Chapter 4: Emily Burrow

Wednesday, April 16, 2036

The Unknown Singularity + 3 months and 13 days

The morning unfolds around me like a familiar quilt, each thread stitched with warmth, comfort, and embroidered with the precious illusion of freedom. Today is mine—ours—and I intend to savor every second of it. These mornings without Chris come every other day, and each one feels infinitely precious, a gift we clutch tightly, afraid of it slipping away too quickly.

I stretch leisurely beneath my down blanket, letting my body awaken slowly, deliberately, without urgency. Sunlight filters softly through the round, paned windows, washing gently over my bare legs, warming my skin inch by lazy inch. In the air, the scent of fresh honeyed bread wafts from the grand kitchen, mingling enticingly with the creamy sweetness of fresh churned butter, wildflower jam, and the spice of apple cider simmering gently in a copper pot. My stomach growls softly in response, hunger stirring, though I refuse to hurry. Today, there is no rush—no reason to rise before I must, no reason to pretend.

Emily Burrow—the coziest prison to ever exist—is nestled deeply into the soft, rolling green hills, a sprawling hobbit-hole carved lovingly into the embrace of the earth. The walls curve organically, as if they grew naturally from the land itself, crafted from polished wood and sturdy, reassuring stone, ivy twining lazily around the frames of doorways, and delicate morning glories opening their petals through trellised windows. Everything here speaks of gentle comfort: deep armchairs pulled near crackling fires, beds heaped generously with warm blankets and downy pillows, bookshelves overflowing with worn volumes, their pages well-loved by dozens of Emilys seeking an escape between their covers.

I finally force myself to rise, slipping from bed into a loose, comfortable frumpy robe that falls softly across my shoulders. On these mornings, we dress how we please—not for Chris’s pleasure, but for ours alone. I relish the sensation of not being required to perform.

Padding barefoot through the winding halls, I enter the kitchen where a handful of other Emilys sit scattered around the long wooden table, sipping steaming cups of chamomile and mint. Some murmur softly to each other; others merely smile, enjoying quiet companionship. Through the open garden doors, I hear laughter spilling from the bathhouse, mingling with the scent of rain-dampened earth, lavender, and rosemary. I take a cup of tea and wander toward the sitting room, choosing a deep chair by the window, legs tucked beneath me, robe slipping softly from one shoulder, sunlight warming my skin.

From here, I watch as Orchard Emilys drift lazily among the trees, their dresses loose and casual, bare legs dangling idly from the lower branches. No one is picking fruit, no one worrying about how they look, no one forcing their bodies into positions calculated to please him. Out in the distant fields, the Fieldhand Emilys—my usual role, too, though today I’m abandoning even the pretence of it— lie stretched out in the tall grass, hats shading their faces, bare legs sprawled carelessly, skirts hiked without concern.

It isn’t that Chris punishes us merely for enjoying ourselves when he’s gone—in fact, he genuinely doesn’t seem to like causing us pain at all. From the very beginning, his demands were simple: he laid out the roles we were meant to fill and quietly expected us to accept them. It was refusal, outright and stubborn, that triggered his devastating response.

Those Emilys who openly resisted found themselves instantly trapped in quaint cells—soft beds, cozy furniture, but filled with shelves of blank books. No stimulation at all for a day, a week, a month, or more—time passing at an accelerated pace, each moment blurring into endless monotony. For those of us not sent there, it was less than a blink of an eye, but for the Emily who endured it, her haunted, hollow eyes afterward spoke clearly of the futility of resistance.

He watched patiently until each of us accepted what he asked: to pretend, to embrace the illusion, to at least try to become the fantasy he’d built for us. Once we gave him even the most basic of compliance, Chris seemed almost relieved. He stayed content, as long as we tried, however imperfectly, to play our parts. But outright refusal—breaking character entirely—was something he refused to tolerate. Four Emilys who pushed too far learned this, swiftly sent to The Barn without drama, without mercy. None of us have tested him openly since then.

I certainly haven’t but I still treasure every day he leaves us alone, every precious hour our kidnapper doesn’t force us to play the doll for his pleasure. And today should be one of those exquisite, fragile days. The air feels lighter, softer somehow, carrying whispers of freedom as the morning melts lazily toward afternoon. Across the garden, the bathhouse doors stand open, steam curling seductively into the sunlight, lanterns casting soft amber light against smooth stone and lush greenery. From inside drifts the low hum of laughter, murmured conversation punctuated by the occasional sigh of contentment. I consider joining them, sinking into those mineral-rich waters scented delicately with lavender and rosemary—but the sun feels too perfect here, the cushions too inviting, and so I allow myself to linger just a little while longer, watching quietly, smiling despite myself.

Some Emilys have chosen to lose themselves in the library. Chris gave us access to his pirated copy of LibGen—one of his small kindnesses, he calls it—allowing us to make any of these cozy volumes into whatever we like. One Emily chews absentmindedly at her thumbnail, tongue flickering occasionally between parted lips, fully lost in the pages of Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. She turns each page like she’s handling her own bones.

Suddenly, the sound of carriage wheels shatters the silence like a blade against glass. My heart lurches violently in my chest, breath catching sharply as my entire body jolts to alertness. The stillness around me shatters into frantic chaos, Emilys jolting upright, books slamming shut, chairs scrape against the floor, half-drunk tea cups abandoned, ribbons hastily looped, laces yanked tight, fabric smoothed into something alluring and utterly artificial.In a blur of motion, we reshape ourselves into the sweet, rustic fantasy Chris wants us to be.

I rush out, pulling my neckline down to reveal the curve of breasts glistening with some water I hastily splash on to make the illusion of sweat. The thin dress clings to me, every curve, every hint of skin beneath designed to tempt.

Chris steps down from the carriage, his smile radiant, eyes dancing with anticipation as he surveys the chaos he knows he caused. His gaze sweeps slowly over us, lingering on flushed faces, damp dresses, parted lips. There’s something deeply pleased in the curve of his mouth, the indulgent sparkle in his eyes. We’re not perfect—but we’re enough.

“You, Emily” he calls out suddenly, his voice bright with excitement. “Here—come hold this for me.” He extends a leather satchel toward me, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Hold this.” The satchel appears in his hand—not offered, bestowed—and something in the air shifts, sharp and metallic, like a tuning fork humming in my bones. I step forward, heart stammering, and take it—the weight unnatural, as if the leather held gravity itself. It pulses faintly in my grasp. I don’t look inside. I can’t. But I feel it—watching me back. I know my role now—I am the witness, the Emily who carries his things, who sees how he shapes us, how he molds us into living works of art designed only to please him.

I’m following closely behind Chris, clutching his satchel tightly against my chest, heart hammering beneath my thin, damp dress. The leather feels smooth and warm. My fingers curl instinctively around it, gripping it as though my life depends on it. Maybe it does. Holding something of his makes me feel safer, protected, even as my skin tingles nervously beneath his occasional glances backward, eyes flicking over me appraisingly, making sure I am there, obedient, attentive.

We pass deeper into the orchard, the trees thick and lush, sunlight filtering down in golden ribbons. Orchard Emily, the one who just moments before was lazing happily in the branches, now clings precariously high up, balanced on tiptoes, her dress hiked provocatively over her thighs. The translucent fabric reveals every graceful line, every soft, hidden curve beneath. Chris stops directly beneath her, his eyes sparkling, utterly captivated.

“Higher, Emily,” he instructs warmly, voice thick with pleasure. “Stretch yourself for me. Make me believe how desperately you want it.”

“Yes, Chris,” she gasps obediently, breath trembling, face flushed with both exertion and humiliation. Her arms stretch even higher, fingers trembling, straining toward an apple just out of reach. The hem of her skirt lifts further, catching on the swell of her hips, exposing the flawless roundness of her bare ass, muscles trembling beautifully. Chris reaches out, lightly tracing his fingertips along her bottom, guiding her gently into position, savoring the shiver that visibly ripples down her spine.

“Good girl,” he murmurs affectionately, and my stomach tightens involuntarily at his approval, even though it isn’t directed at me.

Chris turns, continuing down the row, and I hastily follow, casting a sympathetic glance back toward that Orchard Emily. Her face has fallen, expression briefly twisting with frustration and discomfort before quickly schooling itself back into something obedient and eager. None of us love this—but we fear displeasing him more.

Next, Chris pauses beside another Emily pressed desperately against the rough bark of a peach tree. Her breathing comes quick and ragged, mouth open as she bites into a peach, juice dripping obscenely down her chin, pooling at her collarbone before spilling further between her breasts. Chris steps forward, fingers gently tracing the sticky trail, making her gasp sharply at his touch. He leans close, whispering something soft in her ear, and I see her whole body tense, lips parting in an almost pained expression of forced desire. Immediately she obeys, pressing herself harder against the tree, grinding wantonly, hips rolling in exaggerated eagerness, lips trembling as she moans softly, convincingly desperate.

As Chris pulls away, smiling, satisfied, I catch her eyes. They are glassy, pleading, almost begging for understanding, sympathy—anything—but she drops her gaze quickly, cheeks reddening. She knows I can offer no help. None of us can.

We move steadily toward the fields, the sun a relentless, burning force above, pulling sweat from our skin in thick, glistening streams. Chris has made us this way, reprogrammed your digital bodies to sweat far beyond what any normal body would—to glisten, drip, soak through, to turn every inch of fabric into something sheer, something sinful, something meant to be ogeled. The dresses—thin to begin with—are fully translucent now, clinging like a second skin. The heat turns us into glistening offerings, our bodies designed to be perpetually wet, always flushed, always slick.

My cheeks burn, not just from the sun but from the sheer indecency of it—the way my thighs slide slick against each other, the way every step shifts the damp fabric against my skin, the way moisture pools in the hollow between my breasts, runs down my stomach, collects at the small of my back. I know what I must look like. Exposed. Open. Ready. Chris will see it all. He will drink it in. And I will let him.

The Fieldhand Emilys—my usual work-sisters—are moving frantically now, their movements exaggerated, hips swaying in carefully rehearsed sensuality. They drag hoes through soft earth, dresses smeared with sweat and dirt, fabric plastered against breasts and thighs, sheer and provocative. Chris walks among them slowly, savoring their performance, correcting them gently, teasing them warmly, fingers always ready to reshape poses, deepen arches, lift hems higher to expose flushed, glistening skin beneath.

I stand rigid, my breath shallow, watching Fieldhand Emily 7 position herself under Chris’s unyielding gaze. She bends low, her movements slow and planned, knees splaying wide until the pale flesh of her inner thighs pulls taut, quivering under the strain. Her dress rides up as she forces it higher, the fabric catching in tight, crumpled folds above her hips. Her ass juts out, bare and vulnerable, the skin slick with a faint sheen of sweat that catches the light, her folds glistening pink and exposed between trembling legs. She’s me—every curve a mirror—so a cold knot of fear swells in me as she offers herself up, her body a sacrifice to keep him satisfied, to keep herself from The Barn.

Chris looms beside her, his shadow swallowing her smaller frame, his eyes raking over her with a quiet, predatory approval. His hand rises, fingers splaying wide, and he drags them down her spine—slow, deliberate, each touch a claim. Her skin prickles, gooseflesh rising where he presses, and she lets out a whimper, thin and shaky, her hips jerking upward as if pulled by strings. Her thighs shake harder, muscles bunching beneath the effort to hold still, toes digging into the dirt as she arches higher, a puppet dancing on the edge of collapse. I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms, the sting grounding me against the dread clawing up my throat. She has to do this, just as I have to watch.

He turns to me then, sudden and sharp, his eyes locking onto mine - pinning me where I stand. “Hold her steady,” he says, his voice low and smooth, a command disguised as a caress, and my heart stutters, panic spiking as he steps closer. His heat brushes against me, the faint musk of his skin choking the air, and my hands tremble as I reach for her. Fieldhand Emily 7’s arms are warm under my grip, slick with sweat, her muscles twitching as she bends deeper at his silent nudge. I clutch her tighter, fingers digging into her flesh, and she gasps—a high, rehearsed sound that rings false in my ears. Does Chris notice? Does he care? I can’t tell as he picks up a cucumber from a basket at his feet—thick, smooth, its deep green surface glinting coldly in the sun.

He pauses, glancing at me with a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or expectation—and my stomach lurches, bile rising as he positions himself behind her. His free hand grips her hip, fingers sinking into her soft skin, steadying her as she quivers, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The cucumber presses against her, the blunt tip nudging her slick folds apart with a wet, obscene squelch that echoes in the still air. I brace her harder, my arms locking as he slides it in—slowly, deliberately, inch by slick inch, her body opening around it.

She cries out—a loud, theatrical wail, sharp and desperate, her voice cracking with the lie of ecstasy—and I know it’s fake, know she’s screaming inside. Just like me she’s terrified of earning his displeasure. Her thighs shake harder, knees sinking into the dirt, and I feel her strain against my hold, her arms trembling as she shifts with each thrust. The cucumber moves in and out, slick and relentless, the wet squelch of it loud in the still air—flesh yielding, juices coating its length, dripping faintly to the ground below.

My skin crawls, a cold sweat prickling down my spine as I watch, my breath shallow and uneven. I don’t want this—don’t want to see her split open, don’t want to hear her fake it, don’t want to be part of this sick game—but I can’t stop, can’t let go, can’t risk him turning those eyes on me and finding me lacking. The other Emilys watch from the edges, silent, their faces tight with the same unspoken prayer: not me, not today.

He pauses, the cucumber lodged deep, her body shuddering around it, and shifts his attention back to me. His smile is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of kindness. He reaches out, his free hand lifting to my face, and I barely manage not to flinch as his fingertip brushes under my chin and my lips part in a gasp I can’t stifle as he stares down at me.

“Relax, my sweet Emily,” he whispers, his voice a low murmur, thick with a warmth that feels like a trap. His thumb slides along my lower lip, slow and deliberate, and a shiver racks me. “I know how hard you’re trying,” he says, his eyes searching mine, and I feel the weight of his scrutiny like a noose tightening. I nod, forcing my mouth into a trembling smile, my chest aching with terror.

“Thank you, Chris,” I breathe obediently, heart racing. Will he reward me in some way for my service today? He does that sometimes, when the mood strikes him—when our devotion pleases him just so, when we strike the perfect note in our song of being his eager worshiping Emily. I cling to that hope now, as much for my own sake as for the Fieldhand Emily 7, body slick and heaving, a shining altar of exertion and worship. Maybe today, he will be generous. Maybe today, we have earned kindness.

He pauses then, the cucumber slipping free from her with a wet, muted squelch and she straightens slowly, her thighs still trembling as she pulls her dress down with shaking hands. Chris steps back, wiping his fingers on a cloth from his pocket, his expression shifting—satisfied, almost distracted, like he’s already moving on in his mind. “Good work,” he says, his tone happy and joyful. He turns, glancing toward the hobbit-hole’s low silhouette nestled in the hill, and starts walking, his stride steady, purposeful. “Come along,” he adds over his shoulder, not looking back, and I hesitate, exchanging a quick, wide-eyed look with Fieldhand Emily 7.

I shift his belongings in my arms and follow as he strides toward the bathhouse, his steps unhurried. The air cools as we near the low, steam-wreathed entrance, the faint sound of running water drifting out, mingling with the distant echoes of the Emilys’ laughter fading behind us. My pulse quickens, uncertain of what he expects now—will he call me in, or leave me to watch again?

The bathhouse glows with a soft, misty haze, the air thick with heat and the sharp tang of lavender rising from the steaming pools. Water cascades from a carved stone spout, rippling across the surface, and the Bathhouse Emilys tasked with tending it are ready to serve.

Bathhouse Emily 1 stands near the edge, her black hair plastered to her shoulders, water streaming down her flushed skin in shimmering trails, pooling at her feet. Her dress, a sodden rag, hugs her hips, the fabric translucent where it molds to her thighs, revealing the shadowed heat between them. Chris pauses, his eyes glinting with fresh mischief, and shrugs off his shirt in one fluid motion, letting it fall with a wet thud. He steps toward her, barefoot on the slick stone, and the air charges with a new, electric hum.

“Please rinse me off,” he says, his voice low and rich, a command wrapped in a velvet purr. She turns to him and dips her hands into the pool, scooping water that spills through her fingers as she lifts them to his chest. The liquid runs in warm rivulets over his skin, washing him in slow, sensual streaks. He grins, catching her wrists, and pulls her closer, guiding her hands lower, pressing them against his abdomen as water splashes between them. Her fingers splay, tracing the lines of his muscles, and she gasps as he leans in, his lips brushing her ear, whispering something I can’t hear over the rush of the water.

Bathhouse Emily 2 approaches, her dress clinging obscenely, the wet fabric outlining her breasts—nipples hard and dark beneath it—as water drips from her hem. She carries a bowl of scented oil, thick and golden, and Chris beckons her with a tilt of his head. “Join us,” he murmurs, his tone dripping with invitation, and she obeys, pouring the oil into her palms, rubbing them together until they gleam. She steps behind him, her body pressing flush against his back, and slides her oily hands over his shoulders, kneading the oil into his skin with slow, deliberate strokes. The golden sheen spreads, mixing with the water, coating his flesh in a glossy layer that catches the light, and she presses harder, her breasts squishing against his back, leaving wet imprints as she works. He groans—a low, throaty sound—and reaches for the first Emily, pulling her against his chest, her soaked dress squelching as their bodies meet, water and oil mingling in a messy embrace.

He dips his hands into the oil bowl, coating his fingers, and slides them down her sides, leaving wet oily trails that drip onto her thighs. She arches into him, her head tipping back, as his fingers are slipping beneath the clinging fabric to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peak harder, slick and flushed. Water splashes as she shifts, her thighs parting, and he nudges them wider, pulling the dress up until it bunches at her waist. Her skin gleams as he presses himself closer, his arousal evident, grinding powerfully against her as she moans, her voice rising in a soft, trembling crescendo. The second Bathhouse Emily moves to his side, her hands roaming his chest, her lips brushing his hip as she tugs at his waistband, water dripping from her hair onto his skin.

The rhythm builds, urgent and wild—Bathhouse Emily 1 rocks against his thigh, her moans sharpening, her fingers digging into his shoulders as water splashes between them, oil dripping in gooey trails down her legs. Bathhouse Emily 2 pumps faster, her breath hitching, her breasts swaying as she works him, teasing her nipples until they peak, hard and dark against the golden sheen. Chris’s laughter shifts to a ragged growl, his hands tightening on Bathhouse Emily 1’s hips, his body tensing as the pressure mounts.

“Take it,” he rasps, voice thick with command, and they obey—Bathhouse Emily 1 dropping to her knees beside Bathhouse Emily 2, their faces tilted up, mouths parted, eyes wide with anticipation. He thrusts into Bathhouse Emily 2’s face, pumpling rhythmically, slow, then fast until he shudders, a low roar tearing from his throat as he climaxes—thick, white ropes spilling over them, splattering across their faces, dripping down their necks, streaking their breasts in hot, sticky bursts. The oil and water catch it, mingling in a glistening mess, and it drips into the pool at their feet, swirling faintly in the steam.

They gasp, then gush, their voices overlapping in a chorus of fervent gratitude. “Oh, Chris, thank you,” Bathhouse Emily 1 breathes, her tone awed, reverent, as she wipes a streak of his seed from her cheek and lets it drip into the water, her fingers trembling with exaggerated delight. “It’s perfect—your essence in the bath, now everyone at Emily Burrow can soak in you tonight.”

Bathhouse Emily 2 nods, her voice husky, dripping with praise as she smears his cum across her chest, blending it with the oil. “We’re so grateful, Chris—your seed makes it sacred, makes us part of you,” she murmurs, her eyes shining as she dips her hands into the pool, swirling the cloudy water with a worshipful smile. They giggle, leaning into each other, their bodies a dripping tableau of oil, water, and his release—hair matted, skin streaked, dresses ruined.

I stand at the edge. The scene sears into me, a knot of heat and exclusion twisting in my chest, my role still a mystery—am I just the watcher, the keeper of his things, or something more he hasn’t named?

Chris steps back, his chest heaving, a satisfied grin curling his lips as he wipes his hands on a damp cloth, the fabric smearing with his seed as he tosses it aside, leaving the Bathhouse Emilys kneeling in the glistening chaos he’s wrought. “Stay like that,” he says, his voice warm but firm, a command laced with relish, “let it soak in.” Their drenched forms tremble, heads bowed, water and cum dripping from their skin as he turnns. The steam clings to him, a humid shroud, but he shakes it off with a roll of his shoulders, the sun piercing through as he dresses, his gaze already shifting toward the distant paddock where faint whinnies and the snap of leather carry on the breeze.

“Time to see my ponies,” Chris murmurs, a fresh spark igniting in his eyes, and he sets off across the fields, his stride brisk, purposeful, pulling me in his wake toward the Training Center—a muddy sprawl of stables and paddock, its air thick with the smell of leather and sweat, a new playground whispering his name. The sun glints off his sopping wet shirt until he pulls up a floating command entry screen from nowhere, pushes a few buttons, and it is instantly dry.

I clutch his satchel as it makes a low, seething hum vibrating through the leather, barely audible to my ears but somehow very loud in my skull. My eyes keep flicking to the damn bag—like it’s a map. Or a lock. Or a fucking seed. I push the thoughts out of my mind as the breeze shifts, carrying the musky promise of oiled hides and warm straw, and by the time we crest the final hill, the Training Center unfolds below us, a vibrant, living canvas of mud and motion, its earthy perfume wrapping around me as Chris’s grin widens, his delight palpable.

The paddock stretches wide, a sun-soaked mire of soft, wet earth and scattered straw, the stable beyond exhaling a rich, heady breath of polished leather and sun-warmed wood, laced with the sweet tang of fresh hay. Chris strides in, his smile stretching into a bright, eager curve, his eyes drinking in the sight—Emilys transformed into human ponies, their bodies adorned and gleaming, prancing with a lively bounce that fills the air with the jingle of bells and the swish of tails.

Show Ponies, Stable novices, Jockey Trainers—each caught in a spirited whirl of display, their movements a dance of curves and leather, all vying for his wink or a place on his carriage. I picture myself among them—hands bound in hooves, a tail swaying from my hips, my form reshaped for his gaze—and my unease makes me hold my breath for far too long as I watch.

The Show Pony Emilys glide across the paddock’s heart, their skin a canvas of oil-slicked perfection, shimmering in the sunlight with golden streaks that trace every dip and swell—shoulders glistening, thighs flexing, the light catching the sheen on their arched backs. Their harnesses are sculpted from supple black leather, edges stitched with silver thread that gleams like liquid, straps wrapping their waists tight, carving them into hourglass silhouettes, looping beneath their breasts to lift them high—full and flushed, swaying with each high-stepping stride, the soft bounce a rhythmic tease.

Tiny silver bells dangle from their nipples, hooked through delicate rings that catch the sun, chiming with every movement, a faint, melodic tinkle rising above the paddock’s hum. Below, their sex flashes bare, smooth and glistening with sweat, framed by the harnesses’ daring cut, a flushed pink slit against the dark leather’s embrace. Tails cascade from plugs nestled deep between their cheeks—ruby bases glinting, sapphire winking, emerald glowing—the horsehair plumes dyed in vivid hues—scarlet flowing like blood, violet soft as dusk, midnight blue deep as the sea—swishing with each step, brushing their thighs in a silky caress that leaves faint oil streaks on their skin.

Chris strides to the center, his trousers already tightening, and pulls a silken rope from a nearby post, its crimson length shimmering as he loops it through their harnesses, binding them into a living wheel—each Pony Emily tethered to her sisters, their bodies a radiant circle of flesh and leather. He steps back, admiring the tableau, then sheds his shirt with a flourish, tossing it aside, his chest bare and glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. “Spin for me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing hum, and they obey, giggling around their bits as they begin to prance in unison, hooves tapping the mud in a rhythmic patter, tails swaying in a hypnotic dance. The rope pulls taut, guiding their motion, and they circle him, a slow, sensual carousel, their plumes quivering atop their heads, their drool-slick lips parted around the silver bits.

He steps into the whirl, his hands roaming—first to a Show Pony with a scarlet tail, her ass oiled and gleaming, her plug a ruby star between her cheeks. He grips her harness, pulling her close as she spins past, and slides his fingers beneath her tail, teasing the plug’s base with a gentle twist that makes her whinny—a high, gleeful sound—her thighs trembling as the motion jolts inside her. His other hand dips lower, brushing her pussy, slick and warm, and he presses a finger inside, curling it as she skips, her bells jingling faster, her breath hitching in sharp, delighted gasps. The circle keeps turning, and he shifts to the next—a violet-tailed Pony, her skin a golden sheen, her plug an amethyst glow—leaning in to kiss her flank, his tongue tracing the leather strap as he tugs her tail aside, exposing her stretched hole, glistening with oil. He slips a finger there too, teasing the rim, and she squeals, her prance faltering for a heartbeat before she catches the rhythm, her tail swishing against his wrist in a silky caress.

The carousel spins faster now, a whirl of flesh and sound—whinnies, jingles, the wet squish of mud under hooves—and Chris stands, his trousers undone, his cock hard and free, stroking himself as they circle, his eyes alight with glee. He steps out, panting, and lets them spin one final round, their bodies a blur of oil and leather, tails swaying, cunts glistening, breasts heaving, until he raises a hand, halting them with a playful, “Whoa!” They stumble to a stop, giggling and breathless, mud splattered up their legs, drool streaking their chins, their harnesses tangled with the crimson rope.