Riding a rocking horse
by Robyn Jones
Readers of Asa’s blog will be well aware of the little rocking horse, called Neddy, he often gets his models to ride whilst they are caned or cropped to urge them on to gallop and ultimately pleasure themselves. Rocking horses feature a lot in erotic spanking literature and sometimes in modern fetish photography, as in the image below.
For a woman sitting astride a rocking horse grinding her pussy hard into a leather saddle whilst having her buttocks well-whipped can be a truly wonderful experience. Try it sometime if you have access to a rocking horse and you’ll see what I mean!
Anyway, here is an extract from the classic erotic Victorian novel, ‘Beatrice’, which features a young lady (anout 25 years of age) being spanked on an old rocking horse in the attic:
One of Paula Russell’s illustrations for a new edition of the book
‘No one had ever seen me go to the attic with Father. It was our game, our secret. Our purity. In the attic were old trunks, occasional tables my mother had discarded or replaced, vases she disliked, faded flowers of silk. Pieces of unfinished tapestry lay over the backs of two chairs. Sunlight filtered through a dust-hazed window. We entered by the ladder and stood. In the far corner near the dormer window stood the rocking horse, grey and mottled. Benign and handsome—polished in its varnished paint—it brooded upon the tong gone days. Dead bees lay on the sill. In my kindness I was unhappy for them. Father’s hand held mine still. He led me forward. My knees touched the brocaded cloth of an armchair whose seat had sagged. Upon it lay a mirror and a brush, both backed with tortoiseshell. They were as I had used of old up here. Father turned his back to me and gazed out through the glass upon the tops of the elms.
A trembling arose in me which I stilled. With slow care I removed my dress, my underskirt, and laid them on the chair. Beneath I wore but a white batiste chemise with white drawers whose pink ribbons adorned the pale of my thighs. My silk brown stockings glistened. I waited. Father turned. He regarded me gravely and moved towards me.
“You have grown. Even in three years you have grown,” he said. “Where shall you ride to?”
I laughed. “To Jericho,” I replied. I had always said that though I did not know where it was. Nodding, his hand sought the brush. I held the mirror. With long firm strokes of the bristles Father glossed and straightened my hair. Its weight lay across my shoulders, in its lightness. Its Boldness shone and he was pleased.
“It is good,” Father said, “the weather is fair for the journey. My lady will mount?”
We stepped forward. He held the horse’s reins to keep it still. Once there had been a time when my legs could hold almost straight upon the horse.
Now that I was grown more I had to bend my knees too much. My bottom slid back over the rear of the saddle and projected beyond the smooth grey haunches. Father moved behind me and began to rock the horse with one hand. With the other he smacked my outstretched bottom gently.
“My beautiful pumpkin—it is larger now,” he murmured. My shoulders sagged. In the uprising of my bottom I pressed my face against the strong curved neck of the horse. It rocked faster. I clung as I had always clung. The old’ planked floor swayed and dipped beneath me. His palm smacked first one cheek and then the other.
“Oh! no more!” I gasped. All was repetition.
“It is far to Jericho,” my father laughed. I could feel his happiness in my head. The cheeks of my bottom burned and stung. My knees trembled. The bars of the stirrups held tight under the soles of my boots.
“No more, father!” I begged. His hand smacked on. I could feel the impress of his fingers on my moons.
“Two miles—you are soon there. What will you do when you arrive?”
“I shall have handmaidens. They will bathe and perfume me. Naked I shall lie on a silken couch. Sweatmeats will be brought. Slaves shall bring me wine. There shall be water ices.” I remembered all the words. I had made them up in my dreams and brought them out into the daylight.
“I may visit you and share your wine?” Father asked. His hand fell in a last resounding smack. I gasped out yes. I fell sideways and he caught me. He lifted me until my heels unhooked from the stirrups. I sagged against him. My nether cheeks flared. In the pressure of our embrace my breasts rose in their milky fullness above the lace of my chemise. My nipples showed. I clenched my bottom cheeks and hid my face against his chest.
“It was good. I should bring the whip to you henceforth,” Father murmured. The words were new. They were not part of our play. Beneath my vision I could see my nipples, the brown buds risen. Had I forgotten the words? Perhaps we had rehearsed them once. In their smallness they lay scattered in the dust. Dried flecks of spokenness.
“It would hurt,” I said.
“No, it is small. Stand still.” I did not know what to do with my hands. He was gone to the far corner of the attic and returned. In his hands was a soft leather case. He opened it. There was a whip. The handle was carved in ebony, the end bulbous. There were carvings as of veins along the stem. From the other end exuded strands of leather. I judged them not more than twenty-five inches long. The tapered ends were loosely knotted.
“Soon, perhaps. Lay it for now beneath your pillow, Beatrice.”
So saying he cast aside the case and I took the whip. At the knob end was a silky smoothness. The thongs hung down by my thigh. A tendon stood out on my neck in my blushing. Father traced it with his finger, making me wriggle with the tickling. Broad trails of heat stirred in my bottom still. I could hear his watch ticking. The handle of the whip felt warm as if it had never ceased being touched. I moved away from him. The thongs swung, caressing the sheen of my stockings. Father assisted me in the replacing of my dress. His hands nurtured its close fitting, smoothing it about my hips and bottom. His eyes grew clouded. I stirred fretfully. My hair was brushed and burnished anew. Father’s mouth descended upon mine. His fingers shaped the slim curve of my neck.
“It was good, Beatrice. You are grown for it—riper, fuller. The smacks did not hurt?”
I shook my head, but then smiled and said “A little.” We both laughed. In the past there had been wine afterwards, drawn from a cooling box that he had placed beforehand in the attic. Now we had drunk before and it moved within us. His fingers charmed the outcurve of my bottom—its glossy roundness tight beneath my drawers. We kissed and spoke of small things. I would never come to the attic again, I thought. In the subtle seeking of our fingers there were memories. At last we descended. Father took the ladder first. Halfway down he stopped and guided my feet in my backwards descent. His hands slid up beneath my skirt to guide me.
The attic! They had made a replica of it! Except for the dormer window—but it did not matter. The door closed—a heavy click—we were alone. My uncle’s arm encircled my shoulder. I could not speak. Let me speak. “The horse is the same. Only the horse, Beatrice.” It was true. Trunks, boxes, broken pieces of furniture, old vases—all lay as they might have lain in our house. His hand stroked my back, warm through my gown. “Go to the horse, Beatrice.” I moved, walked, threading my way among the tumbled things—the love things, the loved things. The horse was large, bright, new. The stirrups gleamed, the saddle and the reins shone. The mottled, dappled grey was the same. I stroked the mane. On my own horse the mane was worn and thin where I had too often grasped it, but here it was new and thick. The leather smelled of new leather. Heady. For a last moment I turned and looked towards the closed door.
I waited, humbled in my waiting……Hands at my back. I did not stir. My uncle unbuttoned. The sides of my gown fell from my shoulders. The material dragged to my waist and heaped. I stood still. His hands savoured the outswell of my bottom, raising the skirt. My drawers were bared. A lusciousness of thighs. I fancy myself upon the silkiness of my skin. “Mount,” my uncle said. I raised my leg. The skirt slip-slithered down again, enfolding my legs. As if tired my leg fell again. “Remove your dress,” he breathed. I wanted blindness but found none. The oil lamps, ranged around the room, flickered. Small messages of lambent light. My hair ruffled as I stripped off my gown. There was no one to brush it. My underskirt fell to my ankles. I stepped out of it as out of foam.
Cupping my bottom as I toed the stirrup, my uncle assisted me in my rising. He knew not of Jericho. There were secrets still. The horse jolted, moving as if on springs rocking. The movement was smooth as velvet, soundless. I clung to the neck. My brazen bottom reared, my pumpkin warm.
“Ah!” I gasped at the first smack, and the next. There was a sweetness in the stinging I had known before. Because of my excitement perhaps. Was I excited? My hips squirmed to his palming smacks, my back dipped. I clung, I squeezed the cheeks, I squealed. Would Caroline hear? Under the deep lush grass would Caroline hear? At the tenth smack—lifted down—foundered, falling, grasped in his strong grasp. Words tumbled, spun like pellets in a drum. Words polished in their spinnings. Hands clasped my bulging cheeks. I blushed, I hid my face. His fingers drew the cheeks apart beneath my drawers. I strove to be still as Father so oft had taught me. My heels teetered. Then I managed it.
“So,” my uncle said. He was satisfied. I closed my eyes, pretending myself in the attic. I was happy. The stinging in my bottom had made tears glint in my eyes. “You are older now, Beatrice—it is better”…….
“Shall you be whipped?” he asked. My eyes were mirrors. They encompassed the world. I stared at him in my staring.……“Lift your hips,” my uncle said. My heels dug into the carpet. For a moment I lay mutinous. Then my knees bent, bottom lifted. I was arched. His fingers sought the ties of my drawers, the pretty ribbons. Loosing they surrendered. Closing my eyes I felt my drawers being removed. The whorl of my navel showed. The impress of a baby’s finger dipped in cream. Curls glinted at my pubis. Then there was a sound. The door had opened and a young woman stood there in a severe black costume. The toes of her black boots shone. It was Jenny…. ‘
Robyn