Had Some Fun?
The sulky was parked at its place near the path, then I was parked in the barn’s shadow and deliberately ignored by Kandrin henceforth. Some minutes later the handler brought a small bucket with water and held it up for me to drink from. Greedily I slurped the liquid to wet my parched and sore throat and soothe the pain from my oral wounds. I had regained some degree of composure again, enough at least to become aware of what was happening around me. There was muffled activity inside the barn, and I reckoned it was Group One’s turn to play pony. Although hard to believe after my recent ordeal, our own foray had been mercifully short. So the Oners were in for a rather long stint to fill the gap to 18:00.
As my fellow fillies arrived, they too were delivered from their sulkies and handled aside to make room. After all, the fetish machinery had to keep going. It was soon fuelled with harnessed girls from the barn – well-rested ponygirls, wild-caught yet broken into equine submission. Hooves clip-clopping, tails waving, bits gleaming between stretched-back lips.
With the rest of the handlers busy yoking fresh horses to the carts, Kendrick and four of his mates tended to us. Once they had us back in the tack room, we were stripped of our gear. A handler who wasn’t Kendrick freed me from my now bit-less bridle. My armbinder was next, and I yelped in pain as my arms and shoulders were allowed back into their natural positions. Having one’s body constricted and contorted in such demanding ways for hours on end never failed to provide some lasting memories. In this spirit I felt free to shriek when my hoof boots came off. After my toes had pointed straight down since the morning I wasn’t able to stand properly with my heels touching the ground. So I kept swaying on the balls of my feet.
“If you feel like prancing about, the two of us can have a private session in the corrals.”
That encouraged me to stand still and even lower myself, positive that my Achilles tendons would snap any moment. I was then de-harnessed buckle by buckle. The yoke parts went off easily, so did the waspie. The crotch strap was a mean little bugger. With no respect for my female parts the narrow leather had buried itself deep between my legs. The handler yanked it out with even less consideration, almost skinning my labia in the process. I yelped, but kept most of the pain for myself. To my helpless indignation he brought the belt to his nose and sniffed at it.
“Had some fun, huh?”
I didn’t even know how to reply to that. Well, it being a yes-no question left me with but two options. What rendered me incapable of answering was the allegation as such; that I’d marinated my minge splitter with lady juice and hence had enjoyed my treatment.
The creep did not further investigate this delicate topic, though. Like my other tack he threw the harness on a sturdy table, where a pile of tack was gradually heaping up.
“Turn around. Hands against the wall, please.”
Why did every “please” around here sounded like “or else”?
I did as I was told, even spread my legs a bit, for I knew what was coming – or rather going, since there was only one piece left. I sensed two of his fingers deep between my buttocks as they hooked behind the base of my beloved pony plug. First he just pulled, and I gritted my teeth against the newly inflamed pain in my anal tract. It felt as if my lower intestines were dragged out as well. Involuntarily I followed his pull, so he placed the hand not buried between my arse cheeks against my shoulder and shoved me back. By adding a series of clockwise and anti-clockwise turns the creepy chap managed to work the plug out to the point where its maximum circumference was stretching my sphincter. Then he decided to take a break. Dry-grinding a defenceless girl’s arsehole must be hard labour.
“What are you waiting for, Seventeen? Push!”
My face heated up with shame, something I had considered to be impossible after today. Nevertheless I began pushing. I wanted the heinous bulb out so badly, but encountered unexpected resistance. My treacherous anus was as tight as a wire loop, unwilling or unable to let go of the instrument of its own destruction. Creepy Chap could do some more screwing with the plug or just rip it out and sent me down on my knees screaming. He did none of these. He wanted me to partake in my own torture, to cause myself pain. And causing myself pain I did, a great amount of it. Yet the worst aspect lay beyond mere physical suffering: the soul-wrenching humiliation of publicly shitting out a fetish item which in itself was created with the sole purpose of degrading its victim.
It seemed the stretching and exertion would never end, until finally I managed to set the bulb into motion. The further I forced the tapered invader past my ring of muscles, the less it hurt me. Suddenly it slipped out with undue speed, leaving me behind with an incontinent feeling and the knowledge of how punishing the extraction of an anal plug could be.
“Sexy. You can turn around again.”
One had to wonder as to how the job requirements for DACC handlers were phrased:
“Candidates should be hands on, willing to work outdoors and enjoy depraved activities, such as sniffing at crotch straps or making women painfully expel egg-sized objects from their recta.”
If it read anything like that, they had found the perfect match in Creepy Chap. Having caught the plug at the tail part, he dangled it in front of my face.
“Open your mouth.”
The intention behind his order made my temples pulse with horror. The plug looked clean, but this finding did literally nothing to put me at ease. The revulsion aside, there was the very acute risk of becoming ill. I had open wounds in my mouth.
“Okey-dokey! Everyone out!”
Never before I had been so glad to obey Kendrick. My rescue by his voice might have been a coincidence, but I hoped he’d noticed the handler’s distasteful plan. (What would have been Sandrine’s viewpoint on arse-to-mouth, by the way? Generally yes, but not before the third date?)
Clumsily I marched outside with the others, barely able to maintain a proper pace. It would take hours to replace the deep soreness in my limps with actual feeling. There was no high-stepping requested, though. At least for today our time under bridle had come to an end. Behind the barn we were hosed down thoroughly. The water in the pipes had been heated by the sun and turned gradually cooler the longer it ran. Its soothing effect on my maltreated body was immense, even though the stream hurt the areas having been visited by the whip. Too soon the hoses were turned off.
“Seventeen, step forward.”
I waddled towards Kendrick, my nude body dripping wet.
This was getting old, but I couldn’t risk antagonising the lead handler as well. As I offered him my backside for inspection, he uttered a disapproving sound.
“You are excused for thirty minutes to have the doctor attend to your weals. Sixteen will escort you. Both of you may get dressed first.”
I swallowed hard, thanked Kendrick like the good girl I pretended to be and dragged myself back to the tack room with a soaked Sixteen in tow. As soon the others were out of sight I stopped the fake blonde. She bore the marks of bridle and whip, as all other ponygirls did, and she too walked awkwardly with her hooves gone. In this light, to be singled out and sent to the doctor wasn’t a happy omen.
“How bad is it?” I mumbled. Kandrin had messed my mouth up quite efficiently.
Sixteen decided to employ an overly compassionate expression.
“She got you good, especially on your legs and shoulders.”
My hands glided down, palpating the back of my thighs. The flesh felt swollen, numb and tingling at the same time, with raised welts hot to the touch. I recalled the girl being flogged in front of us at the day of our arrival (hard to comprehend it had just been yesterday).
“As bad as 1105?”
Her “no” sounded like a good thing, but it wasn’t. I had suffered like never before under Kandrin’s lash, yet my torment had not come even close to the agony one would face at the whipping post.
I dreaded the shirt on my back and the trousers against my thighs, but had regained that much self-respect not to trudge across half the camp in the nude.
“Can I ask you something?” Sixteen queried once we were dressed in our stylish outfits and on our way.
“By all means.”
I was of little faith that my esteemed co-participant detected the sarcasm. Even now with her clearly worried about me, I just couldn’t jump over my own shadow. Something about her rubbed me the wrong way.
“What was that thing Miss Kandrin put in your mouth at the waterfall?”
Sixteen’s eyes went wide. Clearly that level of cruelty was unheard of in her protected, peroxidised my-daddy-is-richer-than-yours world.
“Why is she so mean to you?”
Because she is a sadistic slag who deserves to have her arsehole reamed out with a red hot poker.
“’Cause I don’t like being told what to do.”
“You came to the wrong place then.”
With every word painful to form I decided to leave it at that and dragged myself up the few stairs to the main building’s entrance. Sixteen attempted to support me, but I freed myself rudely from her caring grip. I had sunken low enough for one day.