In her own words, "kerryn tredrea doesn't suck, except for money." Visit her Facebook page here.
so you’re travelling…
so you’re travelling down the road, riding, yeah, you’re riding down the road on motorbikes, no horses, you’re riding down the road on big white horses (although yours is piebald, but no one seems to notice) and you can feel the stretch in your pelvis, the way it really opens you up and the horse underneath you is solid, like a block of concrete, only it’s flesh ‘cos it’s moving and you’re moving with it, dilated and panting. and although you’re still a learner you need to gallop, you need to gallop and hope like fuck that the horse comes with you. a sentient beast, he is known as a bit of a people whisperer among his own kind and he’d like to think that he planted the idea, so consensually you dig your heels into his ribs to break from the pack. and the horse knows what you want and how to give it to you because there’s no speed like this speed as you rise up, rise up from the saddle to stand on unsteady stirrups and your legs are the champions in this scenario as you go fast, fast enough to feel the wind in your hair (only you cant, because you’re bald, though no one seems to notice). so you’re galloping, galloping fast, galloping crazy fast and you wonder if you’re gunna keep your balance with your arms outstretched and the increasing speed and the wind and you can and it’s fucken excellent.
it’s quiet now, calm as you crest the last dune to the beach. there’s the smell of the sea and the spray of the horse and the knowing how close you came... your blood beat slows and the horse shakes his mane and neighs as you’re walking down the beach and you get the sense that he’s strangely attracted to your reckless naïveté. so you’re walking on the beach, well the piebald’s walking, you’re just sitting there, higher than normal, sitting there stretched and swollen, chaffed like you’ve just had sex but he forgot to bring his penis, and you wish you’d bought the dildo but decide instead to explore the horse in a more physical way now that you can loosen your grip on the reins. you find yourself rubbing, using your hands to brace yourself, and his hair is rough under your palms, rough when it’s rubbed up the wrong way and the right way. and your legs, though aching are moving to the rhythm, to the pace set by the horse because he’s the one whose really in charge here, he’s the one with all the control. if he chose to bolt and throw you onto the hard wet sand close to the water’s edge – he could. if he took it into his horsey brain to crush your chest right here, end your life right here on the beach then display over your rapidly cooling body – he could. so with fantasies of your own demise you find that the warm moistness that began in your belly is spilling down through channels that are familiar and spreading to the cloth between your legs (only it lands straight on the saddle, because you’re naked, though no one seems to notice).