Dressage Training

(Written for specific fetish request by SA)

"The Hamiltons have asked whether you can go to Lexington with Mr. Hamilton for the Dressage at Lexington competitions in July, Santo. You'd be his groom for the three days there, and if you worked out well, you could stay on helping them here at Ash Creek Farms for the rest of the summer before you go back to school."

Santo flared up. "I'm not going back to Tech, Mother. I've told you that already. The first year didn't work out." But his irritation was immediately deflated by the trembling caused by what else she had said. "Mr. Hamilton has a groom," he said. "Pete Griswald."

"Apparently Peter no longer works there. And we'll talk about returning to Virginia Tech later. You were doing well there. You got a job grooming the horses right off for the equestrian club there. I thought that's what you were interested in—horse breeding. Winding up working at the Tech horse-breeding program over in Middleburg."

"It is," Santo answered. "But I can work over there anyway—and go to community college here in Northern Virginia."

"What should we say to the Hamiltons? They've been very good to us."

The Hamiltons had, indeed, been very good to Santo's family. His parents had a small farm outside of Middleburg, in the hunt country of Northern Virginia. And the Hamiltons owned a large spread—a horse-breeding farm—that enveloped three sides of the family farm. Winston Hamilton could have squeezed Santo's family out—easily—as this was an area for the ultrarich, and Santo's family was anything but rich. Instead, Hamilton had been friendly to Santo's family, and, knowing how difficult it was for them to make a living from their small farm, had provided seasonal employment to Santo and his father since Santo was a child. The father and son helped with the harvest of Hamilton's vineyard and Santo worked occasionally as a subgroom at the Hamilton stables during the fox hunt season. Santo's father, in turn, opened his land to the Middleburg hunt.

Santo's mother said he should be thrilled at the opportunity to work for Hamilton as a groom and to go with him to the Dressage trials in July down at the equestrian center in Lexington. And he was thrilled. But he was apprehensive too. It had been because of Mr. Hamilton that Santo had decided not to go back to Virginia Tech. Santo had made a fool of himself there and was too embarrassed to go back. And it was all because of Winston Hamilton.

Winston Hamilton brought out disturbing and arousing emotions in Santo. It had all begun for him back during the last harvest of the Hamilton vineyards, although that was just the first time Santo realized what disturbed him about Winston Hamilton. Thinking on it thereafter, Santo realized that he'd had an affinity for the man for years.

Santo and his father had been working hard in the vineyard—stripped to the waist. And Hamilton had ridden one of his dressage horses, the eleven-year-old chestnut Hanoverian, Hochkonig, over from the practice ring to check out how the harvest was progressing. Hamilton was decked out completely in his dressage outfit—a tight black jacket over a white shirt and tight white breeches, with shiny black boots up to this knees. A black top hat, white gloves, and a white cravat, as well. He sat there, astride his sleek dressage horse, smoking a cigar and watching the men work in the vineyard. Santo noticed Hamilton watching him, in particular, and he couldn't avoid stealing looks at Hamilton as well. The man—over forty, but in superb shape and handsome of face, with graying at his temples—looked magnificent. Santo was shocked that he felt himself going hard. He had known that he had a preference for men, sexually, but he hadn't done anything about the urge with a man.

He had carried that image of Hamilton with him to his first year at Virginia Tech, and to get the older man—a family friend, so there would be nothing there for Santo—out of his mind, he nearly threw himself at a football player who he had misjudged on signals of interest. His faux pas, very publicly revealed and mocked by the other man, had made its way around the campus rumor mill, and now Santo couldn't go back there. He also couldn't tell his parents why he couldn't go back there in September for a second year. He had done well at the university stables, though. He knew he could get a job at the school's agricultural research station not far from his home, which had a horse-breeding program famous for developing champion racers and show horses.

"Santo, I asked you a question. We've always done what we can to keep the Hamiltons our friends. They've asked for your help."

"Yes, Mother, I'll go over there now to say that I would be happy to help."

Santo hadn't been to the Hamilton stables since that day, two weeks ago, in late May, that his interest in Winston Hamilton, despite all of his efforts, had spiked again. And Pete, the Hamilton's groom had been fully employed that day. And not just in grooming horses. Santo had come around the corner of the stable block only to stop in his tracks in shock and pull back around the corner. But he didn't leave. He took surreptitious glances around the corner.

Pete's cheek and chest were plastered to the wall between two stall openings. His feet were set more than two feet from the wall and were spread. His arms were raised against the wall on either side, with his palms flat against the wood of the wall. He had a pained look on his face and was moaning and groaning in a deep voice. Standing between Pete's legs in full dressage gear, one gloved hand on Pete's belly and other taking a cigar to and from his mouth, his groin nearly plastered to Pete's bared buttocks, Winston Hamilton was slow-fucking the groom. Pete's jeans were draped around one of his ankles. Hamilton's privates, balls and all, were fully exposed outside the tight white riding breeches, and Santo could tell the man was horse hung because the balls hung low and he wasn't fucking Pete deep. He was pulling nearly all of the way out of Pete's ass, to the tune of the groom's gasps, and then sinking back in far, but not all the way, showing a good three inches of exposed cock root.

Santo pulled away as quickly as he could bring himself to do that and returned to his farm, determined not to come back to Ash Creek Farms—ever, if he could help it. It wasn't because what he had seen had disgusted him, but because this was what he had been trying to fight against his entire freshman year at Virginia Tech—the attraction to Winston Hamilton. The melting fetish of the older man in his dressage outfit, smoking a cigar, and, now, fucking another man.

Santo had never carried through with the urge, but he couldn't deny that he ached to be fucked by Winston Hamilton.

* * * *

"Do you like it? It's our hotel at the equestrian center in Lexington," Winston Hamilton said when Santo came over to Ash Creek Farms on the morning of July 10th for the drive down Interstate 81 to Lexington, near Roanoke. When Santo arrived, Hamilton was hooking up a truck-cab RV to a two-horse trailer. "Just bought it. It's a twenty-nine-foot Coachman Freelander model."

"Hotel room? But us? Both of us?" Santo could feel himself trembling. He couldn't reveal to Hamilton what he was dreaming of—the two of them sleeping in an RV. And not just sleeping. But Hamilton was an old family friend. This just couldn't enter into that dimension. Besides, Hamilton wouldn't want him. He was half Latino and his family could almost be called poor.

"It has a bedroom for me," Hamilton was saying. "And see the bump over the cab? That's a bunk for you. I want to stay as close to the horses as possible. The equestrian center has two campgrounds. It's time to bring out the horses now and for us to get on the road."

Santo went into the stables and took several deep breaths to bring his near hyperventilation into control. One after the other, he brought the two geldings out, the chestnut Hanoverian, Hochkonig, and the younger, seven-year-old, black Trakehner, Lowengren. Both horses were the best dressage horses that money could buy. It was the best of everything for Hamilton. Pete Griswald had been a real looker. Santo couldn't be anything that Winston Hamilton was interested in.

During the drive down the Shenandoah Valley, Hamilton talked easily of his love for horses and the hunt and, in particular, dressage. "Dressage is French for training, you know, Santo," he said. "Although military training and parading of horses goes back to the Greeks."

He talked in general terms about the sport and of his wish to enter the Grand Prix and Grand Prix Special versions of it in the summer Olympics. "There's no disadvantage of not being young to compete in this Olympic Sport. You don't think I'm too old, do you, Santo?"

"No, of course not," Santo answered almost breathlessly. He didn't think Hamilton was too old at all. He thought that Hamilton was in magnificent shape. His mind went back to what he'd seen of Hamilton languidly, but deeply, thickly, expertly fucking Pete the groom. Yes, he thought Hamilton was in great shape. It was him being older that was a big part of Santo's attraction to him—that and how well he wore the dressage costume.

Hamilton spoke of the various gaits of the dressage—the Piaffe, the Passage, the Pirouette, the Trot, the Canter, the Flying Change—and of how precise they were. "The Trot and Canter you know. But the others are higher level—The Piaffe, prancing in place; the Passage, a rhythmic prance; the Pirouette, prancing side to side; and, most refined of all, the patterned changing of rhythm. I would like you to learn the gaits of the dressage, Santo."

"I'd like that, sir."

"Dressage is a sensual sport, Santo. It's all about building a balanced, harmonious team—a horse and rider communicating with each other and melding into each other, attaining a delicate balance of strength, flexibility, and accuracy. It's not just the rider lifting to the heights, but the horse as well, both becoming fully satisfied, both proud of what they attain together, as one."

He was quiet for a few moments, letting the almost worshipful way he'd expressed his thoughts hang in the air.

"Do you know that when I've reached that perfect balance with Hochkonig or Lowengren, I experience an erection and sometimes even ejaculate in the saddle?"

Embarrassed, Santo turned his face toward the passenger window of the cab—but not before having seen that Hamilton was watching him closely.

"Uhh, well . . ."

"Now I've embarrassed you, haven't I?" Hamilton said, keeping his tone light.

"No, sir, not at all," Santo answered with a weak smile that he showed to Hamilton only briefly before looking away again. He fought not to go hard himself, but he was losing that battle.

"I don't want to embarrass you. We're both adult men here. I've watched you grow up, but I've watched you grow into a man, and I think we can be straightforward with each other now. You don't want me to be false or distant from you now that you're a man, do you?"

"No, of course not," Santo responded in a quiet voice.

"I just want to get across the deep meaning that dressage has for me—that it has for most who engage in the sport. I want to indoctrinate you in dressage and help you see it, feel it, as deeply as I do."

"Yes, sir, thank you sir. I understand." Santo said this to the passenger window, not wanting Hamilton to see the conflicted expressions on his face—hoping that Hamilton couldn't see the tightening of his jeans at his crotch. It didn't help that Hamilton had reached one of his hands over and given Santo's thigh a squeeze.

They pulled into the equestrian center at Lexington and got the horses stalled in one of the eight stables at the center, dinner at a fast-food restaurant outside the gates of the center, and the RV berthed at the southwest campgrounds late enough that, exhausted, after showers, they both went to bed—Hamilton to his queen-sized bed in the bedroom and Santo to the bunk over the cab.

Santo couldn't help stroking himself in arousal but he was weary enough that he went to sleep quickly before he could attain release. Hamilton seemed to be saying something to him directly, but what he had said was so direct and bald that Santo was afraid that he had misjudged it—just as he had misjudged that football player at Tech. But if he was saying something directly and with such confidence that he knew what Santo wanted, what Santo was willing to do, what Hamilton wanted him to do . . . unless in his own want, Santo had misjudged what Hamilton was saying . . .

* * * *

Winston Hamilton rode in six dressage classes the next day. Santo stood at the rails, his eyes glued to the magnificent figure of the man in his shiny black boots, tight white breeches, black jacket and white cravat, and black satin top hat. Santo's eyes followed the white gloves, carefully watching every move the man made, every light flick of his riding whip that gave the horses their instructions, feeling the sensuality of the sport just as Hamilton had said existed. By the end of the day, he could distinguish between the specialty gaits. Hamilton had been right that he already knew the Trot and the Canter, but these specialty gaits were, indeed, sensual.

When the competition for the day was over, Hamilton had won the Reserve Champion honors, built from a red-ribbon second, two yellow-ribbon thirds, and a white-ribbon fourth. He was beaming when he turned the reins of Lowengren over to Santo and strode off to the campground. Before he strode off, though, Santo saw the wet spot on the front of Hamilton's white breeches. In fact, the breeches were so tight that Santo could follow the line of the man's half-hard cock, unusually thick, as Santo knew it to be from having seen Hamilton fucking Pete Griswald. It had been as the man had said in the RV en route to Lexington. Finding the balance with his horses as he had had made him come.

Santo walked both of the dressage geldings back to the stables and prepared them for the night. All the time he was doing so, he was trembling, not being able to keep himself from wondering how many times Hamilton had come. He had entered six flights. He had finished high in all of them. The possibility that Hamilton was a virile man still didn't lessen Santo's own arousal for him.

When he entered the RV, he found Hamilton sitting on the sofa, still fully decked out in his dressage gear. He was drinking cognac from a snifter and smoking a cigar. His cock and balls were hanging out of his open fly. He was hard—and thick.

"It was a good day," he said, as Santo stood there, in front of him, mesmerized by the cock. "You have taken care of the horses. Now I want you to take care of me."

There was no hesitation, no hemming and hawing. It may have been arrogant for Hamilton to assume Santo would give into his wants and needs, but he hadn't been wrong. Santo sank between Hamilton's spread knees and sucked his cock to another ejaculation, while Hamilton leaned back and languidly smoked his cigar and drank his cognac. Occasionally he lightly flicked Santo's cheek with his riding whip. When he did so the first time, he said, "The response to that is 'thank you, sir.'"

"Thank you, sir," whispered Santo as he lovingly ran the palm of his hand up the underside of the cock and opened his mouth over the mouth-challenging bulb.

Hamilton rewarded him with a flick of the whip on his cheek. Santo had never done this for a man before, but Hamilton moved the young groom's head with his gloved hands and gave him instruction in low guttural tones—and obviously enjoyed what Santo managed to do for his first time.

"Thank you, sir," Santo whispered again.

Santo wondered at what point Hamilton would make him stop sucking and would move them into the bedroom. After all the time of agonizing over his feelings for Hamilton—for men in general—and his fighting against the possibility of having sex with a man—and with Hamilton, in particular, Santo accepted without another thought that it would be Hamilton that took his male virginity. Hamilton didn't allow him to stop sucking, though, and ejaculated in Santo's mouth. Santo had gagged a bit but took the sucking and jacking off in his stride.

Afterward he stood and started to take off his shirt. "I guess you want to fuck me now."

"I want to fuck you, yes. I want to train you. I've known you wanted me for some time—back to last year in the vineyard during the harvest. And a couple of weeks ago when you watched me fucking Pete. Yes, I knew you were watching. And I've watched you since you were a boy. I knew I would take you some day. But I want it to be special. I want us to find that balance. I will fuck you tomorrow. Now I will take a shower while you broil up those steaks I brought."

This first servicing was all about conditioning. It was about Santo giving Hamilton whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Nothing was given to Santo other than instruction—in much the same way that Hamilton trained his horses. The smile on Hamilton's face as Santo padded off toward the RV's tiny bathroom indicated that he was as pleased with Santo's unquestioned response to instruction that Hamilton received from his thoroughbred geldings. He had been cultivating Santo for this for years.

* * * *

"Push back on it. Slowly, slowly. Now a little faster. You do it all. I just provide the cock in this gait."

Santo was on all fours on the queen-sized bed, naked. Hamilton was mounted on him, just as he would be on a horse. He was fully clothed in the dressage outfit he had come from the next day's competitions wearing. Only the fly of his white breeches was open, and his cock was buried in Santo's ass.

It was Santo's first fuck, so they had reached this position slowly and with much preparation and gasping and groaning. But reach this position they had. Santo had had to remain as steady as possible, gasping for breath and eyes watering, as his virginal hole slowly opened to the ultrathick cock. He had done so, following each of Hamilton's commands, though, in total subservience to his master, without question or objection.

When Santo had returned from stabling the geldings after Hamilton's triumphant day of taking two blue-ribbon firsts and thus easily winning the Champion ribbon, he found Hamilton sitting on the sofa again, erect phallus rising from his open fly, smoking a cigar and sipping cognac. Santo moved to kneel and give Hamilton suck again, but Hamilton said, "No. Now we celebrate. Now you and I begin to train to meet the balance. Strip down for me please." He watched Santo strip. "Ah, very nice. Very nice indeed. To be young and ripped again. Now go to the middle of the bed and go on all fours, please."

Santo responded immediately and docilely. There was no question in his mind that he would give Hamilton whatever he wanted. As he went on all fours on the bed, he felt the white-gloved hands palming his hips and the moist tongue flick in between his butt cheeks, and shivered. His moaning started and didn't stop for more than an hour. He only lurched and thought of complaining twice—first, when Hamilton twirled the damp end of his cigar into Santo's ass and used it like a dildo and then when he began to work his thick cock inside.

The young groom panted and groaned at the inching of the cock inside, filling and stretching him, Santo trying to divide his attention between the feeling of being fully stuffed and possessed and the velvety feeling of Hamilton's gloved hands—one palming his belly and the other cupping his chin, all three points of contact holding Santo steady, on all fours, under the mounted older man.

It didn't take Santo long after Hamilton was fully saddled to feel the two of them merging, a balance starting to form. Hamilton was crouched over his pelvis, fully dressed, the formal dressage attire adding to Santo's arousal. He didn't actively pump in the fuck of Santo in this first taking of the young man's anal virginity to other men, though, until near the end, so much as he instructed Santo on fucking himself on the hard cock.