Cesare eyes the ridge of the back, hesitant for a moment. It's a young horse; perfect for a boy. For a man? Perhaps not so much. He'll have to trust his instincts.
Which would tell him to lay off in the first place. "Last time I mounted one of your kind," he whispers, "it carried me to my death." But then he's already got a hand on the withers and is about to pull himself up.
Fuck, those jeans are tight.
caveat: i don't even know what all those horsey bits'n'bobs are called in german, let alone english! akh!