I love the sound of it, of course, and the sensation. The short, precise, tiny dot of pain when you’re whacked neatly with it. The ‘crop’ – a deliciously onomatopoeic instrument, as each stroke falls with a quick, cursive… crop.
But while all that’s delightful, I think it’s the general aesthetic I like. The idea of h0rsey young women sitting primly atop a saddle. Keeping a poker face to disguise the sensations in their tight jodhpurs when their filly breaks into a trot. Seriously, each and every one of these specifically horsey words is getting me wet as I write them.
I can practically smell the leather tack, mingled with musky sweat of a stable lad, topped off with a slight tang coming from my crotch after rubbing it on the saddle during a long forest hack.
I can almost feel the rhythm – UP-down UP-down UP-down – the slight pause at the top of each stroke, hanging poised in the air for a split second, before falling back and feeling the satisfying thud of the leather saddle between my legs.
And of course I can picture the crop – wielded by someone tall and older and authoritarian. Clipped tones, possibly ex-military – so British he sweats Earl Grey. Barking instructions to me as I trot around and around…