Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty

Frequently Asked Questions about Ponygirls

My alleged luck ended on the next morning. After a night of weird and exhausting dreams, mostly about hostile individuals demanding answers from a gagged me, I dragged myself out to attend the small fall-in.

“Good news,” Miss Cuntling announced, “the results of yesterday’s evaluation are already at hand. All of you were deemed suitable to remain in the programme. Congratulations.”

Initially I wasn’t awake enough to grasp the full meaning of her words. But two kilometres in the crisp pre-dawn air got my mind back into gear. I’d tried so hard to fish for mitigation that I’d qualified myself for the full stay, despite my demerits. My trying to out-smart the system had backfired badly. A mixture of anger and self-hatred made me momentarily forget the cold air burning in my lungs. Why did I fuck up everything I came across?!

Then a follow-up thought arrived, triggered by how suspiciously quickly the results and their confirmation had been available. And in some way the consequential conclusion made things even worse for me. It hadn’t been despite my demerits I had been deemed suitable. Nor had it been because of them. We all would stay here to the very last day of our sentences. The bogus evaluation was but another instrument to make us believe we were responsible for our plight.

I had lost all appetite for breakfast. I only ate because I didn’t want to be yelled at and because I knew I would be needing the carbs for the ordeals ahead. Yesterday’s interview had been a malevolent farce, it had left me feel interrogated and vulnerable – but contrary to my expectations I, for once, hadn’t got something shoved up my bum during it. I couldn’t say that for the upcoming events, though. For it was the tack room wherein I found myself not half an hour later. Essentially naked, but already hooved, my betters were pondering the details of my rigging.

“I noticed her flapping her arms on the last tour,” Kandrin stated.

I had been unaware of that. Actually my arms had felt like mummified inside the binder at the time in question, as had they during the corral trainings. Kendrick, though not backing up her observation, was eager to help.

“I’m going to secure her arms with the palms facing out. A little trick to break her of it.”

“Better do so before it becomes another of her annoying habits.”

The lead handler stepped behind me and pulled my arms back and together above the elbows. In spite what I just overheard I offered them in the way they’d been restrained so far, namely with the palms together.

“Uh-uh, love…” he moved his hands down along my forearms, “flapping uses up quite some energy as it interfere with the desired flow of movement. That, and it is also unaesthetic.”

Gently, but with enough force to quench any resistance he twisted my limbs into the requested position. At a few of my arrests I had been handcuffed like this. It makes one even more helpless due to the fact that one cannot grab, hold or manipulate anything with both hands. Not to mention that the position in itself is utterly unnatural. On top of that the restrains put pressure on nerves and sinews on the inside of the wrists – a sensation I do not recommend, especially if the constable making the arrest “accidently” forgets to double-lock the cuffs.

The binder spread the pressure evenly along almost the whole length of my arms, but still I had to congratulate Miss Cuntling for coming up with yet another idea to increase my torment. As for Ponymaster Kendrick, he was his old lace-happy self all over again. The monoglove tightened around my forearms, and immediately I felt my blood pounding. The leather’s grip was unyielding. With Kendrick being well-versed in the art of tying up a girl, the effects of my new arm position showed themselves quickly. My elbows and, to a lesser degree, my shoulders were strained differently. With “differently” I mean “more”. I was already panting from the stress alone. Since my elbows were rotated further outwards than in the classical position, the joints shared no common axis anymore and therefore worked against each other. There was also no way they would touch without considerable injury inflicted upon them. Luckily the lead handler did not try to prove otherwise.

Locks clicked at the flap across the lacing and at the belt connecting the shoulder straps. After my arms were properly secured, to use Kendrick’s expression, he turned his professional attention to Fifteen and Sixteen. I was left with Miss Cuntling. She re-checked my armbinder for any give. Of course there was none. With Kendrick I would have expected the harness to be next, but I from personal experience knew that my group leader set other priorities.

Out of thin air she pulled my bridle, already complete with bit. She pressed the cool metal against my lips. Naturally, I flinched.

“Did we learn nothing the other day?”

I opened my mouth. I hated to admit it to myself, but she had broken me in to the bit. With utter cruelty that had been, but nonetheless.

“That’s a good pony.”

She made sure for the steel to be seated deep, pulling the corners of my mouth far back. It was the curb bit again, a choice that carried the promise of a rather unpleasant tour. Kandrin buckled the rest of the various straps tight, and I mean tight.

The invasive and demeaning experience of being skilfully bridled was spiced up by a pair of new items: My head gear had been fitted with blinkers, just the kind one could find in the equestrian world. The upright leather flaps left and right of my eyes narrowed my visual field to what was straight in front of me. There was a considerable psychological effect to wearing them, not unlike the one that came from a gag. I spontaneously decided to not like blinkers.

After the bitting came the harnessing, and after that – who had guessed – the inevitable tailing. Some statements stay true: As a ponygirl one is just not dressed adequately without an arse plug. I had no way of telling whether this was yesterday’s tail again. It was as big and as dry as yesterday’s, though. Miss Cuntling ground it home with sadistic patience, again outside, with me bent over the corral’s rail, reins tight and arms excruciatingly twisted. One had to admire her ability to draw pleasure from such a sick action. When the largest circumference, the point of no return, was past my tortured sphincter and the plug settled within my bum, I whimpered. I had groaned, squirmed, yelped and snorted the whole time, but that final whimper made her snigger. Maybe she thought it cute.

“What’s there to complain about?” She let the long strands slide through her fingers before tightening the crotch strap. “You should be proud having such a graceful tail!”

It might look graceful, but I still had problems identifying myself with it. After all it emphasised the presence of an egg-sized polymer bulb within my digestive tract. Oh, and that broad hadn’t used any fucking lube again! Think that qualifies to be complained about, bitch?!

Initially I had assumed the blinkers to be just another feature for Miss Cuntling’s favourite victim, a.k.a. me. But as my group was manhandled into line along the path between barn and corrals, I saw those items on the other ponies as well. With all of us fillies in place, and after some warm-up exercises like the piaffe, we were hitched to our sulkies.

My group leader took it upon herself again to drive me. As soon as I felt her negligible weight transferred to my leather yoke, a burning welt was printed onto my rear, its end dangerously deep in my bum crack. Her whipping me into speed without proper signal word might be frown upon by real pony trainers, but it wasn’t without an effect on me. After an energetic start I trotted through the camp, out of the main gate and down the slope, where I was bidden to fall into a canter. Just as the other day Kandrin was less than supple in articulating her demands and very hard on the reins. Accordingly, the curb bit was proving itself a heinous contraption yet again. It pressed into wounds, opened them up one after another, and ten minutes in I cried both from the pain and from the meanness of this treatment.

In hoof boots and on rough terrain the canter was even more demanding than the gallop. I tried my best to stay in the middle of the path, but my eyes were all teared up. The blinkers weren’t helping, either. I understood they were supposed to prevent me from getting distracted, but for me they were quite irritating. And since they rendered eye movement useless I felt the urge to turn my head instead – which wasn’t a good idea when having a tightly reined steel bit in my mouth.

After abusing me for three kilometres Miss Cuntling curbed me to a sporty halt beneath the Deepfall. The other ponies arrived close behind, all panting and all well-whipped. My hope for a little rest was immediately shattered. In the clearing a parcours of some sort had been pegged out, utilising one-and-a-half metre stakes with tennis balls sitting on top. Handlers from another group were busy adding some finishing touches. They had brought the material on a light yet four-wheeled cart, of course powered by a ponygirl. What an environment-friendly and aesthetically pleasing transport solution!

Kandrin climbed off the sulky.

“I know running in circles can become quite boring,” she addressed us. “So today we’re putting a bit more fun in our exercises.”

I took her word for it.

“We keep count: Hitting a pole gets you a minus point. If the ball falls down, it’s two points. And three points are yours if you knock over a pole. Obviously the team with the least points wins.”

Oh, so we were a team now.

She re-entered the cart and sent me into a walk towards the now ready parcours. I had a general concept of what my new team mate was expecting from me. The first two poles were positioned as a gate where I and of course our sulky were to go through between. I tried to focus and find the racing line, but between the bridle straps running at both sides of my nose and my stylish blinkers I must have sported a massive squint. Kandrin corrected my trajectory with a sharp pull at the left rein. Through the gate we went, but to circumnavigate the next pole I immediately had to swerve in to the right. The problem was I had no feeling for our end points or turning circle. And I still couldn’t see the square root of shite. Kandrin worked the right rein, not too severely, signalling a smooth turn, but I sort of cut the corner. There was a bright sound as aluminium hit aluminium. The cart’s frame had grazed the pole rather roughly, so I reckoned the tennis ball to be fallen off. Likely I would receive the lash for every minus point I gathered – if not as part of the rules, then in private because I had made Miss Cuntling look bad. Two more times I caused the cart to make contact, one time I bumped into a pole myself, already dizzy and totally disoriented. Past the finishing gate and after a half-turn Kandrin instigated a halt. The port dug viciously into my palate, and much to my chagrin it stayed that way. She must have tied off the reins somewhere at the sulky before getting off, thus keeping them under strain. This was an effective way to have me hold my head high and bent backwards. Turning it was also out of the question. At least she had parked me in a nice shady spot with an unobstructed view on the fun zone.

A handler was putting the tennis balls back on the poles. They had cords threaded through them so they would not bounce away. I had seen three dangling balls. Then there had been one pole the sulky had touched without sending the yellow orb off its place. Seven points, therefore. I had no idea if this was a good or bad outcome, but my fellow ponies were about to provide me with some reference values.

Petite Fifteen, for instance, tackled the course with gathering just one minus point, but was awfully slow about it. I wasn’t so sure whether the near-perfect result was worth the number of whip strokes she had received in the parcours.

From my vantage point I wasn’t able to see Miss Cuntling. Was she rating everyone’s performance, keeping a tally chart in her head?

Ten was next and showed a surprising nimbleness for a lass as tall as her. Nonetheless she levelled half of the poles. I assumed she did it on purpose. Bad pony.

Eleven didn’t come out much better, yet for other reasons. She stumbled about right from the start, motorically challenged by the combination of hoof boots and small curve radii. Her driver was Creepy Chap, the handler with the womanising a2m preference, and he looked pissed. Chances were high for Eleven to be in need of some breath mints later on.

I was waiting for Sixteen’s turn. Seeing Bimbo-Pony being put through her paces was the only pleasure I could gain from this absurd event. I had not been given the “stay” command; wasn’t consistency in giving orders essential for training a wild-caught filly? I took it Miss Cuntling was more into non-verbal communication. And she had made her wishes rather clear by securing the reins the way they were. So I stood still. Standing still reignited the cramps in my feet and calves. I flexed my quivering muscles, distributed my weight from one leg to the other and see-sawed back and forth slightly, but with scarce success. The en pointe position was merciless. The plug in my bum hurt. The bit in my mouth hurt. The strap between my legs hurt. Then Kandrin stepped in front of me.

“You don’t trust my rein commands, do you?” It wasn’t an accusation, and she did not wait for my hoof signal. “It’s not your job to watch the path or assess whether or not a passage is suitable for the sulky. You obey. You obey, because you are not in the position to form own opinions. I know very well that the reins can cause a great deal of pain. But they can also be keen instruments. The less you fight them, the more they tell you how to act correctly.”

Kandrin’s explanation did follow an inner logic, yet was fundamentally flawed in that it postulated obedience where I rejected it. Therefore I had no need for rein commands in the first place, nor for blinkers, nor for a fluffy tail up my arse. I’m all about forming my own opinions, and would have loved to give Miss Cuntling a taste of them. Alas, my mouth was still kept in torture bondage.

Over that despicable speech I had of course missed Sixteen’s turn. I was aware of the irony of condemning Kandrin’s principles but drawing some hollow ersatz-pleasure from seeing somebody else being subjected to them.

When all of us had finished running the pole gauntlet, we were watered from canteens. Afterwards Kendrick had the honour to reveal who had been “Best of Show”: Zero-One, our redheaded overachiever. She had one minus point on her chart, same as Fifteen, who by the way had been driven by the lead handler. Yet the ginger had been quicker by over a minute. The prize she received was a backhanded reward if I had ever seen one – a sugar cube, which Kendrick pushed gently between her bitted lips. The symbolism was unmistakable. Even a good pony would always stay a pony.

Who had gathered the most point Kendrick didn’t proclaim, but it was safe to say this title went to the rampaging Ten. Funny how surprisingly often clichés were proven true in my experience. The handler’s pet on one end of the scale, the rebellious tomboy on the other.

Having re-checked my bridle (still sadistically tight) and my monogloved arms (still all but dislocated), Kandrin mounted the sulky. I steadied myself for the inevitable stroke of her buggy whip. I didn’t get disappointed. The leather burnt a line into my right thigh, and I hoped it hadn’t opened up a healing wound from our tour two days ago. That part of my body was so convenient to whip. Miss Cuntling was rather easy on me on the way back, presumably because of the transport cart that was returning with us. But as we reached the The Knowe of Hurt, the hill the DACC was seated on, she seized the opportunity to stripe my hide. She just wasn’t capable of not exhausting me, of not making me really suffer at least once a day. Pushing me to my limits, if you are more comfortable with a sugarcoating phrase. She used it at the barn, some minutes later.

“If they are not pushed to their limits, they never come to know them. Consequently, they will never cross them, never improve.”

Her dialogue partner was Slacker Boy, the stablehand. He had given up on following Miss Cuntling’s line of thought. But at least he could still look at me. Panting, sweaty, bound and gagged, I was certainly appealing to his baser instincts.

“Would you mind putting the sulky away?”

Slacker Boy did not mind at all. Somehow I was glad she hadn’t asked him to untack me.

Since we had been the slowest group at yesterday’s morning run, we spent the remaining hours till lunch performing ever-popular toilet duties. And because that had been fun, we got some additional hours of general cleaning in the afternoon, too. After all, the linoleum in the mess needed attention, and so did the ash tray in front of the guards’ barracks. Free from the severity of my tack, I moved through my menial work a little less graceful than appropriate. The tail plug had left me with an utterly irritating feeling in my rectum, some blurred state between hollowed out and swollen.

For reasons not known to me at that point, but grave enough to make me remember the exact time for the rest of this life and the next one or two, the evening fall-in was brought forward to 15:00. The sawhorse like construction I noticed first. It was placed on the scaffold, right next to the whipping post. Belts for wrists and ankles were dangling from it, and some for arms, legs and torso, too. Whoever was to be strapped down on it was expected to buck. At the initial moment I perceived it as a fuck frame, a rape bench to mount and ride us in the most carnal sense; the vilest way to break a ponygirl in. Given the brutalities of the past days, I certainly could have believed that, if not for the wrought-iron bowl standing on the other side of the post:

A brazier, with smouldering branding irons in its bed of coals.


About Venom

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

11 responses to “Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty

  • LapinDeFer

    Oh wow…

  • Dennis Smith

    I said it several chapters ago that the girls would never be free again and this last part proves me correct. But if any should escape after training and sale, IF they can get the authorities to listen to them, and that’ a mighty big if, the whip scars and brand can be used against all those running the camp/prison. to me, branding these girls proves that they will be sold after training. Of course the authorities will deney that any were sold but they’ll have to come up woth some reason why NONE of the girls were releases after finishing their sewntences. But then politucians are good at lying and covering their asses.

    • Venom

      It will not exactly turn out as you are predicting, but yes: arses will be covered…

      • Vandalay

        “Arses will be covered!” Ooooh, a clever double-entendre. I’m thinking the ninety-day stint is a set-up. I can see our heroine pulling an ox cart through a Siberian wheat field, run by none other than Seva. As I noted in my previous post…. wow.

  • Vandalay

    I am curious about one thing… whatever happened to 1105? Do we know?

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