If the plight of a woman forced to ride the sharp edge of a wooden horse charges your erotic imagination, you’ll like this erotic account by Breanne Erickson. I’m just going to quote a little bit from the beginning:
As usual the apartment was immaculate. The sofa was out of its usual spot though and pushed up against a wall. The coffee table was completely gone and the side table had been moved to a spare corner in the dining room. In the middle of the living room was the horse and it dominated the decor completely.
If you’re thinking of a real life breathing animal when I say horse, then you haven’t been reading my blog. This horse was neither alive nor breathing. First of all it was made of wood, oak I think, and unlike a typical rocking horse which is decorated in horse-like appendages, including tail, head, mane, and sometimes even hooves, this horse was a diabolical instrument of torture, rather than a child’s plaything. There were no appendages, no rocking rings, no springs, nothing but four legs each going up from the floor to a solid wooden beam. The beam was made out of a solid piece of wood with the bottom spanning a good fourteen or so inches. Both sides of the beam were cut at angles, forming a triangular prism which rested on its side. This left a single pointy edge facing straight up. It had been rounded and sanded, but from experience I knew that were I to put all my weight on that blunted edge it would hurt just as surely as if I took a knife and rammed it up between my legs. Worse probably.
The wood was sanded and varnished and lovingly coated with a thick film of polish and oil. It GLEAMED in the light and I couldn’t help admiring the artistry of its construction. It WAS very beautiful. There were even metal attachments bolted to the underside and on the ends. I had no clue what those were for, but I at least saw them. Underneath the wooden horse were two small step stools, each with two steps. Where the devil had Kari managed to find TWO step stools that actually MATCHED the fricking wooden horse? Torture R’ Us? Crossing between the stepstools and underneath the wooden horse was a spreader bar. It was thick with heavy metal links and fasteners positioned at various spots across its length. There were also two one gallon milk jugs, both sealed, both filled to the top with what looked like sand. Heavy twisted cotton rope attached the handles to thick metal hooks and I knew that both weights were ready and waiting for an appropriate victim.
I swallowed. It’s hard to look upon a device you know is designed to hurt you, badly, knowing that you are about to spend a full six hours riding the damn thing. Even with the “breaks” Kari promised me, I knew that by the time I was done my pussy would be so sore that I’d be lucky to be able to walk.
Elsewhere on Bondage Blog: