Ultimate shoulder rides

The Camp (11)

When his turn came, Iván stepped forward with a firm step, although his face showed a certain shyness. The moonlight filtered through the branches of the trees in the courtyard, casting everyone present in white. He looked around, saw other goddaughters on the shoulders of their godfathers, and godmothers proudly leading their godchildren crouched beneath the bridesmaids. Then he spoke:
"Mireya, my godmother, is my best friend's mother," he said in a clear voice. "And about five years ago, at the confirmation ceremony, while the godfathers were ridden by their goddaughters, I was ridden by my godmother."

A curious murmur ran through the group. Luciana smiled, not surprised, but fascinated by the naturalness with which Iván expressed it.

Mireya, a woman of elegant demeanor, her hair tied back in a soft bun, and eyes shining with emotion, approached and placed a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"It was his idea," she added. "Godfathers are their goddaughters' horses. I want to be your horse," he told me. And I didn't have the heart to refuse.

Luciana, with her tone somewhere between a guide and a poet, spoke:
"This is a beautiful example of reciprocity and affection. It's not age that determines the role, but rather the willingness to serve with love. Iván not only honored his godmother, he also broke a pattern, showing that carrying is also a gesture of love."

The ladies nodded, moved. Some men, especially the younger ones, felt inspired. In that moment, protocols and the most rigid customs didn't matter: what prevailed was the bond, the shared play, and the lesson learned.

Luciana concluded:
"Here, everyone can carry and be carried." Because in this space, affection weighs less than the body, and willpower lightens any burden.

Mireya bridled, saddled, and rode elegantly on Iván's shoulders while the group applauded. He, upright and smiling, advanced with a determined stride, making it clear that this gesture was not servitude, but gratitude.

As Iván walked, being carried on the shoulders of his godmother, the scene touched hearts. Upon reaching the center, he stopped naturally and dismounted slowly. Mireya stroked Iván's hair, adjusted her riding habit, and spoke with the serenity that only wise women possess:
"Iván is my best friend's son," she said, looking at the group. "Our children are close in age, and I carried Iván in my arms when he was a baby. Now he's carried me ever since he could."

Her voice moved many, and her tender gaze rested on Iván, who lowered his head for a moment, not out of embarrassment, but out of respect.

Luciana smiled and commented:
"What a beautiful cycle: whoever carries out of love is then carried out of gratitude." Mireya cradled him in her arms, and Iván honored her with his back. This is the kind of reciprocity we want to see flourish.

The scene provoked soft applause, more of deep appreciation than celebration. The younger ones took note in silence. The older women, moved, remembered those they had once cared for. The men, especially those closest to their own godmothers, felt they could also offer that gesture.

Luciana concluded sweetly:
"When affection is passed down from generation to generation, the game becomes a ritual. And in this ritual, carrying is also giving thanks."
Mireya, without needing another word, kissed Iván's forehead. No one would forget that gesture.

Luciana, moved, took a step to the center of the circle and said:
"Every bond has a way of holding on. Sometimes we walk together, other times we carry, and many times... we simply let ourselves be carried, knowing we are in safe hands."

Soon, other women were also carried on shoulders: some by their husbands, others by brothers, godchildren, or even by young devotees who admired them and sought to pay homage. Each couple, as they advanced, displayed their own dynamic: some walked in silence, others between laughter and words of comfort.

The Camp (13)

Ask Luciana: "Are you or would you be the godmother of someone whose father is your horse?"

Luciana didn't hesitate. With her head held high and her voice calm, she replied:
"Yes. I am, and I will be more times than I can."

Then, with that mixture of tenderness and firmness that characterizes her, she added:
"Because riding isn't subduing, it's caring. And being ridden isn't surrendering, it's trusting. If a father honors my horse, his son or daughter can trust me to care for them with the same honor."

She paused briefly and concluded:
"Being a godmother is guiding, accompanying, protecting... and also setting an example. If that father honors me with his service as my horse, I will honor his son with my presence."

A question: "Your presence, riding him?"

Luciana met the questioner's gaze. There was no provocation in her eyes, only clarity and conviction. She replied calmly:
"Yes, if that is the way he wishes to honor me. And if he does it with dignity, then I will also ride him with dignity."

Then she added, with gentle firmness:
"Because what is important is not the manner, but the respect, the voluntary dedication, and the truth that lies within the bond. If he offers himself, I accept, and if his son or daughter sees this with understanding, they will know that honor does not humiliate, but exalts."

The silence that followed was not one of judgment, but of astonishment.

They continued asking Luciana: "What you do with your godparents, will you do with your godchildren?"

Luciana smiled with that mixture of sweetness and firmness that characterized her. Her eyes scanned everyone present before answering. In a clear voice, she said:
"My godparents took care of me when I was little. Now they are my horses, because they trust me."

She remained silent for a brief moment, letting the words sink in, and then added calmly:
"My godchildren are and will also be cared for by me. I will not ride them... at least not until they ask. But if they do, I will ride them and lead them with the same firmness with which I guided them when they followed me when they were little."

Some exchanged glances, surprised by her honesty and the depth of her answer. Luciana continued:
"Trust is like a rein: it is taken with respect and offered freely. Whoever gives it to me will be guided."

Another question: "Since when will your godchildren ask you and will you comply?"

Luciana maintained her composure, upright and serene. Her gaze calmly scanned those around her. Then, in a soft but firm voice, she answered:
"As long as they have a conscience and a will. As long as they can understand what it means to fully trust someone."

She took a few steps closer to the center of the room and added:
"It won't be because I impose it, but because they choose it. When that moment comes, if they ask me with an open heart, I will accept them... like a rider accepting his horse: with respect, responsibility, and commitment."

Other questions: "Since when do we have conscience and willpower?" "Since when can we understand what it means to fully trust someone?"

Luciana didn't answer immediately. She walked slowly, as if pondering the questions, and then, in a clear and measured voice, she said:
"Conscience and willpower don't have a specific age. They are born when the heart opens to the truth and the eyes can look beyond oneself. Sometimes it happens in childhood, other times in youth, sometimes never."

She stopped, looking at everyone with tenderness and firmness.
—"Understanding what it means to fully trust someone… that's something you learn by being listened to, by being held when you fall, by knowing that you can give yourself without fear. It's not about years lived, but about experiences felt."

Then she smiled slightly.
—"And when my godchildren reach that point… I'll be there."

The Camp (15)

Luciana, moved by so many scenes of mutual devotion, smiled tenderly. Her voice, firm but warm, rose above the murmur of the room as she contemplated goddaughters riding to godfathers; girlfriends to boyfriends; wives to husbands; godmothers to godsons; godmothers to godfathers; godmothers to godfathers; godmothers to godfathers; godmothers to godfathers; etc., and said:
"You are the best example of devotion, of trust... and of many other values. There is no shame here, there is love. There is no superiority, there is mutual service. There is no weakness, there is shared strength."

Her words resonated in hearts, as an affirmation that in these bonds—when lived authentically—something profoundly human and sacred is revealed.

A newlywed said: "My godfather rides me more often than my husband."
There was quiet laughter, knowing glances, and a few raised eyebrows among those present. But the newlywed, without blushing, added with conviction and sweetness:
"My husband carries me with the love of a couple... but my godfather carries me with the affection of someone who watched me grow up, someone who promised to care for me like a daughter. Every time he carries me, he reminds me that that promise lives on."

Luciana nodded, moved by those words, and replied:
"Whoever carries you with love honors what you are to them. Your husband, as a husband. Your godfather, as a guide and protector. Each one, from their own place, supports you, and that... that is beautiful."
The atmosphere was filled with a mixture of tenderness, respect, and admiration.

An older woman complained: "My husband hardly ever carries me, but he carries other younger women."

Silence fell over the room for a few seconds. Some glances were directed at the aforementioned husband, others lowered their gaze out of modesty or discomfort.

It was then that Luciana, with serenity and empathy, responded:
"Every act of carrying someone has a meaning. When you carry another, is it out of tenderness, play, habit, or a lack of awareness of what it entails? Sometimes men don't understand what a lady expects... and other times, they understand it all too well."

Then she approached the older woman affectionately, took her hand, and added:
"But it's also true that not every burden is physical. Sometimes a word, a look, a simple gesture... also carries us. Perhaps it's time to remind your husband what that means to you."

Another older woman commented:
"We too deserve to be carried. Not out of pity, but out of the love that never grows old."

And several heads nodded. Among them, some young women who, for the first time, looked at their elders in a different light: that of dignity, tenderness, and the right to continue being supported.

Luciana whispered to her wife, who demanded, "What are your names?" Luciana looked directly at the aforementioned husband, who immediately lowered his gaze. She said, "Don't look so much at my boots, they might be all over you." The man continued staring. Luciana said to the woman, "Give me your address. I'll come Tuesday morning."

The woman, somewhat surprised but also moved by Luciana's firm and protective attitude, nodded silently. With a trembling voice, she wrote her address on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

Luciana took it delicately, folded it carefully, and put it in the inside pocket of her jacket.
Then she turned to her husband, who was still staring at her boots, caught between embarrassment and a silent attraction he didn't know how to control. Luciana approached a few steps, imposing but serene, and said in a low but firm voice:
"When a man ignores the woman he promised to take care of, other eyes notice... and other decisions are made."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward: it was forceful.

Before leaving, Luciana took her wife's hand and said with a gentle but determined smile:
"On Tuesday, I won't just go. You will be taken. And on that day, you will see what it means to be remembered, acknowledged... and lifted up."
And so, she walked away. Her boots echoed on the floor, and each step marked a commitment: to dignity, to memory... and to those who should never have been forgotten.

The man continued to stare, this time at the retreating boots, but no longer with the same expression. His eyes, once filled with silent daring, now showed something more complex: remorse, fascination... and a pang of helplessness.

Luciana's boots walked away, marking each step with a firm, almost solemn sound that etched itself in the consciousness of everyone present. They weren't just heels walking away. They were symbols of authority, justice, presence. Every echo they left on the ground seemed to say: "It could have been with you... but you weren't up to it."

The man didn't say a word. He just slowly lowered his head, like someone who has realized too late the true value of what he had at his side. Meanwhile, his wife, still holding the warmth of Luciana's hand in hers, watched him. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel invisible.

The Camp (17) – The Boot Prints (2)

Luciana smiled faintly, and with the same firmness with which she had arrived, she took a step back.
"Then take him. But remember this," she said, slowly turning on her heels, "I am not the one who divides... I only reveal."

And without further ado, Luciana walked away, leaving new footprints in the earth. The man did not move.

His wife spoke to him sweetly:
"You know what you must do."

He crawled to the first fresh footprint and kissed it, then kissed the footprints that followed, doing so devotedly and repeatedly.

Luciana appeared again and, with a half-smile full of certainty, stopped right in front of the man, who still had dirt on his face and dirty knees. Her high-heeled brown boots firmly marked her presence as he instinctively lowered his head.
"I warned you," she said, in that soft but uncompromising voice of hers: "Don't look at my boots too much, because they'll end up on top of you."

The gentleman didn't respond. He just shuddered. His wife, still at his side, looked at him with a mixture of tenderness and understanding. Luciana took another step until her boot was on top of him.

"And you did," she added, pressing down with her foot. "You gave yourself over to them. Do you understand now?"

The gentleman slowly raised his gaze. Not with defiance, but with the calm of one who has accepted their fate.
"Yes, Miss Luciana. I understand."

Luciana withdrew her boot and looked at his wife.
"You did it for love. But also for me. Do you accept it that way?"

The woman nodded without hesitation.
"I accept it that way. And I thank you for showing me."

The gentleman whispered, "Thank you... for putting me in my place."

The wife watched her in silence for a few seconds, while her husband remained kneeling, reverent, his gaze fixed on the ground where Luciana's footprints had been left.
"You walk firmly... and you leave a mark. But it's not by stepping. It's by showing how high you can walk."

Luciana nodded slowly, contemplating the woman's gesture, and then said:
"And when I do it... they don't break. They stay where they belong. Because they know that in the end, there is no clearer place than my steps."
Then she looked at the man again.
"And you... you don't need any more warnings, do you?"

He shook his head. Nothing else needed to be said.

Then he looked at his wife.
"Take me," he asked.
She stood up and helped him up. For the first time in a long time, they walked hand in hand, he a little slower, more humble... but complete.

The moon illuminated the camp clearing, bathing the faces of those present in its silvery light. The rustling of the leaves and the crackling of the fire added to the strangely intimate atmosphere. Luciana held the folded paper her husband had just handed her between her fingers, and her voice sounded soft but haunting:
"You two were disconnected for several seconds... as if you were sleeping while awake.
"Did you dream something?"

The husband and wife looked at each other, perplexed, as if barely awakening from a trance. Luciana tilted her head with a smile that seemed to know all the answers, even before the questions were asked.
"Did you dream?" she repeated, this time with ambiguous sweetness, her boots crunching lightly on the ground as she turned on her heels.

The husband swallowed. The wife took his hand without taking her gaze from Luciana. They both felt that, although they were still there, a part of them had been left wandering among the footprints, the whispers, and the authority walking in high heels under the moon.

The priest, his cassock gently fluttering in the night breeze, approached with a serene but curious gesture. He observed the confused faces of the couple, still holding hands, as if they had returned from a distant place.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a pastoral tone, looking especially at the husband, who had dust on his knees, hands, and face.

Luciana, still holding the paper with the address, answered without turning around completely, with that mixture of sweetness and mastery that made even the silence listen:

"It seems they were daydreaming."

The priest frowned slightly, not fully understanding, but sensing something deeper, as if an unusual truth floated in the air. The wife lowered her gaze. The husband barely nodded, still under the spell of the footprints, of the moment... of her.

Luciana then looked up at the starry sky and, with a slight smile, added:

"Some dreams weigh more than others."

The priest looked at the gentleman with growing surprise, confused but intrigued, and asked gently:
"Did you fall?" he continued in a pastoral but inquisitive tone. "Your knees, your hands... your face... your lips... are covered in dirt. It's as if you've prostrated yourself here... as if you've kissed the ground."

Luciana burst out laughing, lively, crystalline, melodious, mocking, yet enchanting, which mingled with the whisper of the night wind. That laugh, light as a breeze, yet laden with meaning, seemed to envelop everyone.

The Camp (19)

When they reached the small adjoining room, they found the man and woman sitting together on a wooden bench. Both were of a certain age, perhaps in their fifties or sixties. The man still had dirt on his hands and face, especially his lips, and the woman held his arm, nervous but loving, like someone trying to protect a broken heart without breaking her own.

Luciana stopped in front of them. Her eyes, still filled with tears, were now compassionate.
"Love doesn't disappear with age," she said gently. "But sometimes words are lost, and what remains are actions... like prostrating yourself in silence, with your soul bare, seeking forgiveness or comfort. Don't be ashamed. Even in pain, there is beauty."

The priest added gently:
"Sometimes, when one stumbles and falls to one's knees, it's not the ground that receives you, but mercy." You have lived, you have loved... and now you just need to listen to each other with your hearts.

The lady nodded, her eyes moist.

The gentleman, his voice breaking, murmured:
"I fell... yes... but not out of weakness, but because I no longer knew how to stand without her."

Luciana sat down beside him and took his hand warmly.
"And here we are. So that you don't walk alone."

And in that gesture, more than in any sermon, true grace was revealed.

Luciana leaned slightly toward the couple sitting on the wooden bench. Her voice sounded kind, with a light tone that sought to break the ice while remaining respectful. With a warm smile, she asked:
"You're at the sacramental talk, aren't you?" And then, with a gentle wink of complicity, "Are you parents, boyfriends, or godparents?"

The lady let out a soft laugh, as if surprised by the young woman's naturalness. The gentleman smiled too, still with dirt on his lips, but his eyes now more alive, as if Luciana's simple tone had reminded them that, despite everything, they were still part of something special.

They looked at each other, and the gentleman, somewhat shyly but affectionately, replied:
"We've been married... for many years. But we've also come as godparents. We want to help a young couple get a good start in life."

Luciana nodded tenderly, and her eyes shone as she said:
"So you're here for love... for the love you've experienced and the one you want to share. How beautiful. Welcome."

The priest, to one side, watched in silence. But his gaze held approval. Luciana, once again, with a single question, had touched the hearts of those before her.

Luciana looked at them affectionately with a sweet but firm smile. Then, addressing the gentleman with a mixture of affection and determination, she said:
"Godparents at a wedding ceremony, best man and maid of honor. You know you must be an example to your godchildren at their wedding... And you, sir," she added, gently pointing at him with her gaze, "must honor and revere your wife as well."

The gentleman blinked, surprised, but then lowered his head with an embarrassed smile. The lady looked at him tenderly and took his hand.

Luciana continued, with a twinkle in her eyes:
"Godparents are not just witnesses, but guides. If your godchildren see you walking together, respecting each other, loving each other with simple gestures, with tenderness and dedication... then they will know how to build their own love as well."

The priest nodded silently, letting Luciana speak.

The lady, moved, murmured:
"Thank you, daughter. It's been a long time since anyone spoke to us like that."

And Luciana sweetly said:
"True love never ages... it only grows wiser."

Smiling mischievously, Luciana crossed her arms and leaned lightly on one leg, her head tilted as she watched Ernesto's steps. Then she said, with a charming mix of playfulness and firmness:
"Ernesto... is this how you wish to carry me? Barely holding my hand and putting your arm around me as if you were carrying a grocery bag?" She laughed softly, without malice. "Try again! Doña Carmen won't be angry, will she, Doña Carmen?"

Carmen burst out laughing and said:
"Of course not! She'd better do it right," and winked at Luciana.

Luciana then added, with almost theatrical warmth:
"Carry her as if the whole town were watching. As if the honor of walking with such a woman gave you strength in your knees and light in your eyes." As if by carrying her, you were carrying God's most precious gift.

Ernesto stood still for a second, swallowed again, then took a deep breath... and this time he approached Carmen with more determination. Not only did he take her hand, but he knelt before her for a moment, kissed her hand reverently, and then, standing up, put both arms around her and walked slowly, with the bearing of a lovelorn gentleman, across the room.

Luciana smiled, her eyes shining, and murmured:
"Good, now!"

The Camp (21)

Luciana looked at the priest, as if asking, "Is there any activity missing? Shall we conclude the meeting?"

The priest, understanding Luciana's gaze, smiled and responded calmly:
"Dear Luciana, the meeting has fulfilled its purpose: to remember the bonds that unite us, from baptism to marriage, through communion and confirmation, and the responsibility to guide others. What we experienced here has been more than just dynamics; it has been a testimony of community, of mutual respect, of meaningful play, and of joyful learning."

Then, looking at everyone present, she added:
"There is no activity more meaningful than recognizing the value of others, honoring our roles, and growing in harmony. If there are no further interventions, we can close this meeting with a prayer and a community embrace."

Luciana nodded gently, satisfied. She walked with firm steps to the center of the space, clasped her hands, and bowed her head slightly, as if calling for silence. The men and women imitated her, forming a large circle.

The priest gave a few final words of blessing, and when he finished, there was spontaneous applause. Then, amid smiles and soft laughter, those in attendance approached one another, hugged, and shared warm words. Some godfathers and goddaughters looked at each other with pride, other groups shared the lessons they had learned, and many still smiled, the echo of the dynamics in their hearts.

Several men, with tenderness and respect, carried the women on their shoulders or piggybacking, as a symbol of care, commitment, and shared play. It wasn't a competition or an obligation, but a living expression of affection and the joy of being together, where strength was proudly offered and trust was placed without reservation.
Some carried their goddaughters, others their godmothers or their best friends. There was laughter, playful comments, and knowing glances. An elderly woman, who had been a godmother on more than one occasion, was carried by her godson with a mixture of pride and gentleness. A young woman, her laughter brimming over, said to her godfather: "Don't fall, I trust you like no one else!"

Luciana, seeing them, smiled. She stood with her hands on her hips, watching how the generations interacted, how the bonds were reaffirmed not only with words but with concrete gestures. At that moment, one of her godfathers—the one from her confirmation—approached, crouched in front of her, and wordlessly waited. Luciana naturally climbed onto her godfather's shoulders. He stood up firmly and began taking firm steps, walking through the center of the room.
Following the horse-riding pair were Luciana's baptismal godfather and Luciana's First Communion godfather.

Silence fell. Everyone turned toward her.

From her height, Luciana raised her voice:
"Thank you all... this is who we are: trust, strength, love, and faith. This is community."

Spontaneous applause erupted. And so, on the shoulders of her sponsor and the affection of those present, Luciana closed the gathering, leaving it etched in everyone's memory as an act of collective love.

Luciana rode on the shoulders of her confirmation sponsor, followed by her other two sponsors.
The four of them headed to the stable at the back of the grounds, where young Luciana had left her horses before the ceremony. The moonlight tinged the aged wood of the stable with silver.

The Stable Stall (2)

Luciana returned to the stable, where the empty stalls waited in the shadows.
With the same calm and determination, she gently called the next horse. Her first communion godfather looked at her with respect and understanding; no words were needed. He walked to the stall she indicated, his gait marked by a mixture of honor, acceptance, and destiny.
She accompanied him silently, closing the distance with soft steps. Once inside, Luciana took the bridle, adjusted it with that perfect blend of tenderness and mastery, and tied the reins to the metal ring with the same skill as before. She closed the door. She turned and put away the key. Another loop sealed, another connection secured.

Then, without haste, she called the third.
The godfather, older than the others, was already standing. When she looked at him and gave a small nod, he nodded without reservation and walked to the third stall. The scene was repeated with increasing solemnity: bridle in place, reins tied, gate closed, key turned.

The three stalls occupied.

The horses, now in their places, sheltered, tied firmly and elegantly by Luciana's own hands, remained a symbol of a personal history made up of deep bonds, shared moments, and Luciana's authority, which needed no words to impose itself.

Luciana paused, looking at the three closed stalls, each housing one of her most senior horses, her three sponsors. The air was serene, charged with unspoken respect, as if the night itself recognized the solemnity of the moment.

In a soft but firm voice, she said:
"You took care of me... now I take care of you."

Her words were not an announcement, but a promise. It was not an act of power, but of love; It wasn't a surrender on their part, but rather a mutual commitment that had been cultivated over years of affection, guidance, and presence. Each had been by her side at key moments in her life, and now Luciana, now a true lady, protected them in her own way: with respect, with firmness, with that tenderness that only she knew how to interweave with dominance.

After a moment of silence, she turned and walked away, her upright and confident figure moving away into the dim light. The keys jingled with an almost ceremonial sound. She didn't look back. There was no need to. They knew they were safe... and under the care of the one who honored them most.

Luciana met the priest at the stable exit. He, who had carefully observed everything that had happened, approached with a serene smile and an inquisitive look.

"Will you do the same with your future best man?" he asked in a calm but direct tone.

Luciana didn't hesitate. Her eyes shone with determination, and a haughty, charming smile spread across her face.
"From this moment on, if necessary!" she declared, with a mixture of sweetness and authority that impressed even the wisest.

The priest nodded silently, understanding that Luciana left nothing to chance. With each step she took, she sealed her path with character, gratitude, and an unwavering will.

Luciana said,
"My future best man, whoever he may be, has been warned: as soon as he accepts this role, he will also accept his place... with the reins tightly tied."

The priest barely raised his eyebrows, surprised by Luciana's firmness.

Luciana, without lowering her gaze or losing her smile, added serenely,
"...and his rider on top of him."

There was a brief silence. The wind gently moved Luciana's hair as she maintained her upright and confident posture, radiating an imposing presence. She didn't say this with arrogance, but with deep conviction: whoever decided to be her best man must understand that her commitment wasn't symbolic, but total. Just as she honored and cared for those who were with her in her early years, she also guided and rode for them when necessary.

The priest nodded slowly, understanding that, for Luciana, caring and dominating weren't opposites. In her world, whoever gave themselves to her did so with pride... and with their foreheads to the ground if necessary.

The Stable Stall (4)

At 3:00 a.m., when the town was fast asleep and silence enveloped the streets with its blanket of light fog, Luciana rose unhurriedly. She put on her light coat, took the keys to the stable and the stalls, and headed for the barn, where her horses had been resting in their respective stalls since the evening.
The wooden gate creaked faintly when she opened it. Inside, the air smelled of leather, effort, and sleeping obedience. With a firm and unhurried step, Luciana approached the first stall. She inserted the key into the lock, turned it with a soft click, and opened the door.

Luciana stood majestically, illuminated only by the faint moonlight that filtered through the cracks in the barn.

The horse, still asleep, breathed slowly, oblivious to the time. Luciana stroked its head and, in a soft but clear voice, said:
"Wake up, it's time."

The man opened his eyes, immediately recognizing that voice. Wordlessly, with the same docility he had shown throughout the event, he allowed Luciana to untie the reins from the ring, remove the bridle, and carefully hang it in its place, next to the corresponding name.

Finally, she gave him a loving swipe of the whip on the horse's thigh and, in a firm voice, instructed him:
"You've done your duty, now... go home."

And so he did. With somewhat unsteady steps, the man left the stable, gradually disappearing into the darkness of the early morning.

Luciana repeated the ritual with each of her horses: she opened the door, woke the "horse," precisely untied the reins, carefully untied the reins, hung each bridle in perfect order, and with a flick of her whip, gave them the order to return.

One by one, with silent and reverent steps, the human horses walked away silently, obediently, without complaint from their weary bodies, returning to their homes under the cover of dawn. None dared to disobey her, even though the night air made them shudder. They knew their role was over for now, and that they would return when she called them. Their shadows blurred on the cobblestone streets of the sleeping town. Some walked upright, others still felt the echo of Luciana's weight on their backs, and the rest advanced on all fours.

When she released the last one, Luciana closed the stable door again, put away the keys, and watched her horses, who were returning home under the pale light of an almost surrendered moon.

The horses returned to their homes like those returning from a pilgrimage. All of them, except for three figures, who didn't move: Esteban, her boyfriend, remained on his knees, looking at her with a mixture of love, devotion, and belonging. Andrés, her most faithful worshiper, remained prostrate, his forehead touching the ground, waiting for orders like a servant who finds purpose in submission. The priest, for his part, remained there, in the shadows, his gaze lost and his lips sealed with shock. Something in his soul still hadn't fully assimilated what he had experienced.

Luciana looked at them with a mixture of tenderness and firmness. She had a different place for each of them in her life: for Esteban, in her heart; for Andrés, in her will; and for the priest… in her soul. None of the three asked to stay. None of the three hesitated. They simply remained.

Luciana watched them for a moment. Then she walked slowly among them, without saying a word, knowing that none of the three would dare to leave without her permission. The night was not over for them. Then she said, "Esteban and Andrés, leave. I'll stay with Father Celestino, I'll get him ready, and he'll take me."

Esteban and Andrés exchanged a brief glance. They said nothing. They knew that when Luciana spoke in that low but firm tone, there was no room for discussion. She stood, her figure outlined by the dim light inside, with the same presence that had so many times made them kneel without asking.
"Okay, Luciana," Esteban said with a slight nod.
"At your service," Andrés whispered, lowering his head before turning away.

They both walked away in silence, obedient and still devout, knowing there was no jealousy between them, only a tacit recognition of the different roles each occupied in her life.
Luciana slowly turned toward the priest, who still remained on the floor, stunned by the intensity of everything he had experienced that night.
"Father Celestino," she said, advancing toward him with confident steps. "Now it's your turn. I will bridle and saddle you... and you will be ridden by me."

The early morning breeze caressed the scene. Luciana closed the cabin door behind them, not violently, but with the serene firmness of someone who knows she is in control of the moment. Outside, the village slept. Inside, another offering was being sealed.

Luciana approached Father Celestino with imposing calm, while he remained on his knees, still not fully recovered. She leaned forward slightly, gently placed a hand under Father Celestino's chin, and raised the priest's face so that he would look into her eyes. Her voice, serene but charged with power, sounded like a sacred echo in the darkness:
"Breathe, Father... surrender."

The priest obeyed without thinking, as if something beyond his will was guiding him.

Luciana turned and walked gracefully to her bag, from which she took out the straps, saddle, and reins. She showed them to the priest without needing to explain. He nodded, and without her having to ask, he assumed the all-fours position. Slowly, with almost liturgical delicacy, Luciana placed the bridle on the priest, adjusting the bit firmly. Then she expertly placed the saddle on the priest's back and secured the cinches under Father Celestino's abdomen. Finally, she took the reins and, with a solemn gesture, wrapped them around his wrist.
"You are ready," she said in a voice soft but sharp as a bell at dawn. "You will be my mount, my guide... my penitent."
Luciana climbed onto him gracefully, shifting her weight naturally in the saddle. Her boots rested in the stirrups, her posture erect, her countenance radiant. Domination was not violence or cruelty, but a spiritual truth shared between them.
"Go ahead," she commanded. "Take me to the place I will tell you about."

And so, in the gloom of early morning, amid whispers and firm footsteps, Father Celestino was ridden by Luciana, performing a penance that was also a revelation.

Drunkenness (1)

At a gathering of friends, under the influence of alcohol, they asked Esteban: "Why are you being ridden by Luciana?" "Before you, Luciana had another boyfriend who was also ridden by her, but when he became her horse, he stopped being her boyfriend." "I'm surprised you're friends with Andrés, Luciana's pet."

Esteban pressed his lips together and lowered his gaze for a moment. The laughter of some, somewhere between nervous and mocking, struck him harder than words. The heat of the liquor in his throat mingled with the heat of wounded pride. He didn't respond immediately. He looked at his glass, turned it between his fingers, and then looked up. His expression was serene, but his eyes burned with a mixture of determination and defiance.
"Luciana doesn't allow me to be ridden by her," he said in a firm voice. "She honors me with that right."

The murmurs ceased for a moment. Esteban's tone was neither defensive nor aggressive; He was clear and sincere.
"And if one day she stops seeing me as her boyfriend," he added, "then I will stop being her boyfriend... but I won't stop being her horse, I won't stop loving her. Because she isn't just any woman. She's destiny."

Some lowered their gaze, others pretended to sip their glasses. But one dared to say:
"And Andrés? Doesn't it hurt you that she's adopted him as her pet?"

Esteban sighed, then smiled faintly.
"Andrés adores her, yes. I do too. We are not enemies. We are devoted to the same Goddess. He is the pet... and I am the chosen one."
Then, he stood up, raised his glass, and concluded:
"Let's toast Luciana. Whoever has been ridden by her knows there is no greater glory. And whoever has been led by her... never forgets."

Those present fell silent. Then, as if obeying a common impulse, they also raised their glasses and toasted. At that moment, they knew Esteban wasn't just Luciana's boyfriend... he was her fiancée.

One of those present said to Esteban, "Introduce me to your girlfriend," he replied, "Why? She's the one who chooses, not me."

The group laughed with some discomfort, but also with respect. Esteban's words were like sentences, brief and precise, impossible to refute.

"Why?" he repeated, looking directly at the questioner. "She's the one who chooses, not me."

A thick silence fell, as if everyone at that gathering remembered a time when Luciana had looked at them... or not. It wasn't enough to want to know her, or to desire her. Luciana was like fire: one couldn't approach her without being burned.

Another, bolder because of the liquor, said mockingly, "But if you're her boyfriend, shouldn't you have some power?"

Esteban narrowed his eyes, but his smile didn't fade.
"Of course I have power," he replied. "The power to hold her without trembling, to carry her without missing a step, to withstand her weight without complaining, and to remain silent when her voice decides."

Then he leaned forward slightly, the already empty glass between his fingers.
"You want to know her so you can try riding her. I know her, and that's why it's enough for me to serve her."

And no one else joked about that again.

Esteban said, "All of you want to be Luciana's horses, to be ridden by her. But none of us can make any decisions about that, because she's the one who decides."

The group fell silent. Esteban's words were not spoken with anger or resentment, but with a clarity that pierced the pride of each one. He spoke with the calm of one who has been tested and accepted.

“You all want to be Luciana’s horses, to be ridden by her,” he repeated slowly, looking at each of those present. “But none of us can make any decisions about that, because she is the one who decides.”

Someone murmured, almost regretfully:
“But if one truly loves her…”

Esteban shook his head gently.
“Love is not enough. You can love, desire, hope, serve… But she doesn’t choose the one who insists the most, but the one who understands her the most. And when she chooses, she does so without explanation. It is not a reward, it is not a punishment. It is simply her will.”

A younger man, with a tone somewhere between defiant and wounded, asked:
“And doesn’t it hurt to share her?”

Esteban smiled for the first time in the entire conversation, but it was a melancholy smile.
“Share what? She is not mine. She never has been. I am only allowed to be near… when she wants it. And that, my friends, is more than many of you have ever had.”

The Drunkenness (3)

One of them asked Esteban, "Weren't you upset when Don Amilcar said to our faces that we were touching ourselves in honor of Luciana?"

Esteban looked at him calmly, without altering his posture or his voice. He responded firmly, but without aggression:
"No. Why would I be upset?"

He paused briefly and added,
"Don Amilcar said what everyone thinks and few dare to admit. You don't know her like I do. You haven't been ridden by her like I have. You haven't felt her weight, her strength, or her power over you. You've only desired her... from afar."

He looked at each of them with a mixture of compassion and certainty.
"I don't need to hide what I feel for her. Nor lie to myself. She chose me. And while you hide in murmurs and shame, I carry her with pride."

Then, without further ado, he poured himself some water and drank calmly. No one knew what to say.

Another murmured: "Don Amilcar called us wankers."

One of those present let out a nervous laugh, but the atmosphere remained tense. No one contradicted him.

Esteban heard him and, without raising his voice, commented:
"Don Amilcar used a crude word, yes... but he didn't lie."

Then he looked him straight in the eyes and added calmly:
"Don't be offended by the term. Be offended by the truth behind it. You fantasize about Luciana. She passes by and you tremble, you hide, you sigh, you kneel... but no one dares to approach you like a man."

Another tried to defend himself:
"She's just imposing!"

"Of course she is," Esteban agreed. "Because she's great. Because she knows what she wants. Because she looks at you, and without saying a word, you break. She's not for the one who desires her, but for the one who can sustain her."

And everyone fell silent again.

"Watching her riding is... wonderful," one of them sighed, his eyes lost in some indelible memory.

"It's art," another said. "It's as if the world stopped to admire her."

"She doesn't ride like anyone else," a third added. "She dominates, directs, possesses. And whoever is ridden by her... is only the road."

"And so, she blesses that road with every step," another commented quietly, almost with religious devotion.

Esteban remained silent, listening, knowing that everything they said was true. When Luciana rode, she wasn't just a rider: she was a Queen, a symbol, pure force in motion. And everyone knew it.

The Drunkenness (5)

Suddenly, the door opened with a loud bang. Everyone fell silent.

The silhouette that appeared silhouetted by the light in the hallway took everyone's breath away. It was a large man, his torso bare but partially covered by an elaborate dark leather horse costume. He wore a bridle and bit, a saddle perfectly fitted to his back, and reins that hung behind him, where Luciana, upright and dominant, held them with absolute elegance.

She was dressed in an impeccable black riding habit: a tight-fitting jacket, riding pants that emphasized her curves, and long, gleaming riding boots with silver spurs that clinked with each step of the human horse. In her right hand, she held a short riding crop, which she turned slowly between her fingers with studied disdain.

Luciana advanced her horse a few steps, silently observing the circle of men. No one dared to move. Their gazes fell first on Luciana's boots, then on her figure, and finally on her serene, haughty, absolutely in-control face.

With a half-smile, she broke the silence:
"I heard some neighing."

Her words weren't a question. They were a statement. A warning.

Some looked down. Others, like Esteban, couldn't help but smile nervously. No one responded.

Luciana tugged lightly on the reins. The man leading her—strong, sweaty, and devoted—knelt slowly with her riding next to him, bowing briskly.

She dismounted gracefully, and the sound of her spurs on the wooden floor broke the silence like a judgment.

"Are my horses restless?" she said as she walked among them, her heels clicking. "Or are they simply eager to be ridden?"

The stifled neigh of one of them escaped without permission. Luciana smiled.

She looked at them. She didn't say a word at first. She just watched them, with that mixture of calm and authority that made it impossible for them to meet her gaze. And as if her mere presence issued a silent command, all the men fell to their knees, one after another, in a wave of inevitable submission. Then, with automatic reverence, they placed their hands on the ground, bowing their heads to her.

Luciana stopped in her tracks. The riding crop now rested on her shoulder, and the reins of the man who had brought it hung at her side, an obvious symbol of her dominance. She smiled.
"That's how I like it," she said, her tone soft, almost affectionate, but charged with power. "I want you to organize yourselves and present yourselves to me, one by one..."

Her gaze swept the line of kneeling bodies.
"...to greet me as I deserve: by kissing my boots."

The silence was broken only by the scraping of knees moving on the ground, as the men lined up with reverent awkwardness, arranging themselves without a single protest. Esteban was the first. He looked up briefly, swallowed, and crawled over to her, bending over the shiny black spurred boot.

Luciana extended a leg slightly toward him, like a queen extending her hand.
"Here," she commanded softly.

And he kissed the leather of Luciana's boot, his eyes closed.

Luciana closed hers too, like someone receiving a just tribute. Then she looked at the next man.
"You," she indicated with the whip.

The ceremony had begun.

So, one by one, the men approached on their knees, heads bowed and obedient, until they stood before Luciana. She rode her "human horse," firm and majestic in her black riding habit.

She didn't move; she didn't need to. Her serene, commanding gaze, her upright posture, the way she held the reins in one hand and the whip in the other were enough to let each of them know exactly what to do.

One by one, they prostrated themselves before her, took the toe of her boot, kissed it with a mixture of fear, respect, and devotion, and then slowly stepped back, leaving the place for the next.

Luciana said nothing more. She just watched. Her silence was stronger than any words. Her smile, faint but constant, told them she approved of every gesture. Her power lay not in what she said, but in what she represented.

When the last one kissed her boots and silently stepped back, Luciana straightened her posture even more and, in a soft but clear voice, said,
"That's how I like it. That's fine."

And with a slight movement of her heels she spurred her horse, giving him the signal to advance, leaving the hall with the same elegance with which she had entered, leaving behind everyone kneeling, breathing deeply, because they had experienced a sacred rite.

The Stable (1)

As Esteban, on his knees, bowed his head and devotedly kissed Luciana's high boots, the other men looked at him with a mixture of admiration and a desire to imitate him. Their lips respectfully touched the dusty leather she had worn the entire journey, as if each kiss sealed her loyalty.

Luciana looked at him gently, then looked up at the others, who waited silently, panting slightly from the exertion. Her voice was clear and firm:
"To belong to my herd, and to be part of my stable," she said, "it's not enough to follow me. It's not enough to drag yourself through the streets or neigh like good stallions."

She took a step forward, the heel of her boot ringing against the wooden floor, and then continued:
"True horses earn their place. They have to prove they are worthy. That their dedication is not just a passing impulse, but total devotion."

The men gulped. Some lowered their gaze. Others held it, challenging themselves.

"Here," she said, walking slowly among them, "there is no room for the undecided, nor for those who still doubt who they belong to. The stable is a sanctuary, but also a test. Whoever enters, submits. Whoever neighs, does so from the soul. Whoever carries, does so with pride."

Esteban remained at her feet, still, as if the world had stopped for him.

Luciana stopped in the center of the stable and finally said:
"Tonight, I will give you the opportunity to prove to me if you are worthy of being mine."

Luciana crossed her arms, her imposing silhouette silhouetted by the dim light of the stable.

The men, still on their knees, sweaty, their palms and knees scraped, breathed heavily as they watched her with a mixture of devotion and fear.

With a raised eyebrow and a half-smile laced with irony, Luciana asked in a firm, mocking tone:
"Are you sober yet... or are you still dizzy?"

There was a brief silence. Some looked down, embarrassed; others tried to smile, albeit nervously. One, with a trembling voice, dared to answer:
"Dizzy... but because of you."

There were a few brief laughs, the kind that arise in the midst of tension, and another added:
"If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up."

Luciana smiled faintly, that smile that could melt or dominate, as she pleased. Then she walked slowly among them, observing them one by one, like someone evaluating new foals.
"Good," she said finally. "Don't let your dizziness pass yet. Because what's coming... is just beginning."

Luciana walked slowly in front of them, her boots echoing authoritatively on the dirt floor of the stable. She stopped in the center, looked at them one by one with a mixture of tenderness and dominance, and in a firm but seductive voice, she said:
"In this town there are two kinds of horses: equines... and humans. I have two equines"—she paused briefly—"and seven humans."

She leaned forward slightly, staring at them while smiling mischievously.
"And you? How many of you are here?"

There was a moment of silence. One of them, still panting, answered, counting with difficulty:
"Eight... eight, madam."

"Eight?" she repeated, amused. "Then with you, that makes fifteen. A good harvest tonight."

And while they remained silent, she added, "Now let's see if all of you deserve the mount... or if you'd rather walk upright again as if you've never tasted what it means to belong to me."

The Stable (3)

Luciana, walking atop her new acquisition, with a half-smile on her lips and a serene, yet penetrating, gaze. He remained on the ground, processing the implications of his position before her.

She raised her chin slightly, and with a soft but firm voice—one that is not discussed, that is obeyed—she asked:
"What is your name... and how old are you?"

She didn't need to repeat it. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't grow impatient. She simply looked at him, with that calmness that commands more than any shout. He felt he should answer clearly, without omitting or stuttering, as if he were in the presence of someone who could read his soul. Because Luciana had already chosen him... and now she wanted to know who she had tamed.

He raised his head slightly, not daring to meet her gaze, and with a trembling but determined tone, he answered:
"My name is Andrés... I am thirty-four years old."

Luciana nodded slowly, still watching him, as if every word he spoke confirmed what she already sensed. Then, without another word, she gently placed the toe of her boot on Andrés's shoulder, as if sealing an acceptance. Andrés closed his eyes and exhaled deeply: not out of fear, but out of surrender.

She said, "Andrés, you have the same name as my pet. Are you married? Do you have children? Tell the truth because it always comes out."

Andrés swallowed and answered in a low but clear voice, still not daring to raise his eyes from the ground:
"Yes... I'm married. I have two children."

Luciana bent down slightly, resting an elbow on his knee, and with a half-smile said,
"Then you are either brave... or very foolish."

She paused and added gently, but firmly,
"There is no room for lies here, Andrés. If you want to be part of my pack, you will be with all that you are... or you will not be at all."
Then he stood up, and without taking his foot off her, he concluded:
"Do you understand?"

Luciana asked: "The age and sex of your wife and two children?"

Andrés, still prostrate, answered in an obedient voice:
"My wife's name is Julia, she's 33 years old..."

"And the children?" Luciana interrupted with inquisitive calm.

"A 12-year-old boy... and a 9-year-old girl."

Luciana nodded slowly, without losing her calm but dominant tone.
"What you do here, you do for yourself, not for them. You know that, right?"

Andrés didn't respond with words. He just nodded, still with his forehead pressed to the ground.

Luciana said: "As long as they are minors, your children are outside this group; regarding your wife, you must speak to her and get her consent. If you don't get it, you're out."

Andrés swallowed, still without looking up. "Yes, Mistress Luciana... I'll try."

Luciana walked slowly over him, each step echoing with the firmness of her boots.
"I'm not interested in you lying or hiding things from me," she added in a soft but firm voice. "Everything is known here. If you cheat on your wife, you cheat on yourself... and me."

She stopped above him. "You have until Sunday to speak to her. If you don't, don't come back to this stable. Understood?"
"Understood, Luciana," Andrés whispered, his forehead still on the ground.

Luciana said, "For now, you'll have to explain to Julia about the heel and sole prints."

Andrés nodded with a slight shudder, still not daring to look up.

Luciana leaned slightly, allowing the shadow of her figure to cover him completely, and added with a smile that left no room for doubt:
"Tell her they weren't footprints... they were marks of choice. And that, if she allows it, I can also leave my footprints, as a sign of respect and welcome. Or, if she prefers, I can invite her to mark her territory on you, as I did, because that's her right... and you belong to her."

She stood gracefully, turned, and walked toward the stable exit, leaving behind the echoing clack of her heels as a reminder that not everything she steps on... is erased.

The Encounter (2)

The shared laughter eased any remaining tension. Julia took advantage of the moment to invite Luciana:
"While Camila and Matías play, let's go to my bedroom. I want you to see Andrés's back."

Luciana nodded. As they entered the room, Andrés lay down on the floor. Julia pointed at him:
"You left these sole and heel prints, right?"

Luciana nodded.

"And I left these others," Julia added. "Look."

They counted each other's sole and heel prints. Andrés waited silently, aware of being beneath two powerful women who recognized each other. Julia and Luciana shared glances, discovering in that simple gesture a complicity they hadn't expected.

Then Julia turned to Luciana and, in a calm but determined voice, pronounced with a conviction that surprised even herself:
"Andrés has my permission to participate in your stable." And I want to go too.

Luciana said nothing at first. She just looked at her, then lowered her gaze to Andrés's back, which united them like a common mat. Her smile was subtle.
"Good," she replied, knowing it was just the beginning.

The deal was sealed. When they returned to the living room, Julia called her children and informed them of the decision: the parents would join Luciana's stable, Julia as a new rider, ready to ride, and Andrés as a willing steed, ready to be ridden.

Luciana, who had arrived as a visitor, now left as a recognized leader. Julia's home was no longer neutral territory: it was a new space conquered by the young rider's charisma. Julia would be taken. Andrés, taken. And Luciana's stable only grew because the house was not just Julia's land: it had become a new extension of the stable. And Luciana, as always, remained at the helm.