The sky is large on large days and small on small days. The rain is smooth on soft days and hard on cold days. I clatters through my brain like you or me (me or you) in pony shoes. Pony shoes with lots of buckles to strap on tight to the calves and the thighs so white. The butt-plug with that swooshing, swishing tail. And the studded leather corset with rings where the nipples go. A nice soft leather collar. The hair slick and neat and flat from combing with the curry brush. The bridle with a hard bit to chew on.
“Come on horsey, giddy-up pull this cart.” Through the muddy patches that the rain left we go. The shoes will be dirty but we have a tongue, don’t we. Round and round the garden until we are exhausted. The leather whip leaving welts on the white flesh.
The trees are crying over us. Drops running over our cheeks and shoulders and backs and legs. Softly, quiet, the neighbours might hear us.
How big the sky is on submission days and how small on domination days.