From the author of HardSkill, Pony Boot Camp and many other online stories your NSFW filter blocks away, comes a tour de force deep into the world of cloak-and-dagger clichés.
“And what exactly is your mission?” he asked, his eyes suddenly agleam with morbid fascination.
Denise lowered her voice even more to squeeze every last drop of attention out of him.
“Normally I am not supposed to tell you without killing you afterwards…” Continue reading
Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)
You are always so good in making lists, Becca!
This is a compliment I hear a lot from colleagues and friends alike. Always meant sincere, it does have a backhanded element to it. It labels me organised, bureaucratic, predictable. Rebecca, the Excel Queen. Rebecca, mind you. Not Bec or Beckie. Not Becca, either. But people are so quick with shortening my name. Just as quick as making list-related compliments.
A list, then – old-fashioned with pen and paper, in my girly handwriting:
- Restrains, 3 pairs (handcuffs, elbow cuffs, hobbles)
- Latex hood
- Ball gag
- Posture collar
- Nipple clamps
The following short story is based on my longer narration Pony Boot Camp and is written specifically for cpony.com. I had originally planned it as a medley of several existing chapters, but found them too entangled to be shortened. So the content in this story is all-new. It is also not entirely in sync with the main narration chronologically and canon-wise, but would have its place roughly around chapter 30.
Having read the source work isn’t necessary to enjoy Stand-Alone Stable. Seventeen, who is called Pony 17 here, is sentenced to 90 days in a special boot camp, where her group leader Kandrin shows her the darker sides of pony play.
Like the narration, the short story is meant for owners who like to be a tad mean to their ponygirls now and then.
Pony Boot Camp – Stand-Alone Stable
I gave a wince of pain as Miss Kandrin pulled my reins tight across the overhead bar just outside the tack room. Secured like this, I couldn’t even back off or lower my head without causing myself further pain. And if there was one thing bestowed upon me plenty, it was pain. So I stood straight and proud, rocking slightly in my pony boots which literally kept me on my toes.
“Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Pony 17. I told you what would happen if you show that attitude again.” Continue reading
Better Feared than Loved
Sleeping with somebody is considered to be the most intimate act to perform. Torturing them comes in a close second. In the light of this Miss Cuntling and I were one step away from being fuck mates.
Kendrick might have been technically right about the abuse my fellow fillies and I were subjected to not being torture in that it wasn’t meant to extract confessions or information. He had applied a rather narrow definition, though. The purpose of interrogative torture may differ from the one of punitive torture; the underlying methodology stays the same. Pain may be inflicted for the sake of pain, but in the long run it is a means to an even more diabolical end. Continue reading
I didn’t sleep well. My sexy new piercings made my flesh throb constantly, and the blanket hurt whenever it rubbed across them. Half the night I lay awake, listening to the tossing and groaning from the other bunks. The morning wasn’t noticeably better, giving the crying fit I had upon seeing my septum-ringed face in the mirror. It didn’t instil much hope for the rest of the day, especially with pony training lurking at 09:30.
“Ah, there you are,” Kendrick greeted me as though we had arranged to meet for lunch. He pulled me out of my group as soon as I had taken my clothes off in the tack room. Then the lead handler also grabbed Ten and Fifteen for good measure. Continue reading
Boys Will Be Boys
For the rest of the morning I was given a special task. I hated special tasks. With toilet duties or laundry one knew what they were in for. But special tasks could be anything. Bloody recipe for disaster.
I was hoping to be sent to the tack room again, even if that meant to be intellectually violated by Slacker Boy. But Her Cuntlingness walked me towards the oil-tight area where the four-by-fours were parked. Vehicle maintenance, then. Which normally was a group duty, given the number of cars. The Oners had washed the whole fleet last week, so I assumed (correctly) I was expected to tend to only a single car. Boring, menial, but not too bad. Until I saw what I was up against.
“Some of the boys have had a little bit of fun.” Continue reading