Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirteen

Under Bridle

By now more ponygirls had arrived to be readied for a little tour. Handlers were busy harnessing them to the carts. A tall and thin tomboy with scraggy black hair caught my attention in particular. 1310, if I wasn’t mistaken. Despite being snugly embraced by tack her lean body still managed to show off the elaborated tattoos running intricately along her limbs and down her back and sides. The dark inkings went disturbingly well with sturdy leather.

Eventually I saw Fifteen and Sixteen as well. Kendrick had resurfaced with them and was now engaged in a lively debate with Miss Cuntling. They tried to keep their voices down (well, at least Kendrick tried), but I figured out bit by what they were finding themselves in disagreement over. Seemingly, the lead handler favoured the path along the camp’s inner perimeter for our first go with the sulkies. Kandrin was determined to employ a more demanding route through the woods, arguing that she had already lost too much time because of half her group’s delayed arrival at the DACC.

It didn’t come as a surprise that Kandrin got the upper hand in the discussion. Through the woods it was, then. Since we were seventeen ponies, but had only seven handlers assigned to our group, nine handlers from the other groups were asked to join in. Miss Cuntling herself honoured us with her presence as the seventeenth driver. I leave it to the gentle reader to guess whom our group leader chose as her equine companion.

“Everybody familiar with the route? Good. There’s no need for a formation, so each of you can go the pace you deem adequate to your participant. Today it’s just basic sulky training.”

Not that I needed any training to be sulky. (What a clever joke! Real crowd pleaser. Maybe I would tell it to Miss Cuntling afterwards.)

I felt my cart shifting as she took a seat on it. My harness dealt with the additional weight quite easily. As I mentioned, Kandrin was lithe and lissom. Slight movement of my bit told me she’d picked up the reins.

“Let’s see if your legs are as quick as your mouth is.”

I especially liked the way she emphasised “legs” and “mouth” by bringing her whip against my thighs and yanking at my reins. Considering the range and kind of sting, I reckoned she had replaced her riding crop with one of those buggy whips. Moving like a horse, identifying whips by the nature and amount of pain they caused – nobody could say I hadn’t learnt anything today.

Behind me Kandrin clicked her tongue. What was that supposed to mean? Unsure about how to react I kept standing in my “stay” position.

“There’s no rush, Seventeen. If I wanted you to set off, I would do this…”

I was given another taste of her whip. The pain was sharp, very sharp. She had hit the especially sensitive spot where the thigh merged into the buttock. Naturally this little love tap got me going. As I leant in, the fronts of my yoke and of my waspie took the load. The resulting sensation reminded me of walking against strong wind – my torso as a whole was subjected to a counteractive force with no part in particular burdened.

“Trot! And I want to see some panache. Show me what you’ve learnt so far.”

I fell into the requested gait. The cart followed my speed change quite easily, little inertia that it had. Physically I was capable of bearing my duty as a draught animal for the time being. Coping with it psychologically was a horse of a different colour, if I am allowed the pun. I had reached a new low-point in that my humiliation wasn’t spatially limited to the barn and corrals anymore. Now I was trotting across the camp, in plain view of other inmates (the knowledge of them being subjected to the very same treatment regularly did little to comfort me). That the tail was doing additional mischief in my rectum wasn’t helping either. My rhythmic movement amplified the intense and deeply irritating feeling of fullness, and it caused the plug to shift slightly up and down. To be more descriptive, each high step granted me a sexy little arse fuck. I would be a very sore pony tonight.

Over the sound of my own horse shoes I heard my fellow fillies behind me, and for once I was glad to be in the lead. So I was spared the view of this freakish parade with me in it. I advanced south towards the main gate, steered by the snaffle reins. Of course I could have followed the road all by myself, but that would have taken the fun out of it. Nothing says “turn left” like steel on bruised lips. The guards at the main entrance had expected us ponies, and we passed half a sneering dozen of them as we left the DACC through the open twin gates and down a slope.

That was it. I was outside, really outside. In freedom, with no fences around me. Yet I felt like a prisoner more than ever before, trapped as I was in unmentionable fetish gear. In this spirit the bit put uncompromising pressure on the right corner of my mouth, and right I turned; off the main road and onto a western-bound path towards the forest border. It was now way past noon and quite warm, a disadvantage of today’s training schedule. Only a few fair-weather clouds were travelling the sky on a mild wind. The day was ideal for outdoor activities, as long as they didn’t involve leather tack and sulky pulling.

Long blades of wild grass reached over from both side of the narrow path and tickled my legs as I trotted along. The leathery smell of my bridle mixed with the gramineous one of my surrounding. Miss Cuntling was constantly fine-tuning our alignment via the reins to hold the cart in the middle of the trail. The whole time she kept them taut, always letting the wicked bit have slight contact. A truly Damoclean experience. So I pushed onwards in constant anxiety. Anxious of the next bit action, of the next grinding motion within my already sore mouth. I had also been anxious to sprain an ankle on the uneven ground, given the extreme nature of my footwear. But the rigid design and the high-stepping it enforced actually provided steadiness once I had surrendered myself to the technique instead of fighting it. As a pupil I had done some hurdling during PE, in which course I had to overcome the intuitive impulse to jump over the hurdles and basically step over them instead. It’s a matter of training, I reckon. Was this my pony training kicking in now? A pony wasn’t to consider where it put its hoof every single time. It was to perform the gait its master or mistress demanded, wholeheartedly.

Kandrin underlined this tenet promptly.


She hadn’t even spoken the last syllable as her whip seared my skin again, at the same delicate spot as before. Miss Cuntling was really cultivating her image as a sadistic bitch. The grass was no longer tickling but stinging as it hit me. Its blades made whooshing sounds when they were caught by the wheels. Quickly the noises of the other ponies became lost behind me. As my hooves hammered the soil, I swayed left and right and was orally corrected accordantly. As I slowed down my gallop to gain better control of my footing and appease the bit, Kandrin became enthusiastic with her whip again. Seeing the positive side, I was allowed to choose between my pains. Whilst I was enjoying this latest predicament, my wicked crotch strap drew attention to itself as well. Due to the rapid high-stepping it had worked itself deep between my legs and was now relentlessly rubbing against some exclusive parts of mine – and not in a convenient way. Though not overly painful for the time being, the sensation added to my anguish. By the end of the day, thisnaughty piece of leather would have bruised me up and chafed me raw. It should be mentioned that the crotch strap was the only part of my harness chafing in any way. What a coincidence.

Between those little tortures I mused about my passive-aggressive options. Why not just stop and move no more, transforming my beaten self from proud pony to obstinate mule. I reckoned that urging me on to gallop in the vanguard of her group, only to be stranded with an unwilling mare after some hundred metres wasn’t compatible with Kandrin’s ego. I did not know nor dare think of the punishment for such an act, but surely it would be prolonged and exquisite.

So I kept going, slick with fresh sweat, not yet ready to trade the pains I knew for those coming with disobedience. The field of grass and wildflowers was almost crossed, and the dense woods before me promised shade. As I entered the forest I stood under the impression to be already far ahead of the others. The path widened a bit, but became considerably more twisted as it wound around trunks of imposing sizes. A tiny brook gurgled and murmured nearby, finding its way through between moss-covered rocks. In all likelihood it was tributary to the river, to which we had to be close now. That I’d seen a real forest had been a decade ago. Mind you, a real forest, not one of those mockeries where the trees had been arranged on a grid, where the ground had been as flat as a pancake and robbed of its undergrowth. Where every twig had been optimised for timber harvest. Now I was passing ancient oaks and limes and beeches, their roots clutching half-sunken erratics. These were woods where one could expect all sorts of beasts to roam freely; red deer, wild boars and maybe even wolves and elks.

Underneath the roof of leaves it was significantly cooler, and I slowed down a bit in relieve. Immediately a nasty lick across my knotted shoulder blades unprotected by the yoke showed me the wrong of my ways.

“Don’t test me, Seventeen…”

I sped up again, biting my bit to no effect. Miss Cuntling directed me masterfully around mighty roots and fallen tree trunks. And after each strenuous manoeuvre her buggy whip ensured that I maintained the proper pace. Soon the consciously made connection between running faster and being beaten less blurred, and I fell into a more primitive, animalistic set of mind. The urge to flee from the searing lash. That I was pulling its wielder with me was an unfortunate detail, though. As my breath became more and more laboured and my sexy, demanding pony boots grew heavier and heavier, I knew I had to leave my comfort zone in earnest.

Chances rose that my earlier statement about the physical exertion not being the major problem had been a wee bit hasty. The soft forest ground might be a mercy for my overstretched feet, but its considerable damping also meant losing a lot of impetus with every high-step. And then there was the high-stepping itself, the by far most draining way of moving one’s legs. When running normally, the body switches into some sort of autopilot mode. The length of bones, the flexibility of ligaments and tendons – all these together define an optimal speed and cycle of movement where most of the work isn’t done by muscles but by the body’s own kinetic layout.

With high-stepping, this biomechanical principle goes out of the window. The gaits, and especially the gallop, had tired me out rapidly, and more than once I had received educational flicks to the back of my thighs as an encouragement to (and I’m quoting here) “bring those legs up, lazy filly”.

When we reached the river, I was once again slavering over my accursed bit and had maddening stitch in my left side. It was the side where I had suffered the rib contusion, and even after healing that part remained somewhat tender. Kandrin first curbed me into a trot, then brought me down to a walk with another sharp pull at the reins. Unnecessarily hard, I might add. She did not yank at them like somebody ignorant of how painful the action was to my mouth. With her it was controlled brutality, just the right dose to wear me down.

I had imagined a wild stream with rapids suitable for white-water rafting or kayaking. But the river I encountered was quiet and gentle, mentionable more for the large boulders in its rocky bed than for the amount of water it carried. The trees stood close to its banks, with the branches of the largest ones reaching almost halfway across. Due to its shallowness the river did own a noticeable current, but nowhere strong enough to endanger anybody fording it. Not that a ford was needed for crossing. One could easily jump from one boulder to the next and reach the far bank dry-shod. Or one could choose the wooden bridge that lay ahead. Old yet sturdy, it blended perfectly into the serene and secluded scenery.

We weren’t alone, though. A roe buck looked over to me from the far site, wondering about the strange animal visiting his forest. For some moments he watched my performance sceptically, then rushed into the underwood. Lucky bastard.

Of course one could admire sylvan beauty only so much whilst in pony mode, having a leather strap cutting into one’s crotch and a fake horse tail anchored in one’s bum.

“Consider yourself fortunate that we stay on this side of the river today.”

I had no idea as to why the lands west of the river were better be avoided. For all I knew the malevolent forces haunting me dwelled solely on the eastern side.

My reins suggested the alternative route in their usual brisk way. So instead of crossing the picturesque bridge I pulled the sulky on a diverging trail that lead upstream along the eastern bank. As soon as the fork lay behind us, Kandrin gave me the lash again – one smack to express her wish for the trot, and another two to gear me up to canter and finally to gallop. There were no verbal commands anymore, just the whip, the snaffle and the curb.

As the trail became steeper, Kandrin made me trot again. The river to my left had changed its character, forcing itself in gushing cascades through between two massive rocks. The larger one, on the western bank, was crowned by a weathered cairn. (A cairn is a landmark made from piled-up stones. Therefore one could simply call it “pile of stones”, but “cairn” sounds more sophisticated.) Apart from the path and the bridge it was the only man-made thing I had observed within these woods so far. I didn’t give much thought to it, though, with all my resources occupied by my pony task.

The trail parted from the river and its increasingly rough bed, only to bend back after a hundred or so metres. Long before I trotted onto the sunlit glade that marked the path’s end I’d heard the noise. First it had been a faint swoosh mixed into the sound of my own heavy breathing, but it was gaining power with each of my high-steps. There was also a notable change in the air in that it turned even crispier and cleaner. Upon entering the clearing, the roar of tumbling water finally became the dominant sensation. Breathless, sweaty and battered, I had reached the Deepfall.


About Venom

Bloke from Central Europe; Petrol Head; Observer of Human Depravity View all posts by Venom

8 responses to “Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirteen

  • Dennis Smith

    Boy oh boy is this court ordered punishment out of line! A quick comment on the over all story. As things now stand, if this doesn’t pick up to more then the first two or three days for thirteen chapters, it’s going to take forever to tell the whole ninety day tale !!

    • Venom

      When writing my first draught of this story, I reckoned the finished version to fill about forty pages. Well, those forty pages are full by now, and I’m not even close to the middle…

  • Paul Prappas

    I like the detail and the deliberate pace. It’s different than the usual fare. There are tons and tons of stories out there that wrap it up as quickly as they can, always conscious of the reader’s impatience. As for court orders and the legalities of DFCC…. well, it’s a bondage fantasy… not that there ain’t some weird shit going on out there in the real world! Cheers!

  • Doug

    If it takes forever for this whole story to unfold that’s fine with me. I hope we get to see what the inside of her head is like after she is released, however long it takes to get there. I can’t begin to imagine what normal life would look like to someone who has been through a few months of this sort of routine.

    • Venom

      Yes, she will remain traumatised to some degree — and we’re going to witness certain changes in her behaviour even during her stay, too.

  • Kevin

    Ooh! Kinky ponygirl bondage Stockholm Syndrome! First it’s just to avoid punishment. Then choose kinky humiliation v. pain. Then the familiar pain to avoid rougher treatment. Then she’ll start to accept the sadist she knows rather than the unknown. Soon she’ll be too afraid to seek freedom.

    There’s still a judge out there with power to sentence her. Maybe to worse ‘correction’. Better the sadist she knows… See how fun psychology is?

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