Chapter 10: Riding
The terrace stones held the day’s heat against her bare thighs. Izzy turned a page, the prose of The Sicilian dense and bloody in her hands, a world away from the citrus-scented dusk settling over the villa.
“Isabella.”
She knew his voice before she looked up. Marco stood a few feet away, a silhouette against the molten sky. He was dressed simply in dark trousers and a white linen shirt, open at the neck. In his hands were a pair of tall, supple-looking leather riding boots.
“Do you ride?” he asked, his tone conversational, as if inquiring whether she took sugar in her tea.
Izzy marked her page and closed the book. “Yes. Of course.” She had lessons as a girl in the Home Counties, weekends hacking through damp pine woods. It felt like a lifetime ago.
“Good.” He came forward and placed the boots on the tiles beside her lounger. “Put these on.”
She swung her legs over and pulled on the boots. The leather was cool and smooth, moulding to her calves with a soft sigh. She stood, feeling oddly formal from the waist down, completely exposed from the waist up. Marco offered no other clothing. He simply turned and began to walk towards a gravel path that led around the side of the villa.
She followed, the crunch of her boots loud in the quiet evening. The path wound past manicured hedges, through an arch heavy with jasmine. They passed two gardeners bundling up cuttings. Their eyes flicked to her—to her bare breasts, the triangle of auburn hair between her legs—and then to Marco’s back. There was no leering, no shock. Instead, their gazes held a calm, almost respectful assessment, as if her nudity were a natural fact, approved by the master of the house. Which, she supposed, it was.
The stables were a long, low stone building, sweet with the smell of hay, leather, and warm animal. A young stable hand, no more than eighteen, looked up from brushing a gleaming bay. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he dropped his gaze to his boots. “Maestro.”
“Bruno. The grey for Signora Silva, and Nero for me.”
Bruno nodded and hurried into the shadowy interior.
Marco turned to her. “The horse is a Spanish Andalusian. His name is Fantasma. He is sensitive to the leg, but gentle. You will be safe.”
Bruno emerged leading two magnificent horses. Fantasma was a dappled grey, his coat like polished silver, muscles rippling beneath. Nero was a towering black, imperious. They were already saddled. The tack was simple, elegant, well-oiled leather.
Without a word, Marco took Fantasma’s reins and led him to a mounting block. Izzy stepped up, the smooth wood cool under her bare soles. She swung her leg over the saddle, the action feeling both alien and familiar. As she settled, the full reality of her position hit her. The smooth, cold leather of the saddle cradled her bare sex. The high pommel and cantle meant her thighs were spread wide, the lips of her cunt parted firmly by the saddle’s shape. Every shift of the horse beneath her would be transmitted directly, intimately.
Marco mounted Nero with effortless grace. He clicked his tongue and they walked out of the stable yard onto a wide path that traced the vineyard’s edge. The pace was a slow, deliberate walk. The horses’ hooves made a soft, rhythmic percussion on the dusty earth.
For a while, they rode in silence. The sunset painted the world in bruised hues of purple and orange. Izzy focused on the feeling: the powerful movement of the horse between her thighs, the cool evening air on her skin, the insistent pressure of the saddle against her most sensitive flesh. It was not overtly sexual, but it was profoundly sensual. She was hyper-aware of her own body.
“Tell me about your day,” Marco said, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. “From the beginning.”
She took a breath. The rhythm of the walk, the growing darkness, his calm presence—it loosened her tongue. “I woke late. Had coffee by the pool. I was… thinking. About how I’ve lived my life. All the rules.”
“Go on.”
“Then Leo and Alessandro found me. They… we talked. They asked me to surrender to the day. To them. I did.” She described the pool, the way they had touched her, the slow dismantling of her inhibitions. She told him about Luca, the gardener, the startling simplicity of it. She spoke of Grazia’s kindness afterwards, the deep sleep, and waking to find Alessandro inside her, Leo waiting. She recounted the fierce pleasure, the shocking aftermath of tears, their comfort.
She held nothing back. The words flowed, detailed, unfiltered. The fucking, the sucking, the feeling of being used and cherished in the same breath. As she spoke, a low, steady warmth grew between her legs, fuelled by the memory and amplified by the gentle, relentless rocking of the saddle.
Marco listened without interruption, his profile impassive in the fading light.
“And how do you feel now?” he asked when she finished. “Sitting here, like this?”
Izzy considered. Fantasma’s broad back moved beneath her, the saddle leather rubbing her with each step. A familiar, delicious tension was coiling in her belly. “I feel… alive. In my skin. Like every nerve is on the outside. And…” she hesitated, then pushed on, “aroused. The saddle… it’s constant.”
“Good,” he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “You are learning to integrate sensation. It is not something that happens in a bed, then is forgotten. It lives in you. It colours everything. Your body is remembering its own capacity for pleasure, and it is hungry.”
They rode on, the vineyard giving way to a grove of ancient olive trees, their gnarled limbs twisted like sculpture. The light was almost gone.
“You mentioned rules,” Marco said. “What is the primary rule you feel you have broken today?”
Izzy didn’t need to think. “Ownership. The idea that my body, its… its experiences, belong exclusively to one person. To a relationship.”
“And what does it belong to now?”
“To me,” she said, the truth of it resonating deep in her chest. “And to the moment. To whatever I choose.”
Marco brought Nero to a halt, and she followed suit. They had reached a small clearing overlooking the darkening valley. The first stars pricked the sky. He dismounted with a soft grunt, then came to her side. He placed a warm, strong hand on her boot.
“Do you feel corrupted?” he asked, his gaze searching her face in the twilight.
“No.”
“Dirty?”
“No.”
“Used?”
She thought of Leo’s and Alessandro’s hands on her, their mouths, their cocks. She thought of Grazia’s embrace, Luca’s frantic need. “Yes. But… it’s a good feeling. A full feeling. Like I’ve been… populated.”
A slow smile spread across Marco’s face. It was the first full, unguarded smile she had seen from him. It transformed him, making him younger, almost boyish. “A perfect word. ‘Populated.’ You have allowed life in. Real, visceral, human life. Not the curated fantasy of your London world.”
He reached up, his hands settling on her waist. “Come down.”
She swung her leg over and slid down into his arms. He held her for a moment, her back against his chest, his warmth enveloping her. Then he turned her to face him. In the near-darkness, his eyes were black pools.
“The ride back will be faster,” he murmured, his breath warm against her lips. “The friction will be more intense. I want you to focus on it. Let it build. When we return to the stables, I want to see your cunt wet from the saddle. I want to smell your excitement on the leather. Do you understand?”
A sharp pulse of lust shot through her, hot and liquid. “Yes.”
He helped her remount, his hands lingering on her thigh, a possessive stroke. Then he mounted Nero and nudged him into a brisk trot.
Fantasma followed suit. The change was immediate and electric. The gentle rocking became a sharp, jolting rhythm. The high cantle of the saddle slapped against her arse with each beat, while the pommel rubbed firmly, perfectly against her clit. The spread of her thighs was wider now, the pressure unbearable and exquisite.
She gasped, gripping the reins tighter. She couldn’t control the sensations; she could only ride them. The trot was a brutal, glorious percussion on her sex. Every jolt sent a shockwave of pleasure through her core. She could feel herself growing slick, her juices coating the leather, just as Marco had wanted.
He glanced back at her, his face a pale mask in the starlight. “Faster?” he called.
Before she could answer, he urged Nero into a canter.
Fantasma surged forward to keep pace. The canter was smoother but deeper, a rolling, grinding motion that drove the saddle against her in a relentless, circular rhythm. It was too much. It was everything. Her head fell back, a moan torn from her throat as she surrendered to the motion, to the horse’s power, to the building, uncontrollable climax tightening like a fist in her belly.
She came suddenly, violently, her body seizing around nothing, her cunt clenching and pulsing as the orgasm ripped through her. A ragged cry escaped her, lost in the drumming of hooves. She slumped forward, clutching Fantasma’s mane, trembling as the waves subsided.
By the time they clattered into the stable yard, she was breathless, spent, her inner thighs slippery. Bruno was waiting. Marco dismounted and came to her, his hands on her waist as she slid down, her legs almost buckling. He held her upright, his gaze burning into her.
“Bruno will see to the horses,” he said, his voice low and rough. He didn’t look away from her. “Come.”
He took her hand and led her, stumbling slightly, back towards the villa. Not to her room, but to his. It was a larger, sparser chamber, dominated by a huge bed and a wall of books. A single lamp cast a golden glow.
He closed the door and turned to her. Without a word, he guided her to the bed and sat her on the edge. He knelt before her, his hands on her boots. He peeled them off, one then the other, dropping them to the floor with soft thuds. Then he gently pushed her knees apart.
The cool air of the room washed over her wet, exposed flesh. Marco leaned forward, his face inches from her cunt. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing for a moment. When they opened, they gleamed with a dark hunger.
“Just as I said,” he whispered. “The scent is all over you. Leather and sweat and your beautiful, filthy cunt.”
He didn’t touch her with his hands. Instead, he leaned in closer and ran his tongue, slow and flat, right up her soaked slit.
Izzy jolted, a sharp gasp bursting from her lips. It was an act of raw, primal possession. He licked her again, deeper this time, his tongue probing, tasting her, lapping up the evidence of her ride. He made a sound of deep appreciation in his throat.
“This,” he said, his voice muffled against her flesh, “is the taste of your freedom, Isabella. Savour it.”
He feasted on her then, not with delicate flicks, but with the focused, thorough intensity of a man claiming his territory. His tongue circled her clit, pushed inside her, painted her with her own wetness. He growled, “You are soaked. The saddle fucked you as well as any man.”
The crude words, combined with the ruthless expertise of his mouth, sent her spiralling towards another peak. Her hands fisted in his dark hair, not pushing him away, but holding him there, anchoring herself as the world narrowed to the relentless pull of his tongue and lips.
When her second orgasm shuddered through her, he drank down her release, his hands gripping her thighs to keep her from buckling. As she came down, panting, he finally pulled back. His lips glistened in the lamplight.
He stood, looking down at her wrecked, quivering form. He began to undo his trousers.
“Your education continues,” he said, his cock springing free, thick and already fully erect. “Tonight, you learn the difference between being taken by boys, and being claimed by a man.”