Guess Who’s Coming to Lunch
They walked us behind the barn to a concrete area with taps and gutters. Giving us a real shower was out of question due to our leather tack, so the handlers quickly sponged us down. I should have been thankful for the clear cool water, but I could not lose the impression that they were actually grooming us in some form – which was rather creepy.
On the other side of the building, thoughtfully placed in its shadow, our lunch was waiting.
I was swiftly disabused of the notion that things would go back to anywhere near normal for mealtime. Sturdy plastic boxes were lined up on long picnic tables, green ones and blue ones in turns. The green boxes contained diced raw fruit and vegetables, their blue neighbours were filled with water. We would be having our lunch out of troughs.
“Stay!” Kandrin commanded.
We stopped some metres away from the tables to let the handlers twiddle with our head gears. I learnt that the DACC standard bridle was kind of modular: Opening hidden locks left and right, Kendrick removed the bit from my mouth. I thankfully slurped my saliva, icky as it may sound. After more than two hours my mouth was free again! And together with a loosened chin strap this new freedom allowed me to actually move my aching jaw. Plastic-boxed tree hugger lunch, here I come!
I couldn’t fail to notice that they had left our armbinders on us. Yet my indignation about eating without the use of my hands was belittled by the relief of not having a piece of steel between my teeth anymore.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes!”
Not wasting precious seconds I stepped over to my personal troughs with my number on them – high-stepped, since even with the bit gone, I was still under bridle. It took no genius to figure out how we were supposed to have lunch. I bent over and stuck my head in the water box, careful not to tilt over. There were no benches. Horses eat standing up. That was of course bad news for my feet, trapped in their unnatural position. I considered it prudent not to complain about it, though. As I greedily drank from the water I noticed an uncommon flavour, maybe from electrolytes or from magnesium against cramps. I didn’t give thought to drinking like that. But when I switched to the food box, my reduction to animal status became bitterly obvious once again.
Between ploughing with my nose through lettuce leaves and apple dice I straightened up every minute or so to get relief from the straining bent-over position. Now and then I glanced at the empty sets at the table row’s far end. Obviously the elusive Group 2 hadn’t yet surfaced from wherever its “activities” had dragged it and therefore was late to outdoor lunch.
Halfway through my meal, and head-deep in my food trough, a rhythmic beat reached me, accompanied with a jingle. The rhythm I immediately recognised as a trot; the jingling sound was new. I had reckoned lungeing to be as weird as it would get, but as I looked up and towards the road, my child-like sense of wonder was called into action once again. For said noises heralded the arrival of the Twoers. The term “surreal” was a good start to describe the scene, the term “bizarre” could take it from there. In a long line the members of Group 2 arrived, bridled, bitted and high-stepping. In addition to the basic tack each one was wearing some sort of body harness – a black leather affair consisting of a waist cincher and lots of belts, buckles and D-rings. What really stunned me was that the girls were pulling two-wheeled lightweight carts, soon to be introduced to me as sulkies. Each cart was manned by a handler who ensured the pony’s correct gait by means of reins and buggy whip.
They were bloody serious about the horse play stuff! That the programme was heavy on symbolism, with the whips and outfits and dressage, was old news. But this was way over the top. All the stuff they had me subjected to so far had made me pretend to be a horse. The escalation I was witnessing right now, with my mouth still full of lettuce, shattered this last mental safety net in the most brutal way possible. The DACC actually used inmates as beasts of burden, turning them into equines on every but the biological level!
I stood flabbergasted, my lunch forgotten, staring at the first ponygirl as she gracefully trotted past me towards the barn gate. Her panting gave evidence of having been driven hard, and so did the swollen and discoloured parts of her skin where her handler’s whip had drawn welts. Yet my eyes were caught by another detail: the quite realistic horse tail emerging from between her buttocks.
“Why are you looking at her, Seventeen?” Miss Cuntling mocked me from the nearby table end. “Got a crush on the filly?”
Questioning and ridiculing the victim’s sexual orientation; a classic tool of debasement. As if they need any more of them around here. Each and every aspect appeared to be optimised for non-stop humiliation. And no matter how bad things were, literally everybody of the staff was entitled to make them worse.
I was snapped out of my consternation by the burning kiss of Kandrin’s crop, well placed on my left breast.
“Planning to answer any time soon? Did you like what you just saw?”
Remembering my role in this mind-fuck fest, I double-clonked a ‘no’.
No fool, I knew I had just seen my imminent future. Boy, I really hoped those tails were attached to the harnesses, because I had some alarming ideas regarding the alternatives. Before I forget: The source of the jingling sounds turned out to be little bells fastened to the girls’ nipples. I already told you about tools of debasement, right?
Two minutes later Kandrin declared lunch to be over. I had lost my appetite anyway.