Arabian Plaything Chapter 6
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INTERMISSION
Marjorie Marchbanks clamped her plump thighs to the cheeks of the slave-girl in between them.
„That will do,“ she said. Her voice was low and lazy.
The tongue which had been servicing her for a good quarter of an hour ceased its movements, yet remained in position. Marjorie Marchbanks sighed contentedly. She had been brought to two orgasms, had wanted a third, yet seemed unable to rise to it. Two plump arms stretched languorously; two hillockbreasts rose up.
„I shan’t have you caned, slave,“ she said drowsily. „You have satisfied me. Mmmm... yes...“
The face between the plump thighs made no answer. That would have been unwise. Yet it must have felt some relief. The tongue remained where it was, just touching the clitoris, instantly ready for further action if it were required.
Bbbbrr... bbbrrr... bbbrrr... bbbrrr...
It was a telephone by the bedside. A plump hand on the end of a plump arm picked up the receiver.
„Yes?“
„Marjorie?“
„Yes...“
„It’s Charles. Not interrupting, am I?“
„Not exactly, what is it?“
„I’m thinking about going down to the Stables later. Care to come with me?“
Marjorie Marchbanks pursed her lips and considered. All guests in the Harem of Quireme were given some details of the Stables. It was optional whether they used them, naturally.
„I might,“ she said.
„Could be fun,“ went on the voice of Charles. „They’ve got some beauties over there, I’m told. And they work just like real ponies. If not better.“
Marjorie Marchbanks smiled faintly. She found that idea rather amusing. „I don’t actually have to do anything, do I?“ she inquired a shade petulantly.
„Oh no... not unless you want to. You can watch. Or drive a pony, just as you please.“
„I might give it a whirl, then.“
„In about half an hour’s time then?“
„Call for me, Charles?“
„Sure thing, Marjorie.“
The phone clicked. Marjorie replaced the receiver and stretched again. She thought about Pony Girls... felt an unexpected thrill of pleasure.
„Put that tongue to work again, slave,“ she ordered. „I think I’m in the mood after all.“
Obediently, immediately, the tongue began to probe.
Personal Narrative
of
LILLI
20-year old Austrian girl.
Tall, athletic, fine-figured young woman.
Brunette, brown-eyed.
Re-named in the Stables of Quireme as
LADY LONGLEGS
for fairly obvious reasons
Some stable hands, I am aware, keep their Ponies exclusively for their own pleasure. You might say, they guard them almost jealously. Others, however, are more open-minded and are prepared to ‘swop’ with other stable hands who are happy to act like themselves.
The stable hand in charge of me is such a one and I am quite frequently traded. His name is Zora and he is a Nubian... a hulking great black in his early twenties. Very strong: yet he can be very gentle when grooming. At first, the size of him was a shock. His penis size, I mean. But I soon got used to it. In my situation, after a while, one male root is much like another. You just accept it; just absorb it. And try and think nothing about it.
In fact, Zora is one of the few men who can still make me reach a climax on occasions.
Not that I want that, mark you.
It only adds to one’s sense of abysmal humiliation. Also, the fact that I know he enjoys sending me over the top makes me fight to resist orgasm all the more. But sometimes, I just can’t help myself.
Oh it’s so b**stly!
He had me last night and, in the end, I was like a jelly, spending violently.
But, then, its useless to get worked up about such things. There’s nothing I can do about them anyway.
Now it’s nearing mid-morning, and I’m still in the Tack Room, secured onto a light framework. Normally, I would have been taken back into my stall by now, so I suspect something is up. Especially as a ‘new girl’ arrived a couple of days ago. Zora is probably arranging a ‘swop’ with her. I see they’ve called her ‘Miss Modesty’, which is pretty cruel.
She won’t have much modesty left by the time they’ve finished with her!
I am fairly comfortable but can’t help thinking about the afternoon ahead. For two days running, nobody has claimed me. I’ve simply gone round and round the Paddock being inspected. That’s bad enough, needless to say, but it’s better than pulling a carriage along one of the Rides with some vicious bitch wielding a whip behind you.
Oh yes... the woman are by far the worse, I reckon. They don’t just lust after you like the men, they look at you with amusement and disdain. They revel in your plight. They gloat over it. Being women themselves, they know all the better how one feels. Reduced to a****l status. Perpetually nakedly exposed. Available to be used. There to be whipped to the limits of one’s strength and capabilities.
How they love doing it! And what a terrible thing it is for us. Indeed, it is fair to say that it is beyond all adequate description.
Yet day in, day out, I have to endure it.
I hear the sound of the Tack Room door opening and my nerves tense slightly. Is it Zora, come to lead me back to the stall? But, at once, I think not. I can hear a man humming faintly. Zora does not do that. Then a hand touched my buttocks, runs lightly over them.
Ah yes... this is definitely a ‘swop’.
Zora will have arranged to enjoy the new girl; her stable hand will have come to enjoy me.
I search my mind. Who was this Miss Modesty allocated to? Ah yes... I remember now. It is Max, the Russian. I feel him fondling me almost abstractly, it seems. He goes on humming.
My emotions are neutral. I just accept. There is nothing else to do. I feel a sudden unexpected desire to pass water. But it would not be an appropriate moment. I shall have to wait until I am back in my stall and use the straw there. Suddenly he slaps my bottom. Hard.
„Open,“ he orders.
I straddle my legs. My long legs. Like those on a pony. Hence my name. It galls me. Once, when I was a schoolgirl I was rather proud of my limbs. Now they bring me nothing but humiliation.
Max grips my flanks. Then he penetrates me. He is still humming softly. I feel the hard bone of him, but try not to think too much about it. Somewhere, the new girl will be taken by Zora. That will be a bit of a shock to her. More so than Max is to me.
Steadily, his pace increases... and the humming stops. It is not long before he is panting.
Three minutes pass...
Four...
Five...
He is now thumping away really hard. I feel nothing. Just a faint sickness. Wishing it were over.
Ah yes...
A series of joyful grunts...
A spasm of jerking...
He shoots his filthy lust into me. Then subsides. I hear him breathing heavily in my ear. Feel his sticky body. Then, after few moments he grunts again and withdraws.
I have served my purpose.
Not a word has been spoken. Max starts humming softly again. Then, like the decent fellow he is, he cleans me up, to save Zora the trouble before I am led out on parade. First a douche, then some powder, then some ointment. I am as good as new again. Fit to be inspected by the ‘gentry’.
The door of the Tack Room closes. I am alone again.
My mind broods miserably into the future. I have still something like two months to serve in the Stables. Two months of straining toil and utter degradation.
And then what?
Oh dear God, a return to the Harem! With all its horrors and degradations of a different kind! It has long been evident to me that I am now simply a chattel to be used for the amusement and pleasure of others.
And there is no escape.
Later Zora returns and he brings Roman Beauty into the Tack Room. She is the other Pony in his charge... an attractive Italian girl very similar in size and coloring to me. For that reason we are often driven as a team.
He puts Roman Beauty on a framework and gives her a final grooming. Her features are made up, her hair is combed, she is given an extra ‘buffing’ so that her skin shines and the bells are fastened to her nipple rings.
Then Zora comes to me. He gives my bottom a none too gently slap.
„Enjoy it?“ She asks with a guffaw.
I toss my head up and down and whinny. What else can I do? He knows I have recently been fucked by Max. Doubtless Zora enjoyed Miss Modesty considerably. They love new girls...
My final grooming takes place and I and Roman Beauty are led to our stalls and tethered. There we will wait until we are led out to the Paddock.
The Stable Yard fills up as all twenty four Ponies assemble. On the far side, those under training are being formed up and moving round and round in a circle. There is the frequent sound of leather on flesh and plenty of whinnying and yelping.
Training is the worst time for any Pony. My heart bleeds for that group. They have so much yet to suffer. Among them is Miss Modesty... still with the memory of Zora’s big, black root up her.
We circle the yard a few times. Roman Beauty is just in front of me. I see all her intimate womanly secrets displayed... and watch the rolling jounce-jounce of her bottom as she moves. I know that the Pony behind me - or anyone else who cares to look, for that matter - see me similarly. It is all part of the perpetual humiliation in which we exist.
a****l in everything but fact.
We move out of the Yard, making for the Paddock. At the head of us are Black Beauty and Saucy Lady. These are the two who have won Top Honors and so are reserved exclusively for Princess Karina. As a symbol, each of them wears a high plume on her head, one gold, one silver.
It cannot be denied that both are magnificent females.
Tall, long-limbed, athletic. That is partly why they have won Top Honors. But also, they move superbly. Not only do they have natural ability, they have been taught - and they have learnt. It motion, they seem to float over the ground with the grace of gazelles. The seem almost to take pride in their performance and their appearance. Can this possibly be so. I know I do not have the body or the ability to aspire to a Top Honor. But I am not sure I want it. Princess Karina can be the cruelest of task-mistresses.
Black Beauty, I should add, is indeed jet black. Her rippling body gleams like polished ebony. Saucy Lady was (poor thing!) indeed once a real Lady... a minor member of the British aristocracy who was unfortunate to be trapped by the snare of Quireme. Her name, I understand, was once Lady Isabel Dysart. Oh what a fall there has been for that woman!
Ahead of me, I can now see her prancing, in that almost proud way, as if she were eager to get to the Paddock to display herself.
There are few guests around the Paddock as we enter it single file. A public broadcast system announces the name of each Pony as we enter, gives her statistics, tells something of her abilities and her length of service. These announcements are repeated at intervals during the afternoon for the benefit of guests who are newly arrived.
„Lady Longlegs,“ intones the voice as I enter. It is the revolting Kemal who is Head of Stables. „Well named, I think. Look at those superb thighs, ladies and gentlemen.“ I feel the eyes focusing on me. One never gets used to the abysmal shame of it. At least, I don’t.
„Aged twenty years,“ Kemal continues. „Bred in Austria. Statistics... height five feet, eight inches... bust, thirty eight, waist twenty five, hips thirty eight. A well-proportioned filly. Lacks the pace of some but her chief merit is a long, steady stride. Excellent for jaunting and teams well with Roman Beauty who is just in front of her. Note the similarity of their size.“
A smartly dressed woman is leaning over the rails as I go by. She is middle-aged. I see the smile on her lips and the cruel look of amusement in her eyes.
„Do you fancy this one, Simon?“ she asks.
Her male companion, also middle-aged, looks at me through horn-rimmed spectacles. „Not bad... not bad...“ he murmurs.
„But I’d like to see the rest of them first.“
„Of course, my dear...“
I pass on, with hate in my heart. The degradation is never ending. Oh how amusing it must be for them!
Kemal’s voice drones on. Gradually the numbers at the Paddock rails increase. Princess Karina has not arrived. She may well not. She paid a visit yesterday.
Round and round we go...
Time passes slowly...
Occasionally, Kemal’s voice breaks in.
„Frisky Girl to the Stable yard, please... and... yes... also Bold Lady, please...“
The Ponies chosen move out of the Paddock. They will be taken to the Yard where they will be harnessed to one form of carriage or another. Then they will be led out again and claimed by the guest or guests who have ordered them.
Perhaps I shall escape again, I begin to think, after about an hour. Certainly the Paddock seems poorly attended this afternoon. But then I notice a plump blonde woman leaning over the rails with Miss Renata, one of Kemal’s assistants.
They seemed to be taking an interest in me. And in Roman Beauty.
„You can have them as a team, if you like,“ I heard Miss Renata say as I go by. My heart sinks.
„Oh really? I don’t think I’d be good enough for that...“
„I should, of course, come with you,“ I hear Miss Renata say as I am almost out of earshot.
I become aware that this plump blonde is a novice. They are not allowed to drive on their own at first. But it does not bode well.
„Roman Beauty... and Lady Longlegs to the yard, please,“ comes Kemal’s voice.
My heart sinks lower as Zora leads us out of the Paddock. I am going to have to sweat after all.
Ten minutes later, Roman Beauty and I, having been harnessed side by side between the shafts of a double open-carriage, are led out again.
„Here they are, Mrs. Marchbanks,“ says Miss Renata. „Would you like to get into the carriage?“
Zora is still holding my bridle. Hid duty is almost done. We have been excellently turned out in readiness for this guest. Suddenly, as I feel her weight in the cart, I hate her with all my being. Has she the remotest concept of the horrors I am enduring? And Roman Beauty? I doubt it. She looks a typically stupid American matron. Thinks it all the greatest fun. But who will she be able to tell about it when she gets ‘back home’?
Miss Renata gets into the carriage and sits alongside Mrs. Marchbanks. I feel her pick up the reins, and the bit cuts into my mouth as she gives a little pull. There are, of course, two sets of reins, one set for each Pony. They are tethered through a single ring at the front of the carriage.
I hear the carriage whip sliding out of its tube-like container at the side of the carriage. I tense...
„Trot,“ orders Miss Renata.
The leathern knots of the whip sting across my right buttock cheek. I hear Roman Beauty getting something similar.
One... two...
Even walking strides. Then our thighs come up together as we move off at a gentle trot. The harness creaks, the bells on our nipple rings begin to jingle. Miss Renata is keeping us on a tight rein. I am forced to keep my head held high to ease the cut of the bit into my cheeks. Perhaps she will let us down a little once we are in the Rides.
We leave the Paddock area, go through a break in the railings and find ourselves on one of the numerous hardpacked sandy tracks which wind over heath-land and through woods.
Mrs. Marchbanks afternoon jaunt has begun. I only wish the stupid cow would fall out of the carriage and break her neck!
No such luck...
We keep at the Trot for something like ten minutes. Miss Renata has let us down somewhat; the pace is not too arduous and naturally, we are very fit. Things are not too bad.
Behind us they chat.
„Enjoying it, Mrs. Marchbanks?“
„Yes, thank you. A most unusual experience.“
A little laugh. „I suppose so. Where you come from anyway.“
„Yes indeed.“ The woman’s voice sounds almost prim. „The young ladies in my part of the country don’t go around showing their backsides quite so flagrantly...“
Dear God... she actually spoke as if we enjoyed doing so.
„Here, they haven’t got much option,“ says Miss Renata.
„Ah no, I suppose not...“
We are going up a slight incline. One, which I know will get steeper. The knots sting my buttock cheek again. Roman Beauty gets it too. It is a reminder to us to keep the pace smooth and even. As it we needed it!
„The great secret of Pony Driving,“ Miss Renata was saying, „is to be firm. Teach a Pony what she can expect if she does not give results... and then let her get on with it.“
„I see...“
„Judicious use of the whip is very important.“
„Oh yes?“
“Yes. It should be used as a reminder... as a stimulant or spur... rather than as a punishing instrument.“
„Is that so?“
The slope is getting steeper. „Yes... it is.“ The whip stings sharply across the center of my bouncing bottom...
once... twice. „See, here, the slope is getting steeper. So I give Lady Longlegs a reminder that she must not slacken pace just because the effort now needed is greater.“
„Uhh-hhu...“
„And Roman Beauty feels the whip, too.“
Flick! Flack!
„I guess that’s quite painful ... especially on a bare bot.“
„Quite,“ says Miss Renata complacently. „You can see the weals... and you can use your imagination.“
I am beginning to feel the sweat on my body. My calves are beginning to ache. And my thighs. There is a plateau are at the top of this hill. With a water trough. Perhaps she will give us a breather here.
Panting, we breast the rise. We are a good team Roman Beauty and I, taking our fair share of the load.
We roll more easily across the flat ground towards the trough.
„Whoa!“ cried Miss Renata, hauling on the reins.
Oh that cruel cutting pain! But at least, I am thankful we are to get a brief rest. I feel the two women leave the
carriage.
„Drink, Ponies, drink,“ says Miss Renata, patting my sweating-warm flank.
Together we plunge our heads into the cool water, slurping greedily. Mrs. Marchbanks looks on. I can just imagine her smiling rather disbelievingly.
Enjoying herself no end!
They sprawl in the shade; they smoke cigarettes. Roman Beauty and I stand silently by the trough. Waiting.
Ten minutes pass before we are off again.
„We’ll take them for a canter. On one of the straights.“
My heart sinks again.
„A canter?“
„Yes... a much faster pace.“
„Oh good...“
We reach one of the straights. It is some ten yards wide and half a mile long. Undulating, it stretches away into the distance.
„Canter,“ orders Miss Renata, when we have been lined up.
Flick! Flack!
Flick! Flack!
From the walk... to the trot... and then to the canter. Our thighs move high and rhythmically in a pounding motion. Twice as fast as when we were simply trotting.
Flick! Flack!
Flick! Flack!
„Faster!“ Miss Renata cries out.
Roman Beauty and I step up the pace, without losing our rhythm. It takes a lot of practice but we’ve had plenty! Now, as we speed down the straight, the strain is really on.
My breath begins to rasp... and so does that of Roman Beauty. I am now severing on my bit.
Flick! Flack!
Reminders...
We dare not let up.
Flick! Flack!
This is what Miss Renata calls judicious use of the whip!
Flick! Flack!
We must keep going... but oh, the strain!
Suddenly, through a mist of sweat and tears, I see another team racing in the opposite direction. Breasts are bouncing wildly, hair flying, eyes staring wide, throats rattling, saliva flying.
We, too, look like that, I realize in sudden awful despair.
For a moment, the knowledge weakens me, causing my step to falter. Instantly, Miss Renata’s whips cracks and cracks again across my madly juddering bottom.
Four times!
Somehow, I manage to make a recovery. I get my stride back even with that of Roman Beauty. Up and down pound our thighs: dust flies up from the little horse-shoe plates we wear on our open-work sandals.
I am nearing the end of my tether. And so is Roman Beauty, I know.
But now there is only fifty yards to go. Fifty yards which earn me five more stinging cracks of the
whip. Just to ensure I keep going to the very end!
„Wwwhhhoooaaaa!“
The bits pull and bite...
It’s over... it’s over... oh dear God... once again, it’s over!
Soaked with sweat, steaming Roman Beauty and I stand there, exhausted muscles quivering weakly. Muscles which ache and burn. We sound rather like two steam trains standing side by side in a station.
„I don’t know how they do it,“ I hear Mrs. Marchbanks say wonderingly.
Oh that stupid creature!
„But then,“ replies Miss Renata. „You have never felt a whip, have you, Mrs. Marchbanks?“
There is a little gasp... and then silence.
Obviously, as she gazes at our still-shuddering wealstriped rumps, she is pondering that!
When we have recovered somewhat, we jaunt back at a trot. That’s almost pleasant after a really stiff canter.
How glad I am to get back into the yard. To get hosed down by Zora. The indignity of that, with laughing guests looking on, doesn’t matter a bit. I just want the cooling water all over my sweating, half-exhausted body. I suck what I can into my mouth... oh... oooh..it’s so lovely!
Zora leads us into our separate stalls and tethers us I wish I could sink down on the straw, right at that moment.
But that will be hours yet.
I feel my weals being examined.
„Could be worse,“ says Zora.
That’s true. It often is worse. He rubs me down thoroughly. Strangely, I find myself sighing with relief as his black hands maul me. They seem to be kneading back my strength.
How, at one time, I hated his touch! Now I don’t I suppose one can become acclimatized to more or less anything. The Healing Cream goes across my tender buttocks.
Ahhhh... that’s a relief!
The hand slips between my thighs. I open them a little to allow easier access. I am tender there. I have sweated and chafed.
Zora gives my bottom a parting slap and leaves the stall. In a little while he will return with food and water.
It’s nearly all over for another day. I have had many worse days in the Stable.
But then,a Pony never knows what the morrow will bring …
Marjorie Marchbanks clamped her plump thighs to the cheeks of the slave-girl in between them.
„That will do,“ she said. Her voice was low and lazy.
The tongue which had been servicing her for a good quarter of an hour ceased its movements, yet remained in position. Marjorie Marchbanks sighed contentedly. She had been brought to two orgasms, had wanted a third, yet seemed unable to rise to it. Two plump arms stretched languorously; two hillockbreasts rose up.
„I shan’t have you caned, slave,“ she said drowsily. „You have satisfied me. Mmmm... yes...“
The face between the plump thighs made no answer. That would have been unwise. Yet it must have felt some relief. The tongue remained where it was, just touching the clitoris, instantly ready for further action if it were required.
Bbbbrr... bbbrrr... bbbrrr... bbbrrr...
It was a telephone by the bedside. A plump hand on the end of a plump arm picked up the receiver.
„Yes?“
„Marjorie?“
„Yes...“
„It’s Charles. Not interrupting, am I?“
„Not exactly, what is it?“
„I’m thinking about going down to the Stables later. Care to come with me?“
Marjorie Marchbanks pursed her lips and considered. All guests in the Harem of Quireme were given some details of the Stables. It was optional whether they used them, naturally.
„I might,“ she said.
„Could be fun,“ went on the voice of Charles. „They’ve got some beauties over there, I’m told. And they work just like real ponies. If not better.“
Marjorie Marchbanks smiled faintly. She found that idea rather amusing. „I don’t actually have to do anything, do I?“ she inquired a shade petulantly.
„Oh no... not unless you want to. You can watch. Or drive a pony, just as you please.“
„I might give it a whirl, then.“
„In about half an hour’s time then?“
„Call for me, Charles?“
„Sure thing, Marjorie.“
The phone clicked. Marjorie replaced the receiver and stretched again. She thought about Pony Girls... felt an unexpected thrill of pleasure.
„Put that tongue to work again, slave,“ she ordered. „I think I’m in the mood after all.“
Obediently, immediately, the tongue began to probe.
Personal Narrative
of
LILLI
20-year old Austrian girl.
Tall, athletic, fine-figured young woman.
Brunette, brown-eyed.
Re-named in the Stables of Quireme as
LADY LONGLEGS
for fairly obvious reasons
Some stable hands, I am aware, keep their Ponies exclusively for their own pleasure. You might say, they guard them almost jealously. Others, however, are more open-minded and are prepared to ‘swop’ with other stable hands who are happy to act like themselves.
The stable hand in charge of me is such a one and I am quite frequently traded. His name is Zora and he is a Nubian... a hulking great black in his early twenties. Very strong: yet he can be very gentle when grooming. At first, the size of him was a shock. His penis size, I mean. But I soon got used to it. In my situation, after a while, one male root is much like another. You just accept it; just absorb it. And try and think nothing about it.
In fact, Zora is one of the few men who can still make me reach a climax on occasions.
Not that I want that, mark you.
It only adds to one’s sense of abysmal humiliation. Also, the fact that I know he enjoys sending me over the top makes me fight to resist orgasm all the more. But sometimes, I just can’t help myself.
Oh it’s so b**stly!
He had me last night and, in the end, I was like a jelly, spending violently.
But, then, its useless to get worked up about such things. There’s nothing I can do about them anyway.
Now it’s nearing mid-morning, and I’m still in the Tack Room, secured onto a light framework. Normally, I would have been taken back into my stall by now, so I suspect something is up. Especially as a ‘new girl’ arrived a couple of days ago. Zora is probably arranging a ‘swop’ with her. I see they’ve called her ‘Miss Modesty’, which is pretty cruel.
She won’t have much modesty left by the time they’ve finished with her!
I am fairly comfortable but can’t help thinking about the afternoon ahead. For two days running, nobody has claimed me. I’ve simply gone round and round the Paddock being inspected. That’s bad enough, needless to say, but it’s better than pulling a carriage along one of the Rides with some vicious bitch wielding a whip behind you.
Oh yes... the woman are by far the worse, I reckon. They don’t just lust after you like the men, they look at you with amusement and disdain. They revel in your plight. They gloat over it. Being women themselves, they know all the better how one feels. Reduced to a****l status. Perpetually nakedly exposed. Available to be used. There to be whipped to the limits of one’s strength and capabilities.
How they love doing it! And what a terrible thing it is for us. Indeed, it is fair to say that it is beyond all adequate description.
Yet day in, day out, I have to endure it.
I hear the sound of the Tack Room door opening and my nerves tense slightly. Is it Zora, come to lead me back to the stall? But, at once, I think not. I can hear a man humming faintly. Zora does not do that. Then a hand touched my buttocks, runs lightly over them.
Ah yes... this is definitely a ‘swop’.
Zora will have arranged to enjoy the new girl; her stable hand will have come to enjoy me.
I search my mind. Who was this Miss Modesty allocated to? Ah yes... I remember now. It is Max, the Russian. I feel him fondling me almost abstractly, it seems. He goes on humming.
My emotions are neutral. I just accept. There is nothing else to do. I feel a sudden unexpected desire to pass water. But it would not be an appropriate moment. I shall have to wait until I am back in my stall and use the straw there. Suddenly he slaps my bottom. Hard.
„Open,“ he orders.
I straddle my legs. My long legs. Like those on a pony. Hence my name. It galls me. Once, when I was a schoolgirl I was rather proud of my limbs. Now they bring me nothing but humiliation.
Max grips my flanks. Then he penetrates me. He is still humming softly. I feel the hard bone of him, but try not to think too much about it. Somewhere, the new girl will be taken by Zora. That will be a bit of a shock to her. More so than Max is to me.
Steadily, his pace increases... and the humming stops. It is not long before he is panting.
Three minutes pass...
Four...
Five...
He is now thumping away really hard. I feel nothing. Just a faint sickness. Wishing it were over.
Ah yes...
A series of joyful grunts...
A spasm of jerking...
He shoots his filthy lust into me. Then subsides. I hear him breathing heavily in my ear. Feel his sticky body. Then, after few moments he grunts again and withdraws.
I have served my purpose.
Not a word has been spoken. Max starts humming softly again. Then, like the decent fellow he is, he cleans me up, to save Zora the trouble before I am led out on parade. First a douche, then some powder, then some ointment. I am as good as new again. Fit to be inspected by the ‘gentry’.
The door of the Tack Room closes. I am alone again.
My mind broods miserably into the future. I have still something like two months to serve in the Stables. Two months of straining toil and utter degradation.
And then what?
Oh dear God, a return to the Harem! With all its horrors and degradations of a different kind! It has long been evident to me that I am now simply a chattel to be used for the amusement and pleasure of others.
And there is no escape.
Later Zora returns and he brings Roman Beauty into the Tack Room. She is the other Pony in his charge... an attractive Italian girl very similar in size and coloring to me. For that reason we are often driven as a team.
He puts Roman Beauty on a framework and gives her a final grooming. Her features are made up, her hair is combed, she is given an extra ‘buffing’ so that her skin shines and the bells are fastened to her nipple rings.
Then Zora comes to me. He gives my bottom a none too gently slap.
„Enjoy it?“ She asks with a guffaw.
I toss my head up and down and whinny. What else can I do? He knows I have recently been fucked by Max. Doubtless Zora enjoyed Miss Modesty considerably. They love new girls...
My final grooming takes place and I and Roman Beauty are led to our stalls and tethered. There we will wait until we are led out to the Paddock.
The Stable Yard fills up as all twenty four Ponies assemble. On the far side, those under training are being formed up and moving round and round in a circle. There is the frequent sound of leather on flesh and plenty of whinnying and yelping.
Training is the worst time for any Pony. My heart bleeds for that group. They have so much yet to suffer. Among them is Miss Modesty... still with the memory of Zora’s big, black root up her.
We circle the yard a few times. Roman Beauty is just in front of me. I see all her intimate womanly secrets displayed... and watch the rolling jounce-jounce of her bottom as she moves. I know that the Pony behind me - or anyone else who cares to look, for that matter - see me similarly. It is all part of the perpetual humiliation in which we exist.
a****l in everything but fact.
We move out of the Yard, making for the Paddock. At the head of us are Black Beauty and Saucy Lady. These are the two who have won Top Honors and so are reserved exclusively for Princess Karina. As a symbol, each of them wears a high plume on her head, one gold, one silver.
It cannot be denied that both are magnificent females.
Tall, long-limbed, athletic. That is partly why they have won Top Honors. But also, they move superbly. Not only do they have natural ability, they have been taught - and they have learnt. It motion, they seem to float over the ground with the grace of gazelles. The seem almost to take pride in their performance and their appearance. Can this possibly be so. I know I do not have the body or the ability to aspire to a Top Honor. But I am not sure I want it. Princess Karina can be the cruelest of task-mistresses.
Black Beauty, I should add, is indeed jet black. Her rippling body gleams like polished ebony. Saucy Lady was (poor thing!) indeed once a real Lady... a minor member of the British aristocracy who was unfortunate to be trapped by the snare of Quireme. Her name, I understand, was once Lady Isabel Dysart. Oh what a fall there has been for that woman!
Ahead of me, I can now see her prancing, in that almost proud way, as if she were eager to get to the Paddock to display herself.
There are few guests around the Paddock as we enter it single file. A public broadcast system announces the name of each Pony as we enter, gives her statistics, tells something of her abilities and her length of service. These announcements are repeated at intervals during the afternoon for the benefit of guests who are newly arrived.
„Lady Longlegs,“ intones the voice as I enter. It is the revolting Kemal who is Head of Stables. „Well named, I think. Look at those superb thighs, ladies and gentlemen.“ I feel the eyes focusing on me. One never gets used to the abysmal shame of it. At least, I don’t.
„Aged twenty years,“ Kemal continues. „Bred in Austria. Statistics... height five feet, eight inches... bust, thirty eight, waist twenty five, hips thirty eight. A well-proportioned filly. Lacks the pace of some but her chief merit is a long, steady stride. Excellent for jaunting and teams well with Roman Beauty who is just in front of her. Note the similarity of their size.“
A smartly dressed woman is leaning over the rails as I go by. She is middle-aged. I see the smile on her lips and the cruel look of amusement in her eyes.
„Do you fancy this one, Simon?“ she asks.
Her male companion, also middle-aged, looks at me through horn-rimmed spectacles. „Not bad... not bad...“ he murmurs.
„But I’d like to see the rest of them first.“
„Of course, my dear...“
I pass on, with hate in my heart. The degradation is never ending. Oh how amusing it must be for them!
Kemal’s voice drones on. Gradually the numbers at the Paddock rails increase. Princess Karina has not arrived. She may well not. She paid a visit yesterday.
Round and round we go...
Time passes slowly...
Occasionally, Kemal’s voice breaks in.
„Frisky Girl to the Stable yard, please... and... yes... also Bold Lady, please...“
The Ponies chosen move out of the Paddock. They will be taken to the Yard where they will be harnessed to one form of carriage or another. Then they will be led out again and claimed by the guest or guests who have ordered them.
Perhaps I shall escape again, I begin to think, after about an hour. Certainly the Paddock seems poorly attended this afternoon. But then I notice a plump blonde woman leaning over the rails with Miss Renata, one of Kemal’s assistants.
They seemed to be taking an interest in me. And in Roman Beauty.
„You can have them as a team, if you like,“ I heard Miss Renata say as I go by. My heart sinks.
„Oh really? I don’t think I’d be good enough for that...“
„I should, of course, come with you,“ I hear Miss Renata say as I am almost out of earshot.
I become aware that this plump blonde is a novice. They are not allowed to drive on their own at first. But it does not bode well.
„Roman Beauty... and Lady Longlegs to the yard, please,“ comes Kemal’s voice.
My heart sinks lower as Zora leads us out of the Paddock. I am going to have to sweat after all.
Ten minutes later, Roman Beauty and I, having been harnessed side by side between the shafts of a double open-carriage, are led out again.
„Here they are, Mrs. Marchbanks,“ says Miss Renata. „Would you like to get into the carriage?“
Zora is still holding my bridle. Hid duty is almost done. We have been excellently turned out in readiness for this guest. Suddenly, as I feel her weight in the cart, I hate her with all my being. Has she the remotest concept of the horrors I am enduring? And Roman Beauty? I doubt it. She looks a typically stupid American matron. Thinks it all the greatest fun. But who will she be able to tell about it when she gets ‘back home’?
Miss Renata gets into the carriage and sits alongside Mrs. Marchbanks. I feel her pick up the reins, and the bit cuts into my mouth as she gives a little pull. There are, of course, two sets of reins, one set for each Pony. They are tethered through a single ring at the front of the carriage.
I hear the carriage whip sliding out of its tube-like container at the side of the carriage. I tense...
„Trot,“ orders Miss Renata.
The leathern knots of the whip sting across my right buttock cheek. I hear Roman Beauty getting something similar.
One... two...
Even walking strides. Then our thighs come up together as we move off at a gentle trot. The harness creaks, the bells on our nipple rings begin to jingle. Miss Renata is keeping us on a tight rein. I am forced to keep my head held high to ease the cut of the bit into my cheeks. Perhaps she will let us down a little once we are in the Rides.
We leave the Paddock area, go through a break in the railings and find ourselves on one of the numerous hardpacked sandy tracks which wind over heath-land and through woods.
Mrs. Marchbanks afternoon jaunt has begun. I only wish the stupid cow would fall out of the carriage and break her neck!
No such luck...
We keep at the Trot for something like ten minutes. Miss Renata has let us down somewhat; the pace is not too arduous and naturally, we are very fit. Things are not too bad.
Behind us they chat.
„Enjoying it, Mrs. Marchbanks?“
„Yes, thank you. A most unusual experience.“
A little laugh. „I suppose so. Where you come from anyway.“
„Yes indeed.“ The woman’s voice sounds almost prim. „The young ladies in my part of the country don’t go around showing their backsides quite so flagrantly...“
Dear God... she actually spoke as if we enjoyed doing so.
„Here, they haven’t got much option,“ says Miss Renata.
„Ah no, I suppose not...“
We are going up a slight incline. One, which I know will get steeper. The knots sting my buttock cheek again. Roman Beauty gets it too. It is a reminder to us to keep the pace smooth and even. As it we needed it!
„The great secret of Pony Driving,“ Miss Renata was saying, „is to be firm. Teach a Pony what she can expect if she does not give results... and then let her get on with it.“
„I see...“
„Judicious use of the whip is very important.“
„Oh yes?“
“Yes. It should be used as a reminder... as a stimulant or spur... rather than as a punishing instrument.“
„Is that so?“
The slope is getting steeper. „Yes... it is.“ The whip stings sharply across the center of my bouncing bottom...
once... twice. „See, here, the slope is getting steeper. So I give Lady Longlegs a reminder that she must not slacken pace just because the effort now needed is greater.“
„Uhh-hhu...“
„And Roman Beauty feels the whip, too.“
Flick! Flack!
„I guess that’s quite painful ... especially on a bare bot.“
„Quite,“ says Miss Renata complacently. „You can see the weals... and you can use your imagination.“
I am beginning to feel the sweat on my body. My calves are beginning to ache. And my thighs. There is a plateau are at the top of this hill. With a water trough. Perhaps she will give us a breather here.
Panting, we breast the rise. We are a good team Roman Beauty and I, taking our fair share of the load.
We roll more easily across the flat ground towards the trough.
„Whoa!“ cried Miss Renata, hauling on the reins.
Oh that cruel cutting pain! But at least, I am thankful we are to get a brief rest. I feel the two women leave the
carriage.
„Drink, Ponies, drink,“ says Miss Renata, patting my sweating-warm flank.
Together we plunge our heads into the cool water, slurping greedily. Mrs. Marchbanks looks on. I can just imagine her smiling rather disbelievingly.
Enjoying herself no end!
They sprawl in the shade; they smoke cigarettes. Roman Beauty and I stand silently by the trough. Waiting.
Ten minutes pass before we are off again.
„We’ll take them for a canter. On one of the straights.“
My heart sinks again.
„A canter?“
„Yes... a much faster pace.“
„Oh good...“
We reach one of the straights. It is some ten yards wide and half a mile long. Undulating, it stretches away into the distance.
„Canter,“ orders Miss Renata, when we have been lined up.
Flick! Flack!
Flick! Flack!
From the walk... to the trot... and then to the canter. Our thighs move high and rhythmically in a pounding motion. Twice as fast as when we were simply trotting.
Flick! Flack!
Flick! Flack!
„Faster!“ Miss Renata cries out.
Roman Beauty and I step up the pace, without losing our rhythm. It takes a lot of practice but we’ve had plenty! Now, as we speed down the straight, the strain is really on.
My breath begins to rasp... and so does that of Roman Beauty. I am now severing on my bit.
Flick! Flack!
Reminders...
We dare not let up.
Flick! Flack!
This is what Miss Renata calls judicious use of the whip!
Flick! Flack!
We must keep going... but oh, the strain!
Suddenly, through a mist of sweat and tears, I see another team racing in the opposite direction. Breasts are bouncing wildly, hair flying, eyes staring wide, throats rattling, saliva flying.
We, too, look like that, I realize in sudden awful despair.
For a moment, the knowledge weakens me, causing my step to falter. Instantly, Miss Renata’s whips cracks and cracks again across my madly juddering bottom.
Four times!
Somehow, I manage to make a recovery. I get my stride back even with that of Roman Beauty. Up and down pound our thighs: dust flies up from the little horse-shoe plates we wear on our open-work sandals.
I am nearing the end of my tether. And so is Roman Beauty, I know.
But now there is only fifty yards to go. Fifty yards which earn me five more stinging cracks of the
whip. Just to ensure I keep going to the very end!
„Wwwhhhoooaaaa!“
The bits pull and bite...
It’s over... it’s over... oh dear God... once again, it’s over!
Soaked with sweat, steaming Roman Beauty and I stand there, exhausted muscles quivering weakly. Muscles which ache and burn. We sound rather like two steam trains standing side by side in a station.
„I don’t know how they do it,“ I hear Mrs. Marchbanks say wonderingly.
Oh that stupid creature!
„But then,“ replies Miss Renata. „You have never felt a whip, have you, Mrs. Marchbanks?“
There is a little gasp... and then silence.
Obviously, as she gazes at our still-shuddering wealstriped rumps, she is pondering that!
When we have recovered somewhat, we jaunt back at a trot. That’s almost pleasant after a really stiff canter.
How glad I am to get back into the yard. To get hosed down by Zora. The indignity of that, with laughing guests looking on, doesn’t matter a bit. I just want the cooling water all over my sweating, half-exhausted body. I suck what I can into my mouth... oh... oooh..it’s so lovely!
Zora leads us into our separate stalls and tethers us I wish I could sink down on the straw, right at that moment.
But that will be hours yet.
I feel my weals being examined.
„Could be worse,“ says Zora.
That’s true. It often is worse. He rubs me down thoroughly. Strangely, I find myself sighing with relief as his black hands maul me. They seem to be kneading back my strength.
How, at one time, I hated his touch! Now I don’t I suppose one can become acclimatized to more or less anything. The Healing Cream goes across my tender buttocks.
Ahhhh... that’s a relief!
The hand slips between my thighs. I open them a little to allow easier access. I am tender there. I have sweated and chafed.
Zora gives my bottom a parting slap and leaves the stall. In a little while he will return with food and water.
It’s nearly all over for another day. I have had many worse days in the Stable.
But then,a Pony never knows what the morrow will bring …
Liesl
- 02.10.2020
- 21
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