Pony Boot Camp — Part Eighteen

Show, Don’t Tell

Lunch was light, as expected. Fruits and lettuce with a site of more lettuce. Our feast was supervised by the same two guards I’d encountered in the mess before. It struck me as odd that Tweedledum and Tweedledee regularly worked the same shift together. But hey, love always finds a way! As usual they hauled their ready-to-burst egos up and down the aisles, barking at inmates for no reason at all. Self-important yet intellectually ill-equipped, they were prime examples of common thugs. They bullied and hassled alright, but lacked the refined sadism of, say, a Seva Kandrin.

After lunch I was assigned to one of the special tasks. Those were duties meant for a single individual rather than the whole group. In my case it was tack care. I was to report back to the stables for equipment cleaning and light maintenance work. Upon leaving Kendrick handed me the spiked bit.

“Return that for me, will you, love?”

Surely he had thought of that item when detacking us, if not before. But the lead handler sought to confront me with it, wanted me to feel its weight and sharpness with my own hands. To be brutally honest, I didn’t like Kendrick that day.

Meeting the person whom I was to assist hold a slight surprise for me. I had expected some kind of stable master when entering the tack room. What I got was a stablehand at best. He was maybe two years my senior (and I’m being generous here) and looked distinctively out of place in his uniform. The attire identified him as handler, but that term offered a wide range of interpretation. Agreeing on Kendrick as primus inter pares, this boy was an unambitious novice.

“You here to help?”

His voice carried an overtone of disappointment, most likely because I was dressed. A slacker like him had hit the jackpot with this employment. Not only it was a secure job, being with or at least affiliated to legal enforcement. With all the nude girls in perverse restrains he also received live-action material to wank to on a regular basis.

“Yes, sir. 1317; awaiting orders, sir.”

He nodded indifferently at my numbered shirt.

“I can see that.”

Tosser! I knew he could see that. But woe befall the mare that hath not stated her name when meeting her master. I followed him to the long and sturdy wooden table at the far wall I’d seen earlier. It claimed the whole width between two shelves and was loaded with tack in all states of entanglement.

“That’s the stuff from this morning’s stints. We unravel it, clean it, and put it away. If something needs repair, we do that, too.”

“I see.”

Prudently enough I had dropped the “sir” – no need to have him get used to it. It was beyond me how a stoner like him had been able to slip into an authoritarian position. Hence it was an automatism I tested my boundaries with him. Maybe I could top him from the bottom, manipulative bitch that I was.

“First of all, I need to put this back for Mr Kendrick,” I stated matter-of-factly, holding up the spiked mouthpiece and doing some good old name-dropping.

“Whatever.”

Not exactly the kind of answer that provides an aura of leadership and male dominance. I marched over to the green bit board and hung my souvenir at a free spot where I thought it would fit in. Originally I just wanted to rid myself of the little torture device and be done with it. But then the well-known car accident effect kicked in. I did not want to look at them more closely, and still my eyes wandered along the neat lines and columns of the bits displayed. Their numbers were legion, as were their variations. I found spiked, rowelled and thorned mouthpieces. Several bits were threaded, some like screws, others more like drills. One was basically a thin twisted wire resembling a garrotte out of some lust-murderous fever dream. I was positive that this fine instrument of oral discipline was capable of slicing the unlucky pony’s cheeks all the way up to her molars, if the need arose.

For those craving for the strictness and rigidity of a massive steel bit but not wanting to miss the experience of additional distress there was an array of models opening up in the mouth. Their scissors action put simultaneous pressure on tongue and palate. Advanced forms furthermore sported horizontal folding mechanisms and thus caused untold pain to the cheeks and jaw joints. Other constructions were so large I couldn’t imagine how to make them fit into a ponygirl’s mouth, and not a few came up with kinematic layouts I didn’t even begin to fathom. The knowledge that Kendrick – or Miss Cuntling, for that matter – could choose any of them for me to wear was chilling.

Having enough from that combined shock value for now, I returned to the table where Slacker Boy was already sorting through the tack used this morning. He shoved a big bundle over to me.

“Ever done that before?”

I still own a pair of expensive biker boots I took good care of right from the start, yet I doubted this qualified me to tend to s&m paraphernalia. Consequently, I shook my head.

“Okay, listen here.”

He took a random belt from his own bunch and cleaned it with a lightly moistened cloth.

“That’s how you remove dirt, sweat, saliva…,” he donned a moronic grin, “… and other sticky substances that might be found on certain pieces.”

References to lady-juiced crotch straps – good job, mate!

He used some glycerine soap to seal the leather and waited a moment for the material to absorb it. Then off the belt went to a hook already carrying similar items.

“You are going to learn how to fix minor impairments and where what item belongs to in time. For now you only do the cleaning and check the stitching and the leather itself for any damages. Got it?”

“No problem.”

The following hours I worked myself through unlimited resources of fetish gear. If I remembered correctly, the Oners had had the pleasure of being whipped about the woods in the early morning, and the Twoers were out right now (I hadn’t fully worked out the underlying time table yet). That meant fifteen full tacks, plus seventeen light running tacks from my own group’s workout. As I delved into my repetitive task, I indeed came across a damaged strap on some harness. A leather loop holding a connection ring had started to crack. At first I had no intent of informing Slacker Boy. Why should I collaborate with the powers that be by pointing out weak spots in our own fetters? I put the harness on the stack of finished stuff. Then I took it again. Though the ring itself rested on a protective leather flap, the crack did not. It was bound to split further and bring a rough edge to bare skin. Whoever was to wear this harness would sooner or later suffer some nasty chafing. My mind created pictures of flesh rubbed bloody from hours of hard driving. Any attempt to call the handler’s attention to this torment would be interpreted as breaking discipline. A hard hand on the reins and a quick one on the whip would solve the problem for now, and a harsher bit would see to it next time.

I sighed and showed the strap to Slacker Boy.

“What are we doing with that?”

He looked at it with what could almost be professionalism.

“It has to be replaced. Sort it out.”

He kicked against a wooden chest underneath the table, and I dropped the harness in.

Truth be told, this kind of work was better than toilet duties in terms of labour conditions. But it made me feel more than a bit queasy to be surrounded by an arsenal of gear only designed for the exertion of control. Every now and then Slacker Boy made a semi-funny or chauvinistic remark. Most of the time, however, we worked in silence. I sealed and oiled leather. I furbished buckles, rings and rivets. I wiped the pony plugs with bleach (if you are worried about the tail parts, don’t be; they were disconnectable from the bulbs). As expected, cleaning the bridles was especially creepy for me. I had become increasingly haunted by the idea of facial bondage, and my attitude towards mouth bits should be clear by now. I detached them from their bridles one by one and rinsed them with clear water. Most of them were tongue bits with smooth rockers, the rest except for one were plain bars, each with two vertical drill-holes left and right to the middle. I would come to know about those holes in time, and I would not like them. The last one, then, was again a prime example for how fucked up this place was, even for a pseudo-legal horror camp. Its general layout was that of a standard tongue bit, yet the rocker’s rear part turned out to be far longer and ended in two bent-down prongs. Hence the rocker resembled a narrow fork, and once inside a pony’s mouth, the prongs would reach the entrance of her throat.

With a sound of disgust I let the torture bit clatter on the table.

“Yeah, that’s a nasty one,” Slacker Boy commented. “But snaffles like that are seldom used.”

I did read empathy into these words, an impression he successfully shattered with his follow-up musing.

“I find them quite sexy, though. Must be a real turn-on to have for once some real say over a bird, no offence.”

What a fuckwit! I would have put him on a level with every other misogynistic scumbag I had come across, if I hadn’t known he was just too unreflecting and, quite frankly, too bloody stupid to be held accountable for his words, no fucking offence!

“Oh, it’s a real turn-on to pull at the reins and the girl does what I want…”

There’s nothing sexy about gagging on spikes or having your mouth sawn atwain by barbed wire!

“You find it arousing what’s going down here?”

I was bent to keep my voice calm. I wanted to tell him off from moral high ground. If I yelled at him (or put a fist squarely into his smug grin), he would run crying to Miss Cuntling.

“I’m just saying.”

“Saying what?” I cocked my head. “Hmm?”

Slacker Boy was clearly out of his authoritative depth.

“You are on thin ice, Seventeen” he claimed, yet turned away from my gaze. Not very convincing.

I scoffed. The bit still lay before me. I could not but wonder who had been forced to wear it and what she had owed this special attention to. That mug next to me probably knew at least one of the answers, but I wasn’t even thinking of asking him. He was to be ignored by me for the rest of today’s tack duties. That would teach him!

If he had felt dispirited because of my calling him out and withholding attention, it was soon forgotten with the return of the Twoers. A room filled with exhausted ponygirls tends to have that effect on males. As they were freed from their restrains the tack table was loaded again. I sighed at the piling leather. Somebody thrust an armbinder into my hands with the laces pulled out of the topmost eyelets. I began to fiddle them back in and expected my wannabe handler to go back to work as well. Yet Slacker Boy’s attention was drawn to all the well-whipped skin around us. The poor lad didn’t know where to peep first.

“Don’t hurt your neck.”

“I don’t have to,” he replied with infantile triumph, as if he had discovered a dirty word that rhymed with my name. “Your group is next.”

 

About Venom

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

3 responses to “Pony Boot Camp — Part Eighteen

  • Dennis Smith

    The supposed people running that place really should experience all that gear personally. Especially the most injures bits. The stablehand cleaning the harnesses thinks those bits are a real turn on, maybe he’d feel very different if he were the one forced to wear and endure them. I do hope at the end of this the ones who thought this type of punishment was a good idea get to either experience it personally or spend several years in the iron bar hotel.

    • Venom

      Sadly, all of the bits described so far — and I mean ALL, even to some degree the ones with scissors action — are inspired by real horse bits. For obvious reasons I wish to comment on that topic no more.

  • Kevin

    To all, especially Dennis: as someone who has experienced various bits, although in consensual LARP dog play, there really are men and women who actually enjoy being controlled, and even some who submit to sadists. A little pain never hurt, don’t knock it to I’ll you try it! RACK

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