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The three slaves roped on behind had to trot to keep up, hard to do with their hands behind them, but I never went faster than a rapid walking pace although I must admit I was tempted to canter. It was about five miles, and I turned now and then to admire Melissa's bouncing boobs and stricken face, her hair streaming out behind her like a flag. The boys seemed to be enjoying themselves. I let the horse trot as we turned into my long drive, and the slaves had to run up the path of crushed shells. I am sure it was painful, but the boys' feet were hard.I reined up at the shed behind the house with the three naked people behind me panting and gasping for breath, Melissa sobbing. My black slave-driver took the two young men away, and I led Melissa into the house, feeling my cock throbbing in anticipation. She had been in my home several times previously, but always before in a fine dress and wearing dainty slippers, her waist tightly cinched, an honored and coddled guest. Now she was. Ryan just blew this all off and said, “You’ll do just fine.”As the car approached a stone courtyard out in front, an “honest-to-god” butler appeared at the front door. He greeted us both, and then escorted us through the most awesome foyer toward an adjoining room. Ryan’s parents were there awaiting our arrival. His mother put down a book and stood as we entered. She warmly received a hug from him. I walked over nervously and received the same. To this day, I can vividly recall my first impression of Simon. Ryan’s father was standing right in the column of a brilliant beam of sunlight pouring through a series of two story glass windows. The stiff and proper posture he held, reminded me of some ancient nobleman receiving visitors. He extended his right hand politely and greeted Ryan like a guest instead of his son. I stood frozen in awe. Simon was wearing an impeccably tailored Armonti suit which probably cost at least ten to twenty-thousand dollars. His Forzier Italian.
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