on your blasted spurs.”

Immediately Dash yanked off his boots. He chucked them into a corner of the stall. His jeans followed. “There. Now we’re even up again.”

“Mmmm, yeah. Who needs that slave stuff anyway, when you got a stall full of fresh hay and a big, strong stallion? All of a sudden I’m itching to go for a ride again.”

“Just what I was thinking. I suppose you want to be up top.”

“Only way to ride a horse.”

“You want my quirt?”

“Don’t need it. I got hands.” She slapped his bare flank. “Giddyap.”

He bore her down into the hay. “Ride ‘em, cowgirl.”