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28 Şubat 2024, 22:12
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First things first?I'm going to start using the bio page to communicate what I consider untimely delays in the next chapter, so look there if it seems like it's been a while since anything new has appeared. I've also toyed with the idea of a blog; let me know if that is of interest to anybody.
As always, thank you for the comments and feedback. I'm truly flattered that there are those who wish for longer chapters that come more quickly, but as several commenters pointed out?longer chapters mean longer waits, and publishing more quickly means I have less time to ensure my efforts are not more substandard than usual. It's important to remember that I do this for fun rather than as a job (I'll quit when it becomes work), and it is usually done in airports and hotel rooms. If I'm not traveling, my writing slows down. On the other hand, in the grand scheme of things I have to believe it is one of the longer stories on the site, just delivered in smaller pieces, so there's that...
Standard disclaimers.
This is a story about sexual exploration and, open relationships. Open relationships can and do happily exist; but they are not for everyone. If you do not believe it is at all possible for open relationships to exist without damage to any and all involved parties, please do yourself a favor and don't waste your time reading this.
.
Also, this story takes place in a world where STDs don't exist and only babies planned for and wanted do?in other words, a fantasy world. Any resemblance to real-life people is purely coincidental.
Dinner was served poolside as shadows crept across the grotto, Michelle appearing from time to time to serve the multiple courses and refresh their drinks. The smells and tastes of the various plates being brought to the table temporarily refreshed the hunger Gwen's excited nervousness had suppressed, and she made a point of at least sampling everything that was put before her and Tim.
It wasn't the traditional case of nerves that was causing her distress, she was forced to admit; it was the fear that had been growing since she had accepted this crazy dare and was now reaching a fever pitch. She had known the unique feel of this special kind of fear ever since childhood, the misery it brought tempering her joy of riding competitively. It was the fear of failure, of embarrassing herself and her family in one of a hundred ways, of being found out as a fraud. It was Miss Ritter who had expertly manipulated the fear to teach her student the concentration and focus necessary for the single minded pursuit of a goal, of ignoring all mental, physical and emotional distraction to achieve it. Her mentor had made skilled use of it both as a tool and a weapon, and Gwen had admitted to herself long ago the methods had been effective and necessary as a means to a greater end and really not so bad as the Lady had wanted her to believe. It would be nice to have someone like Miss Ritter at the moment, to tell her exactly what her goal for tomorrow was and force her to focus on it... Gwen stared across the pool and thought about that time in her life before Tim.
"Concentrate, foolish girl!"
She was again standing in the living room of Miss Ritter's apartment, naked, as had become customary when she was summoned. This night was not about tending to her instructor's physical demands, though?tonight she was there to commit her mentor's very specific instructions for an upcoming competition to memory, to practice the sequence in her mind, to visualize every last action, right down to strength of a gentle nudge of her boot against the horse's flank at just the right moment. Gwen stood in a predesignated spot in the center of the wood floor, eyes closed and turning in place while her hands twitched imaginary reins with the deftness needed to guide a well-trained horse through a series of intricate maneuvers. Of course The apartment's resident was there too, circling her, occasionally demanding to know exactly where her charge was in the performance and what she needed to be aware of at that moment.
Her instructor provided distraction as well, plenty of it, trying to break the girl's concentration, dropping a book or pan, letting out sighs of disgust or muttering threats of returning the girl to where she had come from, just another stable hand shoveling horse shit. Gwen was not to open her eyes and check for the source of the noise or open her mouth and ask for Miss Ritter's forgiveness but to continue to work the horse in her mind. There were other methods used to break the student's focus as well, like the occasional knock on the door. Gwen had opened her eyes in surprise the first time, afraid the knock would be answered and reveal the naked girl inside, but quickly saw her instructor standing by the doorway, an annoyed look on her face and knuckles poised to rap again. "Stupid girl, are you afraid someone might see you like this? Does it matter? What they think of you has no effect on your performance. Or is it you wish them to see? Do you wish to become the object of their self-pleasure, or help them satisfy their lust? Your obvious urge to rut must be subdued and put away until I decide your focus is no longer required. Perhaps you should practice your routine out in the barn where you can be certain you kuşadası escort (https://kusadasiescortu.com/) would be seen? Would that be better?" Gwen hoped it was just a threat but knew better than to answer, instead closing her eyes and desperately trying to remember where she had left off, hoping Miss Ritter took this as a sufficient admission of wrongdoing. To her relief it was, at least that night, but the distraction soon became a favorite of hers, even pretending to open the door for a visitor. At least she hoped she had been pretending. She never actually heard or felt another other person in the room, but Miss Ritter spoke as though there were, speaking in the third person of the naked girl in the middle of visualizing a canter. The Slut was not the persuasive voice she was now, but she still saw great excitement in the possibility of being exposed like that, unable to do anything about it. For all she knew, her voyeur?or voyeurs, there might have been more than one?would be someone she associated with every day, maybe even Clint. The old man always seemed to be mentally undressing her, anyways.
She had sometimes imagined in moments of weakness that he or the others had secretly been watching the night Miss Ritter had grown exasperated with her student's progress and made good her threat, making her practice the routine naked and on horseback in the riding ring below the apartment. The Lady made concentrating even more difficult than usual, screaming long and loud of the dangers of being caught despite the doors she knew to be locked at this late hour. Gwen did everything she could do to avoid displeasing her mentor any further?she had not wanted to imagine the consequences of that. To her great relief she was finally released to find her clothes and bed down her horse with a simple wave of the hand and a "I trust that in the future this will serve to remind you how much easier it is to concentrate in a more private setting."
There were other means of testing her focus, ones of a more physical nature. Less than perfect posture was corrected with a firm push of an ever-present riding crop against her student's lower back, although it sometimes landed with a light slap under her breasts and was levered up for the same effect. . Her nipples were a favorite target of her mentor, flicking and circling them with the tip of the crop, looking for a flinch, hesitation or even change of breathing from her student. Or the crop might slide between her legs, occasionally from the front although Miss Ritter seemed to prefer inserting from the rear. It was then drawn back with agonizing slowness, whether to just tease or threaten further punishment Gwen could never tell, but she always hurried to correct whatever she guessed was the perceived imperfection. The polished leather knob would occasionally find its way between her buttocks to threaten her rosebud, as well...
It was the command to kneel that Gwen anticipated and dreaded the most. She would do so with legs spread as if astride her mount, and while all of the normal distractions were fair game a vibrator would also be propped just a fraction of an inch from her exposed clit. The device would buzz maddeningly, taunting her while she visualized her routine and described it to Miss Ritter. Any relaxation of her pose risked contact with the device, and whether incidental or intentional the craved physical sensation would weaken her concentration and would always be followed by a sharp rebuke and the slap of the riding crop against her buttocks.
During these more intense periods of preparation it was clear that the only pleasure she would be allowed would be in the pleasure of the training itself until Miss Ritter was satisfied that the specific goal she had set for her student had been reached. Gwen would then be permitted to celebrate her achievement, to let her happiness and pride come to the surface for a short time once she was out of the public eye before being given the next goal she would be working towards. Just as importantly to the young woman, she would also be allowed a release from the physical need that had been building as part of the celebration, a sort of reset before the task ahead. Even on these occasions Miss Ritter would be taken care of first, Gwen's effort to please the older woman only making the wait worse for what she hoped would be given her. If her mentor had found her effort 'satisfactory' she would be instructed to give in to her physical weakness while Miss Ritter observed, even then assuring her student's orgasm was an exercise in control. When she had been found 'more than satisfactory', her instructor would perform the deed, cold and clinical in her efforts. Still, Gwen truly felt most honored when her climaxes came via Miss Ritter's hand. The orgasms themselves had been wonderful, mostly free from the normal stigmas of shame and guilt because she could tell herself she "had no choice", but they was also the surest sign her efforts had exceeded expectations.
After her marriage Gwen had done her best to make use of the skills Miss Ritter had taught her, but in the absence of a strong figure to set the goal and enforce her efforts to achieve it, it was not the same. She couldn't bring herself to admit that her instructor's methods had made use of her sexual arousal both as a distraction and eventual reward; her own self-imposed abstinence during preparations for a competitive event was little different than her normal abstinence and anything she might reward herself after the event was certainly not worth the guilt and shame that would come with it. Her performances were still certainly good, among the best wherever she rode, but the fear of being found wanting eventually outweighed the pleasure and she turned to her daughters' efforts. Gwen employed some but certainly not all of her mentor's methods and was thankful Tim was there to tactfully remind her she was training little girls and not world-class competitors.
It would have been nice to have someone like Miss Ritter in preparing for this weekend, she mused, but who? Certainly not Cricket, although she found the idea of ceding control to someone so young intriguing; Tim might possess the ability to impose his will on her but seemed unwilling to do so. Natalie might be more inclined but she doubted that her sister-in-law could keep a straight face while doing so. Gwen sensed that Liz had the right combination of serious purpose and questionable methods to bend someone to her will, and the Slut liked the idea of finding out, but she lacked the encyclopedic knowledge of horsemanship that her former employer did. And even now she would know as much as Gwen did about what was to be required.
She had actually called Mrs. Danning's assistant the week before, hoping she would be put in touch with the young photographer to get a better sense of his expectations, but all she was given was a message from Danilo telling her she would just "need to be herself and do what she always did." Gwen had no idea what that even meant; without knowing she could not put a sense of order to it, could not script the routine that she and Dart would perform for the camera that would serve as her judge and audience, and without that mental map the risk of failing was very real?and very frightening.
The dessert plates were being cleared when Danilo Castigalli made his appearance, Morris Barofsky with him as well, along with a middle-aged woman whom the photographer introduced as Rose, his makeup artist and hairstylist. The young photographer gently grabbed Gwen's shoulders and kissed one of her cheeks then the other while the elderly tailor took her hand and gallantly kissed the back of it.
"You look great," Danilo pronounced with a grin. "Wow?your hair grows fast. Love how long it got."
"Oh?umm, thanks. Longer than I'm used to..." Wait until he sees the rest of it, the Slut laughed. That grew pretty fast too. Good thing it was cut so short to begin with.
How are you feeling?"
Gwen gave an apologetic smile. "Nervous?"
"Tell you the truth, so am I, a little bit," Danilo said, returning the smile. "But really excited to see what we can come up with!" Gwen chose not to confess her own underlying excitement or the reason for it. "I don't want to waste your time, or Mr. Barofsky's," he continued, the tailor giving a shrug to indicate he really didn't mind, "so I was hoping we could get you to try on your wardrobe so he can make any last-minute adjustments before they're needed tomorrow. Okay if we do that, then you can get back to your peace and quiet?"
"Of course. We have nowhere else to be tonight, anyways." She glanced at Tim as if for confirmation, his turn to shrug in response.
"Great! I believe we left the things you need to try on in the living room?"
Morris gestured back into the house. "If you would, dear lady. I'm anxious to see how close I came to everyone's expectations."
She allowed herself to be led back into the living room. The tailor quickly unzipped the first bag, removing what appeared to be jeans and a white t-shirt, eying the garments critically for a moment before handing them to Gwen. She took them and looked back expectantly at the old man, waiting for something more to be retrieved. This couldn't be it...this is what she wore to muck stalls at home. "I was asked for something...basic," he explained, as if reading her mind.
Gwen smiled and turned for the privacy of the bedroom. "Uhh, they are tailored to be worn without undergarments," Mr. Barofsky gently reminded her. She nodded without looking back and closed the door partway behind her. She stood naked a moment later, exhaling sharply to steady her nerves, and slid the shirt over her head. It was clean but didn't feel fresh out-of-the-package new, the fabric soft and broken in rather than crisp. The fit was snug, much tighter than she normally wore for chores. Her upper body was sharply defined beneath the cloth, hiding nothing about the flatness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her waist, or the size and shape of her breasts. The jeans were also clean but well-worn and exhibited the same fit as the shirt, molding to her rear and threatening to do the same to her crotch and outline of her sex. Cowboy lingerie, Gwen thought to herself with a wry smile as she examined her reflection in the mirror, noting the dark circles of her areolae just visible beneath the white fabric.
Danilo looked pleased when she rejoined them in the living room, Mr. Barofksy equal parts pleased and relieved. Tim had the look he got when he was having impure thoughts...
"Perfect!" the young photographer declared while the tailor hurried to her side.
"Not quite. As always, excuse the touch," Morris mumbled, not waiting for a reply as his fingers inserted themselves under the waistline of the jeans and wiggled. "Not too tight? I'm especially concerned about the inseam. They should not be uncomfortable down there."
"No, it's fine," Gwen answered truthfully. "The fabric seems to give a little more than the denim I'm used to."
"A little bit of stretch fabric in the right spot goes a long ways," the tailor said absentmindedly. "I gathered some trousers from second-hand shops, some of them quite stretchy, took them apart and used the best pieces to put them back together. The crotch is comfortable? I would never forgive myself if your delicate parts were treated poorly."
Gwen blushed a bit, suddenly focused on the rub of soft denim against her sex. "It feels fine," she replied with a smile.
He turned to the photographer. "But we should complete the outfit and see the rest, yes?" Gwen was quickly given a pair of boots to step into, cowboy style and unadorned, true working boots, scuffed and worn but well cared for. A black leather belt with a simple buckle was handed over as well, and finally a pair of finely crafted work gloves, the leather thin and supple, the kind that you might use with a two-hundred dollar manure fork. These were all added to the outfit, and she stood for inspection, turning a slow circle for Danilo's critical eye. She was asked to bend and squat as well, the jeans more flexible than she would have ever have thought and very aware of them pressing on and separating her labial lips.
"Perfect," Danilo finally repeated. "Very nicely done, Mr. Barofsky."
He shrugged. "Nothing, really." He reached into the bag and pulled out two more shirts, both seemingly identical to the one she wore. "I made several," he explained, "should one become soiled. I made other trousers, too. Perhaps you could try them on as well?"
Gwen gathered them and turned to retreat to the bedroom. "Forgive me for being so forward, but you might try them on here?" the old man asked, his voice soft and apologetic. "I would like to see if the clothes are leaving any marks on your skin that might tell me it is too restrictive. It would be quicker as well, and we would be on our way sooner, leaving you and your very patient husband more time to enjoy the evening...."
She thought to ask Tim his opinion, but there was little doubt in her mind what that was. The elderly man had seen her naked, Danilo too, had actually taken pictures of her like that, so...what the hell. She responded by sitting down to remove the boots, the young photographer hurrying to help her pull them off.
It didn't even occur to her that any sense of modesty she might have felt at one time over disrobing in front of a roomful of people was absent, replaced by a professional detachment and a warm glow of excitement. Fear intruded even here though, a fear that at this last minute they might find her body now lacked the necessary attributes and call the whole thing off. Gwen stood for the tailor while he examined her, even putting a foot on a nearby coffee table to allow him to look more closely for marks at the junction of her legs. She did notice Danilo and Rose with heads together in quiet conversation, apparently eying her critically as well, their inspection pausing between her legs, the photographer's undiscernible comment getting quick nods from the stylist. Three more shirts and three more pairs of jeans were put on and taken off in succession, each fitting the same way, each put through their paces with turns and movement.
Morris was reaching into the next garment bag even as Gwen was gently pulling the last t-shirt over her head. He delicately removed a white dress shirt on a hanger, a pair of white riding breeches hanging from it as well.
The shirt was reminiscent of ones worn in the many dressage events Gwen had competed in over the years, but there were marked differences. It was silk, for one, very sheer, and lacking a collar. It was also much tighter than anything she would have ever have worn then, , Gwen thought as she held her breath to button it up. Just like the t-shirt, the sheerness of the fabric did little to soften the lines of the torso and breasts beneath, and while the dark circles of her nipples were better hidden, their erect outline of was even more prominent. The jodhpurs followed form, more like exercise pants than proper ring wear, lacking the traditional leather seat. That would make sticking to the saddle more difficult, she thought with a grimace, not to mention making them even more form-fitting over her rear end. The old tailor had a hard time resisting the urge to reach in and smooth the lines of the shirttails trapped underneath the waistband, instead anxiously advising Gwen where to smooth out the slick fabric against her skin. A black riding coat was next, but this one was not designed to fasten as was tradition; the lapels were cut short enough to make that impossible and instead seemed to frame the rider's chest and stomach rather than obscure them. Black knee-length riding boots of extremely high quality, gleaming wickedly from the shine they had received, and white silk gloves completed the outfit. And this would be dressage judge lingerie, she decided.
First things first?I'm going to start using the bio page to communicate what I consider untimely delays in the next chapter, so look there if it seems like it's been a while since anything new has appeared. I've also toyed with the idea of a blog; let me know if that is of interest to anybody.
As always, thank you for the comments and feedback. I'm truly flattered that there are those who wish for longer chapters that come more quickly, but as several commenters pointed out?longer chapters mean longer waits, and publishing more quickly means I have less time to ensure my efforts are not more substandard than usual. It's important to remember that I do this for fun rather than as a job (I'll quit when it becomes work), and it is usually done in airports and hotel rooms. If I'm not traveling, my writing slows down. On the other hand, in the grand scheme of things I have to believe it is one of the longer stories on the site, just delivered in smaller pieces, so there's that...
Standard disclaimers.
This is a story about sexual exploration and, open relationships. Open relationships can and do happily exist; but they are not for everyone. If you do not believe it is at all possible for open relationships to exist without damage to any and all involved parties, please do yourself a favor and don't waste your time reading this.
.
Also, this story takes place in a world where STDs don't exist and only babies planned for and wanted do?in other words, a fantasy world. Any resemblance to real-life people is purely coincidental.
Dinner was served poolside as shadows crept across the grotto, Michelle appearing from time to time to serve the multiple courses and refresh their drinks. The smells and tastes of the various plates being brought to the table temporarily refreshed the hunger Gwen's excited nervousness had suppressed, and she made a point of at least sampling everything that was put before her and Tim.
It wasn't the traditional case of nerves that was causing her distress, she was forced to admit; it was the fear that had been growing since she had accepted this crazy dare and was now reaching a fever pitch. She had known the unique feel of this special kind of fear ever since childhood, the misery it brought tempering her joy of riding competitively. It was the fear of failure, of embarrassing herself and her family in one of a hundred ways, of being found out as a fraud. It was Miss Ritter who had expertly manipulated the fear to teach her student the concentration and focus necessary for the single minded pursuit of a goal, of ignoring all mental, physical and emotional distraction to achieve it. Her mentor had made skilled use of it both as a tool and a weapon, and Gwen had admitted to herself long ago the methods had been effective and necessary as a means to a greater end and really not so bad as the Lady had wanted her to believe. It would be nice to have someone like Miss Ritter at the moment, to tell her exactly what her goal for tomorrow was and force her to focus on it... Gwen stared across the pool and thought about that time in her life before Tim.
"Concentrate, foolish girl!"
She was again standing in the living room of Miss Ritter's apartment, naked, as had become customary when she was summoned. This night was not about tending to her instructor's physical demands, though?tonight she was there to commit her mentor's very specific instructions for an upcoming competition to memory, to practice the sequence in her mind, to visualize every last action, right down to strength of a gentle nudge of her boot against the horse's flank at just the right moment. Gwen stood in a predesignated spot in the center of the wood floor, eyes closed and turning in place while her hands twitched imaginary reins with the deftness needed to guide a well-trained horse through a series of intricate maneuvers. Of course The apartment's resident was there too, circling her, occasionally demanding to know exactly where her charge was in the performance and what she needed to be aware of at that moment.
Her instructor provided distraction as well, plenty of it, trying to break the girl's concentration, dropping a book or pan, letting out sighs of disgust or muttering threats of returning the girl to where she had come from, just another stable hand shoveling horse shit. Gwen was not to open her eyes and check for the source of the noise or open her mouth and ask for Miss Ritter's forgiveness but to continue to work the horse in her mind. There were other methods used to break the student's focus as well, like the occasional knock on the door. Gwen had opened her eyes in surprise the first time, afraid the knock would be answered and reveal the naked girl inside, but quickly saw her instructor standing by the doorway, an annoyed look on her face and knuckles poised to rap again. "Stupid girl, are you afraid someone might see you like this? Does it matter? What they think of you has no effect on your performance. Or is it you wish them to see? Do you wish to become the object of their self-pleasure, or help them satisfy their lust? Your obvious urge to rut must be subdued and put away until I decide your focus is no longer required. Perhaps you should practice your routine out in the barn where you can be certain you kuşadası escort (https://kusadasiescortu.com/) would be seen? Would that be better?" Gwen hoped it was just a threat but knew better than to answer, instead closing her eyes and desperately trying to remember where she had left off, hoping Miss Ritter took this as a sufficient admission of wrongdoing. To her relief it was, at least that night, but the distraction soon became a favorite of hers, even pretending to open the door for a visitor. At least she hoped she had been pretending. She never actually heard or felt another other person in the room, but Miss Ritter spoke as though there were, speaking in the third person of the naked girl in the middle of visualizing a canter. The Slut was not the persuasive voice she was now, but she still saw great excitement in the possibility of being exposed like that, unable to do anything about it. For all she knew, her voyeur?or voyeurs, there might have been more than one?would be someone she associated with every day, maybe even Clint. The old man always seemed to be mentally undressing her, anyways.
She had sometimes imagined in moments of weakness that he or the others had secretly been watching the night Miss Ritter had grown exasperated with her student's progress and made good her threat, making her practice the routine naked and on horseback in the riding ring below the apartment. The Lady made concentrating even more difficult than usual, screaming long and loud of the dangers of being caught despite the doors she knew to be locked at this late hour. Gwen did everything she could do to avoid displeasing her mentor any further?she had not wanted to imagine the consequences of that. To her great relief she was finally released to find her clothes and bed down her horse with a simple wave of the hand and a "I trust that in the future this will serve to remind you how much easier it is to concentrate in a more private setting."
There were other means of testing her focus, ones of a more physical nature. Less than perfect posture was corrected with a firm push of an ever-present riding crop against her student's lower back, although it sometimes landed with a light slap under her breasts and was levered up for the same effect. . Her nipples were a favorite target of her mentor, flicking and circling them with the tip of the crop, looking for a flinch, hesitation or even change of breathing from her student. Or the crop might slide between her legs, occasionally from the front although Miss Ritter seemed to prefer inserting from the rear. It was then drawn back with agonizing slowness, whether to just tease or threaten further punishment Gwen could never tell, but she always hurried to correct whatever she guessed was the perceived imperfection. The polished leather knob would occasionally find its way between her buttocks to threaten her rosebud, as well...
It was the command to kneel that Gwen anticipated and dreaded the most. She would do so with legs spread as if astride her mount, and while all of the normal distractions were fair game a vibrator would also be propped just a fraction of an inch from her exposed clit. The device would buzz maddeningly, taunting her while she visualized her routine and described it to Miss Ritter. Any relaxation of her pose risked contact with the device, and whether incidental or intentional the craved physical sensation would weaken her concentration and would always be followed by a sharp rebuke and the slap of the riding crop against her buttocks.
During these more intense periods of preparation it was clear that the only pleasure she would be allowed would be in the pleasure of the training itself until Miss Ritter was satisfied that the specific goal she had set for her student had been reached. Gwen would then be permitted to celebrate her achievement, to let her happiness and pride come to the surface for a short time once she was out of the public eye before being given the next goal she would be working towards. Just as importantly to the young woman, she would also be allowed a release from the physical need that had been building as part of the celebration, a sort of reset before the task ahead. Even on these occasions Miss Ritter would be taken care of first, Gwen's effort to please the older woman only making the wait worse for what she hoped would be given her. If her mentor had found her effort 'satisfactory' she would be instructed to give in to her physical weakness while Miss Ritter observed, even then assuring her student's orgasm was an exercise in control. When she had been found 'more than satisfactory', her instructor would perform the deed, cold and clinical in her efforts. Still, Gwen truly felt most honored when her climaxes came via Miss Ritter's hand. The orgasms themselves had been wonderful, mostly free from the normal stigmas of shame and guilt because she could tell herself she "had no choice", but they was also the surest sign her efforts had exceeded expectations.
After her marriage Gwen had done her best to make use of the skills Miss Ritter had taught her, but in the absence of a strong figure to set the goal and enforce her efforts to achieve it, it was not the same. She couldn't bring herself to admit that her instructor's methods had made use of her sexual arousal both as a distraction and eventual reward; her own self-imposed abstinence during preparations for a competitive event was little different than her normal abstinence and anything she might reward herself after the event was certainly not worth the guilt and shame that would come with it. Her performances were still certainly good, among the best wherever she rode, but the fear of being found wanting eventually outweighed the pleasure and she turned to her daughters' efforts. Gwen employed some but certainly not all of her mentor's methods and was thankful Tim was there to tactfully remind her she was training little girls and not world-class competitors.
It would have been nice to have someone like Miss Ritter in preparing for this weekend, she mused, but who? Certainly not Cricket, although she found the idea of ceding control to someone so young intriguing; Tim might possess the ability to impose his will on her but seemed unwilling to do so. Natalie might be more inclined but she doubted that her sister-in-law could keep a straight face while doing so. Gwen sensed that Liz had the right combination of serious purpose and questionable methods to bend someone to her will, and the Slut liked the idea of finding out, but she lacked the encyclopedic knowledge of horsemanship that her former employer did. And even now she would know as much as Gwen did about what was to be required.
She had actually called Mrs. Danning's assistant the week before, hoping she would be put in touch with the young photographer to get a better sense of his expectations, but all she was given was a message from Danilo telling her she would just "need to be herself and do what she always did." Gwen had no idea what that even meant; without knowing she could not put a sense of order to it, could not script the routine that she and Dart would perform for the camera that would serve as her judge and audience, and without that mental map the risk of failing was very real?and very frightening.
The dessert plates were being cleared when Danilo Castigalli made his appearance, Morris Barofsky with him as well, along with a middle-aged woman whom the photographer introduced as Rose, his makeup artist and hairstylist. The young photographer gently grabbed Gwen's shoulders and kissed one of her cheeks then the other while the elderly tailor took her hand and gallantly kissed the back of it.
"You look great," Danilo pronounced with a grin. "Wow?your hair grows fast. Love how long it got."
"Oh?umm, thanks. Longer than I'm used to..." Wait until he sees the rest of it, the Slut laughed. That grew pretty fast too. Good thing it was cut so short to begin with.
How are you feeling?"
Gwen gave an apologetic smile. "Nervous?"
"Tell you the truth, so am I, a little bit," Danilo said, returning the smile. "But really excited to see what we can come up with!" Gwen chose not to confess her own underlying excitement or the reason for it. "I don't want to waste your time, or Mr. Barofsky's," he continued, the tailor giving a shrug to indicate he really didn't mind, "so I was hoping we could get you to try on your wardrobe so he can make any last-minute adjustments before they're needed tomorrow. Okay if we do that, then you can get back to your peace and quiet?"
"Of course. We have nowhere else to be tonight, anyways." She glanced at Tim as if for confirmation, his turn to shrug in response.
"Great! I believe we left the things you need to try on in the living room?"
Morris gestured back into the house. "If you would, dear lady. I'm anxious to see how close I came to everyone's expectations."
She allowed herself to be led back into the living room. The tailor quickly unzipped the first bag, removing what appeared to be jeans and a white t-shirt, eying the garments critically for a moment before handing them to Gwen. She took them and looked back expectantly at the old man, waiting for something more to be retrieved. This couldn't be it...this is what she wore to muck stalls at home. "I was asked for something...basic," he explained, as if reading her mind.
Gwen smiled and turned for the privacy of the bedroom. "Uhh, they are tailored to be worn without undergarments," Mr. Barofsky gently reminded her. She nodded without looking back and closed the door partway behind her. She stood naked a moment later, exhaling sharply to steady her nerves, and slid the shirt over her head. It was clean but didn't feel fresh out-of-the-package new, the fabric soft and broken in rather than crisp. The fit was snug, much tighter than she normally wore for chores. Her upper body was sharply defined beneath the cloth, hiding nothing about the flatness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her waist, or the size and shape of her breasts. The jeans were also clean but well-worn and exhibited the same fit as the shirt, molding to her rear and threatening to do the same to her crotch and outline of her sex. Cowboy lingerie, Gwen thought to herself with a wry smile as she examined her reflection in the mirror, noting the dark circles of her areolae just visible beneath the white fabric.
Danilo looked pleased when she rejoined them in the living room, Mr. Barofksy equal parts pleased and relieved. Tim had the look he got when he was having impure thoughts...
"Perfect!" the young photographer declared while the tailor hurried to her side.
"Not quite. As always, excuse the touch," Morris mumbled, not waiting for a reply as his fingers inserted themselves under the waistline of the jeans and wiggled. "Not too tight? I'm especially concerned about the inseam. They should not be uncomfortable down there."
"No, it's fine," Gwen answered truthfully. "The fabric seems to give a little more than the denim I'm used to."
"A little bit of stretch fabric in the right spot goes a long ways," the tailor said absentmindedly. "I gathered some trousers from second-hand shops, some of them quite stretchy, took them apart and used the best pieces to put them back together. The crotch is comfortable? I would never forgive myself if your delicate parts were treated poorly."
Gwen blushed a bit, suddenly focused on the rub of soft denim against her sex. "It feels fine," she replied with a smile.
He turned to the photographer. "But we should complete the outfit and see the rest, yes?" Gwen was quickly given a pair of boots to step into, cowboy style and unadorned, true working boots, scuffed and worn but well cared for. A black leather belt with a simple buckle was handed over as well, and finally a pair of finely crafted work gloves, the leather thin and supple, the kind that you might use with a two-hundred dollar manure fork. These were all added to the outfit, and she stood for inspection, turning a slow circle for Danilo's critical eye. She was asked to bend and squat as well, the jeans more flexible than she would have ever have thought and very aware of them pressing on and separating her labial lips.
"Perfect," Danilo finally repeated. "Very nicely done, Mr. Barofsky."
He shrugged. "Nothing, really." He reached into the bag and pulled out two more shirts, both seemingly identical to the one she wore. "I made several," he explained, "should one become soiled. I made other trousers, too. Perhaps you could try them on as well?"
Gwen gathered them and turned to retreat to the bedroom. "Forgive me for being so forward, but you might try them on here?" the old man asked, his voice soft and apologetic. "I would like to see if the clothes are leaving any marks on your skin that might tell me it is too restrictive. It would be quicker as well, and we would be on our way sooner, leaving you and your very patient husband more time to enjoy the evening...."
She thought to ask Tim his opinion, but there was little doubt in her mind what that was. The elderly man had seen her naked, Danilo too, had actually taken pictures of her like that, so...what the hell. She responded by sitting down to remove the boots, the young photographer hurrying to help her pull them off.
It didn't even occur to her that any sense of modesty she might have felt at one time over disrobing in front of a roomful of people was absent, replaced by a professional detachment and a warm glow of excitement. Fear intruded even here though, a fear that at this last minute they might find her body now lacked the necessary attributes and call the whole thing off. Gwen stood for the tailor while he examined her, even putting a foot on a nearby coffee table to allow him to look more closely for marks at the junction of her legs. She did notice Danilo and Rose with heads together in quiet conversation, apparently eying her critically as well, their inspection pausing between her legs, the photographer's undiscernible comment getting quick nods from the stylist. Three more shirts and three more pairs of jeans were put on and taken off in succession, each fitting the same way, each put through their paces with turns and movement.
Morris was reaching into the next garment bag even as Gwen was gently pulling the last t-shirt over her head. He delicately removed a white dress shirt on a hanger, a pair of white riding breeches hanging from it as well.
The shirt was reminiscent of ones worn in the many dressage events Gwen had competed in over the years, but there were marked differences. It was silk, for one, very sheer, and lacking a collar. It was also much tighter than anything she would have ever have worn then, , Gwen thought as she held her breath to button it up. Just like the t-shirt, the sheerness of the fabric did little to soften the lines of the torso and breasts beneath, and while the dark circles of her nipples were better hidden, their erect outline of was even more prominent. The jodhpurs followed form, more like exercise pants than proper ring wear, lacking the traditional leather seat. That would make sticking to the saddle more difficult, she thought with a grimace, not to mention making them even more form-fitting over her rear end. The old tailor had a hard time resisting the urge to reach in and smooth the lines of the shirttails trapped underneath the waistband, instead anxiously advising Gwen where to smooth out the slick fabric against her skin. A black riding coat was next, but this one was not designed to fasten as was tradition; the lapels were cut short enough to make that impossible and instead seemed to frame the rider's chest and stomach rather than obscure them. Black knee-length riding boots of extremely high quality, gleaming wickedly from the shine they had received, and white silk gloves completed the outfit. And this would be dressage judge lingerie, she decided.