Giddyup!

horse-6

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eonserotica@gmail.com

This titillating tidbit comes from Hannah, who says she discovered what the funny little button down below was for while learning to ride a horse at the tender age of twelve.  Up until that time she hadn’t thought about her vagina much, and she hadn’t considered that her crotch might be a source of pleasure.  If anything, she thought her private folds “were sort of gross.  Growing up in a conservative, Christian household will do that to you.”

Horses terrify me, so it never fails to impress me when someone displays mastery over such a majestic and powerful beast.  When I was a wee lad, annual visits to my grandfather’s farm would usually result in tears as my siblings and cousins were all taught to ride, and I, quaking in fear, would do everything in my power to escape my grandfather’s huge workman’s hands and the horrifying horse ride to follow should he manage to get a grip on me.  I wasn’t always successful, but more often than not I would wriggle my tiny body into one hideaway or another, and they would be forced to give up the chase.  A favorite escape was beneath the cattle grid.  No one else was small enough to fit between the bars.  If I managed to escape behind the barn, and followed the ditch in a running crouch, I could circle behind everyone and dive for cover beneath the cattle grid at the end of the driveway while they were all searching elsewhere.  I spent many long afternoons laying there in the weeds, staring at the big blue sky and daydreaming, seeing shapes in the clouds, chewing on stalks of grass, and thrilling at the occasional sudden rumble of tires as trucks or tractors passed overhead on their way to and from my grandfather’s farm.

I learned to masturbate there, touching myself through my overalls.  I’d wake from an afternoon nap in the shady groove below the cattle grate and find a little tent had been pitched in the front of my denims.  My imagination being what it was (and still is!) I would picture red skinned Indians setting up camp, erecting a teepee below my beltline.  I would stealthily walk my fingers along, the brave settler with his rifle, coming to evict the evil Injuns from his acre of land.

(I read one too many adventure stories as a kid, maybe.  These days I’d think, ‘Let them stay.  My acre was theirs to begin with, and my government had no right to give it to me.’  But that’s a topic beyond the scope of this blog.)

So my hand would walk down the length of me, ambushing and shooting Indians along the way, until the final confrontation with the chief, who had heard the shots and dying screams of his tribe from the teepee, and stayed hidden within in terror.  As the settler bursts into the teepee, the chief disarms him with a sudden chop of his tomahawk!  Ha ha, so it would be hand to hand!  Undaunted, the brave frontiersman grapples with the Indian chief, attempting to choke the life from him.  My arm plunged down the front of my overalls, I would grip my erect penis and shake it about, enacting that final battle.  I don’t know how many times the settler fought the chief before that particular struggle became something else.  Certainly the first few times, the chief would fall down and lie dead, and I would be flushed with a feeling of triumph and glory as the hero reclaimed ‘his’ land.  But was that just the thrill of victory in an overactive imagination, or actual pleasure, the rush of endorphins presaging orgasm?

At some point, though, the chief vomited violently as he died, and such a surprising rush of pleasure wracked me that I cried out loud, sitting up abruptly and bopping my head on the heavy metal bars above me, more than a little afraid that I’d broken my dink and my skull.  My hand came out sticky and smelling strangely, that pungent and not altogether unpleasant odor we all come to know eventually.  I wiped it in the grass and dirt.

I was rather embarrassed over the wet spot on the front of my overalls, and took great pains to sneak back into the house to clean myself up and change.  I remember soaking my overalls in the creek afterwards, getting them all muddy, then going back to hand them sheepishly to my grandmother and feed her some line about falling in the pond.  They came out of the laundry good as new; my relief was a palpable thing.  Over the next few days, when my penis seemed to behave normally, my fears subsided, and I began to experiment to see if the strange (and pleasurable!) event could be made to repeat itself.

That poor, fate-cursed Indian chief…

Hannah writes:

Dear Eon,

By my third month of riding lessons, I was feeling more confident in the saddle.  At last I could let my mind wander as I rode, instead of concentrating feverishly on not falling off the horse.
Constellation was a beautiful horse.  She got her name from the pattern of white stars down her left flank.  She was gentle and dainty, always moving as though she was concerned for the comfort of her rider.  Chestnut brown, except for her markings, with a gorgeous white mane and tail that I spent hours braiding with pink ribbons for derbies.
Well, one day, autumn, the leaves changing colors and drifting down around us as we rode, my mind drifted off with the falling leaves.  Thinking about everything all at once and also nothing much at all.  That’s when I noticed a strange sensation of warmth spreading up through my tummy.  As I began to focus on it, it became more pronounced.  My legs were warming up right down to my knees.
Just then we reached a place in the trail where a small log had fallen across the path a few weeks before.  It was still there, no real challenge to traverse.  I lifted slightly in my saddle and Stella (that’s what I usually called her) hopped the log with ease, taking special care with me on her back.  As I resettled myself in the saddle I felt the rub and response in my vagina for the first time, and realized where this feeling of heat was coming from.
Without further direction from me Stella settled into an easy walk.  For a time I just swayed on her back, wondering at the pleasure I was feeling.  I have always enjoyed riding, but this was clearly different.  I’d also been warned against the sin of touching myself.  I was smart enough to put two and two together.  So I wondered, and I worried.  How could this feeling inside me be bad?  It didn’t feel bad at all.  It felt good!  Delightfully good, perfectly good, like… well, like a hug from Papa when he would pick me up and whirl me around, or when Tommy tried to hold my hand, and I let him, just for a minute, before I pretended to be shy.  It felt… safe.  Exciting and safe at the same time.
Constellation was happy to run when I urged her forward.  We galloped along the mossy trail, the colorful leaves of autumn falling all around us, the upright, bright white trunks of birch trees flying past on all sides.  I let myself go to the sensation building within me and even urged it along, just like I was urging my horse.  I could cling tighter with my legs, reducing the rub.  I could press forward, canting my hips to increase the pressure, or lean back to tease my perineum.  I used the gait of the horse and the movement of my own pelvis to bring myself to the shuddering edge of climax before reining Stella in.  I was afraid this new sensation would sweep me away.  I might get hurt riding through the woods alone half-addled with this strange new joy.
So I dismounted, looked all around to be sure I was quite alone, and then wandered off the path into the forest.  At a good distance, but still able to see my horse, I lay down in a fiery carpet of fallen leaves and I used my hands to finish what the saddle had begun.
The first touch of my slick labial folds surprised me.  The wetness, the slishiness of it.  I sniffed my slippery fingers and even tasted them, experimentally.  When I inhaled deeply, my senses were awash in the smell of my secret self, what I would eventually come to know as the arousing musk of sex.  It only heightened the urgency of the moment.  I had to know!
I forced both hands down the front of my jodpurs, struggling to get my wrists past the tight waistband.  Sliding my fingers along the length of my lips, top to bottom and back again, sent shivery pleasure spiralling through me.  The feelings were like the curlicues on fanciful calligraphy and I was the page.  I could write my desires with my fingers using the ink of my own juices.
I thought of Tommy, I thought of my Papa, I thought of the immense penis on the workhorse, Job (Papa named him after the Bible’s Job and I sometimes had to groom him).  My fingers swirled and rubbed, prodded and tugged, and everything I did brought new feelings of ecstacy to glory in.  I knew in my heart that this was one of God’s greatest works and that He made me this way so that I could feel His touch.  I had never felt so close to Him or so safe.
Masturbation has always made me feel safe.
When I discovered my clitoris, well, you can imagine the fun I had!  I had no need to penetrate myself then, there were so many other places to explore.  I brought myself to a shuddering orgasm, soaking my panties and leaving me breathless.  Constellation came over to investigate and did a horsey whuffle of my crotch that made me squeal.  Her snort was concerned.  She was saying she thought I was behaving rather strangely, but she stayed by me.
I spent all afternoon lying in the woods, touching myself, exploring my body.  I squeezed my nipples, tracing their shape with my fingertips.  It made me shake and wiggle with happiness.  When I ran out of other places to touch, I put a finger into my vagina, marvelling at the squishy sounds and the lovely feeling as my whole body tightened before I came again.  I even put a finger into my anus… slowly, cautiously, remembering Sunday Bible studies and fearing God’s wrath, but somehow knowing it wouldn’t come.  He loved me, and He would never strike me down for enjoying His gift of my body.  His wrath didn’t come, but I did, again and again, as I rolled over onto my tummy and rode my hands, gasping, all the way to Heaven’s Gate and back.
It was only when I realized that it was getting dark, and that I would be in a lot of trouble for riding in the woods at night, that I gave up my explorations and made my way back to the stables.  I walked Stella most of the way, not wanting to risk an accident in the gathering darkness.  I felt I was brimming with warmth and satisfaction all the way down to my toes.

I’m 44 now, and masturbation is still my safe place.  It’s where I go when I’m sad, or lonely, or hurt.  It’s where I go to be alone with God.  I see no disparity between my beliefs and my actions.  Jesus said to love ourselves and to love one another was the most important thing, and I know it is true.
Don’t be afraid to love yourself, for God loves you.  The more you love yourself, the more you are able to love others.

Many blessings,
Hannah

*Image from internet*