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The horse suddenly veered to the left, snorting and threw his head up, nearly hitting my nose. I wrestled with the reins and reluctantly he resumed our course. ‘Bloody horses. Thousands of years as man’s companion and still scared of pigs.’ Vicky laughed from the saddle of the much larger horse alongside me. ‘You really don’t like horses do you?’ ‘I hate the bloody things. And, what is more, there are about four miles of pig fields before we get back to the farm. And, I have to wear this ridiculous outfit.’ ‘Oh do come off it, Suzy. You look good enough to eat and it shows off your arse deliciously. Don’t you just love the raw power between your legs?’ ‘Actually, no. I might if I was in control of it but Pansy and I both know I am not.’ Vicky had told me that she always called gelded horses names like that. ‘Perhaps you’d have more fun if you rode with a bung in your arse?’ I looked at her and smirked. Her cornflower eyes had that wicked smile and her blonde, short cut hair, flicked around her ears beneath her tweed cap, the one she preferred to a riding hat like the one I was wearing. Vicky’s father, grandfather and a long line of previous ancestors had farmed, become rich and died to pass the farm and wealth on. She, the last of the line, had inherited, leased the farm and kept the magnificent farmhouse and enough land to indulge her love of bloody equines. It was my love for her that led me to be where I was at that moment. ‘You’ll be fine. Old Pansy’s a great old thing, bomb proof if you show him who’s boss.’ It became almost immediately clear that Pansy was not convinced of my managerial skills as he reared, whinnying and ejected me from the saddle. I felt as though I were suspended in mid air for minutes before a searing pain in my shoulder was followed by a crack on the head and welcome oblivion. I became aware that I was looking up at a blonde framed face with four eyes which was surrounded by pale blue. I tried to focus but couldn’t. I felt a hand pass across my forehead and stroke my hair. ‘I’ve called an ambulance. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. You banged your head.’ Of that fact I was painfully aware. ‘Does, it hurt?’ ‘I think the battle of El Alamein is being replayed inside me.’ ‘Don’t be melodramatic. Be brave, sweety, not long now, I can hear the siren.’ I knew now that I was lying in her lap. I could see, very blurred, the shapes of the two horses tied to a fence post, presumably the fence that had assaulted me. ‘The nursing profession’s loss was my gain.’ Vicky chuckled. ‘We had a nurse we called Henry at school. She had teeth like Pansy’s. Her sole diagnostic technique was to shove a finger up your arse.’ I half muttered that I wished she’d shoved Pansy up Vicky’s arse. ‘I’ll let that pass since you’re not at your best.’ While the paramedics where assessing me, Vicky told me that kaçak iddaa she’d have to take the horses home but that she’d come straight to the hospital as soon as she had. I understood this but felt disappointed nevertheless. She kissed me, stood and I could see her more clearly in her jodhpurs, boots and Barbour. Then I threw up in a rather spectacular manner and passed out again. I had no idea what time it was when I next knew what was going on. Vicky was sitting on the bed at my feet reading a paper. A nurse was shoving something in my ear and a blood pressure band was tightening around my upper left arm. The other arm was screaming blue murder. ‘Ah, back with us are you?’ I took in my surroundings as the nurse continued. ‘We think you’re concussed and you’ve definitely bust your upper right arm. The doc’s sending you for a head scan to make sure it’s nothing worse, then an x ray for your arm and theatre later.’ ‘My Fair Lady?’ That was Vicky from the foot of the bed. I asked, ‘Can you do something about the pain?’ ‘As soon as the doctor says it’s okay, yes.’ ‘I meant the one at the end of the bed.’ Vicky guffawed in her best upper class school manner. ‘You puked all over my riding boots.’ Once in hospital you become part of a system. The trolley I was on was pushed hither and thither, I was shoved through a large metal doughnut, photographed by a jolly woman wearing a blue apron and a badge that announced her name as Verity. ‘Nasty break,’ she opined cheerfully, staring at the x ray. ‘Not to worry, right as rain in no time. Bye for now.’ Then I was wheeled to a ward where Vicky was sitting comfortably in a chair still reading her paper. She looked up and watched as I was hefted onto the bed. She pulled her chair alongside the bed and ran her hand over my forehead. ‘My god, you’re wearing a bugger’s nighty.’ She laughed, referring to the inevitable hospital backless gown. ‘I swear they only do that to humiliate you. Good job your arse wasn’t like it was a couple of weeks ago. They’d be doing me for domestic violence.’ I hadn’t thought of that. The nurse came back accompanied by a woman in a long white coat, stethoscope traditionally wrapped about her neck. ‘Your head’s fine. The arm’s a bit of a mess and we’ll be seeing to that this afternoon. Good job you hurt yourself so early this morning or you’d have had to wait until tomorrow.’ How comforting. ‘Smashing bruise on your bum, looks like someone took a cricket bat to it.’ ‘That’s what a fence post can do you for you,’ said Vicky helpfully. The doctor and nurse left. ‘While your being fixed I’ll go home, change and feed the animals then I’ll be back here before you are, so don’t worry. Want anything from home?’ ‘Could you shoot Pansy please?’ I was operated on at four that afternoon. Vicky was there to greet me when they wheeled me back to my kaçak bahis bed although I was a bit drowsy and far from good company. She promised to come in the morning to take me home. The nurse came in as we were kissing goodbye. ‘Sorry to intrude.’ Vicky didn’t stop kissing me for a while then, when she did, she said, ‘No problem. Just saying goodnight to my Hausfrau here.’ Turning back to me. ‘Bye darling. I’ll bring some clothes for you. They cut all yours off. £100 jods cut up! Appalling waste.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘at least there’s some good news.’ She smirked, kissed me again and left. * They let me out after two more days of ‘bed rest.’ I was not allowed to drive for a week to make sure the concussion was all gone. I felt limp and the arm hurt a lot despite the painkillers. Vicky drove me home. She’d brought me a loose dress which was easy to get on but she had ‘forgotten’ underwear. ‘I’ve filled the freezer with ready meals. I can’t have you cooking with one arm and I don’t cook as you know.’ I knew that only too well. If she went near a kitchen with intent to cook, milk curdled, eggs broke and food turned toxic. I didn’t say that of course. What I did say was, ‘Suppose they’d seen the marks on my arse.’ ‘Then they’d have known more about us, wouldn’t they?’ “But would they have called the police?’ She held my hand. ‘Darling, everything we do is for my pleasure and your discipline. You’d have had to explain and there would be absolutely nothing anyone could do. It’s absolutely none of their business, is it?’ Whilst I accepted that, I was glad the cane welts on my backside had disappeared. It’s so hard to explain a relationship like ours. She then asked me a question I had never anticipated. ‘Are you ashamed of the marks?’ ‘Not a bit. I just know that other people don’t understand.’ ‘Fuck ‘em is what I say.’ * ‘We haven’t been out for a social since you threw yourself off Pansy.’ Vicky had been taking care of me and I knew she was restless for some activity. She rode every day and we walked the dogs together of course but she was a social animal and loved going out. I was improving rapidly, had lost the plaster cast and although I still needed a sling I could cook again and do my normal duties around the house mostly. ‘The Hunt are doing Burns Night again this year, Saturday in fact. I thought I’d take you.’ Now, to be brutally honest, the local Hunt was not entirely my thing. They all loved horses for a start and thought anyone who didn’t was a heretic. They threw lavish balls and fund raising events and since they were mostly rich or aspired to be, they always wore expensive clothes and drank industrial quantities of champagne. Not that any of that was bad, it was just that they were all Vicky’s friends rather than mine. The good thing about them was that they were, as the landed rich often are, illegal bahis earthy and accepting of any type of sexuality. Saturdays in January can be dull. Short, cold days and even shorter, colder nights. I suspect one of the reasons for Burns Night’s popularity is that it is an excuse to find a reason to dress up and enjoy and forget the chill and misery that is a British winter. A long dress, dark blue with a scooped neck and a full skirt was her choice for me that Saturday evening. The taxi was due at 7.30 and I was expected to be ready by 7 so that we could have a drink together before we left. That meant me getting ready then pouring our drinks and waiting for Vicky to sort herself out. She came down to the sitting room where a fire burned in the hearth and low lights sparkled on the two glasses of bubbly that I had poured. She looked stunning. A genuine Scot’s kilt with the obligatory sporran, long socks with knife tucked in, a white frilly-fronted and cuffed shirt and a black, short jacket with brass buttons. She wore a black bow tie. ‘How do I look?’ ‘Sumptuous.’ ‘Good enough to eat?’ I smiled and she lifted the front of her kilt to reveal that she, at least, followed the alleged tradition that nothing should be worn beneath it. Her eyebrow lifted and I knew what was expected of me. Hitching up my dress as she spread her legs for me, I knelt at her feet and paid my respects to the Venusian mountain. The heavy kilt fell over me as I loved her, my tongue finding her treasure, playing around her folds and her little but growing clitoris. I sucked her then, squeezing and rolling that little nerve bundle. I could barely hear her but I didn’t need to to know that she was on the brink. She had been wet when I got to it and I knew she’d brought herself to a state of arousal before she came downstairs. She wanted a quick one and got it. I felt her excitement, her arousal, her orgasm as it rose and crested and she gave me her thick liquid. I licked her down and clean, loving her gift as I always did. We were among the last to arrive at the party. Men and women dressed much as we were. She’d placed a tartan shawl on me, across one shoulder and pinned at my hip. With my bad arm in a light sling. We stood at the entrance to the large hall of the Leader of the Hunt’s baronial mansion. It was scene from a film depicting Scottish life. Everyone stood, drinking a variety of drinks and a waitress, dressed like a Scot’s maid, passed through the throng of perhaps sixty people with a tray of glasses. We each accepted one. The bagpipe screamed the welcome to the haggis when we had finished a bowl of soup. Increasingly relaxed by alcohol, the guests applauded with clapping and whoops as the blessed pudding was ceremonially brought in, carried on a huge silver platter. The Leader drew his knife and ritually stabbed it before the incantation of Burns’s famous ode; happily not its entirety. The waitresses served the traditional meal. Vicky sat opposite me between a man of about fifty years and a woman of about forty.

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