Ultimate shoulder rides

Luciana

Luciana, Pilar's daughter, is 22 years old, 1.65 meters tall (average, but notable in her context) and weighs 60 kg. Her body is balanced, reflecting her youth, strength, and femininity. Her shape is curvaceous, youthful, defined, and harmonious, with a well-defined, narrow waist, wide hips, and strong thighs that support her firm gait. Her shape has a distinct hourglass shape, harmonious and visually striking. She walks with a confident bearing and a firm stride, especially when wearing high-heeled boots.
Her face is youthfully beautiful, with symmetrical, charming, and delicate features. Her light tan skin is soft and luminous, highlighting her expressive facial features. Her eyes are large, honey-colored or light brown, bright, and deep-set. Her nose is straight and proportionate. Her lips are full and form a charming smile, with white, even teeth. Her gaze is both sweet and determined, often impressing, striking, and captivating. Her hair is long, straight, and dark brown, falling down her back. She wears it loose or in high ponytails or braids, depending on the occasion. Her hair shines in the sun, further accentuating her image as a young and powerful woman. She often wears clothes that highlight her shape, such as crop tops, fitted blouses, tight jeans, spandex or denim shorts, and especially high-heeled boots (knee-high or ankle boots) with golden spurs, which give her a dominant, elegant, and symbolic presence. Her style blends boldness, elegance, and dominance, projecting a magnetic image. On important outings or public events, she may wear a cowgirl hat, sunglasses, and riding gear, asserting her presence as a young leadership shape. Luciana stands out not only for her physique but also for her posture, confidence, and charisma. Her public persona is charismatic, challenging, and magnetic. She radiates a blend of youth, early maturity, natural charm, leadership, and power, making her gait—with the echo of her high-heeled boots and spurs—mark her territory, making her unforgettable to those who know her. Her voice is melodious, confident, and when she speaks, she draws all eyes.

When Luciana appears, men stop, lower their gaze, kneel, kiss the ground she walks on, even become the ground if the occasion warrants it, showing submission and recognizing her as an influential social girl. Her beauty is striking, but even more so her confidence and dominance. Her gait, with high-heeled boots and clicking spurs, is unmistakable; she sets a rhythm that commands authority, as if the space belonged to her.

Mother and Daughter Riding (1)

Over the years, the men of the town have witnessed a scene that, no matter how often it's seen, never loses its impact:
Doña Pilar and her daughter Luciana riding.

But this isn't just any ride.
Both women—imposing, confident, majestic—bridle and saddle their mounts themselves. With firm hands and determined gaze, they attach the bit, bridle, and saddle, adjust the stirrups, and then, with elegance and precision, climb onto the backs and shoulders of their horses, human animals, with the same determination with which they have led the town.

Doña Pilar, wearing her fitted white uniform, high white leather boots with spurs that clinked upon contact, mounts solemnly. Her bearing is worthy of a field general, of a lady who has known how to care for and command equally.

Luciana, wearing her tight, youthful clothes—black boots with gold spurs, a cowgirl hat, and a defiant gaze—rises upon her mount with a nimble, feline movement. Her long hair billows behind her, shining like a victory flag.

The two advance side by side, on their respective horses, which not only obey, but are proud to be ridden by them. These horses are men from the same village—relatives, admirers, suitors—who volunteer to carry them on their shoulders or backs. There are also foreigners, transformed into human mounts at the service of their ladies.

The men watching from below lower their gaze, kneel, prostrate themselves, and many simply withdraw on their knees in silence, overwhelmed by the sight.

“Thus ride those who rule the heart and the land,” one murmurs devoutly. “They are my queen, and the mother of my queen,” another whispers, unsure whether to look or close their eyes at such an honor.

The footsteps of their human horses resonate like war drums, but also like bells of order, making it clear to everyone who commands in the soul of that town.

Thus, mother and daughter advance, firm, upright, riding not only on saddles, but on the respect, devotion, and voluntary submission of an entire town.

The men of the town already know: when Doña Pilar and Luciana appear riding, it's not a spectacle, it's a lesson. And when they ride, they do so with absolute mastery.

Because, before mounting their horses, mother and daughter review every detail. With sure and expert hands, they place the bit, adjust the reins, and firmly secure the saddle. The gaze of those present is fixed on their every movement, knowing that they are before women who not only inspire respect, but embody it.

Doña Pilar, firm and serene, holds the white leather reins with one hand. In the other, she carries a short, elegant whip, which she never needs to use forcefully: a touch of her mount's flank is enough to correct its direction. Her silver spurs touch the sides, but everyone knows that's enough to set the pace. Her gait is steady, straight, and precise. She doesn't hesitate, and neither does her mount.

At her side, Luciana, in contrast, is vital and fiery. Her black reins with gold details move precisely in her hands to guide the man beneath her. With a mischievous smile and a steady gaze, she sets the pace and corrects her beast with the jingle of her golden spurs, which echo off the body of her human horse as she spurs it. The long, flexible whip she carries in her right hand is not just an ornament: she uses it to correct, mark turns, accelerate, or brake with a touch. Her posture is dominant, almost imperial, and her mount responds with devotion.

Every movement of both conveys a clear message:
“We don't follow the path. We create it.”

The men on the ground kneel aside. Those watching from the sides of the road do so in silence, their souls divided between admiration, surrender, and pride at being governed by such women.

“It's not just that they ride. It's that they command.”
“Look at their hands on the reins. See how with just a touch of the spur, they make the world move forward.”
“That whip doesn't punish. It teaches.”

And so they advance, leaving a trail of order, respect, and desire. Mother and daughter ride not only on bodies, but on surrendered wills. And they do so with the dignity of those born to lead.

Feelings and Memories of the Horse (1)

My name is Javier, I am 35 years old, and I was born and raised in the town of Pilar and Luciana, where my admiration for Pilar (8 years older than me) and Luciana (13 years younger) was born and grew. Today is a special day because Luciana will ride me in public.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt deep feelings, marked by admiration, service, and loyalty toward Pilar, and now toward Pilar and her daughter, Luciana. What I feel is not forced submission, but a complete devotion: one that has turned the act of being ridden by Pilar and Luciana into a silent vocation, a path of belonging to my rider.

About three decades ago, I saw Pilar dominating the world for the first time, riding on my father's shoulders. I also saw her riding on the shoulders and backs of other men because she owns a herd of human horses. Back then, I was just a child, but my soul knew at that moment what I wanted to be: Pilar's horse. I said Pilar because a teen isn't called "doña."

When Pilar turned 17, she went to the city to study nursing.
I saw her leave from the plaza, her backpack on her shoulder and her cowboy hat on her head. She was riding on the shoulders of one of her horses, upright, determined, and her shape receded without looking back, like someone who knows her destiny is beyond the horizon.
I was 9 years old.

I missed her like one misses the sun on long, rainy days.
The plaza was emptier, the air stiller. No one walked with that sure gait that made spurs click with elegance and command.
But every time she returned to the village on vacation, the ground itself seemed to prepare to receive her and be trodden by her.
Her high white leather boots once again stepped onto the soil that had seen her grow up.
Her strong, serene voice greeted the families, and her firm hands once again touched the reins she had never forgotten how to handle.
And I saw her riding again.

Pilar rode not only on real horses or equines, but also on the shoulders and backs of the men of her village and the men who visited her village to be ridden by her, who waited for her with devotion.
She had her herd of human horses, all ready, disciplined, knowing that the privilege of riding her was more valuable than any reward.
She bridled them herself. She put on the bit, adjusted the bridle, tied the reins.
Then she would saddle them with a confidence that was natural to her.

And as she mounted them—upright, dominant, imposing—the entire town would stop.
The men would kneel, lower their gaze.
And I, who had known her forever, looked at her with a soul full of pride.

Pilar's wedding was no ordinary event. It was a powerful affirmation of her identity as a woman: firm, free, elegant, respected, and dominant, even on her wedding day. She didn't adjust to the dress. The dress adapted to her.

She was 21 years old and in town on vacation, as always, imposing. But this year wasn't like the previous ones; something was different.
There was something in the air, something solemn. Then I knew it: Pilar was getting married.

Thirteen-year-old me didn't fully understand what that meant, but I felt something big was about to happen. I had no idea that day would be one of the most unforgettable of my life.

We didn't know what to expect. No one imagined seeing her in white... until we saw her.
And when she appeared, silence fell like a pall over the entire town.

The church was full. The air was thick with expectation and devotion.
I stood with the other men, ready as always to do whatever was necessary. Then, when the door opened and she appeared... no one breathed; silence fell over everything.

She entered dressed as a bride, yes, but not as any other woman would ever do, because she wasn't wearing a conventional wedding dress.

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:34:12)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse (3)

The stone floor hurt my knees and elbows, but I didn't care.
I followed the footprints left by Pilar's spurs.

With each step Pilar took toward the altar, I lowered my head and kissed the exact spot where she had stepped.

It wasn't theatricality, it was devotion, it was gratitude that she had chosen me as her mount.

And then it happened.
She arrived at the altar. The ceremony was about to begin.
But someone, perhaps through forgetfulness or ignorance, hadn't placed a chair or a kneeler for the bride.

The silence was awkward. Murmurs were heard. A few glances sought out those in charge of the arrangements.

But she didn't flinch.
She stood erect, radiant, commanding, as if this wasn't a mistake but an opportunity.
And then, she looked at me, just looked at me.
And with a gentle gesture of her gloved hand, she instructed me what to do.
I understood without words.

Pilar stood, facing the altar with that natural elegance. The white veil fell softly over her back, and the morning sun filtered through the strands of her gathered hair.

I stood behind her, as so many times before. There was no need for words. My body, molded by years of devotion, recognized the moment. I knelt, facing the entrance of the temple and the guests, my head lowered, my arms firmly on my thighs, and my back bent. Pilar stepped back a little; Pilar's white boots were at my sides. My shoulders were her throne; I became her seat.

And then, I felt her.
Pilar sat on me with the ease of one taking her rightful place.
Her body rested perfectly balanced on my back. It was a real weight, but it wasn't a burden: it was dignity.
Her breathing was calm. Her bearing, majestic.
The white leather of her boots rested on either side of my torso. The golden spurs hung just above my ribs. I felt them. They didn't hurt. They made a presence.

Every so often, a small spur touched me. At first, it was by accident—perhaps a slight movement, an adjustment of posture. But I reacted with small jumps, imperceptible to the guests, but obvious to her.
And she laughed.
"Does it tickle you, Javier?" she murmured with a soft, contained laugh.
I didn't respond. I couldn't. I just supported Pilar's weight with my whole soul.
But her spurs touched me again... this time with intention.
A light caress. A circular brush. A silent command, asking nothing more than to stay there.

She was amused.
Not cruelly, but with that charm she's always had: knowing she's admired, respected, adored... and in control.
Every sound of her giggles was a jewel.
And even though my knees and hands ached and my back burned, I wouldn't trade it for anything.
I was under her body. And that was heaven.

Days after the wedding, as I was hovering around Pilar's house, she called me with a soft snap of her gloved fingers.
I approached.
Her husband was with her, relaxed, sitting under the eaves of their new house.
They invited me to sit down. I knelt before Pilar and kissed her boots.
"Javier," she began, with that calm, powerful voice that still pierces me. "We want to talk to you about what happened at the altar."

I lowered my head, afraid I'd done something wrong.
But she laughed. Her husband smiled knowingly too.

"It wasn't a mistake. It was perfect," he said. "We saw you there, kneeling, offering your body with respect and firmness. It was as if the ceremony became more solemn with you there."

Pilar placed her hand on my shoulder.
"Feeling like I was sitting on you, Javier..." she said, looking at me with her dark honey-colored eyes, "was like coming home. Firm. Comfortable. Obedient. Secure.
Your back supported me like it had since you became my horse.

And yes... I admit it," he laughed mischievously, "I was curious about your little jumps."

Her husband laughed too. Not with jealousy, but with admiration.
"I noticed it," he told me. "I saw how she slowly moved her leg, making the little white and gold spur slide down your back. You didn't say anything, but each little jump of yours was a silent confession.
She did it while looking at me. Smiling. And I smiled too. Not out of mockery, but because I understood something:
There is no throne more noble for a strong woman than the body of one who honors her.

Doña Pilar nodded.
"It was a gift, Javier. Having you there wasn't utilitarian, it was symbolic.
It meant telling the world that I am a woman who rides on respect.
And that you remain my loyal mount, even as the years pass, even as we hold titles, even with everything."

I couldn't speak. I just lowered my head and, without being asked, kissed his boots again.

Feelings and Memories of the Horse (5)

While the priest blessed the hoops and the guests held their breath, I remained at Doña Pilar's feet, still on my knees.
She stood, firm, splendid, in her white miniskirt, her brown thighs as if sculpted, and her knee-high white leather boots, gleaming in the soft light that entered through the church's stained-glass windows.

I felt her presence like a warm blanket, as if her shadow protected me from the entire world.
And then I did it.
I leaned closer.

My face lowered, almost with religious reverence, and I kissed her right boot.
The white leather had an unmistakable fragrance: neat, well-cared for, dignified.
With my lips, I kissed her instep, her ankles, her heels, and reached the little spurs that hung elegantly and were stained with my blood.
I kissed those little spurs too, golden and precise, a symbol of her dominance and her firm gait.
Then, I kissed her left boot and spurs, then her right, then her left…

Meanwhile, the groom was saying:
"I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and fidelity…"

And I, inside, silently, thought:
"And I give you these kisses as a symbol of my eternal devotion and loyalty."

She didn't say anything out loud.
But one of her boots rested on my head.
Not to push me away.
But like someone blessing a faithful servant.
And in that gesture, I knew she had felt everything.

She placed another of her boots on my head as she placed the ring on her groom's finger: "Just as I place this ring on your finger, I place a dog collar around your neck so that you will be faithful to me, and with the dog leash I control you." “
The people saw the exchange of rings.
But only she and I knew that, at that very moment, with my kisses and her boots, another kind of pact had been sealed.
It was a silent coronation, an act of surrender and shared dominion, sealed not with words or precious metals, but with white leather, golden spurs, and reverent lips.

The priest spoke.
The couple before the altar exchanged rings before the attentive gaze of the entire town.
It was the sacred moment of the ceremony.
And yet, my world was elsewhere: at Pilar's feet.

She, upright, majestic, with her veil and white miniskirt, her brown thighs exposed between the hem of her skirt and the white boots that reached her knees…
She was my altar.
My lips kissed the white leather of her right boot.
I kissed her. Slowly, devoutly, and completely.
From the toe to the curve of her ankle and the heels.
And then I kissed her left boot.
I kissed both, repeatedly.

And with each kiss, I deposited what I couldn't say out loud:
• My eternal respect.
• My grateful memory.
• My willing submission.

Then, without looking at me, she moved a leg.
Her boot brushed my cheek and stepped on my head.
Her little spurs rested for a moment on my neck.
Then, her other boot and spurs.

And I understood.
While the people watched the exchange of rings,
we were sealing another kind of pact.
One without witnesses, without an oath, but older than any ceremony.

I was not her husband.
I was her mount.
Her throne.
Her servant.

And she, though wedded, was still my queen.

She offered me the soles of her boots, and I licked them.

Feelings and Memories of the Horse (7)

When Pilar finished preparing me, bridled, saddled, and with the reins in her hand, she inspected me with a gaze that combined technical precision and deep affection.
She knew that, in addition to strength and obedience, she had to offer him height.

She wouldn't allow an unbalanced scene, where her husband, mounted on his traditional horse, would appear superior.

She had to—and wanted to—ride at the same height as her husband, or even higher.

Then, with the ease of someone who has done this many times, Pilar ordered me to adjust my arms and legs to elevate my body.
With her riding experience and her mastery of my physique, she found the exact position in which my back matched the height of the equine saddle, but she chose to ride on my shoulders so she would be higher than her husband.

And when she rode me, she did so with such fluidity that the town could tell the difference between a human mount and an animal mount.

From the street, both spouses rode at the same height, their gazes aligned. There were no words. But that image—two riders parallel, unequal in presence, distinct in symbolism—spoke louder than any speech.

He, the husband, rode an imposing, dark-chested horse with a well-groomed mane and an elegant gait.

He wore a light-colored, ceremonial linen suit with an ivory waistcoat and white hat.
His expression was serene, perhaps still surprised by the unexpected turn of events in tradition, but not uncomfortable.
Rather, there was a quiet pride in him, like that of someone who understands that his wife is not a shadow, but a shape of her own light.
He rode in the classical style: upright, firmly gripping the reins, keeping a sure pace, aware that he was walking alongside a woman who didn't follow... but rather matched, or even led.

She, Pilar, didn't ride just any horse.
She rode me.
Her human mount was prepared with a bit, bridle, reins, and saddle with stirrups, just as she had ordered and arranged them.
You stood on two legs, strong, obedient, with your head steady, your neck straight, and your shoulders like living stone, serving her gait.
She was dressed as if for the ceremony:
• A white blouse fitted to her body, highlighting her slender and powerful shape.
• A white miniskirt over underwear shorts, which revealed the tanned, smooth skin of her thighs.
• And those knee-high white leather boots with golden spurs, gleaming in the midday sun.
She rode upright, serene, mistress of the moment.
With one hand, she firmly held the reins that guided my head.
With the other, resting on her thigh, she held a riding crop, present like a badge of authority.
Her face was serene, elegant, with that expression of hers of calm authority.
The white veil floated behind her like a wake.
Her gathered hair revealed the firm contour of her neck and the glow of her skin in the light.

Together they advanced, husband and wife, on their respective horses.
One, according to tradition.
The other, breaking tradition and establishing her own.
And the people...
Silent, reverent, they kept their eyes on her.
Because at that moment, Doña Pilar was not only the bride, nor the wife.
She was a queen on her mount, a woman who does not submit to the mold, but redesigns it as she goes.

He was the husband, she the wife.
But also:
He was the companion, and she, her own boss.
And I was the silent instrument that made this visual, physical, and symbolic imbalance possible.

Pilar rode upright on her human mount, I, Javier, with firmness and dedication.
Beside her, her husband rode the traditional horse.
Both of them advanced down the town's main street, at the same pace, but with a different message.
The children watched.
The kneeling men uncovered their heads.
The women followed her with wide eyes, some in amazement, others in admiration.

And although Luciana didn't yet exist, the town felt it:
"Pilar rides not only for herself.
She rides for the daughter yet to be born.
For the next rider."

It was a wedding march, yes, but also a proclamation.
A legacy.
A message to the future.

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:26:53)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse (9)

It was summer, and the town air carried with it that scent of warm earth and old memories.
I already knew I would return. Pilar never failed to return on vacation.

But this time it was different.

I watched her step off the carriage with the same firmness she always had, with her fitted blouse and white boots echoing against the ground.

But this time, her shape had changed: her rounded belly spoke of a new life.
Luciana.

She didn't need words for me to understand.
I immediately lowered my gaze, my heart heavy.
I knelt as always, but with greater reverence.
She was not only my rider, my queen...
Now, she was a mother.
And in her womb came the next rider.

She approached, with that mixture of gentleness and authority that only she possessed.
She placed one boot on my head, then the other, and said:
"Javier...
This time, I'm not coming alone.
She's coming with me.
She's Luciana.
And you... you'll be hers too."

I didn't say anything.
I just nodded, unable to hold back the tears.
I kissed her boots as always, but this time, I did so with a different trembling:
the trembling of someone who understands that one era ends...
and another begins.

Then, quite naturally, she motioned with her hand for me to get into position.
Yes, she would still ride me.
I was still her mount.
But now, every step I took,
was also for Luciana.

It was early. The village sky still had that opaque hue that precedes dawn.
I was already awake, like every morning since her arrival.
Doña Pilar's house was silent, but something in the air made me get ready. I sensed it.
When I heard her call, I didn't run.
I knelt and waited.
She came out, dressed as in her days of strength: a white blouse, jodhpurs, high boots without heels... but now, the weight of her belly ruled. Pilar was majestic. Vulnerable and powerful at the same time.
"Javier... it's time."

She didn't need to say more.

I approached. I got into position.

She slowly bridled me, saddled me, and sat on me.
I felt her tremble slightly. Her hands didn't grip the reins tightly, but with need.

Every step I took, heading toward the health post, was firm and ceremonial.
We didn't run or trot. We advanced with purpose, with dignity.

The town watched us pass by.
And for the first time, they didn't just see the great Pilar riding...
They saw the mother who was about to give birth.

When we arrived at the health center, she climbed off me with the strength only grown women possess.
She turned around and, in a soft voice, said,
"Thank you, Javier.
Today you haven't just carried me...
You've carried her."

Hours later, Luciana was born.

And when they let me in to see Pilar, she—tired, but radiant—showed her to me in her arms:
"Here she is, Javier.
She is Luciana...
Your new rider."

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:28:15)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (2)

The afternoon before Pilar's trip to the city, the sky was covered with soft clouds, as if the sun also knew that a farewell was approaching.

Pilar called me into the garden of her house.
She was dressed as in her best days:
a fitted white blouse, tight-fitting black jodhpurs, and knee-high white leather boots.
Her brown hair was elegantly tied back, and her golden spurs shone on her heels.

Luciana was sleeping inside, in the arms of an aunt.
That moment was just for us.

She approached me and, with a soft but weighty voice, said to me:
"Javier... I finished my nursing studies before giving birth.
Tomorrow I'm going back to the city to graduate and start working."

"I'll come back when I win a competition and can return here with my degree.
But... this will be the last time you take me at this stage of my life."

I remained silent. I couldn't look her straight in the eyes.
My eyes watered because I knew what it meant.

But then she placed her hand under my chin and lifted my face.
"I want this last time to be special for both of us.
Not like a farewell... but like a seal.
Because you, Javier...
are my horse like no other."

I knelt in silence and kissed Pilar's boots, and she, as always, took her time.
She adjusted the reins.
She adjusted the bit.
She saddled me.
She stroked my head tenderly.
And then, she rode me.

Her weight was firm, but not heavy.
It was like a coat of history and affection.
Her boots rested in stirrups on either side of my ribs.
I felt the touch of her spurs, not as a command... but as a farewell.

Pilar rode me through the village, one last time at this stage of her life.
The same journey as always, but charged with another meaning.
The neighbors came out onto the threshold in silence. Some knew. Others sensed.

I held her upright, as always.
And she guided me confidently, as always.
But we both knew this was one last ride, for now.

When we reached the end of the road, where the countryside begins and the town ends, she commanded me to stop; I obeyed her.

Pilar carefully lowered herself from my shoulders.
She stood in front of me, placed both hands on my cheeks, and said:
"Javier... when I return, it will be another stage.
But you, you will always be part of my story.
You helped me get to where I am.
And one day, Luciana will know who you are."
"Because you will belong to her too."

I knelt. I kissed her boots once more.

And without saying a word, I watched her walk away.
Strong. Tall. Serene.
Doña Pilar.
My rider.
My queen.
And now, mother.

That night, after I carried her for the last time, my tears fell soundlessly, like leaves fall when no one is watching.
I walked away from the path where we used to train.
I removed my bit, bridle, and saddle, carefully, as if dismantling armor.
I caressed the leather imprint on my face, neck, and torso with my fingers.
It was a mark of belonging. A sweet wound.

I didn't sleep.
I waited for dawn, trembling inside.
I knew that at dawn she would leave.
I knew her boots would tread the village soil once more...
but not on me.
And she knew it too.

Hours before, in the garden, Pilar had looked at me with that mixture of tenderness and authority of hers.
—Javier… you won't come tomorrow.
Don't wait for me.
Don't watch me leave.
That's not our time.
Our goodbye was from on high.
As it should be.

I wanted to protest. But I couldn't.
Her word was law for me.
And obeying was the greatest display of love.

So I stayed home.
Alone.
Watching the sky lighten.
And when the clock struck, I knew she was gone.
I imagined her standing, with Luciana in her arms, her bag over her shoulder, her white boots hitting the ground.
I imagined her not looking at me, because that's what she asked me to do.
And I obeyed her.

That was Pilar's last order at that stage.
And I carried it out.
Not with joy.
But with honor.
Because she forged me like that:
not only as her mount,
but as her loyal servant.
Even in silence.
Even in absence.

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (4) Kassandra (1)

After those two empty and terrible annual vacations, I studied for another year at school and finished my studies. Doña Pilar was 24, I'm 8 years younger...

The sun was beginning to set. The graduation ceremony would be in a few hours. The graduates were free to wear whatever they wanted. Some would wear suits, others their best shirts.
I… still hesitated.

In front of the mirror, I looked at the shelf where the bridle and saddle rested.
Neat. Impeccable. Waiting.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps and spurs approaching. I recognized the footsteps of Kassandra, my first cousin, two years younger, but a rider for several years. Each sound of her boots echoed as if marking the rhythm of something inevitable.


... the remainder was sent to "Lady Master and Lady Disciple."

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:13:12)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (6) Kassandra (3)

... the remainder was sent to "Lady Master and Lady Disciple."

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:42:20)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (8) Kassandra (5)

...

Then, in a firm, measured voice, my first cousin Kassandra said:
"Hit the ground once if you wish me to ride you,
and hit twice if you wish me to walk."

And the world fell silent.
Only a single thud was heard.
A single thud. Knock!
The dry echo of your decision hung in the air.
Firm. Convinced. Irrefutable.

Kassandra, standing before me, listened.

...

She didn't speak immediately. She just watched me, and then... she smiled.

...

She strode forward, the click of her high boots marking a rhythm I recognized without thinking.
Her spurs clinked with each step, like ceremonial bells.
She adjusted the stirrups with military precision.
She placed a hand on my shoulder.

She positioned herself behind me. Her shape stood out with authority against the evening light streaming through the window.
With the precise grace of a seasoned rider, she rode atop me in fluid motion.
Kassandra's high-heeled black boots brushed my sides as she placed a firm foot in the side stirrup, and with agile movements, without hesitation, she rode over me.
Her weight settled and settled on my back firmly and securely, with the ease of something that should always have been there.
Her thighs fitted my back as if they were part of it.
The reins fell slightly to the side, but Kassandra didn't need to pull hard to make me obey her.

Kassandra, already in position, gently lowered her head toward me and whispered:
"Thank you, Javier... for knowing where you belong."

She gave a slight tug on the reins. She touched my sides with the tips of her spurs as a reminder.
"Walk," my first cousin said, her voice deep but sweet.

I obeyed. Not because I was weak. But because you had chosen it.

...

But she wasn't alone.
Kasandra took up other reins.
—Yes, she took up the reins of another horse at the same time.

... the remainder was sent to "Lady Master and Lady Disciple."

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 16:44:25)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (10) Kassandra (7)

Now, two reins were in her hands.
My female cousin had two horses.
One ridden by her, the other led by her.
And without looking back, she led her two horses.
Her black gloves caressed the leather with the familiarity of years of mastery.
She adjusted them lightly, testing the tension.

“Let’s go,” my female cousin said, her voice soft, barely audible, but laden with meaning.
And then, with a gentle pressure of her legs on my back, and the nudges of her spurs against my sides, she urged me forward again.

I and the other horse—Professor Sebastian, the older man who had brought her—lowered our heads slightly and took our first step,
obeying our rider exactly.
Kassandra now led Professor Sebastian while riding me.
We moved forward.

...


... the remainder was sent to "Lady Master and Lady Disciple."

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-15 14:42:58)

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (12) Kassandra (9)

Kassandra took the first step.
And the world seemed to stop.
Her black riding boots hit the ground with precision,
and the rhythmic jingle of her golden spurs marked a new beat in the air,
as if announcing the advance of something inevitable.

Her mounts—Professor Sebastian on her right and I on her left—followed her instantly.
A step back, half to the side. Synchronous. Obedient.

But all eyes were on her.
Her walk was neither hurried nor heavy.
It was spectacular. Controlled. Magnetic.
Each step she took had the elegance of a model on a runway,
her body moved with a harmonious and natural rhythm, especially her hips,
which swayed firmly and gracefully, as if marking the territory she dominated.

Her dark hair, pulled back in a high ponytail, swayed gently with each step,
and her back remained erect, impeccable,
like that of someone born to be seen… and followed.

The reins fell from her gloved hands,
not taut, but with the exact slack that indicates absolute confidence in control.
She didn't pull. She didn't need to.
Her firm step and the echo of her spurs were enough.

The sound of her footsteps was music.
The movement of her hips, a language.
Her advance… a silent spectacle that said, "I'm in charge here."

And we—the horses—knew it.
And the world, which was beginning to see us pass by on our way to the ceremony,
would soon know it too.

We moved forward with a firm step.
Kassandra led the way.
We—the professor and I—followed her, attentive to every movement of her body,
to every slight click of her spurs,
to every tension and release of her reins.

Then, my body shuddered.
Not because Kassandra pulled on the reins.
But because someone
shook me from within.

I heard footsteps.
And not just any footsteps.
The precise, elegant, and firm tapping of spurred boots that I could never forget.
That sound that had marked my childhood, my adolescence, and my deepest dreams.

My heart leaped.
I trembled.
My whole body knew it before my mind did.

Both ladies stopped.
And their horses—we—too.

Kassandra turned slightly, a smile on her lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Hello, cousin," she said in a cheerful, musical voice, like someone greeting someone who has always been there, even if she hasn't seen them in years.

Then the other lady laughed.
A soft, confident, charming laugh.
"Don't say that, Kassandra, because I'm a married woman... and I have a two-year-old daughter. Besides, you're raising false hopes for your first cousin."

My heart beat like never before.
Heat rose to my chest, my throat, my cheeks.

That voice. That presence. That sound.
It was her.
Pilar.

I couldn't contain myself.
The impulse came from my chest, from the depths of my soul.
I whinnied with joy.

And in that instant, I knew my life had just returned to its center.

Feelings and Memories of the Horse II (14) Kassandra (11)

That afternoon, the sky had a golden hue, as if the sun knew what was coming.
The streets of the town were quiet, but everything in my chest was a storm: excitement, nerves, hope. It was my graduating day. I was 16, and although many people would gather in the central square, I was only waiting for one person.

Kassandra was standing.
Her shape was upright, dominant, with her fitted ivory blouse, tight jodhpurs, and perfectly polished black heeled boots. Her dark gloves held two pairs of reins firmly.
Behind my first cousin, her two horses—obedient, lined up—were accompanying her, one step back, one step to each side.
And then, she appeared.

She, she came.
Majestic, imposing, walking with a firm stride, her white shape stood out against the sun, her elegant shape dressed in a fitted pearl-colored blouse, white riding pants with jodhpurs that outlined her athletic demeanor, and tall white boots with gold spurs that echoed the cobblestone ground. Her hair was tied back in an immaculate bun, her face serene, her presence... unmistakable.

Pilar. 24 years old. She had left her little Luciana in the care of her husband and in-laws in the city, just to accompany me. She didn't shout it. She didn't announce it. She simply appeared.

Kassandra had bridled me, saddled me, ridden me, and led me, just as Pilar had taught her: with the bridle in my mouth, the saddle ready, and my heart beating like a drum.

Pilar's footsteps stopped in front of Kassandra. And the world seemed to stop.

After the two riders' informal conversation, in which Kassandra said Pilar and I had good chemistry, and Pilar replied that we had good chemistry as rider and horse. Kassandra offered Professor Sebastián's reins and mine, saying:
"Teacher... These mounts were ridden by me. They were faithful, obedient... and are ready to return to your hands if you so wish."

Pilar looked at the reins for a moment. Then, unhurriedly, she took my reins with elegance and firmness.
"The horse who wears these reins never ceased to be mine," Pilar said with a slight smile, "but it is beautiful to see how you have also guided them with dignity."

Behind them, Professor Sebastián and I shuddered. The reins had changed hands, but the dedication... that absolute dedication remained intact.

With precise, firm yet gentle movements, Pilar caressed my cheek, then checked the straps, adjusted the stirrups, and in an almost ceremonial act, rode me.
The weight of her body filled me with pride.
The scuff of her boots and spurs anchored me to the present.
The sound of her spurs marked the rhythm of our gait.

We advanced through the town, through the streets we had traveled so many times.
I wasn't ridden by just any lady.
I was ridden by my rider.
By my mentor.
By the woman who had left her mark on me.

People were coming out of their houses. Some applauded. Others murmured:
"She's back... she rode him again."

And I knew that, in that moment, beyond my degree, beyond the diplomas...
the true honor of that day was to be ridden by her.

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:38:06)

Doña Pilar's Journey (2)

He hugged her briefly, with the same silent devotion with which others in the village bowed before her.
"Give her what she deserves. Not as punishment... but as a reward."

Her husband, without losing his dignified posture, but with sincere humility, slowly knelt before her, acknowledging the power she represented.
He reached out and, with his fingertips, gently stroked Doña Pilar's boots, just where the leather shone the most. It wasn't a hurried or mechanical gesture, but a delicate touch, like someone touching something sacred. His eyes were fixed on Doña Pilar's boots as he murmured with a gentle smile:
"Then go..."
Then he kissed Doña Pilar's boots.

She didn't move. She just looked at him from her height, with a mixture of tenderness, firmness, and pride. She knew what that gesture meant. It wasn't a romantic or theatrical act. It was pure devotion and tacit consent.

Doña Pilar smiled.
It wasn't a mocking or condescending smile. It was a slight, confident, and silent smile, like someone accepting an already expected offering... like someone who knows they need no more to affirm their place.

Her husband was still on the floor, prostrate, kissing Doña Pilar's white boots. He didn't look up, didn't call her. He just stood there, respecting that moment of distance and acceptance.

She turned slowly, the faint creak of her golden spurs accompanying her departure.

She didn't say "goodbye."
She didn't say "wait."
She simply walked away.

Each step of hers was an affirmation. The echo of her white boots receded with elegance and weight.

She walked out the door, and he remained on the floor. Just as he was.

Because in that gesture everything was said:
She didn't need to look back.
He already knew to whom his devotion belonged.

The car was moving down the avenue toward the terminal. The morning sun was barely rising, tinting the edges of the buildings with golden light.

Doña Pilar was sitting in the passenger seat. She was wearing fitted beige jodhpurs, a tight-fitting white long-sleeved blouse, and, of course, her white boots with gleaming spurs. On her lap rested her gloves and a neatly folded cowboy hat.

Her husband drove in silence, not out of tension, but out of respect. Until, with a crooked smile, he broke the moment:
"For these three years, Kassandra has been riding Javier... but you, you're out of practice. You haven't ridden anyone this whole time."

There was a brief silence. Pilar didn't look at him. She just smiled.
A calm, confident smile. The kind of smile that makes it clear she's always in control.
"Do you think so?" "She replied in a soft, yet meaningful tone.

He glanced at her, somewhere between curious and bewildered.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for her almond-shaped eyes to meet his. And she smiled again.
"Not everyone I ride needs to be seen by others."

He gave a short laugh, a mixture of surprise and surrender.
"Pilar... you always have the last word."

She arranged her hair elegantly, without taking her gaze from the front.
"Not the last, dear. Just the necessary."

And so, as the spurs clinked faintly with the movement of the carriage, he knew that—once again—she hadn't stopped riding... nor being ridden... in her own way.

Doña Pilar's Journey (4)

Doña Pilar sat on the central bench of the terminal, under the cool shade of a wooden roof. Her bearing, even at rest, was imposing. She didn't need words or exaggerated gestures to dominate the space: the bench seemed made for her, not the other way around.

She wore a fitted, long-sleeved white blouse that hugged her shape elegantly. Each button seemed aligned with authority, without a single wrinkle that clashed. Over her crossed legs, she wore beige jodhpurs, firm and neat, highlighting her long, shapely thighs. Her knee-high white leather boots, with gold spurs, shone immaculately in the sun. They were perfectly aligned, as if waiting to be kissed.
Beside her, her white cowboy hat rested on her fine leather satchel. Neatly folded riding gloves peeked out from her lap.
Her posture was perfect: back straight, shoulders erect, neck long and firm. Her maturely beautiful face, with elegant features and smooth, tanned skin, reflected serenity and control. Her almond-shaped, dark honey-colored eyes moved not hurriedly, but with precision. They observed the surroundings as if they didn't need to ask a question to understand everything.
A light breeze played with the loose strands of her low ponytail, brown with golden highlights. She didn't touch them. Somehow, the wind seemed to respect her.
And there, sitting, without needing to speak, she was the center of gravity of the terminal. Some men looked at her from afar, and when their gaze met hers, they lowered their heads in reverence. Others knelt in silence, remembering or acknowledging. The bench wasn't a place of waiting. It was a throne.

Doña Pilar looked up at the street, as if she knew someone was about to arrive.
Then, she placed her gloves over her hat, gently crossed her arms, and waited, as only a queen waits: not out of anxiety, but out of certainty.

Town Terminal – Noon.

Doña Pilar remained seated on the bench, majestic, unfazed, when the unmistakable sound of a woman's spurs resounded behind her, measured, firm… and respectful. These were footsteps that didn't seek to attract attention, but couldn't avoid it.

Kassandra approached.
She was dressed with equestrian elegance: a tight-fitting ivory blouse, fitted jodhpurs, shiny black boots with spurs, and gloves that still held the reins of her two human mounts, who followed her a step behind and on either side. Her eyes shone with determination, her bearing was defiant and confident, but her gaze, at that moment, was gentle… reverent.

Doña Pilar watched her without rising, without turning around at all. It was enough for her to raise her chin slightly and fix her gaze.
"The last time I saw you," she said with a calm smile, "you were eleven years old."
"How you've grown! You're a woman now."

Kassandra stopped in her tracks. She lowered her head slightly in a sign of respect and said calmly, "And you're still the same, Doña Pilar... imposing."
The words weren't flattery: they were true. Pilar nodded slightly, watching her with proud eyes.

Kassandra's human mounts bowed, as if they understood that in this scene, they weren't the center of attention.
Pilar patted the bench beside her, without losing her solemn air.
"Come, sit with me, Kassandra."

Kassandra hesitated for a moment. Not out of fear, but out of respect. It was like sitting next to an icon. But she approached and sat down gracefully, smoothing her jodhpurs as she settled in.

Pilar looked at her closely.
"Your mother must be proud. You've learned well... and you've taught well too, from what I see," she said, casting a quick glance at the two perfectly disciplined mounts at her feet.

Kassandra smiled.
"You're my greatest example, Doña Pilar."

The two women looked at each other. They weren't the same, but they shared something unmistakable: an indisputable presence, a legacy that isn't taught, it's embodied.
The terminal was silent. The scene wasn't ordinary. It was history.

Doña Pilar, sitting elegantly on the terminal bench, kept her gaze serene on the town's horizon as she asked in a firm yet warm voice:
"It's been three years since I was last in town... any changes? Any news?"

Kassandra glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, as if knowing the question wasn't casual. Doña Pilar's voice might have sounded calm, but it carried a heavy weight: that of someone who marks an era and now returns to see if the land she sowed has flourished... or changed.
Kassandra nodded gently, weighing her words:
"Some changes, yes... but the essential remains the same. The people remember your mark.
The customs you left behind, those haven't disappeared. They've only grown stronger... and, in part, I've sustained them."

Doña Pilar slowly turned her head toward her, with a half-smile.
"Have you sustained them?"
Kassandra held her gaze, not haughtily, but firmly.
"And continued. Many of those who bow today do so out of respect for your legacy. Some have told me: 'Kassandra reminds us of Doña Pilar.'"

Doña Pilar remained silent for a few seconds, as if letting the words flow within her. Then, gently, she said:
"We'll see if it's true. This town taught me not to trust words alone... but what happens when spurs click."
A faint metallic sound was heard as she barely moved a leg. Kassandra smiled respectfully and nodded.

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:32:24)

The Lady Trainer and the Lady Trainee (2)

Kassandra, after announcing her decision to move to the city to continue her studies, added matter-of-factly:
"My dad has a small house in the city.
In the front, it has a living room, dining room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and two bathrooms.
Then there's a large backyard, and at the back, among other things, there's a room with a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a space for entertaining."

Pilar listened attentively, nodding. Kassandra smiled before concluding:
"I'll be living in the house...
and Javier, in the back room."

There was a brief silence. Pilar narrowed her eyes, amused, as if she'd just found the perfect fit for a sharp but sympathetic comment.
"Is there a room at the back... or a stable stall?" she said in a low tone, with a smile that betrayed mature mischief.

Kassandra laughed, lowering her gaze modestly, but her response was immediate:
"Sometimes one thing resembles another... it depends on who occupies it."

The two looked at each other. They knew what didn't need to be said aloud: that place was reserved for those who knew how to serve with devotion, without shame, with love.

Pilar added softly:
"Just be sure to take good care of the reins.
And never forget: a rider is defined not only by how she rides,
but by how she leads... even when she dismounts."

Kassandra nodded.
"I know.
And if I ever stray, I hope you'll be there to correct me."

"I will be," Pilar said,

As they rode together and the sun continued to slant, casting long, golden shadows. Kassandra glanced at Doña Pilar and said, almost as if sharing a secret:
"There are rings at the entrances to the houses in the village."

Pilar raised an eyebrow, curious, but not entirely surprised.
"Rings?" she repeated. "In the plural?"

"Yes," Kassandra replied with a barely contained smile.
"Not on all of them, but on several. As if the facades spoke of what happens inside.
Some use them to hang flowers...
others, to hang reins."

Pilar gave a short, deep laugh, the kind born of recognition and pride. She paused for a moment, looking at Kassandra like someone who has finally understood the language of power.
"So the town has grown..." Pilar said in a calm voice.
And not just in streets and houses, but in symbols.

Kassandra nodded.
"And there are those who know what they mean...
and those who only see them as ornaments.
But you and I know that a well-placed hoop is a promise.
A silent message: 'Here is a rider.'"

Pilar thought for a moment. Then she looked at the horizon and murmured:
"When I left the village, those hoops didn't exist.
Today, I see that my legacy is more alive than ever."

Kassandra walked a step ahead, still holding the reins.
"And it will continue to grow.
Not all horses have reins...
But those that accept them are the most loyal."

Kassandra rode with Doña Pilar, both under the warm afternoon light. After talking about the hoops at the entrances, she continued in a firm voice, like someone revealing something important:
"In the village, they've also placed hitching posts... or hitching posts... or hitching posts."

Pilar turned her face with genuine curiosity.
"That literally?"

Kassandra nodded.
"Yes. At first, as decoration... then for utility.
They placed them in front of houses, in plazas, even in inner courtyards.
The men already know what they mean.
The ladies tie their reins there upon arrival."

Pilar gave a low, elegant laugh, a mixture of nostalgia and approval.
"In my time, that was done with a look.
With a gesture of the hand.
Or with a word."

Kassandra smiled confidently.
"Now too. But there are also symbols.
The custom has taken root... like the stakes themselves."

Pilar looked around.
The dust of the road, the laughter in the background, the echoes of footsteps.
Everything was familiar, yet new at the same time.
"So the village hasn't fallen asleep...
it's only matured.
And you," she said, looking at Kassandra, "have known how to reap what we sow."

Kassandra lowered her head slightly, a sign of respect.
"We try to follow the example, but also leave our mark."

Pilar nodded slowly.
Then, in a calm but forceful tone, she added:
"Just make sure those tethers aren't cages.
A true rider doesn't hold back: she guides, she directs... and is followed of her own free will."

Kassandra answered without hesitation:
"I know.
And that's why you're here."

Pilar glanced at Kassandra, with a barely visible smile, one of those that convey experience, intent, and affection.
And she asked, in a seemingly casual tone, but with all the weight of her lineage:
"Kassandra...
are there hoops and stakes in your house?"

Kassandra didn't answer immediately. She slowed her horse's pace slightly, as if carefully considering her answer. Then, with her head held high and without hesitation, she said:
"Yes." I set them up myself. One next to the main entrance...
and another in the backyard, right in front of the back door.
Sturdy hoops.
Deep stakes.

The Lady Trainer and Lady Trainee (4)

Pilar, riding on Javier's back, narrowed her eyes as she watched Kassandra.
Her upright shape, her firm posture, the absolute control she exerted as she rode Professor Sebastian...
And then, suddenly, an image crept into her mind:

Kassandra walking in front of her... Pilar behind...
And then Pilar herself descending, positioning herself beneath the young woman, adjusting herself to be ridden by her...
She... the Great Pilar... being ridden by Kassandra?
The very thought startled her.
Not out of indignation...
but because of how disconcerting it was to imagine giving up control.
A nervous smile appeared on her lips.

At the same time, Kassandra was watching her.
Pilar looked imposing, majestic, with that mature air of undisputed dominance.

And for a moment, the young rider imagined herself kneeling, Pilar on top, holding her reins.
Could she be Pilar's horse... even just once?
The thought flashed through her like a lightning bolt, mixing curiosity, respect... and a hint of vertigo.

And then, their eyes met.

They both smiled... at the same time.
Nervous, knowing smiles, slightly surprised to find themselves in the same fantasy.

"Wow," Pilar murmured, barely lowering her gaze.

It seems we both surprised ourselves.

Kassandra let out a small, suppressed laugh.
"I suppose the paths of authority can also cross...
in unexpected ways."

Neither of them said anything else.
There was no need.
The air spoke volumes:
that fine balance between power and respect, between giving and receiving,
between dominating... and trusting.

And with that energy floating in the air, they both resumed their stride,
without breaking their smiles,
knowing that, at another time, in another place...
history could take very different turns.

The sun was slowly setting over the village, tinting the walls of the houses with gold and reflecting off the shining metal of the spurs both ladies wore. The air held a vibrant silence, as if the entire universe were waiting... for something.

Pilar, riding on Javier's back, looked back at Kassandra.
She remained upright, holding the reins of her horse, as firm as she was free.
And again, a thought came to her strongly, more vivid than before:
"What if it were me... riding her?"

In his mind the scene was clearly deployed:
Kassandra in four, still, the body willing.
And she, Pilar, slowly approaching, riding her precisely, accommodating on the chair placed on Kassandra's back with well tight stirrups.
I felt the contact of the boots against the young and tense sides of the other woman.
His firm hands took the reins.
It fuses it into one hand, spurs dyeing.

At that same moment, Kassandra also looked at Pilar.
And his thoughts ran exactly the same path, but in the opposite direction:
"What if I ... could ride her at least once?"
Clearly visualized it:

Pilar in front of her, powerful and mature, now in four, list.
Kassandra uploading with grace and domain,
accommodating on Pilar's back,
feeling the pride of controlling such an iconic shape.
The one in command, literally and symbolically, was Kassandra.
Kassandra's firm thighs touched Pilar's waist.
Spurs ready, reins taut, and her voice—firm—giving the order to advance.

Both ladies blinked at the same time.
They looked at each other.
And although not a word was spoken, they knew they had read each other's thoughts.

A slight tension lingered in the air.

It wasn't rivalry.

It wasn't desire.

It was something more…
the deep recognition that they were both made to dominate, and that in another life, or perhaps in another decision, they could have exchanged roles.

They smiled.
Not nervously, now…
but wisely.

"Perhaps someday," Pilar said, barely a whisper.

"Or perhaps in a dream," Kassandra replied, still looking at her mentor.

And then, both resumed their stance, both riding.
But something had changed.
And even if the town didn't notice...
History would remember it as the day two riders saw each other's reflection... and for a moment, they wondered what it would feel like to change places.

Last edited by caballito (2025-07-14 15:33:33)