“If you are a real painslut, you will be spoiled rotten tonight.”
I had made it very clear to Portia that the members of my depraved little circle were committed to the darker ways of BDSM. Marks that would last for weeks were a must-have, safewords a no-go. Portia emitted an affirmative grunt from behind the gag. Any intelligible sound was permitted by the huge rubber orb, and nodding would have interfered with my tightening her head harness.
A two inch ball gag would have silenced her nicely. 2.5 inches was her limit. I had gone for a three-incher. The rest of her body would be in tremendous pain within the hour, so why shouldn’t her mouth as well? Alternately I tightened the horizontal main strap and the facial straps running along both sides of her nose and – as one – across the crown of her head. With every tug the ball was pulled deeper into her straining mouth. We were working our way towards total gaggage for several minutes already, and the nude woman kneeling in front of me was experiencing the first cramps. She would get used to them. Continue reading
Seva Kandrin’s about to Make You Her Bitch
Our primary sense is our vision (at least as long as nobody comes up with the idea of putting full blinkers on us). The sense most closely linked to our memory is said to be the olfactory one. Yet there is something deeply influential about our hearing, too. Maybe it is the duality of hearing and feeling, of how the same sensation is processed twice by our minds. Or maybe I own a tendency for heightened acoustic recall, a proneness to certain rhythms and frequencies. To the latter, the frequencies, I was subjected again the next morning as Miss Cuntling whistled us out of our bunks. The insufferable sound heralded another day of anguish. Continue reading
Under my hooves the ground changed towards a more bouncy, less cushioning nature. My perfectly executed high steps caused hollow sounds, and the wheels of the sulky began to rattle in a distinct frequency. That, and the intensified noise of flowing water told me I was crossing the old wooden bridge. It was the first time Miss Cuntling had made me take this route instead of the trail that led upstream towards the Deepfall. I’d love to describe the scenery as I trotted deeper into the woods, but Kandrin had opted for the full blinkers. No distractions from the rein commands. And since this measure alone wasn’t sufficient to solve my alleged attention span problem, Miss C. had done what she liked to do best: She’d fitted me with a new bit. Continue reading
Having reached 25 parts and exceeded 50,000 words, it is time for Pony Boot Camp to receive a small inventory. It may provide orientation for constant readers and prevent potential new ones from being scared off by the number of chapters (minor spoilers ahead).
Coincidentally this is also my 50th post on this blog (which, obviously, isn’t a blog as such).
Miss Cuntling’s Day Off
The ridiculous honking noises startled me so much I almost fell out of my bunk. Sure as shite that wasn’t Kandrin’s whistle.
“Goooooood Morning, Deepfall!”
In the barrack door stood Kendrick, a bulb hooter in one hand. It looked original, like those brass horns on really old cars. He was obviously enjoying his toy, honking cheerfully at girls to chase them this way and that as he strode down the aisle.
“Forecast says cloudy, then clear, 24°C, light west wind. See you lovelies outside!” Continue reading
Zu Besuch bei den McIntoshs
Er war bei ihr. Sie wußte es. Riona wußte, daß der fremdfickende Bastard die blonde Schlampe in dieser Sekunde durchzog. Genau so, wie er es all die letzten Wochen getan hatte.
Überstunden. Das Glasgow-Projekt wieder, du weißt schon. Warte nicht auf mich.
An der Kücheninsel stehend, eine Hand um den Stiel ihres Weinglases verkrampft, starrte sie ins Leere, während sich die Muskeln ihres Kiefers unwillkürlich spannten. Die Uhr an der gegenüberliegenden Wand des großen Raumes näherte sich Mitternacht und fand diesbezüglich Bestätigung in der Anzeige des Doppelbackofens. Continue reading