Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Breaking In


A manipulative man will break her - with force. A noose around the neck elicits screams and panic before a hog-tie and trip. Crush and conquer. Bring her to the ground. A flailing beauty once wild and majestic reduced to pathos in the dust.  Too terrified to resist. Too bound to move.  He mounts and kicks, whoops and whips; she flails confused. They speak different languages, "Give up bitch" he screams, "Fuck off redneck" she thinks. He sticks like Teflon. Dust and chaps flying. Arm swinging wild and victorious. Her legs resist, her neck arches and jerks, her hips revolt in an effort to throw, as spindled legs take all her cerebral effort to enforce the flight instinct within.  He is a rough-rider when she wants - needs gentleness. He chases, traps, ensnares, dominates and breaks. Manual manipulation mangling her mouth.

Every synapse draws on the instinct to flee. She's trapped. Cold steel pressed against soft lips and tongue. Hard men block her escape. Sweat pours...eye-whites stare into his. "I am afraid, don't hurt me." He seizes an opportunity to master and subdue. It's humiliation of something wonderful and she resists. Foam slides between her legs, from her lips, until beauty fades and submission gives way to survival. The fight fades with bitterness. She is conquered - broken.

A good man takes the gentle path. A good man doesn't need to 'break her', he understands her.
A firm hands caress muzzle and throat. Palms glide along her neck, spine, across her flanks, her rump; Down to hock and stifle with a gentle grip, firm but fair. The hand that holds the wither flinch, and the voice that whispers "Whoa, steady . . ."   It's the stroke of tenderness on shoulder and thigh that meets with least resistance. "I will be gentle with you, don't be afraid."

He leans against her, ebbing weight across her shoulders. His arms outstretched from neck to flank. Soft palms, safe hands. His warmth against her side. Reassuring, nonthreatening. Tough glides, slides, calms, and she dips her head. He mounts; gingerly, gently as she flinches with the weight. Dulcet tones and reassurance to her insecurity soothes. He maintains his massage as knees press gently into her girth.  "Walk on. . walk  on . . " 

It's not the words that propel her or make her willing,  but the constant and persistent softness of his voice, the reassurance of his touch, the safety in his presence. The foundation of trust. She takes a tentative step.  Unsure but forward. Hands gentle on her mouth, thighs firm against her spine.

He is master not commander. She is slave yet willing. She capitulates. She is not conquered. She is calmed, a willing supplicant to gentle persuasion.

She is his. And he is hers. Bound but not broken.


  1. smiles...a wise master not to take the spirit of the lass...smiles.

  2. Nice, Baino. You get better at metaphor all the time.


    "He mounts and kicks, whoops and whips she flails confused." - AS she flails?

    "Her her legs resist"

  3. P.S. And that's a beautiful horse. Yours?