The auctioneers gavel fell and the deal was done. Joanna showed no emotion
and drew on her cigarette, the filter of which was ringed with rich, red lipstick.
Laura clenched her little fists and jumped up and down excitedly.
There was nothing else that Joanna was interested in bidding for. She turned briskly on her thin stiletto heels and clip-clopped away towards the cashier. Laura paced along behind, having difficulty in keeping up. Almost in a single movement, Joanna swung her briefcase onto the cashiers desk and flicked open the catches. Coolly she counted out ten fat bundles of fifty pound notes, the cashier didn't need to check the money. Grinning broadly she handed Joanna a receipt and her deeds for the property.
"I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you can make a bit of money out of it, too," she said. "We will," replied Joanna.
That evening, as Joanna and Laura lazed on the bed in their London hotel, sipping champagne and eating oysters, the lady on the television news broadcast announced; "And today has seen the privatisation of the infamous Ravenmoor prison where six hundred of Britain's most notorious category 'A' prisoners are held. The inmates are all males who are serving life sentences at the prison for rape. Although the names of the prison's new owners have not been divulged, it is believed that they are a pair of ex-models who are also successful business women. With the latest prison's bill having recently been passed through parliament, new owners of category 'A' prison's are permitted to run the prison in any way that they see fit, including punishment, living conditions and the disposal of difficult or undesirable prisoners". The newscaster looked up with a cheeky grin, "It's believed that the new owners will be implementing many draconian measures and firm discipline at Ravenmoor, and now moving on with a firm hand to weather news. Tomorrow will start off bright..."
Joanna pressed the off button of the remote control. She fell slowly back onto the bed and sighed contentedly.
The next morning, Laura took to the wheel of the gold Bentley convertible as Joanna sat in the passenger's seat, chatting on the phone to various friends who had promised to recommend suitable ladies to work at Ravenmoor. Laura drove at breakneck speed, and before they knew it they were sweeping up to the prison gatehouse. It was a bleak day, which seemed to suit the huge, grey stone building which lay in the centre of the isolated moor.

My name is Pasha. I am a brown gelding, and now on the eve of my life I am going to tell you about my experiences and sufferings. I am looking back but not in anger or with hatred; I only wish that my tormentor would for once in her life, even if it were for only a short while, encounter the same pain she has caused me.
But let us start at the beginning. I had been in an elderly gentleman's employment for my whole life, and had been treated very well. Our rides were usually very nice and I was never beaten or forced to do anything I did not like. I was never asked to run when I was tired, and I only knew of spurs from other riders who were riding with us - I never felt them myself!
One day my master put me up for sale, simply because he was already too old to ride himself, and because he could not afford to keep a horse on his old age pension any more. All the potential buyers I liked unfortunately did not want me.
Eventually an elegant lady arrived with her very pretty daughter. I instantly disliked the daughter - that was probably some sort of premonition.
After a short test ride, on which she treated me quite roughly, she decided to buy me, but not without telling her mother first that I was really an old nag. Her mother gave a roguish laugh and said,
"I'm quite sure that you are going to get some life out of it, my dear!"
"You can bet on that," came the curt answer. But unfortunately her voice was so low that my master did not hear her; otherwise he would certainly not have put me at this monster's mercy.

Returning from my trip to Una's island, off Turkey, I only had time to attend a ouple of board meetings with my directors - naturally all women - when I was phoned and reminded by a chum in Kentucky that I had agreed to fly out for her big summer race meeting. It had slipped my mind, but I knew my pal Mirelle, a former Miss USA finalist, would be upset I didn't attend. Trying to get my current house boy to pack in a hurry was like trying to get blood out of a stone.
Eventually, in his haste, he managed to tear a chiffon dress.
I was furious. Not tolerating idiot house boys gladly, when I left for the States he had been soundly flogged, and was shipped of to spend the rest of his miserable life on a sugar plantation which I own.
I actually arrived at Mirelle's huge ranch a day early, in time for some relaxation. Mirelle is a very tall, leggy lady, who has a great love of the American dream, the great out-doors, unashamed luxury, a penchant for the bizarre and an unrivalled loathing of males. It is common knowledge that her ex-husband treated her very badly, and that now she is a staunch lesbian. However, apart from bruises, she did inherit something close to half a billion dollars when he died in a mysterious yachting accident. Rumours were flying at the time, but those of us who know her are quite aware of what happened to him. Having freshened up, I went downstairs and was greeted enthusiastically by the lady herself. She looked absolutely magnificent, dressed like a cowgirl, with a teeny, fringed cowhide skirt and fringed jacket, a ten gallon hat and a pair of brown pointed boots, which had a fierce looking set of rowel-spurs affixed. Curled around her fancy buckled belt was a sturdy rounding-up whip. She kissed me firmly on the lips; I was tingling and excited, so made no attempt at resisting when she poked her tongue into my mouth. We played for a while, our tongues rolling around together.
In high spirits, she led me back upstairs and insisted that I dress in an identical outfit to her own. She stood and watched, drawling exuberantly about her cattle and crop yields, as a male, in a tight leather body suit, undressed and dressed me. What I found I found rather odd was that the slave's suit did not allow for the bending of elbows or knees, or the twisting of the head. With arms permanently outstretched to his front, all movement was facilitated via the waist. Just for a bit of fun, before leaving, I ordered him to get my clothes unpacked from my trunks, then polish every single pair of shoes and boots which I had bought with me - about sixty pairs. Mirelle laughed and said, "Keep 'em busy, keep 'em busy."
As we strode out of the ranch-house into the glorious sunshine, a couple of ranch-girls were holding a pair of handsome mustangs for us. I bounced up into the saddle and sat down on the broad American saddle, which felt like an armchair after a British saddle. Yanking my right rein, the horse turned. Mirelle and I rode sideby-side, chatting about tomorrow's race meeting.
Without a word of warning, she dug the spurs into the flanks of her mount, and galloped away. Naturally, I spurred up my horse and gave it a few hefty lashes on either flank with the reins.

Our researchers have discovered some rather interesting material published in the 1800's.
In an English library museum they found a regular journal called 'THE ENGLISH WOMAN'S DOMESTIC MAGAZINE'.
This magazine was edited and run by women to satisfy the interests of society's upper class and more affluent ladies. It covered a lot of boring topics like leisure pastimes, hobbies, society affairs etc.
However, it did also cover ladies fashions, and most importantly, horse-riding which was a very common pastime for these elegant ladies to show-off and further elevate their superiority over the lower classes. In the main, the journals appear to be constructed around the correspondence between the editors and the upper class ladies, and indeed, the overall impression you gain is the sheer arrogance and high society attributes of these wonderful creatures.
Through a series of these journals was raised the use of spurs by ladies whilst riding. Within their letters lies a whole new world of the superior female that actually existed. Their feelings are made quite clear - they were in control and they wanted to exert their power whenever the opportunity arose. Pain or discomfort to all around, whether animals or the lower class meant very little to them, and only their pleasures came first.
Here are several extracts. Please note that we have not kept them in any particular order (by date, for example), but have merely taken a random selection.

The first is an article written by a prominent person who has requested that we do not publish either his name or the name of the lady. This contribution has been translated as accurately as possible from German.
There was recently a photo-series in a glossy gentleman's magazine, featuring a girl that had been attributed with more than the usual female charms by nature: what made her stand out were not only her measurements of 39-26-39, but also her extraordinary height of 6'2". With each picture there was a caption, telling the reader something about her, and even though I am not interested in such marginal notes when I look at charms like that, there was one sentence that instantly gripped my attention. I quote; "After lunch I enjoy walking my dog, or I mount my horse and give him the spurs!" No more and no less could be read there - and now, dear reader: draw your own conclusion!
I drew my conclusions, and this made me feel very nervous. This voluptuous goddess actually mounted a horse that had to carry her round, and the use of the spurs made me conclude that these rides were not very enjoyable for the horse.
I had to get to know this model, I simply had to - but how? With a lot of effort, money, and some bought indiscretions I finally managed to find the stable where the horse patiently waited for the lunch time-rides of his beautiful mistress. From that day on I waited there from 11 o'clock onwards, and on the third day I struck lucky.
A silver-coloured Porsche pulled up and the girl got out. She was really impressive, and with her high heels, her height was almost 2 metres; her weight I estimated to be about 140 lbs.
Before I could even think she had disappeared into the dressing room, her hips swaying - she knew how beautiful she was - and reappeared after a short while in beige skin-tight jodhpurs that really made her perfect figure stand out, in her hand she held that terrible riding-cudgel, calling it a whip would be an understatement!
My eyes wandered down her polished boots, but - what a disappointment, no spurs to be seen. She walked towards the horse with resolute steps and let herself fall into the saddle, heavily and without any consideration.

The July sunshine blazed down on the rolling parkland of West Sussex, the ancient oaks and chestnuts giving welcome solace of dark shade. The beautiful colonnaded Georgian stately home sat peacefully and tranquil, a grand vista from every angle, fronting onto an immaculately manicured dressage arena, attractively lined in low white fencing, and lettered markers.
The big house was now used as a conference centre, banqueting hall, and a new venture, a maritime heritage museum. The old stables however, a beautiful self-contained mews with a white dovecote, planned around little lawns, had been restored to a standard way above their former glory, more like a Hollywood film set, filled with highly prized expensive horses, owned and ridden by self-prized and expensive young girls.
This equestrian establishment attained international fame as the best dressage academy, populated by a team of male grooms and trainee instructors below a famous international dressage celebrity.
Joe was one of these apprentice instructors, truly grateful of his chance to work in such a crack school, a chance many other eighteen year olds would give their eye teeth for. He was desperately concerned not to put a foot wrong, to qualify in his BHS exams, and to leave with an important reference.
Joe could be described as an obsequious, captive, subservient male, working out his time, simmering with resentment towards the rude, arrogant, dominant, competition obsessed young girls who kept their horses at livery, and under whom he had to work. They were privileged, spoilt, extremely snobbish and cliquey, boastful and could do no wrong. They treated the male staff at lower levels, like pieces of shit, standing about with their cut-glass country accents.
They were also, however, teasingly beautiful, with powerful svelte figures kept in the peak of fitness through a life of leisure, skiing, squash, swimming, and wintering in tropical climates. Dressage girls come with long legs, and look particularly alluring, and they know it, in their expensive designer co-ordinated skin-tight 'Piquer' breeches, Hermes scarves, silk shirts, flashy huge Gucci belts, and ultra high hand-made Schneider leather boots with rowel headed spurs..
These bitchy, ambitious dominas were constantly trying to upstage and outdo one another, whether it came to horses, fashion or men, and they seemed to have virtually bottomless bank accounts, the richer they were, the more horses they kept in training, the more dominant they were.

Riding-Cult Intro...
The idea for this series devoted to the Riding Cult originated from the fact that there is very little literature on a topic that is so exciting, stimulating, extraordinarily erotic.We are a select circle of people, male and female, who are engaged in the field of the "RIDING CULT", and thanks to our common interest we have been able to collect a great range of reports, experiences, pictures,and films over the years.All over the world there are images of every imaginable form of sex slaves - of men who are ridden by beautiful women., but very often the fact is forgotten that all this happens to please the passive person, who allows all this happen voluntarily. We are asking: "where is the real sadism? What is cruelabout this? What sort of a Domina is a woman who dominates only for money?" Is it not much more arousing when a beautiful woman takes a whip into her hand out of lust - not to please her victim, but to torment him against his will? Now we come to the core of the problem - can real victims be found in the 20th century?
Slavery has been abolished, serfdom is liable to a penalty. Incidents in the former American South that were as normal as the daily shopping are past and gone. Slaves were literally skinned with the whip by their moody mistresses, because of tiny mistakes, and (as a twenty-two year old farmers daughter once put it) "just for the fun of it." Gone are the times when the feudal rulers gave their sixteen year old daughters slaves as toys. These young ladies organized races on the backs of these deplorable creatures until their lungs were bursting. As they were not restricted in torturing them, their natural reaction was to find out how far one could go (using their brutality and cruelty to an unlimited extent) and very often the victims died an unimaginable death under torture.Today, ladies who are aroused when they dominate or inflict pain have surely not changed since then. One cannot simply switch off human instincts. There are just as many sadists as there were a hundred years ago, it is only the victims that have changed. In the search for defenceless flesh these ladies have hit on other subjects that are completely defenseless.
They await their mistresss arrival in terror. Creatures on which a lot more women and girls than we might think vent their aggressions and relieve their anger. Yes, dear readers, you already know it - other things that are in their clutches without any protection, that have to bear all the moods of a wanton mistress. Top of the list of every lady who is apt to being strict is the horse, simply because its place is between her thighs! One is likely to believe that this type of female is dying out, but far from it! They still exist and they only keep their passions secret because they are not socially acceptable and taboo. Our new publication, the "Riding Cult" will not only bring you the best stories, but real life events and experiences that have been collected over the years.
And that is why we ask our dear readers to help us and inform us of such incidents. Please send us drawings, pictures, and anything else that is in line with our magazine - only those who contribute or can prove their intentions are able to join our "select" club.

By quarter to seven Mark was freezing. Miss Watson must have been working overtime, leaving him stood around like a fool. He normally drove
straight home, and the thin jacket he wore did nothing to protect him from the biting wind. His backside still throbbed from the beating he'd received at her hands, adding to his discomfort. The guy at the desk had invited him back inside to wait in the warmth of the reception but he'd politely declined. He'd pushed all thoughts of simply going home out of his mind too, of pretending that this afternoon hadn't happened. He had an inkling that he was being tested, and that failure meant not only a future on the dole, but being exposed as the pathetic wimp she'd shown him to be. Physical strength paled in comparison with mental strength, he mused, and that dominant little bitch had it in abundance.
He had been watching, out of the corner of his eye, the reception, expecting her to stroll out of the main doors, so he was surprised when the black BMW pulled smoothly to a halt in front of him. One tinted window purred down.
"In."
One word, then the window rose again.
He opened the door and climbed into the car. settling back into the soft grey leather of the seat. She pulled away even as he began to do up his seat belt.-
"Sorry to keep you waiting," she said, the lack of apology in her voice implying exactly the opposite, "but I felt like a quick drink and I couldn't be bothered wasting my time sending you a message. God knows how small your cock is now after hanging around in the cold" she sniggered, and grabbed his crotch with a giggle. Mark coloured again at the repeated mockery of his manhood, but felt a certain relief. He hoped that her good humour meant he'd passed her little test. Maybe he'd be in for an easy time this evening, whatever she had planned for him. They drove in silence for a while, as Miss Watson let Mark's anxiety grow. She did not speak again until they pulled into the drive of a large detached house. Mark had been preoccupied, lurid fantasies about his possible fate distracting him from the journey. He managed a look around as the big car negotiated the tight gateposts, and he saw that they'd left the town, arriving at a quiet village that had so far resisted the planner's attempts to incorporate it into the suburbs. The view was quickly hidden behind dense bushes.
Miss Watson turned to him.
"Now, worm, I want you on your best behaviour. I've brought you here to meet a friend of mine, Madam Sadia.

Katie to my friends that is; Miss Catherine to the servants.
I'm so busy these days that I don't have much time to socialise - I have to consolidate the estate - so I hear the words 'Miss Catherine' far more frequently than I hear 'Katie'.
The estate is huge and it's all mine. The latter fact is a source of some considerable annoyance to Mark and Michael, my respectively big and little brothers.
They had expected the text of Daddy's will to show that everything would be divided equally amongst the three of us.
They didn't know about the little jobs I'd been doing for Mr Morley, the family solicitor, in the latter years of Daddy's life.
I've had my hands on Morley's balls since I was seventeen.
Daddy threw a fancy-dress party at the Hall and the old solicitor turned up dressed as a schoolboy.
I went in my Finishing-School Head Prefect uniform: see-through blouse, stockings, suspenders, high-heels and a tiny mini-skirt.
I didn't bother with knickers but did wield my beaten- up old hockey stick.
It was obvious that Mr Morley and I were going to be introduced at some stage - the compatibility between our modes of dress was perfectly obvious to the massed ranks of Public-Schoolboys that Daddy called friends.
I had never met him before but when I realised his position - the fact that he had intimate knowledge of Daddy's legal affairs, I quickly improvised a plan to hook him. Once I had lured him from the party into my bedroom it was easy.
I won't go into the details just now - the story takes a long time to tell - but from the moment I had him bent over the dressing table with his pants around his ankles, waiting for a slap from my hockey stick, his pecker was - to misquote the politician - in my purse.
It was a simple step from getting hold of the solicitor's willy to getting hold of Daddy's will and it only took me a few hours to copy his handwriting and forge another.
My brothers were left with nothing. I got the lot.
Mark and Michael could have contested the will, of course, but neither of them dared.
I had discovered the weakness of their balls many years earlier and they were too fearful for their manhoods to attempt to cross me.
Unfortunately 'The Lot' included a substantial number of debts that I hadn't bargained on.
It seemed that Mummy's divorce settlement had included the vast majority of the family's inheritance so, by the time I had paid everything off the estate was almost bankrupt: I had the house, the furnishings and the 70 acres of land, but no ready cash with which to service it all.
The day after Mr Morley had completed his execution of the will I had rather foolishly told him exactly what I thought of him.
Not verbally, you understand: I strapped him to the bed and communicated my contempt through my knees, feet, fists, hockey stick, a tennis racket and a cricket bat via the media of his cock and balls.
Whilst he was unconscious I set up a video camera and filmed myself having simulated sex with him, then woke him up with the threat that any police involvement would lead to a pleasant surprise for his wife.

Melody trotted the horse happily into the yard and decided, on a whim, to extend her pleasures by giving the stable lads a taste of leather. After all, she thought, the boys had not had leather for nearly a week.
Probably they were now thinking that she had forgotten how
to use her riding whip. Indeed, she felt slightly guilty, wondering if she had been too lazy of late, preferring the comforts afforded by her social status rather than the more diligent work
of correction.
Young males, she had found from experience, were quick to assume that fairness meant leniency. They were even quicker to assume that leniency meant they could get away with anything. Constant reminders were therefore a necessity in any well ordered establishment.
The stable lads she employed were all Young Offenders; a dozen or so of them. Criminals who had opted for the Short Sharp Shock treatment - the SSS - six months of hard labour rather than six years of tedium in a regular prison.
The scheme was an entirely voluntary option for the lads. Several wealthy ladies with farms and stabling were involved - it being insisted that since the males were all under the age of twenty-one they should be in the sole charge of women and placed in pleasant country surroundings.
Most boys benefitted immensely from SSS, though little did they realise it. Not only did it persuade them to avoid future trouble, but they also developed a healthy respect for the power of women. Generally the lads were fitter on release than they were on sentence. Occasionally a prisoner was released with some heavy red marks on his body or a few bones broken b no one bothered about such trifles.
These thoughts floated through Melody's mind as she rode up to the mansion, dismounted and handed her horse over to the Head Boy.
"I shall see the boys," she announced, keeping hold of her flexible whip. The Head Boy tied the horse to a post then obediently went into the stables and yelled "Mistress Melody!"
She strode into the shed, her shiny black boots clomping on the earthen floor, looking at the row of boys all down on one knee with heads bowed.
"You'll all have to work harder," she announced. "Jolly hard, all of you, and that includes you..." The boy had moved slightly. Raising her leather whip high up over her head she slashed it down across his shoulders knocking him forward. A gasp, then a stifled yell, then a return to the submissive position.