Riding My Dad

I loved horses.

Ever since my father bought a ranch, I wanted to learn how to ride a horse. My dad was an expert at horseback riding, because he grew up on a farm. Only when he had gotten married he had sold his property and bought a home with my mom, where they eventually raised me together.

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Years later, however, my parents divorced when I was sixteen, which meant that shared custody became prominent in my life. My father, however, missed country life and bought a ranch after he sold his house when they had divorced.

I had often visited him at the ranch to help out with duties such as cleaning up the barn, tending to the cattle, and refilling up water troughs for the horses and the cattle to drink.

I loved the horses. I didn’t grow up with them like her father had, but I’d happily obliged to farm life. My dad said that I appeared to be a natural with animals, and so I wanted to ride my father’s favorite horse. The horse was named Picasso, because he had splotches of white and brown that appeared to have been splattered onto his coat in random patterns. What I loved most, though, about Picasso was his tail. Long and flowing and white. Oftentimes, my father would catch me styling the tail with girlish, intricate braids.

“Stop feminizing my horse,” He had joked, “Picasso is a stud, a manly man.”

I would smile, my blue eyes squinting as she did so. My would be blushing, because I would think the same things about my father.

Stud.

When I turned 19, though, was when our seemingly normal relationship started to change. It was a warm afternoon on the ranch, and I was taking care of the barn when my father came to check up on me.

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“When are you going to teach me how to ride, dad?” I asked, curious.

“You never expressed to me that you wanted to learn.” He said. I noticed how his hair had strands that were stained by the sun. Highlighted with lighter streaks that seemed to sparkle on his otherwise dark head of hair.

“I want to ride Picasso.”

“Picasso is a special horse, he only lets certain people ride him.” He replied.

“Oh, come on. Picasso knows me now, we are practically best friends. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me much.”

He smiled at me, who was looking up at him. He had told me that I reminded him of himself when he was younger, and I wondered if the twinkle in his eyes was because of that.

“I suppose we can practice now, if you like. Go ahead and halter him up and bring him out to the ring.” He told me.

I was excited. At once I found Picasso and brought him to the ring like he had said to do. He was waiting there for me, standing in the middle with his strong arms crossed over his chest.

He got on Picasso’s back and settled himself behind me. I could feel his chest against my back, his breath against the back of my neck. We seemed high up off the ground, it felt a little scary.

But his hands snaked around me to hold the reigns in front of me. I’d never been this close to any male before, so it felt a little awkward.

“You hold the reins like this,” He said, “And make sure you are in control of the horse at all times.”

I nodded and took the reins out of his hands, fumbling about clumsily. It felt like I was learning a new language for the first time. Unfamiliar and not quite sure where to start or even what to do.

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“Here, I’ll show you first and make him walk a bit. Watch and learn.” He said. I gave him back the reins, feeling nervous.

He got Picasso to walk, and suddenly we were rubbing together a bit. I enjoyed being on the horse, though, and I was eager to learn.

Picasso started to trot, making dad and I move up and down together. I could feel his body against my back, and I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. Why was he so close to me? I mean, sure, we were riding a horse together and were bound to be close. But I’d never seen anyone pressed up against the person in front before.

It came to my mind that my shorts were short. I felt exposed to my father more so than I had ever felt before.

I could feel the roughness of his jeans pressed against my lower back. My tank top had been riding up a bit, so I could feel his jeans pressed against my bare skin.

It felt hard and rough.

And suddenly I regretted not wearing my new bra, since the one I was wearing was old and provided minimal support and the movements of Picasso were making my tits wiggle up and down.

I felt suddenly awkward.

I felt my dad move against me, though it must’ve been from Picasso.

His breath fanned against my neck quicker.

I suddenly became aware that my rear was pressed tightly against the spot between his spread legs.

My neck blushed this time.

The movements of the horse made us bump up and down, causing his front to rub and press against me.

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“Faster Picasso.” He said lowly.

Dad-” I said, worried.

Picasso trotted faster.

And I could’ve sworn I felt him buck against my back.

I smiled, though, thinking it was probably just Picasso trotting. The air against my face felt fresh, and I felt free.

“Lift your arms up a bit.” He whispered.

I obliged, letting him reposition his arms that were still holding onto the reins.

This time, though, his fisted hands were awfully close to either side of my breasts.

Because of how close we were, and because of how jolting the movements of Picasso was, his hands rubbed against the soft sides of my jiggling tits. I blushed.

Did he realize where his hands were? Of course he has to know, right? It’s obvious.

I sighed, brushing it off as an accident. Besides, there’s nothing sexual going on, anyway. Even if he knew where his hands were, it’s not like there’s anything wrong because there is nothing inherently sexual about it.

Just as I started to enjoy feeling free and enjoy being on Picasso, my dad spoke once more.

“Here, I want to show you a cool spot on a horse trail. I want to take control, and you can sit behind me this time.” He said.

“Okay! But riding lessons aren’t over, right?”

A hefty chuckle escaped his throat. “Oh no, baby, they are far from over. I’ve got a special horse you can ride.”

At once I got excited. Had he got me my own horse? But the tone of his voice seemed off.

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