A Big Black Cock For Tara
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The Taming Of Tara free porn video
Chapter One
Darkness. Darkness and pain. That had been her world for...how long? Shehad lost all sense of time, almost all sense of self. Sensations. The blindfoldcovering her eyes, cutting out all light. Arms crushed together behind herback, tight hemp ropes at elbows and wrists, secure enough to keep her armsutterly immobilised, but not enough to affect her circulation. He was considerateabout some things.... A supple leather collar buckled around her neck, witha short chain bolted to a ring-bolt in the floor, forcing her to kneel withhead lowered; her ankles crossed and tied; the maddening discomfort from thebristly doormat, biting into her tortured knees; her mouth, crammed with animmense penis gag, which almost scraped the back of her throat. He had lefther here to think about her behaviour, about her lack of obedience.
His voice made her start; it was deep, rich, but pleasant and soft, whichsomehow made him appear all the more intimidating. There was power behind thatdeceptive tone, and a massive calm and sense of self-knowledge. How long hadhe been standing there, she wondered, watching her with those deep brown eyes. "Ihope that you now understand the importance of obedience and self-discipline,slave?"
She grunted affirmatively into the gag, so exhausted, so drained, so hurting,that she would have agreed to anything at that moment. She shuddered as shefelt the touch of his hand on her cheek, stroking gently down her face. "I'mnot convinced."
She let out a small sob of frustration. he couldn't leave her like this forany longer. HE *couldn't*!
"You still deny who and what you really are. You continue to fight againstme, against yourself. Until you let your real self free, you will be unhappyand in chaos...and you will not have learned anything."
"I don't need to learn anything. I know who and what I am!" she screamedin the privacy of her mind.
She heard a sigh. "As I thought. We'll continue this chat in a little while." What,could he read minds as well???
She whimpered as his footsteps receded across the flagstone floor, then theypaused. "Oh by the way...happy birthday."
She wept then, realising just how long she had been here, and how distantwas that fateful day, when all this had begun...
***
Tara sat in the changing room, inhaling the unique and stimulating perfumeof leather and polish, barely able to repress her excitement at this, the chanceof a lifetime! She had long desired to play competitive polo in England, andthanks to her scholarship to study marketing at Reading University, she hadfound herself in rural Berkshire, one of the archetypal English shires, homeof the Hunt, and County Society. To be honest, it had its fair share of sinkestates, crime and drugs too, but these social malaises were a million milesaway today. She was at Thurlingham Park, the home of the polo team of the samename, and she was in today's starting line-up. The excited babble from theother girls as they donned their breeches and shirts washed over her as shereflected on her good fortune.
She could hardly believe it. When she'd become aware through university bulletinboards that the team was recruiting new players, and also that there was achance of being sponsored through an IWPA scholarship, she had applied withthe expectation of an arduous series of try-outs. She hadn't been disappointed- the team set high standards and the young Canadian was not an experiencedplayer, although, at 5' 7", with a lithe, disciplined body, and firm thoughnot excessive muscular tone, she was a natural athlete: volleyball, skating,softball, all came as second nature to her, and she was an accomplished equestrienne.She was also strong-willed and determined and these traits in particular stoodher in good stead as she passed try-out sessions, one after the other. Supposedlybetter candidates fell by the wayside as, though they may have been superiorplayers, none could match her deep understanding of her mount, an understandingthat almost appeared to be a symbiosis. It seemed that she merely had to willthe pony and it would do her bidding. Mark Bridges, the team coach, soon recognisedher potential - the poise and surety with which she coaxed her mount throughthe intricate manoeuvres, the supple strength of her right arm as she woundup her mallet for a shot. He could plainly see he had a burgeoning talent onhis hands and was quick to sign her up.
That had been four months ago - Tara had experienced a number of intensivetraining sessions to develop her polo skills to match her horsemanship: swingtechniques for the four main strokes, the mechanics of hitting, short stickpractice, polo riding, stick and bail, and the opportunity to experience thetactics of team play in mini-games. The strictures of this training had suitedher down to the ground. It felt good to have her goals and her limits set forher after so long having to make her own decisions and motivate herself tosucceed. There was almost a sense of release…it felt natural somehowto live within such constraints, let someone else do all the worrying apartfrom the most important aspect, which was to perform to the best of her ability.She thrived upon it.
She acquitted herself admirably in a number of reserve matches and was sooncalled into the first team as a regular substitute. Her late entry into a vitalZodiac Trophy match had been a revelation, with a wondrous goal that had wonthe match and kept a demoralised team struggling with injuries in the competition.As her cheering laughing teammates clustered around her in the saloon bar ofthe local pub afterwards she finally felt the warm sense of acceptance andcamaraderie she'd been seeking, perhaps all her life.
And now she was on the verge of her first match in the starting line-up,playing in the number 4 position, primarily responsible for defence. She knewshe was better than that, and would have liked the pivotal number 3 role, butthat went to the more experienced Dawn Taylor. Still, it was attainable ifshe maintained this level of commitment. And she would...
She methodically checked her gloves, pulled on her helmet over her shortreddish-auburn hair, idly thinking it was about time that she got it cut again,and tugged on her supple leather boots. She was resplendent in her crimsonnumber 4 shirt and regulation white breeches. As she was buckling on her knee-guards,Mark appeared at the door. "OK girls, let's get out there and slay them!"
The team voiced their unanimous approval of this sentiment and trooped outto face the enemy.
***
Dominic Bartholomew, 4th Duke of Malmsbury, was bored. From his seat at theedge of the field he brooded over the proceedings like a raven perched abovethe postern gate at a funeral. He was over 6 feet in height, thin, with darkbrown, almost black, hair and a thin face, dressed casually in black corduroytrousers and an open-necked green shirt. Attendance at these matches was oneof those tedious obligations – noblesse oblige – that were thesedays about the only remaining function of an almost redundant British aristocracy.This whole event was as bizarre to him as the chants of the crowds, FA Cup,and tribalism of football would be to the huntin', shootin' and fishin' setof Berkshire. Although he was the only son of Donald Bartholomew, His Gracethe Third Duke, he had been raised in Islington, now home of the New Labourglitterati, following the acrimonious break-up of his mother's marriage toHis Grace. It had taken the premature death of his estranged father, in a huntingaccident, typically enough, and the subsequent resolve of his mother to returnto the "ancestral seat" over which she was determined to rule like some kindof modern-day matriarch, that had brought them both "home".
For someone who had been raised in the cosmopolitan environment of London,where Soho met Docklands met Westminster met Hackney, this transition to thestuffy, cloistered and ludicrous snobbery of the remnants of the so-called "upperclass" of the County was an incredible culture shock. Privately, he knew theylooked down their noses at him, due to his strong North London accent, hismannerisms, and his perfectly understandable difficulty with conforming totheir feigned standards of etiquette. The major irritant was that fact thathe was the rightful heir to the title seemed to mean nothing to them. His upbringinghad labelled him as "not one of us" and that was a handicap he would neverbe able to overcome. It was not even as if he was uneducated. He had gone tothe Brompton Oratory, where even the Prime Minister's children attended – hehad been to Kings College, Cambridge, and graduated with a second in Psychology.His IQ was possibly far higher than the entire "set" of inbred mutants thatnow looked down upon him, but it meant for nothing here. He was out of placeand apparently out of time.
His one consolation was that the Internet even reached out to this benightedplace and he could continue to indulge his particular tastes in art, photographyand literature in his old virtual haunts. It was a spark of normality in thisnew alien environment, and he clutched gratefully at it.
It had been his mother's idea to introduce him to as many of the local eventsas possible, in order to coat him with a veneer of respectability, somethingwhich served only to re-establish herself in her former position, though meaninglessin the reality of 21st century Britain.
Dominic bore them all stoically, making the obligatory small talk and concentratingon using the cutlery laid from outside to inside during the interminable five-coursemeals. He opened fetes and fun-runs, attended the village church every Sundayin order to dutifully mouth pieties and mime to dreary hymns. He bore it becauseat night he could retreat to his bedroom, and his computer, and re-enter theworld that was...his.
***
Tara checked the girth-strap was secure. This was an English-type saddlewith an overgirth in addition to the regular girth to keep it from slipping.Her chestnut gelding, whose name was Days of Thunder nickered gently and shotan enquiring look back at her. She smiled happily and patted him. She was neverhappier than when she was with him, either riding or grooming, it was all thesame. He had a beautifully sweet nature and personality, more so than mostmen she had known in her life. She bent down to check his leg bandages werealso secure, then put her foot in the stirrup and mounted.
***
Dominic shifted position in his uncomfortable folding chair and was instantlynudged by the Dowager Duchess. He swung a glance in her direction, only tosee her facing the front, a fixed smile on her face. Dominic had not yet masteredthe art of feigning polite interest on these occasions, and the look of sullenboredom on his own face was obvious. It was then that the two teams trottedout onto the field, Thurlingham Park leading, their red shirts a startlingsplash of colour against the green of the trees bordering the field, with theirrivals, Norton Parva, in royal blue behind.
Dominic perked up. He hadn't really been paying attention when his motherhad tried to sell the idea of this event to him, and hadn't realised it wasa women's match. Things were looking up... he fixed a look of polite intereston his face, and settled back to watch...
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- 08.11.2022
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