Ponies…why did it have to be ponies?

Tonight, I am going to fuck my wife from behind while she wears a bit and face harness, which will be nicely attached to a set of reins I’ll be holding. Somewhere, there will also be a riding crop smacking her round, juicy flank.

The reason why we’re going to be doing this is because last night, she talked dirty to me and gave me a hand job while we lay next to each other in bed. And somehow, we got on the subject of her being fucked like a horse, and then the riding crop appeared in our shared storyspace, and then, naturally, the reins and bit.

The weird thing is, long time readers of this blog will know that my wife was freaked out when she first heard about pony play. And pony play didn’t really do much for me. But, little by little — or should I say bit by bit, if you’ll pardon the bon mot — we slowly introduced a bit and reins into our pegging sessions a few times.

I still don’t know that I’m into pony play — the only time I’ve seen photos or read about it and found it at all exciting was at This Girl’s blog. (Her website makes me feel like I felt in junior high looking at my first hardcore porn. Every taboo my wife and I have somehow looks hot when she and her lover do it — masks, complex torture devices, strange hoses of liquid being funneled into a mouth…I keep thinking “When I grow up, I want to try that.” Which is highly illogical, I could try it now, it’s just so far deeper into the lifestyle than we’re at.)

I don’t know if I want my wife to be a pony — I think we just like the objectification, so no carrots or stamping her hoofs — we like that she’ll be like a pony, reduced to grunting and neighing and drooling around the bit gag while I pound her and call her little nicknames, tapping and hitting her flank to control her movements. In effect, I don’t want to roleplay her being a pony — we want to play at her being a woman reduced to pretending to be an animal for a powerful male.

Needless to say, as she urged me on with her dark words of animalistic fucking and her own objectification, and how she wanted — no, needed — it, I came. Hard. There was no part of the bed safe from wet spotting after the torrent of semen that came forth. We both ended up spending a half hour after we cleaned up rediscovering spots we missed, her complaining that if she’d known she would have set me off like that, she would never have done it, and me sheepishily apologizing while my own come dried against the sheets and my skin.