maryallison
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2006
- Messages
- 74
- Points
- 0
My boyfriend loves horse racing. Jimmy reads the Racing Form, and slows down when we're driving by a horse farm. He has a photo of Secretariat on his refrigerator, for god sakes. So when he called me - all excited - and shouted that he had tickets to the Preakness last weekend ... well, I guess I had to go with him.
So we drove up to Baltimore, and fought for parking, and mingled in the increasing crowds of people walking up to the gates. I noticed that the women wore really nice dresses, and big summer hats, as you would see in Gigi, or My Fair Lady. I felt under dressed, and said so, but Jimmy merely said, "Never mind, your dressed perfectly."
We got through the gates and wandered through the crowd, and we sipped cokes and read the racing forms, but we never really walked closer to the seats. Jimmy took a look from afar, and he shook his head. "This won't do. Let's get something better." We drifted to a cement staircase, and down a flight, and down another, until we got to the another door. When we opened it, we walked down old wooden stairs, like they had been there a hundred years ago, and we clump clump clumped down them to the bottom, where a smaller crowd was shuffling through a wooden door, by a corner.
Jimmy took my hand. He led me into the crowd, and through the door, and soon we were in the stalls - I mean the paddock - whatever they call the place where the horses live. You could smell them. We walked on a dirt floor now, in a narrow corridor, as did so many others, and we reached the sunlight. There were a few horses to the left, and two more to the right, and they all had their own stalls. The crowd drifted further away, into full sunlight, and soon I saw the racehorses themselves: all decked out in individual colors, with trainers and grooms and jockeys, all walking away from us. The whole crowd followed to get a better look. Jimmy pulled me gently away from them.
"C'mon," he whispered. "I know I great spot to see them."
"But bu--'"
"Really, "he said. "It's the perfect view."
We walked past the wooden stairs again, and under them, and around a corner and another corner, past two stalls with stallions snorting and stamping their feet. We came to an empty stall now, right up against a wall with wooden planks that he not quite been put up properly. Sunlight peeked through each plank. We walked up to the wall, and Jimmy looked through the opening, and smiled.
"Look at this," he said.
I stood on tip toe, but the opening was just above my eyesight. He grabbed a wooden saw horse - like they have on construction sites - but this one had a saddle bolted right on it. Like it was a practice saddle. He plunked it right at the wall, and motioned to me, but when I hesitated, he smiled and said, "You ever been on a saddle? They're very comfortable."
So I climbed on. He reached down, and maneuvered my foot into the stirrup, and I instinctively put my other foot in the other stirrup. My legs were bent, and he was right - it was comfortable. He looked through the crack of sunlight again, and I leaned forward to see what was outside. I closed one eye. I saw the whole racetrack, with thousands of people in the stands, and a beautiful dirt track extending to the distance, and curving, and farther away I saw the horses and trainers and jockeys walking to the starting gate.
That's when I felt him sit behind me.
He put his hands on my waist, as if I was going to fall off, but my feet were snug in the stirrups, and my legs bent under me, and the broad saddle cradled my rear end. He shifted a few inches forward, so I had nowhere to
go.
"What are you doing?" I asked
"It's alright," he said. "I know what you like."
"Wh-what?"
"I typed your name on the internet...."
I gulped. Could he know?
"Not many girls named maryallison."
Please....please...
"I didn't know what "TMF" stood for, until I clicked on the link and found your stories...."
Oh, God. He read my stories.
His fingers moved a bit closer now, just over my jeans to my shirt. An ordinary shirt. I thought it looked Western. His fingers rested softly against my tummy. He stroked one finger.
I gasped, and I heard a noise behind us. Oh, yes. Someone was coming, and he would have to let me go. But the sound was a clump, and another clump, and clump clump clump as the crowd we had seen now walked up that wooden staircase. I heard each terrible step go higher and higher, and, when the door swung open one last time and shut - it shut so decisively - that I slowly curled my fingers around a leather bridle. I was riding in the saddle, but Jimmy was going to ride me.
His fingers wandered farther across my tummy, and up to my ribs (ever so slowly) and then back down to my belt line, and back up across my tummy and ribs, and down again, and I started to breathe in and out to the rhythm of his touch. Why was he taking so long? I saw him staring out that crack of sunlight, examining the distant horses and riders, and I soon understood what was going to happen. The crowd was still quiet. The race had not yet started. I instinctively leaned forward, and saw the horses lining up at the gate, and when each horse stepped forward, and the gates closed behind him, Jimmy's fingers went just a little bit faster, and then another horse walked forward, and the gates shut behind him, and Jimmy's fingers went down the front of my thighs, and up the back of my thighs, and across my tummy and ribs, and I could only watch as the last two horses pranced in defiance. Oh, God, don't get in the gate. But as soon as that traitorous thought set in my mind, the first horse walked forward, and the gate closed behind him, and the last horse pranced just a little, before the groom tugged on his bridle, and he took a step, and another step, closer to the gate.
Jimmy pulled my back now. He had a riding crop in his hand. It was a whip, let's be honest. It was a whip: with a ribbon of leather curled in a loop at one end, and a rigid leather handle on the other. Jimmy held me closer with his left arm, while he reached his right hand forward, and tenderly unzipped my blue jeans. He nudged them apart, and pulled me back just a little more, and then he flipped that phallic riding crop so the rigid handle rested against my white cotton panties. He rubbed them just a little farther down. The tip nestled under the bottom of my zipper. Like a baseball player would say, he found my sweet spot.
I heard a bell clang in the distance. The crowd shouted, and I knew the race had started, but before I could say a word, Jimmy raked his fingers over my tummy, faster and faster with each pass, and I gasped and gulped and giggled, and as I wriggled in the saddle that riding crop rubbed against my helpless panties, with my crooked legs kept it in place. He pulled me back another inch, and lifted my shirt up higher, and each finger passed over more and more of my naked tummy, and somewhere in the distance those horses glided over the track, and made their first turn, and made their second turn, and with each passing second Jimmy lifted my shirt higher and higher, and attacked more of my exposed tummy and ribs, and now as the horses came down the backstretch he pulled my shirt over my bra (with the little pansies on it) and in a few seconds more he pulled up my bra. A cool breeze drifted through the crack in the wall, and sunlight poured over my naked breasts, and his fingers went higher and higher across my nipples and then down to my tummy again. The horses now rumbled closer to us - just on the other side of that old wooden wall - and I could hear them pounding and pounding like a cavalry unit on the charge, and I wiggled my hips back and forth across that saddle, as the riding crop dug deeper into my helpless panties. The crowd was roaring now, as the horses rumbled by us and on to the finish line, and Jimmy now held my so far back that my whole belly and ribs and titties were bathed in sunlight, and his fingers raced across my body, and that wonderful riding crop responded to each move of my hips like a jockey responds to his mount. And as the crowd grew continually louder, and the horses snorted and pounded and floated closer to the post, I leaned back with a gasp and a shudder, and I dug my feet into those stirrups and found my own, magnificent, finish line.
So we drove up to Baltimore, and fought for parking, and mingled in the increasing crowds of people walking up to the gates. I noticed that the women wore really nice dresses, and big summer hats, as you would see in Gigi, or My Fair Lady. I felt under dressed, and said so, but Jimmy merely said, "Never mind, your dressed perfectly."
We got through the gates and wandered through the crowd, and we sipped cokes and read the racing forms, but we never really walked closer to the seats. Jimmy took a look from afar, and he shook his head. "This won't do. Let's get something better." We drifted to a cement staircase, and down a flight, and down another, until we got to the another door. When we opened it, we walked down old wooden stairs, like they had been there a hundred years ago, and we clump clump clumped down them to the bottom, where a smaller crowd was shuffling through a wooden door, by a corner.
Jimmy took my hand. He led me into the crowd, and through the door, and soon we were in the stalls - I mean the paddock - whatever they call the place where the horses live. You could smell them. We walked on a dirt floor now, in a narrow corridor, as did so many others, and we reached the sunlight. There were a few horses to the left, and two more to the right, and they all had their own stalls. The crowd drifted further away, into full sunlight, and soon I saw the racehorses themselves: all decked out in individual colors, with trainers and grooms and jockeys, all walking away from us. The whole crowd followed to get a better look. Jimmy pulled me gently away from them.
"C'mon," he whispered. "I know I great spot to see them."
"But bu--'"
"Really, "he said. "It's the perfect view."
We walked past the wooden stairs again, and under them, and around a corner and another corner, past two stalls with stallions snorting and stamping their feet. We came to an empty stall now, right up against a wall with wooden planks that he not quite been put up properly. Sunlight peeked through each plank. We walked up to the wall, and Jimmy looked through the opening, and smiled.
"Look at this," he said.
I stood on tip toe, but the opening was just above my eyesight. He grabbed a wooden saw horse - like they have on construction sites - but this one had a saddle bolted right on it. Like it was a practice saddle. He plunked it right at the wall, and motioned to me, but when I hesitated, he smiled and said, "You ever been on a saddle? They're very comfortable."
So I climbed on. He reached down, and maneuvered my foot into the stirrup, and I instinctively put my other foot in the other stirrup. My legs were bent, and he was right - it was comfortable. He looked through the crack of sunlight again, and I leaned forward to see what was outside. I closed one eye. I saw the whole racetrack, with thousands of people in the stands, and a beautiful dirt track extending to the distance, and curving, and farther away I saw the horses and trainers and jockeys walking to the starting gate.
That's when I felt him sit behind me.
He put his hands on my waist, as if I was going to fall off, but my feet were snug in the stirrups, and my legs bent under me, and the broad saddle cradled my rear end. He shifted a few inches forward, so I had nowhere to
go.
"What are you doing?" I asked
"It's alright," he said. "I know what you like."
"Wh-what?"
"I typed your name on the internet...."
I gulped. Could he know?
"Not many girls named maryallison."
Please....please...
"I didn't know what "TMF" stood for, until I clicked on the link and found your stories...."
Oh, God. He read my stories.
His fingers moved a bit closer now, just over my jeans to my shirt. An ordinary shirt. I thought it looked Western. His fingers rested softly against my tummy. He stroked one finger.
I gasped, and I heard a noise behind us. Oh, yes. Someone was coming, and he would have to let me go. But the sound was a clump, and another clump, and clump clump clump as the crowd we had seen now walked up that wooden staircase. I heard each terrible step go higher and higher, and, when the door swung open one last time and shut - it shut so decisively - that I slowly curled my fingers around a leather bridle. I was riding in the saddle, but Jimmy was going to ride me.
His fingers wandered farther across my tummy, and up to my ribs (ever so slowly) and then back down to my belt line, and back up across my tummy and ribs, and down again, and I started to breathe in and out to the rhythm of his touch. Why was he taking so long? I saw him staring out that crack of sunlight, examining the distant horses and riders, and I soon understood what was going to happen. The crowd was still quiet. The race had not yet started. I instinctively leaned forward, and saw the horses lining up at the gate, and when each horse stepped forward, and the gates closed behind him, Jimmy's fingers went just a little bit faster, and then another horse walked forward, and the gates shut behind him, and Jimmy's fingers went down the front of my thighs, and up the back of my thighs, and across my tummy and ribs, and I could only watch as the last two horses pranced in defiance. Oh, God, don't get in the gate. But as soon as that traitorous thought set in my mind, the first horse walked forward, and the gate closed behind him, and the last horse pranced just a little, before the groom tugged on his bridle, and he took a step, and another step, closer to the gate.
Jimmy pulled my back now. He had a riding crop in his hand. It was a whip, let's be honest. It was a whip: with a ribbon of leather curled in a loop at one end, and a rigid leather handle on the other. Jimmy held me closer with his left arm, while he reached his right hand forward, and tenderly unzipped my blue jeans. He nudged them apart, and pulled me back just a little more, and then he flipped that phallic riding crop so the rigid handle rested against my white cotton panties. He rubbed them just a little farther down. The tip nestled under the bottom of my zipper. Like a baseball player would say, he found my sweet spot.
I heard a bell clang in the distance. The crowd shouted, and I knew the race had started, but before I could say a word, Jimmy raked his fingers over my tummy, faster and faster with each pass, and I gasped and gulped and giggled, and as I wriggled in the saddle that riding crop rubbed against my helpless panties, with my crooked legs kept it in place. He pulled me back another inch, and lifted my shirt up higher, and each finger passed over more and more of my naked tummy, and somewhere in the distance those horses glided over the track, and made their first turn, and made their second turn, and with each passing second Jimmy lifted my shirt higher and higher, and attacked more of my exposed tummy and ribs, and now as the horses came down the backstretch he pulled my shirt over my bra (with the little pansies on it) and in a few seconds more he pulled up my bra. A cool breeze drifted through the crack in the wall, and sunlight poured over my naked breasts, and his fingers went higher and higher across my nipples and then down to my tummy again. The horses now rumbled closer to us - just on the other side of that old wooden wall - and I could hear them pounding and pounding like a cavalry unit on the charge, and I wiggled my hips back and forth across that saddle, as the riding crop dug deeper into my helpless panties. The crowd was roaring now, as the horses rumbled by us and on to the finish line, and Jimmy now held my so far back that my whole belly and ribs and titties were bathed in sunlight, and his fingers raced across my body, and that wonderful riding crop responded to each move of my hips like a jockey responds to his mount. And as the crowd grew continually louder, and the horses snorted and pounded and floated closer to the post, I leaned back with a gasp and a shudder, and I dug my feet into those stirrups and found my own, magnificent, finish line.
