Peter read the advertisement through again. It sounded just like his dream job. The pay was good and it was a live-in
position. Although the details were a bit sketchy, he felt certain that he must apply. In his best handwriting, which wasn't exactly the best, he carefully constructed a letter setting out his previous experience in the world of horses. He'd been a show jumper's groom an event groom, had done a stint as a lad in a racing stable, and had latterly worked for the Tamarind Manor Stud. Being employed to work with stallions had been his most enjoyable job to date. Working in such a virile environment had increased his own sex drive no end - as many a young stable lass could vouch for!
As requested, he gave a brief resume of his personal circumstances. This didn't take long, as he was single, had no family, no dependents, no property to speak of, in fact, no real ties at all. He read the letter thoroughly, correcting the errors, and gave it a good luck kiss before popping it into an envelope. Into the kitchen to stick it down with a dab of water - his tongue was very sensitive to unpleasant tastes - then off for the three mile hike to the local post box.
It was several days before a reply arrived. Peter eagerly opened the thick, crisp envelope, but was careful not to tear it.
A heavenly smell of scent exuded from the letter as he unfolded its heavy creases. He held it to his nose and gently inhaled. It was intoxicating.
"Dear Mister Boyle," he read aloud in his rural burr, "Thank you for your reply to my advertisement..."
Within the week, Peter had, as suggested by the respondent, given immediate notice to his landlord that he would be leaving his cottage, and was railbound for the west country. As the train pulled into Launceston station Peter grabbed the tatty holdall which contained all his worldly possessions and stepped from the carriage. The train departed and he found himself alone on the platform. He was supposed to be picked up and driven out to the farm.
"Mister Boyle," asked a soft female voice. Peter turned. He had to look twice. There, on the platform, stood an apparition. A scintillating blonde with a long, fluffy pony-tail, wearing the teeniest of pink shorts and a skimpy top.
She smiled brightly and extended her hand towards him.
"Miss Chalcross," she announced. "Call me Lindy."
"How do, Miss," he replied.
"Is that all the luggage you have?" she enquired.
"Ar. "
As Peter followed Lindy across the booking hall, he was mesmerized by the slenderness of her waist and the flare of her hips. She had, to his mind, the perfect shape. Not unlike that of a thoroughbred mare.
Outside in the station car park, Peter glanced around for the ubiquitous Four Wheel Drive Range Rover. However, as he followed his new employer in silence, it became apparent that she was making towards a pony and trap which was parked in a quiet corner.

The velvet dark july night hung heavily scented, as the air-conditioned Bentley mulsanne Turbo scrunched to a halt by the Georgian clock tower in the stable yard. Serena pushed open the heavy passenger door, and carefully positioned one ten inch platformed heel boot over the ground. She wore enticingly short leather hotpants, garnished with solid silver chains, made of skin tight crocodile leather, accompanied by matching crocodile thigh boots, laced bandage tight through silver eyelets. Her out sized dress spurs looked like solid gold, as were the ornaments on her massive heavy leather belt. She carried a matching hand bag slung over her arm, with a gaudy solid gold miniature stirrup iron, and her shirt was yellow silk, adorned with a green, white and gold Hermes scarf.

Barry clasped his young wife's hand and squeezed it gently. "At last!" he exulted, "At long last, we don't have to worry about money."
In a previous story entitled CAUGHT IN THE WEB, Barry was delivered by his wife Susan into the mercy of Mistress Elaine and Mistress Sarah for obedience training.
Now Barry's nightmare continues...

It was a bright, sunny morning and I was in a pretty good mood. My dole cheque had arrived the previous day and I'd been out
with me mates in the evening and got totally wrecked. I strolled into the Job Centre and had a quick look around the walls at the employment cards. There was never any jobs so I never really used to bother looking properly. What I always did was worked my way round towards the birds at the desks by pretending to be studying the cards. You could always glance to one side and get a terrific view of the tarts as they crossed their legs or bent over to look in the filing cabinets. Anyway, there I was, having a shufty at some blonde who was bent over showing off her minge, when I get this tap on the shoulder.
"And what the hell do you think you're doing?" asked this snotty bint who reckoned she was the manager.
"What does it look like?" I snorted.
"Would you like to come round to the office and have a chat?" she asked, Well, I didn't need asking twice. She wasn't too bad looking.
As I followed her out of the main office and into the back, I thought to myself, "Yes! Give it one, my son!"
As we went up the stairs I had a good sniff around her arse. Pity she never had a miniskirt on, but I could still see the curves of each of her bum cheeks thrusting against her long, dark skirt. My trousers were bulging like a sack of horny ferrets.
At the top of the stairs she opened the door to this office and went in. I was just about to follow -
"Wait!" she snapped.
I leant up in the doorway wondering what her problem was. No problem I thought, as she lowered the blinds. She turned round and sat on the desk with her skirt falling open around her legs. Tasty pair of pins. For the next thirty seconds she sat there looking at me.
"What...?" I asked, looking down to see if me flies was open.
"Do you really think that you're going to get a job?" she asked in her lah-di-dah way.
I shrugged. It didn't bother me one way or the other.
"Oiks like you should be forced to work," she said. "You lack training, and you lack discipline. What's your name, anyway?"
"No, not anyway," I laughed, "it's Terry."
When she smiled at me I knew I must be on to a winner. Then she waved her finger at me and beckoned me in. I went in and shut the door behind me. She was still smiling so I knew she was begging for it.
"Would you like to be trained?" she asked.

article by Jeff Vilencia
As long as I can remember I have had these unusual desires in regards to the female foot and shoe.
As a very small child, about the ages of four or five, I can recall laying down in front of my older sister and her friends and begging them to step on me (with barefeet and white socks on). I knew even then that this was a sexual aspect, and I also knew that I loved the idea so.
As I grew up I always found a way to fulfill these desires, and simultaneously I found myself sexually attracted to two other aspects of the "Trample /foot- fetish", the first one being the idea of being tiny, say one-inch tall, and then stepped on and squished by the female in question. And secondly the thrill and excitement of watching a girl step on and squish an insect.

SPANISH RIDER
Things we got to know about in the course of time and that actually occurred
There once lived a tall and full-figured lady in the south of Spain, who had inherited a ranch from her father, a rich haziendiero. The lady was about 26, no one knew exactly, she was very tall and had a very full figure, that made all the men crazy. She also had a very particular passion: she liked to flounder especially small and weak horses, that would break down because of her great weight. What she enjoyed most, was when the little creatures could not lift up her weight any more and had to suffer her strikes helplessly. Because of the heat she was always very lightly dressed, and it goes without saying that she always used razor sharp spurs and a very effective whip.
One of her grooms reported; there was always a small horse lying under her in the dirt, desperately trying to get up, which of course he did not manage. She was sitting heavily on the little horse, sneering.
"Well, get up, go on!" SMACK, the switch hit his dripping wet coat - he winced with pain. "Does that hurt you?" she asked sneeringly. SMACK, SMACK, the whip whizzed through the air, cutting through his delicate coat (sometimes she would play her games with young fillies).
"You're not saying anything, just wait, your mistress is going to help you get up."
SLAP - she thrusted her spurs into his flesh! "Mummy does not like it, if you've already given up!"
SMACK-whip into the snout!
Then the little one would struggle along a few more yards on his belly, and the Senora would make herself extra heavy.
"I think you do not want to understand me. You have to carry me, this is too slow for me!" After each sentence there would be a couple more lashes, for which the young lady always lifted her hand up very high, so that she would hear loud slaps. This slapping must have aroused her, the groom told us. He is now working for an Austrian riding-stable, where we met him.
She would only leave off from the poor creatures when the only reaction she got from them were winces. The groom could not tell us how many animals did not survive this treatment, as the life of an animal did not count down there - it is worthless, on the ranch they had 500 horses.
He told us that his boss preferably wore suspenders and stockings while he was rolling his eyes with relish, and when he talked about her bust he was wetting his lips and made a motion with both his hands to illustrate what he was talking about. Floundering horses just happened to be her hobby, he said, shrugging his shoulders - simply like somebody else would bite his nails - he did not give it too much thought, though, but he did not grudge her the fun, even though he did not really understand it, as he admitted.

I don't think that I had done anything wrong.
Lady Sandra never said I had so perhaps it was just bad luck that she picked on me that morning.
It had been a long time since I had last felt her whip on my back and balls.
I don't think she even recognised me and she has probably forgotten my face already. I wonder if she has forgotten my screams.
Probably!
The poor, miserable wretches who serve her inside the house often terrify us outdoor males with tales of the horrors of her boudoir: how she can only go to sleep if a male is being whipped beside her bed - the screams of men relax her and she laughs in her sleep whilst balls are crushed by her lesbian guards.
I don't know if the testimony of the indoor wretches is reliable but I fear that it may be.
"Is there no mercy?" I ask them.
"Is there no respite from agony for the males in her clutches?"
"There is respite," they reply, sad death in their eyes.
"But you could not truly say that it was welcome."
No. They are right.
It is better to remain a man, able to suffer pain, than to become like they are - lifeless, humourless, pleasure-less beasts with no hope of joy. I would die before allowing myself to become a wretch; and I would attempt to die if the choice were ever to be forced upon me.
These are not thoughts upon which I dwell.
I would prefer to ignore the idea of the inner sancta of Lady Sandra's mansion.
Fortunately we outdoor males are seldom reminded of it.
When the lesbians descend upon our dank, cramped, outdoor dormitories, drunkenly whipping us and making us kiss their breasts, they concentrate their attentions on their own special favourites. There are some who enjoy punishing males who are large and strong, others who prefer to beat those who are small and weak; I am happily between the two extremes and rarely experience the full wrath of our devil-mistresses.
I have my balls kicked, of course, and sometimes my cock is whipped, but I have never been forced to drink from a lesbian's womanhood.
Yes, in many respects I am lucky; or was - until today.

Barry clasped his young wife's hand and squeezed it gently. "At last!" he exulted. "At long last, we don't have to worry about money. Good old
Uncle Norman. I mean, sorry to see him go and all that, but now all those dreams of ours, the house, the car, the holidays, they can all be ours."
Once Barry started he was difficult to stop. Susan was the complete opposite. Calm and serene by nature, she spoke rarely but she made every word count.
The pair walked hand in hand down the long windy staircase from the solicitor's office.
"The money should be cleared by Friday, we can have a real weekend spree" Barry continued excitedly. "First has to be the car, I won't put up with that banger a minute longer. I can't make up my mind, but it has to be something big and flashy. Now we've got it, let's flaunt it, that's what I say."
"Yes darling, we'll discuss it later, but I've got to get back to work. There's a big panic on this afternoon" interrupted Susan.
"Hah, I've told you lots of times, you don't need to bother with work anymore. You can stay home and look after me now" replied Barry.
Women's liberation had never had an impact on Barry. Fortunately, Susan was normally content to do as she was told.
"Let's not argue about that now, I'll see you later" she smiled.
She kissed her husband and the pair split up, Susan to walk through the precinct to her office, Barry to walk to his battered old Escort, in the backstreet car park.
Just as he put his keys in the door lock, he felt someone grab him from behind. Odd, he hadn't heard anyone approaching. Turning around startled, he just had time to pick out two female figures, before one of them thrust a mask of chloroform in his face. He struggled, but his hands were pinned behind him. In seconds, he slumped down to the floor.
Gradually, Barry regained his senses.
"He's coming to" he could pick a voice out saying.
Barry was still dizzy and drowsy. He struggled to work out where he was and what had happened. He tried to move his arms, but nothing happened. He had no sense of feeling in his legs.
Suddenly, the waking process was accelerated by a fierce slap to his cheeks. Barry howled in pain and shock. The first blow was followed be a second and then a third. Barry blinked his eyes. The hand smashing his face back and forth belonged to a young female. She wore a fancy leather outfit, the type that a female Hell's Angel would wear. "How could a woman be so strong?" he thought to himself. "And why on earth is this happening?" Then he remembered. "The money, she must be after my money." A feeling of panic engulfed him.
"That's enough dear" remarked another female voice, "or you'll put him back to sleep again."
Barry realised his arms were fastened behind his back. He was kneeling on the floor and his legs were also tied together.

Ken was a pleasure slave, and at the age of eighteen he was sold to a very wealthy woman.
He lay down and examined Mistress Julia's feet from close quarters. They were truly lovely, small and delicate, like a Boticelli cherub, with tiny toes and even tinier nails. They were painted a deep, rich red, and Ken felt that he was, at last, exactly where he wanted to be. Mistress Julia lay down in the sun lounger, her large, heavy breasts spreading out over her chest, her curly red hair almost burnished in the sunshine, her shapely legs stretched out, and, most importantly of all, her lovely feet resting over Ken's mouth. Ken lay back, the sun on his body, warming him through, and a lovely foot resting limply on his mouth. He kissed .her foot, then ran his tongue along the sole, from the heel to the toes, relishing a slight taste of fresh perspiration on the sole. Mistress Julia really knew how to look after her feet, the soles were soft, no rough skin here, and the heels and toes were completely unsullied from calluses or abrasions. In the chair Mistress Julia groaned in satisfaction and Ken was thinking that this must have been what heaven was like.

It was one of those long, hot summer days and Mistress Claire stretched in her garden, straining her limbs against the whip
which she held in her hands, before bringing it down, slicing the heads off a couple of flowers, in a graceful sweep. She was bored, and she sat down on a low wall in the garden while she made up her mind what to do. Her slave was attending to the garden, picking out the weeds and attending to the needs of the small plants in the rockery when Claire called him over.
He approached on all fours, until he was at his Mistress' feet. She directed him to lick the soft leather of her boots and he obeyed without question. He held the sole of her boot in his hand and licked the dark leather of her boots, holding the sole tenderly in his hands. Occasionally he would kiss the leather of her boots, tenderly, as if the leather was surrounding more sensual areas than her feet.
Mistress Claire stood up, trapping the fingers of her slave underfoot, trying to elicit a pained reply, so that she would have a reason to send the whip singing through the air to cut the tender back of her slave. She was slightly disappointed at the lack of response and so she climbed on top of the wall and made the slave kneel before her. Her slave put his fingers over the top of the wall, and so she accidentally on purpose trapped one hand under the sole of her foot. She held the whip in one hand and squatted down, grabbing her slave's hair roughly and moving it to where she wanted to feel the warm dampness of his tongue on her skin.
He was starting to squirm, as the pressure of her foot squashed his fingers into the rough brickwork and the gravel on the rockery and she looked down at him, pretending not to notice the distress that she was causing.