A Pair of Ponies
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"Three Ponies"
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My fiance’, Benito, was very busy before the elections, both at the restaurant and as a block captain for the Conservative Christian Party. He promised me we would get married as soon as possible after the election. I spent my lonely nights watching TV, especially Paola, Fredericka, and Bianca, female "talking heads" who always took the Leftist view. No party won a majority, but the CCP got enough seats in the parliament that they were accepted into the coalition government. Their price was two ministries, Justice and Defense. Soon Paola disappeared. The Ministry of Justice said that her clothes had been found in a small boat drifting in the Adriatic, and she was presumed drowned, either by accident or suicide. Two days later, Fredericka, the one with the bleached blonde hair, disappeared from the TV, and the tabloid newspapers, citing unnamed official sources, said she had embezzeled money and fled to Russia. A week later, Bianca, probably the prettiest of the three, disappeared. It was said that she had abandoned her husband and children and run off with a wealthy Argentinian capitalist. Of course there was a lot of gossip about immoral communists, but most people, on the right and the left, seemed to accept that these strange coincidences happen.
The next month, Benito and I were married, even though I had a cast on my leg from a nasty fall. He had arranged a honeymoon at a remote island resort. After a change of planes, we arrived by boat after dark. I could see that there was an ancient looking village with a castle on the shore of a small harbor, very picturesque. We had a little cottage, very private, and Benito went out of his way to make our wedding night pleasant and memorable. We skipped breakfast, but Benito said we must get up to attend a lecture on the Duties of a Christian Wife. It was then I realized that our visit had strings attached. The whole island was owned by the Conservative Christian Party, and everyone we saw or met was active in the party. It was kind of spooky, especially when we went to dinner, the noon meal. The meal was buffet style, but all the workers, in the kitchen or carrying food to the dining room, were women, dressed in identical black dresses, not really dresses, more like burlap sacks, a very rough fabric, with holes cut for neck and arms. They were ankle‑length, and the women, whether teen‑age or middle aged or something in between, were barefoot, and they all had wedding rings! When I mentioned it to Benito, he explained that all the workers were wives of party members who needed remedial instruction in their wifely duties. That really made me shiver.
Our schedule was all mapped out for us. Apparently all the honeymooners get the same itinerary, visits to shrines and monuments and lectures. However, I couldn't walk up to the hilltop shrine of St. Basil, so Benito said he'd get us a pony cart. The cart was metal, a bench seat for two with a foot rest and wire‑spoked wheels, like a motorcycle's. A tubular shaft went forward to a crossbar, where the ponies were hitched. The surprise was that the ponies, three of them, were women! They wore leather helmets which also covered the upper part of the face, with only a sort of oval tube in front of the eyes, which would allow the "pony" to see directly ahead and down. The helmets were decorated with plumes, red, blue, and green, the names of the ponies. The helmets also had bridles, with an iron bit in the mouth. I wondered why a bit but no reins. Benito noted the bit made speech impossible. Each woman wore a wide, tight black belt around her waist. Her wrists had leather cuffs which attached to the belt above each hip, so her arms were useless. Her lower legs were enclosed in black boots of a strange style. Judging from the length, the woman's toes were pointed down, like with very high heels, but the foot of the boot was not shaped like a foot. Rather it resembled a horse's hoof, and I wondered if it was possible to walk in them, unless one was held upright by the cart harness, for it would have been like walking on stilts. The harness was simple. The tubular crossbar pressed against the back of the thigh, just at the crease of the buttocks, and from there a wide leather strap ‑‑‑ it smelled of urine ‑‑‑ went forward between the legs and attached at the belt. The strap covered the genital area and, I was certain, when the pony pulled forward, that the propulsive force must come from the pressure of her vulva against the strap. The anal region was covered by a horse‑like tail, red, blue, or green, which, it seemed, must be attached to some sort of object embedded in the rectum. There would be no need to clean up pony manure. Otherwise the ponies were naked, except for the breasts. The central part of each breast was covered by a black metal cup, bullet shaped, which seemed firmly attached, but it was not evident how. I thought of glue, or perhaps a vacuum holding the cup against the breast. Benito said it was possible they were mechanically attached, as with nails driven into the breast tissue. I shuddered to think of it. There was a buggy whip in a socket next to the seat, but there was no need to use it. The ponies, muscular, sun tanned, were well trained, and it was only necessary for Benito to say, "Take us to St. Basil's", and off they went. For most of the way, there was a smooth path, a bit wider than the cart. They moved out at a good pace, where the path was fairly level, but when we came to a hill, the three of them had to lean into their work to pull up uphill. I marveled at their well developed thigh muscles as they strained to pull us. The slope was so steep that we were tilted back in our seats, and I wondered if my skirt preserved my modesty. A Christian woman does not wear garments which "divide the legs", and I couldn't have put on slacks over my cast, anyway. I kept my knees pressed together. Near the top, sweating with exertion, the ponies stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths. I could only imagine the effect, pain or pleasure, of the pressure of the strap against their genitals, but it seemed as if it must be brutal torture, so humiliating. Benito impatiently cracked the whip, first in the air and then against Blue's bare buttock, which bore the marks of previous whippings. The ponies resumed their work. At last we came near the shrine, but the path went no further; there were steps which blocked the progress of the cart. Benito jumped out and said, "Julia, my dear, you can't possibly climb the steps. Wait here while I go and see the shrine." The ponies just stood there, balancing on their hooves, nearly motionless.
As soon as Benito was out of sight, I climbed down, and hobbled toward where I could get a better view of the sea. Blue, as I passed, started to cough and gag, heaving her metal‑clad breasts as if she couldn't breathe. With the metal weights on them, they swung like bells in a wind storm. Concerned, I loosened Blue's bridle and bit, which instantly solved her breathing problem. "Thank you so much," she said. "The bit is so uncomfortable."
________________________________________________________
"Somehow, I didn't expect you to speak," I said, stupidly. "How did you come to have a job like this?"
"I used to be a television personality. I was known as Bianca. The fascists kidnapped me and told me that a communist, who was always concerned for the working class, was a hypocrite if she earned a huge salary for talking. I should experience work myself. Red is Fredricka, and Green is Paola. They say we will never leave this island. Since our faces are covered, very few know who we are, and they won't tell." It dawned on me that, if one controlled the Ministry of Justice and all the police, such a thing was possible.
"They just put you into harness?"
"No, we were broken, first." I nodded to her to go on. "I woke up naked, with my head and body hair all shaved, suspended by my wrists from that gallows‑like frame you must have noticed in the plaza, by the harbor. My head was covered, as it is now, but with my eyes covered, too, so I could not see, but I could hear people, men, all around me, talking, calling me a communist slut and things like that. I was so embarrassed, naked in public like that. But it got worse. They forced me to drink castor oil, and as I hung there in the sun, with my ankles tied together, I could not help shitting, soiling myself while the men laughed. After that, they took me down and spread‑eagled me on a gridiron, criss‑crossed iron bars, and they put me into the harbor, with just my head above water. It was awful. I could feel eels slithering across my body. Starfish crawled over my skin with their little sucker feet, and crabs. A squid wrapped its tentacles around my breast and tried to eat my nipple off, but somehow it couldn't. You know how octopuses hide in cracks in the sea floor? An octopus took up residence in my vagina! I could feel it going in and out as it ambushed it's prey and then retreated to it's hiding place to eat. They left me there all night. In the morning, I was desperately thirsty, and my skin was all wrinkled from immersion in the sea water. They laughed and hosed me off and said I could have a drink, up the ass. They put the hose against my anus and forced water into me until I thought I would burst, and I could hear men joking about how much I could take. Then, of course, I expelled the water in a great gush, and the men laughed and laughed and made my torturers do it over and over.
"Then they took me to a sort of barrel or pipe on short legs. They bent me over and pushed my upper body into the barrel, pulling my breasts through holes in the wall of the pipe. They put rope nooses over my breasts so I couldn't move. My hips and bottom, of course, were obscenely displayed, and they forced my legs apart and tied them, so any spectator could see my most private parts. Then they brought out a big dog and sprayed my bottom with bitch scent. I couldn't see the dog, but he must have been huge, for he got up, his forelegs grasping the barrel, and pushed his huge cock into my vagina. At first, it was only uncomfortable, and very humiliating, to be raped with a dog's penis the size of baguette, but when it swelled up, so big he couldn't pull it out, I was in real pain. It seemed forever, that he ravished me and squirted semen into me, while the men joked and laughed. He could not, you see, remove his penis until the swelling went down. I didn't think anything could be worse than that, but they brought out another dog, and they pressed his long, pointed penis against my anus. I was, by this time, sobbing hopelessly and crying that they were tearing my anus, but of course that didn't stop them.
"When the second dog was finally able to pull out, I was convinced they would stop torturing me, but they had other ideas. They brought out a small horse and induced him to mount the barrel as he would a mare. His member must have been the size of my forearm, and it would surely have torn my uterus loose, if he put it in my vagina. However, they steered it into my ass, and he must have pushed 50 centimeters into my bowels. I was bleeding and almost insane with pain when he finally withdrew; my anus was torn and gaping open. They packed it with medicated gauze and led me to the stables."
"The three of us live in the stables, sleeping in the straw of our stalls. By day we pull this cart. By night, we are fucked by many men; we never see their faces. They say that if a pony complains, they'll give us to the stallion again. I will do anything to avoid that. My anus, now, is about 4 cm. in diameter, with nothing plugging it, and the tail I'm wearing, day and night, is attached to a plug about 8 cm. in diameter, at the opening, bigger inside. Normal defecation is impossible, but they hose us out every day, before they put the tail back in for the day."
There were so many questions I wanted to ask, like about the metal breast covers and if they ever released her hands and did she have a chance to bathe, but I saw Benito coming, and I had to put the bit back in her mouth before he saw what I had done. The downhill ponycart ride was uneventful, if you think that watching the women leaning back against the crossbar and seeing their breasts swaying, and imagining what their clitorises must be like after all that rubbing with a rough leather strap is not an event.
When we got back to Rome, I made an excuse to visit my mother. I dare not tell my story, that I know where the three leftist news readers really are. I don't think I want to go back to my husband, Benito, but the CCP‑run Justice Ministry has made it almost impossible for a wife to leave her husband, and I know that, if I tried to escape and failed, Benito would not hesitate to send me for "re‑education" on the island. The thought of that rough fabric rubbing my nipples while I wash thousands of dishes is enough to make me submissive, as a good Christian wife should be.
‑ The End ‑
Arisha
- 03.12.2021
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