I do; therfore, I am

I have always wanted to be a writer. I started young writing poetry and even had poems published when I was in high school. I thought I would go to college and learn how, but once I was in college I failed to be able to produce anything. My creative side yearned for it, but practically I just hadn’t lived enough to have anything to say and I didn’t understand the mechanics and technical side of creating a story. So I went out and lived. I’ve lived a full, rich, and often complex life.

Now here I am in my 30’s picking up this long held dream. I’m still a fledgling at it and I have a ton to learn about the whole process, but I finally feel like I can. I’m learning how to tackle deadlines and plots. I’m piecing my way through pacing and finding a voice. I still need to work on creating impactful settings, but I’ve gotten good at the psychological interplay between characters and understanding their motivations.

I recently read a post from a person who was very critical of anyone identifying themselves as a writer when they made grammatical errors and it made me sit and ponder the identity of being a writer.

Is it really about grammar and the technical aspects of crafting words into meanings? Until you do that perfectly does that mean you aren’t a writer?

What about the soul of a writer?

If you have ever just had to sketch a scene in your head, or craft a backstory about strangers in the grocery store, then you know what I mean here. There is an obsessive quality that takes over and you just have to write. Good. Bad. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that is real is this need to write. The only truth you know is you have to take words and wrap them into a vision and express something that is intangible and often ephemeral.

I scoff at the grammar Nazis. I find them to be small minds who criticize because they lack a creative soul, or they are just insecure people who need to put other people around them down to make themselves feel less threatened.

Technical skill can be learned by anyone, but the creative soul of an artist to instill emotion and life into those same technical skills is not something that can be taught. You either do or you don’t. Like any skill in life, no one starts out doing it perfectly. It takes practice and work to hone and polish the skill and the more you use it the more you begin to level up in said skill.
So yeah, I’m not perfect. I make mistakes and I have a ton to learn about the technical skills of writing and crafting stories. That doesn’t mean I’m not still a writer.

I am a writer.

As Rilke wrote in his book Letters to a young artist: ““Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.”

I am a writer because I have to write.

I wither and die without it.

One day I hope to become a good writer, and then a great one. Until that day comes though, I will continue to work and practice my skills. I will continue to share what I have written and seek out feedback and notes that will help me get better. I will continue to seek out greater illumination on what doesn’t work, what does, and the why.

"Blind"

Pony up the ante boys...
This filly
don't
come cheap.


Your golden tongue
is useless,
On the dusty path
you're treading.


The grit
obscures
your vision
Shuffling along,
a path of indecision.


You can't see
the devastation
in front of you.


You're too busy
Focused,
on the sparkling
motes,
dancing around you.


Careful man...

Or you might lose it all.

When the dust settles
and the bags are packed,
The only thing
You find you want...

Will not be
The one left
Standing.

"The Unquiet Heart"

It’s cold and wet here, but then it’s always cold and damp in this place where love is a barren dream. When love comes with an x factor that is immutable and intangible; and yet, still impacts everything it touches. You were a sweet dream that blew in on a storm, churning the emotional waters of a still lake that bled depth into the choppy sea, breathing life and passion into me. Why then do I still feel the wake of your passing now that you are long gone? Maybe it’s a desperate plea for you to return. A vain hope, that is a cruel mistress, who taunts me, making me believe that someday I’ll open the door and find you there waiting. Waiting with that patient half smile you always watched me with; I was a lab animal and you were my beautiful scientist cataloguing my habits.

You were always the free spirit, laughing in the wind and chasing the madness with a smile. The world came alive around you and sent tendrils into everyone you met. You walked into a room, and sent out sparks that charged the skin, and sought out life with a fervor itching to be consumed. The air fairly crackled around you and that passion pierced the shadows around my heart.

I felt it that first moment my eyes swept across yours in a sea of people. The hot sticky Georgia summer pulsed around us, thick as soup that lay heavy in our lungs as we breathed in the night air. There was a magnetism that drew me to you; and in an unaccustomed moment of abandon, I asked you to dance. You laughed, tipping your head back and the throaty noise slipped around me, ensnaring me.

“You’re cute sugar,” You replied with your husky voice that felt like scotch burning its way into my belly and leaving a smoldering fire of yearning in its wake. “I don’t dance.”

And then you sauntered off, giving me a careless wink as you left. My world came crashing down around me that night. That one wink and I knew I had to possess you. Knew you had to be mine; but it was you who possessed me, you who claimed me, and I was lost in a sea of want.

I was a knave. I knew nothing of love, nothing of that soul stirring passion that turns you into a mad thing possessed and tormented by demons. I used to argue that love was a myth. An imaginary land created in our youth that crumbled under the onslaught of time. I never could understand my peers launching into wailing epitaphs over a lost love, only to recover the next weekend and be back together, or find someone new. This constant newness, the ever changing landscape of love landing on unsuspecting bystanders, seemed insane.

It was my first lover, I argued with over this very detail. The very nature of desire and obsession obscured our young minds, and we would debate for hours over the merits of love, only to end up falling on each other in carnal need, oblivious to any thought of love in the moment. I would quote French philosophers at him. He would roll his eyes, telling me I was having an existential crisis and to come back to bed.
It was from this first encounter, I embraced the notion that love was a fruitless obsession, a dream that stole lives. He was a layover and I was a confused traveler unsure of my destination.

I’m still confused.

What is it about love that leaves you lost without a compass or map? You were my compass once and I spent eternity mapping your body, every soft curve: that little mole on the underside of your breast, the scar on your hip from a misjudged leap over a fence. I licked my way across that scar as you told me the story. You thirteen and fierce to prove the boys wrong; you had a fire in your spirit even then, and I longed to have seen you. Hair blowing in the wind, that wild mess of mane that still refuses to be tamed, you ran. Hands pushing yourself up and vaulting the fence, I can see the smug smile on your face now. I’ve seen it a thousand times already. You didn’t vault quite high enough, and the sharp metal spike tore through your hip, adding another ragged tear in those shorts you loved. A pair of thrift store jeans two sizes too big, faded into a pale blue, that you cut the legs off and replaced with ribbons. You were a gypsy even then. You landed clean though and held your head high claiming your success.

Forget travelling I just want to find home again.

Simple and uncomplicated, home used to mean a place of refuge. A place to strip off the masks we wear and relax. Even the food is simple. Apple, carrots, tea with toast, at home we eat so we don’t starve. It’s not the feast of flavors you go out seeking. It’s plain and comforting, only I can’t find comfort here anymore. I’m awake now and this stark expanse of simplicity is devoid of any color. Its limbo and I’m being punished for having not lived hard enough.

There were times I lived hard, or maybe it was just a fantasy. A dream I clung to in my vision of you. We met again after that night of the party. You were wearing a bohemian skirt and crocheted top that barely contained your breasts. I itched to touch you, to breathe you in. I was never a good catholic, but I almost sank to my knees and confessed my sinful thoughts to you right then. You smiled, as if you knew what I was thinking, and instead you asked if I read poetry.

“Sure. I love poetry.” Came my over eager response. I would have said anything to get you to spend more time with me, to continue looking at me with your soulful brown eyes. They held such mystery, and you seemed to see right through me. I did like poetry too, so it wasn’t a lie. I just hadn’t read any since Scott.

My second lover was even more unconventional than my first. It could be said that this state of being was the reason for my lack of love. He thrived on Rimbaud and Baudelaire, and introduced me to such passionate writers as Winterson and Coehlo.
I was still naïve and innocent, he was older and more sure.

I embraced this surety like a life preserver. He claimed to love me and proved it in this poetry. This haunting and tortured poetry, so I thought surely love meant suffering, and so I suffered. I dove into the drug filled madness with him and sipped absinthe in front of the fire. I wrote pale imitations of poetry, extoling all the hopelessness and pain I felt. Only it was all empty. It was a diversion to pass the time. He said I just hadn’t lived enough to really understand and feel it. Maybe he was right.

I hadn’t really lived. Not like in the movies, or as it appeared the people around me did.

It was with a short lived affair with a married woman that taught me the error of this. She was a realist, and scoffed at my notions that anything should look like it did in the movies. She said I had the right of it after all. That love was a chemical imbalance that fooled you into spitting out babies for the continuation of the species. Her bleak outlook made a refuge out of me.

“Come sit and read me some poetry then.” Your simple command had me trailing after you like a lost puppy. I followed you across the park until you came to a tree. A bent and wizened thing, it was garish amongst all the pretty oaks and willow trees. You hugged the tree and I was charmed. How could I not be, by the sweetness of your gesture, the oddness of it? I mean who hugs trees? But there you were, hugging this gnarled monstrosity and introduced it as grandmother tree.

“There is wisdom in this tree and it’s where I come to sit and listen.” You educated me before curling up under its branches and snuggling into its trunk. You pat the ground next to you imploring me to join you. I was helpless.

You were right you know. That tree was wise. The twisting of its trunk held the landscape of life. It gave way to cradle the body and made a nest of us. I pressed up next to you while you rested your head against my arm. You handed me a book. A red worn journal with gold designs on the outside, it looked too fragile to handle, and like you, was magnetically beautiful.

I opened the pages to find a Hodge podge of work, a veritable scrapbook of you. If you were a collage, this would be it, a kaleidoscope of riotous color and randomness. Like you, the images were limitless and filled with the unending possibilities of life. The pictures glued haphazardly inside the pages and over the pictures were words. Poems etched into life, some with names attributing the author, others just words floating anonymously on the page.

I read. There were simple haikus and sonnets. You opened my world to the romantic poets that day, and the sparse purity of Japanese poets. You laughed at the darker poets, whose poisoned words, reminded you to never let them win. You smiled and nodded, as my voice sang of virtues, I didn’t feel and had never known. In that sun dappled moment, I fell. I split open and bled my bitterness into the wind. That tree soaking into me and infusing me with steadiness and you melting into my body, feeding me hope.

“That was lovely. Thank you,” You said and kissed me on the cheek. A single touch, which was over too soon, save for the lingering trace of your finger, as it traveled down my cheek.

Jacques Lacan wrote: “What is real is narcissistic. What is imaginary binds.”
I became narcissus that day in the park. The person I was -reflected back at me from the shining depth of your eyes- was beautiful. I would gladly turn into a flower, if only, to just become the vision you saw me as. Here you were tangible in my arms, warm flesh and soft skin, but I was paralyzed to do anything about it. Instead I sat there mute as you stood up and smiled down at me, the wake of your kiss burning a question mark into my cheek.

What is it about unanswered questions that obsessively linger?

I have so many with you. Questions, I doubt, I’ll ever have the courage to ask.
There’s no point is there? You’re gone and I’m just a hollowed out husk that you left behind. All those words were just meaningless. Lies, that sound good in the moment to get you what you want. The air is filled with platitudes, that lay there flat like petrified pieces of shit, filling the air with the fetid stench of nothingness. Those too are meaningless in the absence; when love kicks you in the teeth, and reminds you why you never went looking for it in the first place.

There is a meanness inside me now where there wasn’t before. An anger so rich it seeps poison onto anyone who gets too close. I’d like to blame it all on you. Wrap it up in a pretty package, and leave the responsibility of it, on your doorstep, but I can’t. I want to go back to the beginning with you, but I can’t do that either.
Love is an impossible journey.

I didn’t see you again after that day in the park for months. I looked for you. I wandered around, searching out parties and cafes, hoping I would run into you. I had given up ever seeing you again, when you snuck up on me at the bookstore. I was elated. My vision blurred and I held my breath, afraid you would just disappear. You introduced me to your girlfriend and we chatted a bit before you left. I eased my heartbreak with Ben.

Beautiful, flawed Ben.

"Love hopes in Vain"

A package of gilt in loneliness weeps.

High atop a bower waits.

For love’s sweet call to awaken thee.


Who will brave the castle walls

And fight the dragons that guard the gates?

To claim the treasure that hopes in vain.

"The Unquiet Heart"

New prose piece I'm working on. Not sure where I'm going with it yet...





"The Unquiet Heart"

It’s cold and wet here, but then it’s always cold and damp in this place where love is a barren dream. When love comes with an x factor that is immutable and intangible and yet still impacts everything it touches. You were a sweet dream that blew in on a storm, churning the emotional waters of a still lake that bled depth into the choppy sea, breathing life and passion into me. Why then do I still feel the wake of your passing now that you are long gone? Maybe it’s a desperate plea for you to return. A vain hope that is a cruel mistress that taunts me, making me believe that someday I’ll open the door and find you there waiting. Waiting with that patient half smile you always watched me with, I was a lab animal and you were my beautiful scientist cataloguing my habits.

You were always the free spirit, laughing in the wind and chasing the madness with a smile. The world came alive around you and sent tendrils into everyone you met. You walked into a room and sent sparks that charged the skin and sought out life with a fervor itching to be consumed. The air fairly crackled around you and that passion pierced the shadows around my heart.

I felt it that first moment my eyes swept across yours in a sea of people. The hot sticky Georgia summer pulsed around us thick as soup that lay heavy in our lungs as we breathed in the night air. It was a magnetism that drew me to you in an unaccustomed moment of abandon, I asked you to dance. You laughed tipping your head back and the throaty noise slipped around me ensnaring me.

“You’re cute sugar.” You replied with your husky voice that felt like scotch burning its way into my belly and leaving a smoldering fire of yearning in its wake. “I don’t dance.”

And then you sauntered off giving me a careless wink as you left. My world came crashing down around me that night. That one wink and I knew I had to possess you. Knew you had to be mine, but it was you who possessed me, you who claimed me and I was lost in a sea of want.

The Kiss

What is in that moment when lips meet for the first time? When you think just for a second that the only thing in the world you desire is to melt into this person, breathing them in, as a timeless sense of longing and desire springs up seizing you. A dance begins from the first moment that the anticipation builds: a sizzling energy that pops and crackles with every touch, every meeting of the eyes. There is a look that passes between you, a flirt with the eyes, with your demeanor, the way you move around each other weaving out the steps of an intimate dance that brings you closer and closer to the edge of some great abyss until you are ready to close your eyes and leap or burst from the pressure of it all.

It starts with a touch, simple yet charged, maybe it’s on the back of your hand or your arm, then your eyes lock falling into one another. Your heart leaps and soars causing your body to shake. You catch your breath a momentary halt as you wait what feels like an eternity before bodies are brought closer. Just a gentle pressure guiding your back forward until you press fully into another body, the warm heat of another engulfing you, lips slowly brush against yours, the light teasing caress bringing forward a hard need for more.

You feel heat from his breath slide softly across your lips and awaken you. Was there ever pleasure that existed before this moment, before him? What is it in that soft barely there touch that drives you wild, and gives rise to so much need, a need to have him inside you, to have the air pass from inside him to inside you in an intimate caress. You strain to feel that first brush of his lips gently tease against yours, only a whisper of touch. Parting on an exhale, head tipped back you open to him, ready to be invaded, devoured, and whimper when he holds back. It’s just the opening move, the taste that brings you to the brink before his hands claim you, grasping your face between his strong hands and holding you firmly, thumbs pressing into your jaw as you open wider just a hair before the kiss you have been waiting for possessively takes you. You yield, moaning into the exquisite pleasure of this one moment when all that you desire is only a possibility and a yearning. An intense craving for more, to give up everything and fly free because in this moment there is only this, you, him, your bodies, the pulse that races beneath your skin and the echoing beat beneath his skin and the delicious knowledge that anything could happen next.

"Unclaimed Riches"

What cruel words you taunt me with, to hear such sweet praise from your lips.

Unrequited promises lay, of future worth that remain unclaimed.

It is rejection you do speak, when love is a taunt held just out of reach.

A polished jewel, honed and cut.

It sparkles and dazzles and makes you want.

How then do you handle so carelessly,

A precious gem you claim to see, but just like others have left to gather dust.

"Heart's Longing"

If I built a cave to hide myself away in would you battle the dragons at the gate to pull me from my self-imposed isolation?

When I’m standing naked and trembling before you, will you soothe my fears and spin a protective cocoon around me?

Sometimes I am too stubborn and proud to ask for help, will you fight for me because you know what I need better than I do?

When my faith has slipped away, will you whisper the words I need to silence the doubts?

If I get lost in the chaos would you come find me and bring me home?

The walls have all crumbled to dust around me and I am bare before you.

Will you still love me even though I am flawed?

Erotica: Pony for Sale

A fine sheen of sweat began to break out over my skin as the sun soaked into my naked body. The small breeze felt good and I shifted trying to catch more of it, pulling against the rope that hitched me to the post and shifting my shoulders trying to ease the tension from my arms being bound behind my back. There was a long line of us, two rows perfectly lined up shifting around in our spots with impatience. I nervously chewed on the small bit that was in my mouth, thankful that I could swallow around it instead of having a steady stream of drool escape from the corners. I could hear voices, but couldn’t see around the blinders that obscured my vision. I could see the broad body of the boy across from me, all strong lines and hard muscle of him. I could see the lean lines of the boy to his right, and the graceful curves of the girl on his left, and if I turned my head I could catch glimpses of bodies to my right and left. The mix was erratic, no reason or purpose to the line up just a mishmash of body types: some strong built for labor, some lean and graceful built for speed, and others soft and yielding built for pleasure. Some of my fellows stood patiently with a calm ease, while others twitched in the late morning sun, some from boredom and others dancing with eagerness or impatience.

It was hard to tell who was new here and who had gone through this before. It was my first time here and my own nervousness was making it hard to stand still and be calm against my doubts that were creeping in. I had an overwhelming urge to break free and run. I didn’t belong here. I was too new and uncertain, too unsure of myself and my ability to please.

A crowd had started to gather and soon we were no longer alone. Men and women began to move down the line inspecting the merchandise laid out before them. I could hear bits of conversation here and there.

“Fine selection today, don’t you think?”

“Yes, very fine. It should be a lively auction.”

“See anything you like?”

“I have a few favorites, what about you? Have you decided what you are in the market for? You have a pretty large stable already.”

Chuckles, “They have some fine racers today, I may have to pick up a few.”

“I want a pretty one to pull me in a carriage Daddy.”

“Look at that one, strong legs, broad chest, firm muscles.”

I could see the couple examining the boy across from me and cringed as the man grabbed his head and pressed his mouth open to check his teeth. He stood there placidly as they poked and prodded him, clearly unmoved by the attention.

The increase in noise began to pick up the tension around me, causing my fellows to show it in increased movement of their own. I felt the muscle down my back twitch as someone approached me. My heart began to race and I jolted when a hand touched me gently on my leg. I tried to shy away from the touch, angling my body off to the side to little effect.

“That one’s skittish, I hear a woman’s voice say.”

“Yes.” The low timbre of a man’s voice hums through me as his hand reconnects and runs down my leg, “But such graceful lines, she’ll be a beauty in the ring trained up right.”

Pulling against the tie, I try to crane my head around to see them, a fine blush blossoming across my skin as they continue to discuss me, embarrassed at such an intimate examination and critique of my form. He squeezes my calf getting me to lift my foot and I tense as he runs a finger down the center of my foot before placing it back on the ground, then proceeds to repeat the process on my other leg.

“Not likely.” Says the woman, “more trouble than it’s worth, the skittish ones are never reliable.”

“I disagree. They just need more guidance, but with patience you usually find a bright jewel waiting to be carved.”

“She is pretty; I’ll give you that, lovely caramel coloring on her. She would definitely be flashy to own.”

“You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you? Just a bit scared is all.” His voice was a soothing caress as his hands continued to stroke up my leg squeezing the muscles of my thighs and across my ass. I began to settle at his touch and the soft glide of his hand over my back, while his voice crooned at me.

“That’s a good girl, easy now. No need to be frightened.”

My belly tightened as I began to tingle between my legs at being pet by a stranger. His hands felt good despite the embarrassment of being so exposed and in some regards ignored while his hands were on me. He was aware of my body, yes, but I could have been anybody, instead of being this bit of flesh in front of him he was inspecting.

I jerked as he came around and was suddenly just there in my face, his hazel eyes peering at me.

“SA SA, easy girl, settle down now.”

His hand reached up and grabbed my halter lowering my head back down below his, pulling me to him. My breath exploding out of my nose so sharply it moved his hair.

“Careful there Wickham or you’re likely to get bit.” The woman said before she moved down the line continuing her browsing.

“You’re not going to bite me are you girl?”

I chewed on my bit, but settled down at the soft vibrating sound of his voice. His eyes bore into mine. They were soft eyes with a glint of steel in them, and he had a subtle commanding presence to him that eased me.

“Pay no attention to Lady Arianna, my pretty girl. She lacks patience and fails to see what lay beneath the surface.”

With a final pat, the man walked off and I was once again alone. People continued to come down the line touching, feeling, examining. Some of the comments were scathing and others flattering. I hated the attention; hated feeling strangers’ hands on me, while they judged my worth. I didn’t think I was the only one feeling this way. I could hear the restive stamping of others around me, even an admonishment or two over some unwelcome behavior. I was getting itchy and sweaty and restless from the waiting when the announcement came over the crowd for the auction to begin.

We were taken in two’s and three’s off our hitches and lead across the field to a ring. I waited, anticipation making my stomach churn, for my turn to head off into the ring. I could hear bits of the announcer describing what was up for auction.

“Nice strong racer, see his long lines, well muscled legs.”

Then there was a flurry of noise and numbers and then next description would start.

“Good work horse, strong, built for endurance, good temperament. Who will start the bidding?”

It felt like eternity before a young boy came and grabbed my lead, although the shadows cast from the sun hadn’t changed their angles so it couldn’t have been all that long. I picked up my feet and carefully followed him to the entrance of the ring. It wasn’t large; a small oval surrounded by a fence and beyond a cluster of people lined up around the fence on a raised dais, almost like bleachers or a stage. The dirt packed floor was firm under my feet and kicked up little dust as I was led into the ring.

The boy handed my lead off to a man in the center of the ring holding a whip. I balked at the sight of the whip and the sounds of all the people. The man gave a sharp tug on the lead to get me moving and then sent the whip sailing across my ass. I stumbled at first before picking up my feet and finding my rhythm.

“Not very graceful.” Came a voice from the crowd followed by laughter

I cringed at the rebuke and started moving around the ring in a slow circle, the whip grazing my ass encouraging me to pick up my knees and pace. It was disorienting having my vision obstructed. I could only see directly in front of me and had to keep my focus in front of me so not to turn blindly into the curves. I was desperately curious to see the crowd, see their reactions and yet I was afraid to see displeasure on anyone’s face. A sharp crack on my left thigh prompted a lead change as I continued to prance prettily around the ring. My skin flushed with exertion and embarrassment as I felt the eyes of so many strangers drilling into me.

“Next up we have a beauty to offer, untrained and new, well toned and sure to please. Who will start the bidding at $200?”

Hands shot up as the auctioneer began his routine.

“Who will give me $250, 250, 300,325,350,375,400?”

As the numbers grew, I continued to prance around settling into the heat that was growing in my legs and the short quick sting of the whip as it kissed the skin under my ass in sync with my movements. I tried to catch glimpses of who was bidding on me and hoped to see the man from earlier, but was moving to swiftly around the ring to see who was raising their hands. For the second time that day I began to question why I was here and fought against the sudden urge to run.

The man holding my lead must have sensed my change because the whip sung out and struck me hard on my ass, a welt already rising and throbbing before a second strike followed in its wake. I leapt forward into a run guided by the hard pull of the lead keeping me in my steady circle. I was happy for the movement and the demanding pace that was being pressed on me, as it soothed my nerves. I couldn’t help fretting who would purchase me. Would they be kind or cruel? What kind of work did they expect of me and could I please them? I was terrified of failing.

Slowly the sounds around me began to recede and I lifted my head to feel the breeze and sun on my face, my chest thrust out as my arms trailed behind me pressing into my back, and I gloried in the feeling of freedom that came over me while I ran.

I was shocked out of my reverie by a hard yank on my lead pulling me to a stop.

“Sold for $1000”

I jerked my head looking around to see who had purchased me, my heart thudding wildly against my chest. There he stood, my new owner, it was the man from earlier with his soft voice and demanding eyes. My legs trembled and I froze suddenly very unsure of my future, but drawn to him despite my fears.

I was led to a holding pen with another boy in it. A strong lad with well defined muscles, I’d guess he was a racer, but he could also be one of the jumpers too, whatever he was meant for it was clearly athletic. I wondered who had bought him and thought about asking, but he was paying me no notice and seemed content to wait, so I left him alone. Instead I pressed against the fence trying to watch all the activity and hoped to see my new owner come to fetch me. I could see there were plenty of other pens set up like this one, small enclosures holding anywhere from a single pony to several.

There was so much movement and excitement it was hard to contain myself from calling out to others. I wondered how long we would be waiting here and if there would be others joining us. How long was the auction going to last and where would we be going when it was over?

I couldn’t believe all the different types there were. Some of the ponies were already kitted out in fancy finery, while others were in harnesses waiting to be hitched up, probably to a cart.

I eventually grew bored of watching the crowd and was restless and impatient, when I noticed two men approaching my enclosure. I brightened when I realized one of them was my new owner. Hopefully it was time to go to my new home and begin my adventure with him. We were quickly collected and tied to the back of a carriage, pulled by a glossy pair of raven haired beauties, their skin shone in the sunlight, slicked down and oiled to a glossy sheen. The stood quietly, backs arched into lovely lines as their chests pressed forward into the leather harnesses around their breasts. They had the same kind of blinders on that I did, only they also had a harness around their necks stretching it into an awkward angle, arms bound behind them.They had slick boots that hugged their legs coming all the way up only inches below their asses. I stared in amazement at how lovely they looked and how proudly they stood there.

Then my owner bid goodbye to his friend and climbed into the carriage, he grabbed the reins that trailed from the neck harness of the fillies and used a quirt to flick them both on the ass to get them moving. The carriage pulled away at a slow pace and the man occasionally would strike each of them on their ass alternating cheeks to keep them moving forward. It wasn’t long before the each sported a bright lattice work of red lines across the firm mounds of flesh.

We travelled down a dirt lane, the ground warm from the sun and only slightly dusty. The lane was surrounded by a lush growth of trees and other plants. There were little dips and rises, and as we would approach a rise the quirt would sing out and strike the girls harder to encourage them to gain some speed, making it easier on them to pull us up the hill. Occasionally there would be a break in the plant life to expose an open meadow or a branch in the lane. In some of these breaks I could see houses. Most of them were modest, with small barns and enclosure next to them; a couple of them were extravagant numbers with wildly decadent gardens in front, and one had what was clearly a race track off to the side of a barn.

The dust tickled my nose and I could feel it itching at the back of my throat, but despite this the steady rhythm of the movement and the soft sound of the lad tied next to me breathing took on a meditative quality and my surroundings began to fade away as I drifted off into a peaceful reverie, enjoying the feel of the sun on my skin, the birds in the field and the simple pleasure of being free from the steady thoughts that churned in my mind.

I’m not sure what broke through my daydreaming, but as I became aware of my surroundings again I saw that we had moved down a smaller lane and was heading toward a cottage, the dirt lane gave way to a brick paved drive and we came to a slow stop just past the house.

My owner was efficient in getting us both untied and led away from the carriage into our new home. Our arms were freed and the blinders taken off before we were turned loose into very comfortable stalls piled high with hay. I breathed in deeply enjoying the smell of leather, and the clean crisp smell of the fields filling the box stall.

“Okay pretty girl” he said, “I’ll let you take a rest before taking you out and seeing what you can do. I’ll be back later with some food and then we’ll start training.”

He reached out and stroked my head giving me a little scratch at the back for good measure before closing the stall door and shutting it tight. I curled into the hay and found a comfortable position and before I knew it I was fast asleep.