It was surprisingly cool inside, and the smell of straw immediately intensified. The further we went into the barn, the stronger a second aroma became. Leather. It didn’t take long to discover its source. At the circular area’s far side a large shed had been erected as some sort of building within the building, big enough to hold all of us. For someone like me who had never taken an interest in horsemanship nor come in contact with equestrian equipment, the amount of leather and metal gear stored in this place was awe-inspiring. Racks and walls were occupied by meticulously arrayed belts, harnesses, bridles and stuff I could not even name. I would come to know this place as the Tack Room, and I would come to fear it.
We were asked to deposit our clothes in shelves near the shed’s door and join our respective handlers. There were seven of them, each taking “care” of two or three inmates. This left me with the elfish doll 1315 and – hurray! – Miss Vegan Peroxide.
“Okey-dokey, gals, let’s get ya ready for the ranch,” our handler stated in a fake American accent. He had introduced himself as Kendrick in a reasonable voice (and without the accent). Mr Kendrick, a lean bloke of indeterminable age with longish hair and a musketeer beard, struck me as rather pragmatic. That streak was certainly an improvement considering the normal guards with their pathetic tough guy attitudes. However, I had little doubt that he was as quick with his own spark stick as Miss Cuntling if someone acted up. He looked us over with medical professionalism which I hoped wasn’t as fake as his cowboy impression. The urge to cover my lady parts was overwhelming. Unlike before, we were naked as individuals, not within a larger group. But of course there was only one way for an inmate to stand, and that was in line, with hands at her sites. Even if said line consisted of only two or three persons.
“I reckon we start from the bottom and work our way up. Try these on for size.”
He handed to each of us a pair of boots. I looked at them in disbelief. Then I looked at him as though he had pulled a rabbit out of his trousers. Then I looked at the shoes again. They bore a certain resemblance to that special fetish footwear; ballet boots. I had seen them once in a fashion magazine featuring a kink-heavy shooting and had marvelled at the extreme arc of the sole and the enforced en pointe position. The ones I was holding sported the same punitive form, yet diverged from the classic variant in crucial details. They had no heels. The iconic twenty or so centimetre stiletto heels were just missing – or never intended to be there in the first place. This heel-less design would transfer all the wearer’s weight to the balls of her feet, but of course that wasn’t an option in ballet boots. Which led to the second main difference: Near their tips the boots’ outer form didn’t follow the feet, but expanded to roughly conical shapes.
They were shaped like horse hooves. And I shit you not, they even came with real horse shoes, albeit screwed on and not nailed. Having overcome my initial “What the fuck?!”-moment, I did the only thing prudent right now: I sat down on a provided bench and began putting them on. They had no zippers at their sides for convenience, so I fiddled clumsily with the lacings. Thanks to Miss Cuntling, I still had a stinging weakness radiating from my right shoulder all the way down into my fingertips.
“That can happen more quickly, ladies,” Kendrick declared.
I shoved my foot into the first boot and sighed with the unyielding sternness of my new footwear. It encased my food without any give, literally trapping it in its unnatural position. My bad feeling just became worse.
“Make sure to lace ’em up properly.”
I surrendered my other foot to its hoof boot, without having the slightest clue how to walk a single metre. There was already a gnawing sensation heating up in my insteps. The boots reached up just below my knees, with eyelets all the way up, and lacing them took its time. As a final act, a leather flap went over the knotting and was fastened with two buckle-like elements. They made clicking sounds as I closed them, and with a groan of frustration I realised that I just had locked myself into my fate.
“What are you waiting for, Seventeen? Rise and shine!”
Tentatively I stood up from the bench and almost let myself slump back again. It felt so wrong! The foot posture, the stilt effect – they caused such a distorted gap between what I believed to know about standing upright and what I was perceiving by kinaesthesia. I wasn’t in actual pain yet, although the gnawing strain signalled unmistakably the stress my foot muscles were already in. To make things worse, it quickly reached up to my calves, too. My feet were wedged into the leather, and my toes were subjected to a good deal of pressure.
Next to me Fifteen and Sixteen seemed to experience similar distress. The former groaned as her whole weight came to rest on her new hooves, the later one even yelped. I already feared the torrent of complains the blonde brat would release on me back in the barrack.
“Better get used to it,” Kendrick stated dryly. What alternatives did we have? The clicking noise of the flap locks had a distinctive way to tell that the hoof boots wouldn’t come off anytime soon.
Good news was I could to stand in them. It was a wobbly affair, and I unintentionally flailed my arms a bit. However, once laced up the boots were rigid around the ankles. So it was positively impossible to move the foot relatively to the lower leg, which might minimise the risk of spraining. But with this degree of freedom gone, keeping my balance required an unaccustomed amount of knee and hip action.
Our handler headed to a nearby shelf full of leather items and beckoned us to follow him.
“Okay, once again in line, ponies.”
Call me that one more time, you get a knee in the nuts! If I managed such a move, that was. My first careful footfalls sent mixed signals in that regard. The hooves’ broad base granted stability, but each step delivered a singeing impulse to the various fine bones within my foot. Controlling the force of impact wasn’t easy; for obvious reasons, rolling from heel to toe wasn’t an option, so each step in these boots resembled a stomping. Furthermore the hooves and horse shoes made them quite heavy – and created a degrading clonck-clonck on the floorboards.
With the three of us to Kendrick’s disposal once again, he produced a menacing-looking leather contraption from the shelf and fiddled at its extensive lacing. Fifteen raised her hand, asking for permission to state a question. In my opinion this was a bold move. Kandrin, for example, hadn’t taken too well to enquiries recently.
“What is it, love?”
“Why have we got to wear these boots, Mr Kendrick, sir?”
“Because horses walk on their very tip toes, too.”
That was perfectly consequential. Yet it begged the question as to why we had to walk like horses in the first place.
Kendrick, who considered his answer exhaustively sufficient, presented that leather thingy to us.
“Who wants to go first?”
I tried my best to make myself invisible.
“Seventeen, turn around.”
Why was it always me?!
The handler took hold of my wrists and guided them behind my back. I flinched at his touch, too well aware of my nudity. He straightened my arms, positioned my hands palm to palm and my forearms close together, checked here and there and even massaged certain points with his thumbs to loosen me up. This of course made me expect to be restrained in some way, shape or form. Kendrick pulled the leather item up my arms like some kind of sheath. The material hugged my limbs tightly, and it dawned on me what I was just being trapped into.
Okay, maybe reading that fashion magazine I had mentioned hadn’t been the only time I’d come in contact with fetish stuff before. From those filthy web sites nobody ever visits, especially not girls, I knew my way around some basic bondage gear.
That leather sheath now reaching up almost to my shoulders, with belts running across my collarbones and back under my armpits and with a lacing that soon would be trapping me for good, was an armbinder. More precisely, it was a monoglove, for its tightness resembled that of fitted gloves.
My fellow inmates were following the procedure with huge eyes and in utter disbelief. I, however, was beyond disbelief by now and had moved on to debasement. My face and especially my ears had to be glowing, and I recognised a hollow feeling in my innards.
Without further ado Kendrick began to fasten the laces. With every pull my wrists were forced further against each other. Then my forearms. Then my elbows. My groans of humiliation and discomfort turned into shrieks of pain. Finally his determination to make my elbows touch triggered a rush of panic. I tried to get away from him, but he had a good hold on me, so I just clonck-cloncked on the spot.
Kendrick sent a slap to my bum.
“Hold still. Only a few more eyelets.”
That’s the spirit! The pain and terror of having ones arms slowly twisted out of their sockets became totally acceptable once there were only a few more fucking eyelets to lace through!
The arm torture continued, and I was yelping and moaning without cease. My elbows were touching now, and just like my foot posture it felt sickeningly wrong. The bondage mitten was hard on my shoulders, pulling them back until I thought my shoulder blades ground against each other. The massive strain to muscles, tendons and ligaments was eye-watering. I couldn’t help but painfully notice how nicely this item was teaming up with my footwear.
With the lacing finished, the same kind of clicking as with the boot flaps told me that I had to suffer through this contorting single sleeve as well. Kendrick spun me around, his hands on my aching shoulders.
He added an additional belt above my breasts to connect my shoulder straps, although they were so tightly resting in the hollows between joints and base of the neck that there was no risk for them to slip off. Of course, that last belt was lock, too. This was bondage overkill as an end in itself: Even without shoulder straps, locked belt and locked flap across the lacing I would never been able to strip the sleeve off.
I witnessed the monogloving of the two others only through a blur. To busy I was seeking a halfway bearable pose and finding none. Even after countless times in cuffs and shackles I was experiencing a completely new form of helplessness, utterly intimidating and ultimate.
The first cognisant perception of Fifteen and Sixteen in their bound stage was quite a shock, as I realised in a sudden that they were mirroring me in my own predicament. The girls’ arms appeared to be welded together from finger tips to elbows and beyond. So tight was the leather that it didn’t show any wrinkles mentionable. As if congealed on them. On me. When looked at from the front, their shoulder lines flew into the flanks without interruption, with no arms visible at all – which in my humble opinion was quite creepy.
Kendrick, though, was obviously pleased with his work.
“Touching elbows are an aesthetic ideal; the three of you should be proud to have reached it. It surely doesn’t lie within everybody’s capability.”
“One item is left. I understand that this one will be especially demanding, both physically and psychologically. But it is an important part of your rehabilitation to accept it. Fighting it won’t make your stay here easier – nobody likes baulky ponies.”
Again I was the first to go and I honestly hadn’t a clue how I would react to this last insult to my humanity. Would I resign in the bitterness of being hooved and robbed of my arms? Or would I baulk?
It was Kandrin and her shock baton that made the decision for me. Stepping over from another handler, she leant against the shelf behind Kendrick, spark stick resting in the crook of her elbow, and laid her gaze upon me. Did I mention she had bright-blue eyes, almost silvery? And did I mention how bright-blue eyes never fail to freak me out? As Kendrick closed in with his last torture implement, she tilted her head to one side without breaking contact as though she was challenging me:
Resist him, I dare you. I double-dare you.
I reckoned the following to be less uncomfortable for me if I went along with it – and immediately scolded myself as soon as Kendrick pushed the steel bit between my teeth. Having something unyielding and distorting forced into my mouth was bad on its own, but I’d been dumb enough to submit myself to it. Sure, if I had given them trouble, they would have gagged me the hard way. But at least I wouldn’t have granted Miss Cuntling an easy victory!
As my handler was securing the sophisticated bridle to my head, I fought the bit like a true little wild horse. Kendrick, however, kept the various straps under tension at all times. Apparently I wasn’t the first pony he’d tacked. The straps ran over my face, across my forehead and around my head. There was one under my chin and another pressing in the nape of my neck. Soon I was engulfed by the smell of freshly oiled leather. Polished rings connected the belts wherever they met, buckles and the clever design itself rendered the bridle inescapable.
Kendrick pulled my pony tail free and closed the last buckle. The bit sat far back in my mouth, and there was no way of dislodging that bloody thing. It was a straight, rigid rod with a pivot-mounted transversal element, not unlike a rocker. With it in place I wasn’t able to put my tongue over the bit. And because of its bearing I had no leverage to rotate the bit itself, either.
Sixteen whimpered as she received her bitting. Most likely this was the first time she made a fuss about taking something long and hard in her mouth. Fifteen watched with disbelieve in her big eyes before it was her turn. If somebody had told me some days earlier that seventeen girls were to be treated like animals with none of them fighting tooth and nail against it, I would have called him something non-citable. Yet here we were; some of us acting stoically, some clenching their teeth in vain, some even trying to reason (not that there was a chance to out-reason a shock baton). But the overlaying reaction was disbelief. We were stuck in deepest denial.
Our handler seemed to be contented with his work. Some additional tugging here, some strand out of the face there – mainly adjusting for the sake of adjusting.
“Grand. Now then, you will find your faculty of speech severely compromised, so I am establishing some outlines for simple non-verbal communication. Most of my dear colleagues let their ponies neigh, one time for ‘yes’, two times for ‘no’. But I consider that rather silly. So you just stomp with your right hoof, again once for “yep” and twice for ‘nope’.”
In what way exactly was that less silly than neighing?!
“Let’s try it: Are you three fine fillies?”
“And do fillies talk?”
The way my blood was pulsing within my temples, I must have been red with embarrassment. Either that, or the tight bridle was affecting my circulation. But here I stood; nude, restrained, ridiculously decorated and answering to demeaning questions by stomping my foot – pardon, hoof. Way to go…
“Shall we let them do some laps in the indoor arena, so they get used to their tack?” Kendrick asked our group leader.
“They can get used to it during their training.” She clipped a set of reins to my bit rings and spoke up for all handlers to hear. “Everybody ready? Fantastic. Then out with them to the corrals.”
Miss Cuntling gave me a harsh tug to turn me towards the door. The bit moved slightly yet firmly in my mouth and put one-sided pressure to my stretched lips. All I could do was bite on the rubber-covered parts between my molars – that, and follow my owner’s will.