Mother In Bondage - Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE
    
    Gl­enda Wil­li­ams reached up with her right hand and brushed sev­eral strands of her long, silky black hair away from her blue eyes. She held onto the long, brown leather reins with her left hand, guid­ing the power­ful black horse around the hurdle count one more time.
    “Let’s go, boy,” Gl­enda whispered in a low voice, bend­ing over the homed saddle and brush­ing her full lips against the poin­ted tip of the horse’s light ear. Slap­ping the an­imal hard across the mus­cu­lar butt with her rid­ing crop, Gl­enda dug her heels into his sides and spurred the horse for­ward a break­neck pace.
    “Up! Up!” Gl­enda shouted as she wrapped bath her slender arms around the horse’s neck and pressed her lithe body tightly against the an­imal’s sweaty back. The first hurdle drew closer and closer as the pound­ing of the horse’s hoofs rang in Gl­enda’s ears.
    “How’d you like to slip your cock into somethin’ tight like that?” Sam Becker, the sta­ble­mas­ter asked his young teen­aged as­sist­ant as the two of them leaned against a wooden fence and watched Gl­enda work out her horse.
    “Ever seen a pair of tits on any­one like that? She’s over thirty years old.” The boy flushed red at Sam’s speech, turn­ing away and pre­tend­ing to be fix­ing the bridle that he held trem­bling in his fin­gers. He’d watched Gl­enda Wil­li­ams and her eight­een-year-old daugh­ter work the horse out be­fore, and each time he fell more and more in love with them. He didn’t know which one he pre­ferred. The girl was fresh and bouncy, ra­di­at­ing in­no­cence and wild ex­cite­ment. But there was a sul­try sen­su­ous­ness about the mother. The way she walked, talked, moved grace­fully about the grounds of the es­tate – she reeked of breed­ing, wealth, in­tense sexu­al­ity. Each had her own brand of at­trac­tion to of­fer. And each equally ig­nored Brad Gra­ham. The frus­trated boy was sure that neither wo­man really knew him ex­cept as that scruffy per­son who took the horse after they got through with it.
    “Yes sir, slip­ping my big old dick into that old dame’s cunt would feel mighty fine – mighty fine,” Sam said, glu­ing his eyes on the wo­man’s body as she and the horse cleared the hurdle and rushed head­long to take on the second one.
    “Oh­h­hhh!” Gl­enda cried out as the two of them landed after clear­ing the second hurdle. One more to go. It was the highest one. Gl­enda reached back and whipped the an­imal’s flank. The wo­man could feel the horses rip­pling muscles with her legs as she pressed them hard into his sides. It was strangely ex­cit­ing.
    “Go, damn you, go!” Gl­enda shouted as the horse raised his fore­legs and pushed up with his power­ful hindquar­ters.
    The wo­man felt an un­speak­able thrill of ex­cite­ment and sexual re­lease as horse and rider were air­borne for a few seconds. The wind whipped through Gl­enda’s long hair, send­ing it flut­ter­ing in every dir­ec­tion as she clung wildly to the an­imal’s neck. They cleared the top bar of the last hurdle!
    “Uh­hhh!” Gl­enda was ex­hausted. She’d been around this course five times within the past hour with Des­troyer, her new jump horse. This was the first time that he had cleared all three hurdles.
    “Good ride, Mr. Wil­li­ams,” young Brad said as he jumped over the fence and ran over to the horse.
    “Thank you, Brad,” Gl­enda said, in­hal­ing sharply and try­ing to catch her breath. “I’d take him around an­other time, but I’m ex­hausted,” she sighed, throw­ing her left leg over the saddle and slid­ing down to the round. “Take care of him for me won’t you?”
    “Any­thing you want from the stables, Mrs. Wil­li­ams?” Sam huffed out as he ran up to the stand­ing wo­man.
    Sam Becker was about five-eight, two hun­dred pounds of sweaty, dirty fat, with black, stringy hair that al­ways seemed to be mat­ted down with one kind of filth or other. He car­ried the foul smell of the stables with him wherever he went. Gl­enda would have fired him long after her hus­band Carl had died. But he knew horses. And rais­ing jump horses and ex­hib­it­ing them were her prime pas­sion now.
    “No, thank you, Sam,” Gl­enda said, smil­ing briefly at him.
    Gl­enda knew what the sta­ble­mas­ter was think­ing. It was the same thing that every man around the area thought whenever she shot into view. An empty cunt, aching to be filled with inches of hot cock­meat.
    The black-haired wo­man turned around to look at Brad be­fore she star­ted up the long path to her home.
    “Oh, Brad. Come up to the house in about an hour or so. I want to talk to you about the salary you asked for,” Gl­enda said, nod­ding at the boy be­fore she star­ted up the bill for her home. She ig­nored the snide chuck­ling she heard Sam give out as she swung her arms back and forth and climbed the path to­ward the large, white wooden ante­bel­lum man­sion that crowned the land of Fal­con­hawk. It was all hers now, little com­pens­a­tion for the loss of Carl.
    “Ah­h­h­hhh!” Gl­enda ex­haled as she looked up at the bright blue af­ter­noon sky.
    The crisp au­tumn air, the Santa Inez moun­tains in the back­ground, and the smell of freshly cut grass made her senses reel. All this was hers. And to think that ten years ago, Gl­enda didn’t have the pro­ver­bial pot to piss in. She’d been work­ing in a cheap res­taur­ant just out­side of San Bern­ardino. Carl lit­er­ally waltzed into her life, pay­ing court al­most im­me­di­ately to her as soon as he walked into the dinky cof­fee shop.
    At tint Gl­enda thought he was just play­ing around. But after their first date, she knew that he was ser­i­ous. He liked the way she moved – the way she talked, joked, laughed. Carl said that she had all the qual­it­ies of a well-bred lady, un­for­tu­nately without all the trap­pings well-bred ladies had. He was down in South­ern Cali­for­nia on busi­ness for just a few days. She had to make up her mind soon. He wanted to marry her!
    To Gl­enda, it was like be­ing Cinder­ella and Snow White all at once. She didn’t know if she loved Carl or not. But she did know that she’d had enough of that res­taur­ant and all the cheap jokes about her big tit­ties and firm thighs. Her buttcheeks were black and blue al­most con­stantly from all the pinch­ing she took.
    Gl­enda ac­cep­ted. Carl made up a story about her back­ground, re­hears­ing it with her shortly after their wed­ding ce­re­mony in Los Angeles. She’d come from the East – Bar Har­bor, Maine. She was an ob­scure heir to the present-day As­tor for­tune. Carl knew that the story was twis­ted and vague enough to sat­isfy his neigh­bors. Few of them had con­tacts in the East that could verify or deny this story. Be­sides, Carl was power­ful enough and re­spec­ted enough to be taken at his word.
    For ten years, Gl­enda lived the life of a story­book prin­cess. Wealth, power, po­s­i­tion – they were all hers, along with a good deal of love from Carl and his eight­een-year-old daugh­ter Alana. It was in the fi­nal three years of their mar­riage that Gl­enda and Carl de­veloped a pas­sion for horses. They star­ted breed­ing them for ra­cing at first. Then Gl­enda saw some of her neigh­bors put on a jump show. From that point on, she con­cen­trated on horses.
    “Oh Carl,” Gl­enda said sadly, stop­ping for a second some thirty feet in front of the pillared man­sion and look­ing sadly at the por­tico.
    She re­membered how the two of them would start every week­end out by a wild fuck in bed. He’d taken to fuck­ing her dog­gie-style, churn­ing his fat seven-inch dick in and out of her up­turned pussy while he strummed her clit with one hand and squeezed her tit­ties with the other. Then after a quick shower, they’d both take the horses out on an early-morn­ing run. It was good – too good to last. One day Gl­enda came home from a shop­ping spree and found the long, curved drive­way filled with cats. They be­longed to friends and neigh­bors out to con­sole her on her loss. Only minutes after she’d left to go shop­ping that morn­ing, Carl had col­lapsed and died in their bed­room from a massive coron­ary. He was only forty-two, and every inch a man. Big chest, flat belly, power­ful legs, power­ful cock. Carl be­lieved in work­ing out con­tinu­ally. “You’ll live a hell of a lot longer with good ex­er­cise,” he would al­ways tell her.
    Gl­enda sighed again, then walked slowly up the stain to the front door, slap­ping her rid­ing crop gently against the side of her right boot.
    “A good day, ma’am?” Hilda, the maid, asked as she opened the door and took Gl­enda’s cap and crop from her.
    “Not bad, Hilda. Des­troyer’s look­ing fine. I hope to show him won,” the wo­man said, smil­ing gently at the maid.
    As she walked through the long en­trance­way, Gl­enda stopped at the end and took a long glance at her­self. She was wear­ing tight-fit­ting black rid­ing coat that was opened all the way down the front. The white cot­ton blouse be­neath the coat clung to her chest and big tits.
    Gl­enda never wore a bra, some­thing her daugh­ter cri­ti­cized her for and some­thing Sam Becker al­ways looked for­ward to. The tan rid­ing pants dis­played her long, slender legs and firm thighs, while the black rid­ing boots ad­ded a touch of mas­cu­line power that heightened rather than de­trac­ted from her fem­in­in­ity.
    Gl­enda knew she was highly de­sir­able. She could read it in the eyes of every man from her law­yer to the foul smelling Sam Becker. The wo­man smiled at her re­flec­tion, rais­ing her right hand and smooth­ing down her hair. After Carl, it would take quite a man to sat­isfy her.
    “Mother?” Gl­enda heard a young voice sud­denly call out from above her.
    “Alana? I thought you’d be gone by now,” Gl­enda said, walk­ing out into the large re­cep­tion area of the liv­ing room. Gl­enda’s pretty, blonde daugh­ter leaned over the pol­ished oak rail­ing that ran along the top land­ing of the stairs and looked at her step­mother.
    “Mother, do I have to go?”
    “Come on, Alana. You know your father would’ve wanted you to. It’s just for the night. Your grand­mother in­sists on your vis­it­ing at least once a month,” Gl­enda said, feel­ing a flash of some­thing like hatred and fear. Gl­enda had never got­ten along with Carl’s mother. Gl­enda guessed that his mother knew she didn’t come from any wealthy fam­ily. She al­ways en­joyed giv­ing the bru­nette cold, killing looks whenever she could. Any semb­lance of ci­vil­ity stopped after Carl’s death on the old wo­man’s part. But Gl­enda kept try­ing to be pleas­ant to her.
    Be­sides ty­ing to make life easier for Alana and every­one around, Gl­enda real­ized that the old lady still owned a large hunk of stock in Carl’s com­puter com­pany. She could cause a lot of trouble if Gl­enda rattled her cage once too of­ten.
    “She’s so stuffy. And all she talks about is how stu­pid you are,” Alana said, wrink­ling up her nose.
    Gl­enda curled her fin­gers into fists. She forced a smile onto her face and looked up at her daugh­ter.
    “Never mind that. You get ready, and I’ll have James drive you over there,” Gl­enda said, walk­ing into the study from the re­cep­tion area and clos­ing the door quietly be­hind her. Gl­enda walked over the thickly piled car­pet­ing to the tall dark-wood wet bar. She opened the glass cab­inet doors and pulled out a bottle of gin. She poured her­self a tall gin and tonic. She was be­gin­ning to down more li­quor every week, some­thing that alarmed her when she was sober.
    What was the prob­lem? Money? She had plenty of that. Carl’s mother? She’d had plenty of that be­fore and it never really bothered her. Loneli­ness?
    “Uh­h­h­h­h­hhh,” Gl­enda sighed, feel­ing the li­quor bum down her throat and fire up her belly. That damned tingle in her cunt star­ted up again. Yep, that was it! Gl­enda walked stiff-legged over to the long, brown leather couch at the other end of the room. Gl­enda kept telling her­self that no man could sat­isfy her pussy the way Carl did. But she was still a vi­tal, nor­mal wo­man. Second-best was bet­ter than noth­ing at all.
    Gl­enda sat down on the edge of the couch and took an­other long swig from the cold glass. The si­lence of the room made her think that a pave would sound like this – quiet, op­press­ive, chillingly still. She wasn’t dead yet! She couldn’t stand to be cloistered up like some kind of pen­it­ent nun!
    “God!” she moaned again, look­ing down at the ice cube float­ing around in the cen­ter of her glass.
    That odd, throb­bing ache rippled through her cunt again. Gl­enda leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She’d have to use her fin­gers again to­night. God, how she hated do­ing that! It seemed like such a waste. And when she held her stiff clit between her fin­gers, rolling it around like a tiny ball un­til she thought she’d pin on the wrinkled sheets from ex­cite­ment, Gl­enda was only seconds away from bel­low­ing out for any man to come char­ging in and fin­ish up the job.
    But the bru­nette had al­ways gone over the edge and cum with her fin­gers all over again. It star­ted along the in­sides of her thighs like a tiny series of elec­tric shocks, un­til her cunt­lips, her buttcheeks and her belly felt heavy, flushed and hot.
    “Mmmmmm,” Gl­enda groaned.
    An­other at­tack of the horn­ies. But this time she couldn’t seem to shake them. Be­fore she’d man­aged to drive those erotic thoughts out of her mind un­til she’d climbed into bed. But now… It had to be the gin and all the ex­cite­ment from rid­ing Des­troyer that af­ter­noon.
    Gl­enda sighed. The bru­nette took one long, last sip from her drink, then put the glass down on the cock­tail table and stood up. She felt hot wet­ness en­vel­op­ing her swampy pussy as she star­ted walk­ing to­ward the large wooden study doors.
    Her breath­ing was shal­low and rapid as she stepped out of the study and into the brightly-lit re­cep­tion area of the man­sion. Gl­enda wondered why she was so ex­cited. Then it struck her that she’d in­vited young Brad Gra­ham over to dis­cuss his salary. She couldn’t talk to him. Not now, not with her pussy juicing and flut­ter­ing like the box of some hot whore.
    Gl­enda couldn’t trust her­self. Her mind was buzz­ing with frus­trated sexual de­sire and booze.
    As Alana walked sul­lenly down the stairs car­ry­ing her overnight suit­case, Gl­enda sud­denly wanted to ask her step­daugh­ter to stay at home. The bru­nette didn’t trust her­self alone with the boy.
    “Maybe you should stay home,” Gl­enda said, reach­ing out and tak­ing her step­daugh­ter gently by the shoulders.
    “No, Mother. You’re right I should see Nana at least a couple times a month,” the girl said sweetly, kiss­ing her mother lightly on the cheek.
    “Well, take care of your­self,” Gl­enda said, sigh­ing in dis­ap­point­ment as she walked arm-in-arm with her step­daugh­ter to the door. “James will bring you back to­mor­row,” she called out as Alana ran down the long stair­way to the black Ca­dillac parked in the drive.
    The gray-haired chauf­feur tipped his hat at both Gl­enda and Alana as the girl climbed into the rear seat and slammed the door shut. The bru­nette stood at the top of the steps and waved good-bye to her daugh­ter. As she turned to go back into the house, Gl­enda caught sight of Brad climb­ing up the hill. Suck­ing in a ragged breath, she told Hilda to make the boy com­fort­able in the den while she went up­stairs to change.
    “Damn, damn, damn!” Gl­enda said as she ripped off her rid­ing clothes and threw them care­lessly on the king-sized bed. She stripped down to her sheer white panties, then ripped open the closet door and pulled out a long blue dress.
    As she closed the door, Gl­enda glanced in the mir­ror and saw a dark, wet­ness stain­ing the crotch panel of her panties. It was pussy juice, leak­ing out from between her puffy labes and soak­ing her briefs! Would the boy smell it? Would he be able to sniff her out and see that she was in heat?
    Gl­enda could feel her nipples tight­en­ing with ex­cite­ment as she pulled the dress over her head. The rough ma­ter­ial scratched her tit-tips teas­ingly, send­ing tiny shocks of ex­cite­ment rip­pling through her big tits and down to her cunt. Gl­enda reached back and zipped up her dress, slip­ping into her heels and star­ring quickly to the door of her bed­room. She had to get rid of the boy quickly. If she didn’t treat him coldly and brusquely, there was no telling what kind of trouble she’d get in with him.
    “Madam will be down shortly,” Gl­enda heard Hilda say as she stepped out of her bed­room onto the land­ing. She saw Brad dis­ap­pear into the study.
    Gl­enda star­ted down the stairs. The more the bru­nette tried to pull her­self to­gether, how­ever, the more she felt her dig­nity and cool­ness dis­ap­pear­ing. Her clit began to burn like a flam­ing jewel. Each step down the stain ad­ded to the fric­tion of her cun­tal sur­faces rub­bing against her clit-tip. The throb­bing in her pussy seemed to rob her of her strength. Her twat­lips were red and hot.
    Gl­enda felt worse as she reached the bot­tom of the stairs and walked slowly to­ward the study. She was temp­ted to ask Hilda to ac­com­pany her. But that would be an in­sult to her self-re­spect. She could handle her­self. She was a ma­ture wo­man. If she wanted to, she could face the hot, young, vi­tal Brad Gra­ham with a cool, sex­less eye and stare him down mer­ci­lessly.
    Gl­enda kept telling her­self this as she reached for­ward with icy cold, trem­bling fin­gers and pushed open the doors to the study.
    “Mrs. Wil­li­ams,” Brad said, smil­ing sheep­ishly at her as Gl­enda walked in briskly and closed the door be­hind her.
    The bru­nette re­fused to look at the young boy as she moved grace­fully be­hind the large wooden desk in front of the Eng­lish manor-style win­dow and opened the top drawer. Draw­ing out a large green ledger book, Gl­enda opened it up to the last page and traced her right fore­finger down a row of fig­ures. She con­cen­trated on the state­ments of salar­ies of her em­ploy­ees, even though the wo­man sensed that Brad was aroused by her pres­ence.
    “Brad, I’m glad you called my at­ten­tion to your salary. Ac­tu­ally, my law­yer Mr. Duncan’s been tak­ing care of every­one’s pay. But I see that yours is far be­low the rest of the staff. I’ll have a talk with him to­mor­row,” Gl­enda said, clos­ing the ledger book with a loud snap and shov­ing it back in the top drawer. Gl­enda stood be­hind the desk, look­ing and al­most feel­ing as cold and busi­ness­like as the char­ac­ters Joan Craw­ford used to play.
    “Mrs. Wil­li­ams, I really didn’t come up here just for a talk about my salary,” the boy said, flush­ing furi­ously.
    Gl­enda felt her heart sud­denly skip a beat, then pound wildly in her chest. Her brain star­ted buzz­ing again as she felt her knees turn to rub­ber. Sexual lust raced through her body as she leaned against the desk and stared hotly at the blush­ing boy. Her cool went right out the win­dow.