Leather Riding Attire

By Mistress Michelle Peters

Each year the fashion designers set new styles and new fabrics before our costume hungry eyes. Eagerly we discard last year's lace for this year's silk. We no longer think in terms of a new dress—the new dress must have accompanying shoes, stockings, belts, and scarves. In short, a whole costume.

Even men seem to have be-come more fashion conscious. They have discovered that it is not only a woman who can acquire a new attitude or a great psychological lift or unleash hidden passions simply by donning an outfit different from anything they have ever worn before; it works for everyone. And so the demand, from beads to exotic boots, increases daily.

But there seems to be one area of costume whose appeal has never diminished riding attire. The most aloof, business oriented man will turn his head to watch a woman striding down the Street sleek, glossy leather jodhpurs that fit the calves like gloves with a slight rich fullness in the hips that hints of the delicious curves under the soft, pliant cloak, and a matching, tailored jacket, whose sleeves fit round the arms and the body clutches the waist like a second skin, perhaps a white satin scarf and jaunty cap, but more exciting, the high-heeled, radiant burnished boots below, whose very sound on the pavement causes people to move aside. There is no denying her appeal to men. The sight of her is stamped indelibly in their minds.

Numerous theories have been advanced about the attraction that women in riding apparel have for men. They range from the fairy-tale vision of the dominant, aristocratic woman riding through the woods in the fox hunt to the vivid picture in our own history of the strong women who played a large part in the settling of the West.

Whatever the reason for this continuing appeal, it is certain that a man has never been more responsive to a woman than when he sees her in such attire just as the woman herself suddenly appears transformed and radiates that mysterious quality, called by theatre critics, presence.

Riding habits, perhaps more than any other type of clothing, strip the superficial, imposed layers of fashion and tradition from a woman and replaces them with one thin layer that starkly out lines and enforces her true strength and will.

The man who appears to be the veritable "tower of strength", invincible in the business world, has his moments of weakness, moments when he wants to be dominated and controlled. He cannot afford to show this publicly and only his wife or his mistress can privately fulfill this special need. But how often does this happen?

How much happier many marriages and relationships would he, if men were able to admit and to communicate to their women their real needs, both in action and in dress. Unfortunately, all too often, they remain frustrated and silent. Yet studies have shown that in cases where mutual awareness is established and fulfilled a profound bond develops between the couple and their relationship will survive nearly every social cancer that nibbles at it. The following case history illustrates such a relationship.

Dan P. was born in a small Midwest town where children were raised with horses and learned to ride before they were six. Bicycles were unheard of. The favorite sport was to "horrow horses from breeding cor-rals and ride bareback through the woods.

His first love was a young lady who won numerous prizes at various horseshows throughout the-State. She was the only child of a wealthy horse-breeder and he remembers watching her at shows with complete adoration.

She always wore severely tailored leather suits. The jodhpurs were velvet-smooth, dusky leather that stretched taut over the knee and molded her legs. The slight fullness around her hips tapered without folds up to her slim waist and she wore a wide, jewel studded belt that matched the reins she held in her slender, long-fingered gloved hands. A short, matching leather vest fitted tightly over her small up-lifted breasts and clung to her midriff. The dazzling Snow-White, full-sleeved, high-collared satin blouse shimmered against the lustrous polished leather. She never wore a hat, but to keep her long, flowing blonde hair away from her eyes when she rode, she tied a leather indian-style head-band around her forehead.

When she sat erect before the judges on the back of the fine, powerful beast, who pawed the ground impatiently, Dan's eyes riveted on the incredible boots that rested lightly in the narrow, silver stirrups. The bootleg blended into her jodhpurs and no matter how hard he stared, he could not distinguish the top of the boot from her pant's leg. He was certain they were one-piece. The glossy vamp tapered to a point and the heels were the most delicate. miniature stilts he had ever seen. Around the heel she wore fragile silver spurs, fragile but still promising punishment to a balky horse. Awed by her proud, arrogant appearance and her aura of confidence that no one could top her, he was unable to approach her. He dreamed of her constantly, and when he saw her on display before the judges, he secretly longed to be the horse beneath her.

The years passed, but the vivid picture of her stamped in his young mind never vanished. He went to college and finally to New York. He rose rapidly in a large advertising firm. He was shrewd, at times ruthless, young executive, feared by competitors and demanded by clients. And eyed hungrily by the young, single girls within the company. He was certainly the dream bachelor: Tall, handsome, rich and charming.

Dan was in constant demand at parties and the wives of all his colleagues played matchmaker in the hopes of marrying him off to one of their choice friends. He dated frequently, but there was something missing in all of them. An unidentifiable something that haunted him and kept him from deeper relationships with the women he met.

Dan liked the City, but missed the open spaces and uncluttered town of his youth.' He found himself frequently walking in Central Park on weekends and sitting on a slope overlooking the riding path that circled through the Park. The young women dressed in riding habits and gleaming, waxen leather boots stirred his memories, until he found himself longing to visit home. And at last he did.

There, in a two-week, whirlwind courtship, he married a girl whom he had played with as a child. He remembered that she loved to ride and had been teased by the other children and called a tomboy. She had flowered into a beautiful young woman and he was captivated by her small-town innocence compared to the sophisticated, chic women he was surrounded by in New York. She also reminded him vaguely of his secret, adolescent love.

"It was funny," he recalls, "I don't really know what was going on inside my head during the courtship and the wedding. I guess I was so busy trying to assure her that life would be great in New York City that I didn't think about myself at all, or what I wanted her to be like or even what I actually thought she was like. All I knew was that I had some driving need to take her back with me.

"But once we were settled in my apartment in New York, everything seemed to fall apart. Within a few weeks, she was just like everybody else's wife pretty, well-dressed, all that, she even started to talk like them, you know, that sophisticated accent.

"We were leading separate lives. Every now and then, we tried to communicate what was wrong, but neither of us could define it. At this point, I realized and could admit to myself that what 1 needed and wanted was some sign of strength and domination in her— ~qualities I was instinctively sure she had, but I couldn't find the words to express it to her. So instead I withdrew, away from her.

And, of course, she blamed the seeming failure of our marriage on the fact that we knew almost nothing about each other when we married.

Then one weekend, we were invited by a client of mine to spend a holiday at his farm in upstate New York. He raised a few show horses as a hobby and he and his wife were avid riders. When he heard that I grew up in the West, he offered the invitation. I don't know what came over me, but I accepted without even asking my wife, if she wan- ted to go. I was strangely sure, despite our strained relationship, that it was right. She was very annoyed. She had now adjusted to city life as though she had been born there and had no interest in a country holiday. I was so insistent that finally, she reluctantly agreed to go.

The farm was fantastic, but even more fantastic was my client's wife.

She was the reincarnation of my childhood vision. The whole weekend, she wore the most luscious, exquisite riding habits, I had ever seen.

I was sure she had been sewn into the pants. I couldn't resist throwing my arm over her shoulder when-ever I reasonably could to touch the soft, magic leather that followed every move of her muscles and to breathe the delicious, potent fragrance of tannin that enveloped her.

The floor of the huge living room was made of stone blocks and the click of the stiletto heel on her high boots echoed in my ears till at times the rhythmic sound drowned out the voices around me. I was lost in the overpowering music of her feet.

"Of course, I couldn't conceal my obvious fascination from my wife and after a whole evening of staring and absorbing this vision, I didn't even bother to try. I had all I could do to control my almost all-consuming urge to fall down on my hands and knees and ask my hostess to mount me. My heart beat and my breath quickened at the very thought of those magnificent leather legs gripping my back and the needle-like heels digging into my hungry body, whipping me into furious speeds.

"That night in our room my wife complained bitterly about humiliating her with my overt interest in our host's wife. I, of course, denied it, and we argued through most of the night, finally sleeping far apart on the double bed. In the morning, we dressed in stony silence and at breakfast spoke in cold polite terms to one another. But I soon forgot my wife. I was enchanted all over again by my hostess's garb.

"We were all supposed to go riding that morning, but my wife suddenly declined, saying that she didn't have the proper attire and urged us to go on without her. My hostess overruled her protests and dragged her off to outfit her. I sat in the living room, drinking coffee and talking shop, while we waited for the women.

"When they returned, I was completely breath taken at the sight of my wife. Our hostess was slightly thinner than my wife and the tailored jacket my wife had on stretched as sleek and taut as the back of a thoroughbred horse, yet the satiny leather rippled when she walked, and the sleek, form-fitting boots with their high pointed heels tapped a message to my stunned brain— "This was my wife." Under that luxurious, dark layer of velvet- smooth skin that mingled and eyes or hands away from her.

"After dinner, she suddenly complained that she was hot and would like some fresh air. She wanted to take a walk. I leaped from my chair. All evening, I had wanted desperately to be alone with her and I guess our hosts sensed this and declined to join us.

"We set out, walking slowly, toward the open fields and then climbed a fence into a pasture. I kept my arm around her, buried in the soft, yielding leather, stroking her side up and down constantly. I was in ecstasy and a strong, powerful urge to make love to this dream stirred wildly inside me. An urge more powerful than any desire I have ever had.

"The night was clear and the moon was full. It was cold, but I was beyond feeling the cold. Suddenly my wife stopped short and looked up at me. Her face was strong and alert, her eyes gleamed and her voice was low and commanding, "I'm cold. And I'm tired of walking. Ride me back to the house!"

"I can't begin to describe the sudden, drunken reeling of my senses. In those few words, she had opened a memory bank buried deep inside me and waves of uncontrollable emotion flooded through me. My heart was thumping so hard that I was sure it would burst open.

"I flung myself down on the cold, hard ground before her, speechless.

I was a wild, powerful stallion pawing the ground, challenging the leather-gloved body above me to tame me.

"Gracefully, she mounted my trembling, muscular back and I snorted and reared my head. She gripped my neck tightly and dug the sharp, pointed heels into my sides and shouted, "Hie!"

"I was off in a gallop across the field, moving as fast as I could, oblivious to the rocks under my hands and knees or the pain of her sharp heels digging deeper and deeper into my back side. One hand yanked at my mane and the other beat my shoulder fiercely. The smack of the leather rang out in the noise-less air. "Faster! Faster!" she screamed and I charged on.

"At the edge of the field by the fence, exhausted, I fell flat on the ground and she stood up over me, her arms crossed over her gleaming full breasts and smiled, an arrogant, proud smile. She had broken the stallion in.

"We made love that night, reaching heights of passion that neither of us had known before.

"We never discussed that first night together. I guess because we both knew there were no words to describe the passion we had released in ourselves. It was enough to know we both had experienced it. We knew also that our life together had changed completely.

And now, alter ten years of marriage, I still rush eagerly home to my wife. Her wardrobe of fitted jackets, vests, and jodhpurs in the finest, richest leathers of every color possible and her collection of boots in every height, all with slender spike like heels with delicate spurs that sing to me when she walks is ours. She still wears fashionable cocktail dresses to parties and dinners, but at home she dresses for me.

"She is more exciting to me every day. I would match her with any of the mistresses my frustrated, jaded colleagues have acquired over the years. And further, we belong to each other.