In the afternoon we had toilet duties – for the third time in five days. Kandrin was pissed about it, so to say. What was it to her? She wasn’t the one to wield the bog brush. I deprive the gentle reader of a detailed description of the cleaning activities. They weren’t nearly as eventful as they were ignominious.
Wiping down mirrors in one of the barracks, I could not but pity my own reflection. Ugly haematomata claimed the corners of my mouth and the adjacent tissue of my cheeks. My face still showed angry traces of bridle and blinkers. And if I were to bare my breasts, my nipples could be seen sore and discoloured. They were throbbing in memory of the fierce and prolonged clamping. For the first hour after the bells’ removal I had been positively sure that nerves had been permanently damaged. Continue reading
First thing after the big morning fall-in was corral training. For reasons nobody had bothered revealing to us we were to be fitted with full tack right from the start – which paved the way for another gratuitous dressing scene. As Kendrick pulled my crotch strap tight, I went on the tips of my toes – or, given that I was already standing en pointe, on the tips of my hooves. From another corner of the tack room our resident pervert glanced over whilst continuing the tedious task of lacing up Eleven’s monoglove. Creepy Chap might hold strange beliefs when it came to romantic interactions, but he knew a randy pony if he saw one. Continue reading
Sleep did not come easily for me. Staring at the dark ceiling I tried to blank my mind, but only opened it to the day’s grisly events. I tried to occupy it with pleasant thoughts; funny moments with my flatmate, my favourite music, the smell of a new car. Ere I knew it my silly subconscious had made sinister associations with the Maserati I’d borrowed and the odour of freshly worn leather tack. Eighty-six more days of this, and I would be in need of some serious therapy – if I would be able to lie on a couch, that was. Continue reading
Trial by Fire
There was no brazier with glowing coals. I made that up for dramatic effects, to grab the dear reader’s attention. Yet there’s no reason to feel cheated, for the branding iron was very present nonetheless. About half a metre long, with a heating coil near its business end, it waited for us on a small table next to the sawhorse – and it had brought its twin as well. Continue reading
Foresightful as I was, I had a small towel at hand as I removed Patrizia’s gag. It was a standard three inch ball gag. Defined by me as standard, that was, because I knew how Triz loathed huge gags. How they put unbearable strain to her jaw muscles. For ball gags – or ring gags not sitting too deep – three inches was the absolute limit she and her talented mouth could take.
Her chin and chest were already glistening with drool, but from experience I knew that a considerably higher amount had gathered behind the semi-sealing gag. My assumption was proven true as I worked the overly large ball out of her mouth and a gush of saliva followed. Hence the towel. Continue reading