Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Three

Jinba Ittai

First thing after the big morning fall-in was corral training. For reasons nobody had bothered revealing to us we were to be fitted with full tack right from the start – which paved the way for another gratuitous dressing scene. As Kendrick pulled my crotch strap tight, I went on the tips of my toes – or, given that I was already standing en pointe, on the tips of my hooves. From another corner of the tack room our resident pervert glanced over whilst continuing the tedious task of lacing up Eleven’s monoglove. Creepy Chap might hold strange beliefs when it came to romantic interactions, but he knew a randy pony if he saw one.

“Seems Small-Tits there is somewhat agitated.”

Actually, I prefer the term “Sporty-Tits”, but other than that he was correct. Due to the nightly interference I had become more than a wee bit… anxious. Little doubt was left that the leather between my legs would do wicked things to me during the course of the day.

“She will be just fine, but thank you for your input.”

Kendrick buckled the strap off. It would not chafe, yet would provide omnipresent pressure. I wasn’t to be fooled easily, though: His closing the quim belt didn’t mean I would be spared the tail for the morning. Kendrick just didn’t like his ponies run around untidy. In this spirit he double-checked everything for snugness, from boots to harness to arm restrains. I had silently begged him not to tighten my armbinder to the point of elbows touching, with foreseeable results. He had also gloved me again with palms facing outwards. That couldn’t be healthy.

“Your badges came out nice.”

If he was fishing for compliments, he had got the wrong lass. I’m normally not in the habit of ogling other girls’ bums, but right then and there in the tack room I was painfully aware of all the branded flesh around me. Kendrick approached with my bridle. It had the plain curb bit fitted.

“Word is you are a troublemaker. At the corral I want you to accept your tail without making any fuss and without needing somebody to hold you down. I trust you can be obedient if you want to. If not, we switch to Old Spikey.”

The spiked mouth bit I was threatened with the day before yesterday resided in clear sight on the green board. In my opinion that was a far better place than across my tongue which still bore the marks of Miss Cuntling’s barbed wire bit. And I didn’t want to risk again having my shoulders sprained by some brute forcing me over the corral rail.

“What shall it be? Pony language.”

I stomped once and allowed myself to be bridled. Having that thing in my mouth wasn’t so bad, I told myself. But I can only lie so much to people I like. The curb bit was as bad as it had been on the days before. When I was led towards the corrals my feet already ached again from being forced in so severe a position. And when I bent over the rail to receive my sexy tail I tensed up the moment the plug touched me.

“Sorry, love, you are still on the no-lube-list.”

I clamped my teeth around the bit as Kendrick ground the dry bulb into my rectum. What exactly was I getting in return for my co-operation? I had the same contraption in my mouth that had vexed me before, I was having the same bloody plug shoved up my arse. Somehow I felt ripped off.

With my tail fitted and the crotch belt re-tightened I was ready for dressage. Like the clearing yesterday the corrals sported several more or less complex arrays of vertical poles. The handlers took additional leather items from that infamous and omnipresent pull waggon. Seeing the poles I had already expected blinkers, and on first sight the extra tack looked like them. Then the lead handler strapped and locked them to my bridle, and I was blind. Thick padded leather covered half my face from above the eyebrows to the sides of the nose. I was lifted onto a new level of helplessness and anxiety. Being bound means one cannot defend oneself. But being blindfolded means one cannot even see it coming, cannot prepare oneself mentally for the impact. Apart from being hooded during the bus ride I have never had my vision taken away from me. It was scary. I wanted to see where I was going and who was hurting me.

The port tilted and pressed against my tongue, and I followed the reins’ pull. The steel in my mouth seemed to be harder, its taste more metallic. As the tension ceased, I was suddenly unsure whether I was supposed to keep going or to stop. I realised now and then to what extend I had interpreted or counter-checked rein commands with help from my sense of vision so far.

“Stay!” Kendrick clarified.

I felt the reins being led across my shoulders, so he could steer me from behind. He was constantly keeping the rein tension up so I wouldn’t get the idea to move forwards. An additional light pull against the right corner of my mouth made me turn in the corresponding direction. It was followed by a sting to the outside of my left thigh, a flick of Kendrick’s lunge whip meant as a signal and not as a scold. I turned further to my right and was immediately corrected by a sharp tug to my mouth’s left corner. It would have been so much easier if he just had expressed his wishes verbally, but where would be the fun in that? Another flick to my thigh, this time executed with a hint of impatience. I high-stepped sideways, hoping this would meet his expectations. Indeed my handler let me perform three or four of these moves before beckoning me to stop via a mild snap to my right leg. He repeated that action, and I sidestepped to the left, only to receive a sharp blow to the outside of my right thigh, this time closer to the knee.

What now?!

Hesitatingly I made smaller sidesteps, keeping my legs more closely together. Of course that was wrong, too.


Kendrick came up behind me, not allowing any slack in the reins. With the stock of his whip he guided my right leg up into a frozen high step, then made me turn it in until my right hoof had passed my left knee. I heard him returning to his original place and taking his time for it. Supposedly he was walking backwards, always minding the reins. I remained in my demanding position, standing on one hoof and cramping up as I tried to maintain balance. His whip graced my right thigh anew. Now I understood. I was expected to high-step foot over foot, crossing my legs as I moved sideways.

The movement is called full pass. But of course I didn’t know that back then, because once put under bridle I was a dumb beast of burden that could only understand the simplest spoken commands. The lead handler made me move to the left and to the right, manoeuvred me forwards, then reined me back. I assumed I was being navigated through the grove of poles, but had no way of actually telling. Somebody who has been blindfolded for romantic purpose (or, if they must, for a kinky one) may have got the wrong idea of what I had experienced that day and every time I’ve been severely blinkered since. If a silk scarf or cloth of some kind is used, some light can still reach the eye. If narrow enough, one can peek from under them. In most cases they can be stripped off. The leather half mask submerged me in perfect darkness; nothing came through, nothing around. And just like the bit it was designed to be part of the bridle. Custom-fit, high-quality, lockable.

Between my blinker training I was left in stay position for periods of time, presumably when Kendrick was tending to his other ponies. I could hear the beats of their hooves, muffled by the sand, as well as the lead handler’s whip. Oddly enough I was almost glad to be given a predefined pose to remain in, even though it caused me considerable discomfort. But I had not to worry about fidgeting in enforced darkness, an action suited to bring further penalisation upon me. Now and then a drinking straw was shoved past my bit. Since I couldn’t create negative pressure in my curbed mouth to suck on it, my benefactor squeezed the bottle to pump the isotonic liquid into me. Swallowing is difficult and unpleasant if one cannot shift their tongue and close their mouth. More than once I got it wrong and choked, and every time the straw was pulled back to give me the opportunity to cough it off. Whoever was watering me had enough experience and empathy not to force the liquid heedlessly down my throat.

Where a full pass is, there must also be a half pass. My handler made me sidestep again, yet paired some slack in the reins with a vibrant snap to my already striped bum. With every high step to the left or right I also set my foot half a pace in front of me, thus walking diagonally. I had no idea whether my performance looked silly or graceful. But Kendrick was all about utilising my full potential as he adjusted my gait with whip and bit to what I believed was a perfect 45° move.

After another break I was ready to be put through my paces in earnest. A combination of half pass and full pass in ever quicker iterations was demanded of me, and it was safe to assume I was driven through the pole course. That I had guessed correctly was confirmed as I graced my first pole. I kept telling myself that I’d coped with a similar situation back at the Deepfall rather well. But to be honest, this was another escalation in the mind fuck department: blind in a maze, utterly depending on my master’s signals as he steered me with incremental amounts of pain. Then another difference to yesterday’s pole training became obvious. Whilst we had been rewarded for not sending the tennis balls of their seats then, we were now punished for doing so. Kendrick wasn’t stinting on constructive criticism with the whip, a habit I had already encountered at the hot walker, yet found especially unfair now. I simply could not interpret rein commands to the level necessary for letting myself guided through a parcours like this smoothly. I wasn’t willing to learn it, either. As the next ball dropped to dangle on its cord, it was avenged with another unearned lick of leather. Although not overly harsh in itself, the stroke had been aimed at the same and now very sore spot most of its predecessors had landed, the outside of my – in this case right – thigh. I mewled in frustration behind my bit, something I better hadn’t done. The follow-up lash across the extremely sensitive base of my buttock was one of Kendrick’s best, and the deep-cutting pain caused my sphincter to clamp tight around the plug’s stem.

“Seems we’ve got a little problem with our attention span.”

That was Miss Cuntling’s voice. It came to no surprise that she had supervised my progress.

“Maybe we ought to find something helping you focus.”

I was expecting immediate retributive actions, but Kendrick continued with my dressage ere the group leader had a chance to become creative. He was annoyed by her meddling, even I could tell that much. I was just hoping he wouldn’t take it out on me.

He did not. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t sporting a nice collection of welts on my thighs after finishing the parcours. Performing those moves faultlessly was tedious to be sure, especially whilst being seriously blindfolded. Another quick refreshment was granted to me, again via a straw. Watering me like this had an indisputable advantage: They didn’t have to remove my bit. I was enduring a steel gag in my mouth for what felt close to three hours, and had the distinctive feeling I would be chewing on the vile thing for at least another one. For it was commonly understood that after the dressage part a quick jaunt was in order.

A cacophony of hoof sounds filled my over-sensibilised ears as we were fetched by our designated drivers and hitched to the sulkies. As expected Miss Cuntling made a great show out of inspecting my tack. Pleased with the tightness of my harness and the severity of the armbinder, she eventually moved on to my face. I loathed the electric sensation of her touch, a fact Kandrin was certainly aware of. She forced a finger underneath my bridle to test the bit’s position, an action that caused me a great amount of pain. Humming approvingly, she let go.

“Eager to start?”

Stomp, I lied.

“Just one more thing. It’s hard to orientate wearing full blinkers.”

No shit?

“Luckily we’ve got just the right items to prevent collisions…”

A sickly sweet chime reached through my artificial blindness. Immediately I remembered my first encounter with ponygirls the other day. The jingling sound they had made.

Oh no-no-no-no! Feel free to shove stuff up my arse, but don’t you ever snap nipple bells on me!

I pulled away yet did not come far due to the engaged brake of the sulky. Miss Cuntling closed in to ready me for the clamps. She took great sport in brushing the tips of my breasts with her fingers, then stroking and finally tweaking them. Naturally my nipples became engorged, and I experienced a whole new kind of feeling utterly violated. Metal teeth closed around my right nip, and I yelped pathetically. When I mentioned earlier on that I didn’t like my nipples played with, I meant it. It goes without saying that this includes having noisy crocodile clamps put on them. A cold burning spread through the trapped flesh, owning the same nasty nature as, for instance, a paper cut. I was able to stifle a second yelp as Kandrin repeated the procedure on the other side, but the dual torment made me gasp with every take of breath. Immediately I knew running clamped and belled would be fun.

In retrospective the standard clamps my group leader had fitted me with must be considered benign to what I would be subjected to on later occasions. Don’t get the wrong picture, though: They owned quite a bite, especially from my point of view as a back-then nip clamp virgin. Rubber sheaths to cover the serrated metal jaws would have been naïve to expect, instead the cruel profiles embedded themselves shamelessly in the deeper layers of my skin.

“Lest you lose them when you are driven hard,” was Miss Cunling’s comment on this nasty characteristic.

Weight was transferred from the sulky to my harness as my nemesis mounted. No sooner had I felt her grab ahold of my reins than her trusty buggy whip gave my arse a fiery lick below the brand – her way of asking for a speedy start to avoid traffic. Already my first high-step was sufficient to make the bells sway. Their inertia did wicked things to my nipples right from the beginning, and their obnoxious chiming was mocking me. Hypocritical in their light-heartedness, the bells were yet another instrument of debasement, driving me deeper into my sub-human status. Even more than the hoofs they announced the arrival of a ponygirl.

As I pulled out of the barn area, I could locate my fellow fillies by means of their own new risqué ornaments, thus creating a rudimentary sonic map in my mind. They lined up behind my jingling self as oscillating pink dots in the darkness forced upon me. Down the slope we went, then the familiar whooshing of grass told me I was cantering along the path towards the woods. The toothed jaws sawed and gnawed without remorse, the dry plug within my equally dry rectum chaffed in the tail’s own rhythm. The crotch strap wasn’t much nicer. My bit, still a major contributor to my torment through its sole presence, stayed suspiciously coy. Kandrin did fine-tune my movement, but less frequently and far more subtle than I had expected. Although it spared me some physical pain I wasn’t too happy about that development. Being fully blinkered had heightened my senses for non-visual signals. Helpless as I was, it had also enhanced my willingness to follow them. I was developing an equine intuition of some sort, an anticipation for my driver’s intention.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the wide arc to the north Kandrin made me perform after powering me down to a trot. I reckoned we were now travelling along the forest boarder, for the natural cover and the damping of the soil underneath my hammering hooves had changed. Warm sunrays caressed my shoulders, yet were cut off every time we passed below an overhanging branch. As on my bus journey to this wretched place I was encountering massive problems with the telling of time. It could have been five or fifteen minutes until Kandrin reined me into another arc to the right. Whooshing grass again. But closer, more dense. The trail we were on now was seldom used. Kandrin left me in the trot. The long blades caught in the spokes provided a constant background noise, which in combination with my chiming nipple bells and the monotone gait became almost hypnotic.

Pressure on the right corner of my mouth demanded a turn to the south. I had figured out by now that we were surrounding the DACC in a generous distance. My driver’s whip urged me into a canter which I was to keep up for several minutes. A certain numbness had spread through my nipples, but the clamps’ constant movements prevented any true relief. Miss Cuntling let me feel the bit hard as she rapidly slowed me down to a walk. The ground ascended slightly and adopted a gravel-like structure. Difficult to walk on in pony boots. Kandrin kept the tension in my reins.

“Easy now…!”

There was another change in the surface, this time without any intermediate zone. Gingerly I set a hoof on the new area. Clonk. It was hard and planar, like stone. No, not stone. Tarmac. We had reached the road leading towards the camp. I turned westwards, not that Kandrin had given me an according rein signal. When left to their own, horses are likely to return back to their stables. On the road Miss Cuntling showed no sign of being worried about getting a speeding ticket – it was the gallop all the way. The sun, the absence of shade and the heat radiating back from the macadam had me running hot in no time.

Still, could be worse…

A right bend brought me on a familiar uphill stretch. Conquering the Knowe of Hurt after an ambitious stint was always an ordeal in itself, and today held no exception. Bells jumped and jingled madly, tore at my flesh whilst I was storming up the slope. Halfway my storming had lost enough verve to call for supporting measures. Miss Cuntling rectified my translatory state with dry licks to the very edges of my protruding shoulder blades, which hurt so much one had to be in my place to believe it. Covered in welts, sweat and a fine spray of my own saliva I reached the top where I knew the DACC was welcoming me with open gates. Kandrin slowed me down to a trot for the last few hundred metres through the camp, allowing the others to catch up. Under cheerful chimes we all arrived back at the barn.

The knowledge of my position was solely theoretical, though, for I found myself deeply disoriented. After all I had been blindfolded for more than four hours. I had also worn my pony plug for this time span – the longest period of being tailed so far. My whole anal region felt bruised, courtesy of the hard drive and the pressure from the crotch strap. True to one of its many names, the pussy grinder had worked itself into the more interesting spots of my anatomy. Kandrin ripped it away nonchalantly as she untacked me, and wasn’t gentle with my tail either. Having it removed was extremely painful and included a malicious abrasive sensation as the rectal lining kept sticking to the intruder’s surface. When it was finally out I felt kind of… uhm… open.

The blinkers came off next, and daylight blinded me. Indeed I was standing near the barn, yet facing in a completely different direction than assumed. During the moment I needed to recalibrate, Kandrin delivered me from my bit.

“What a surprise. You really can be a good pony!”

She brought the short plastic straw of a bicycle bottle to my punished lips. I drank, knowing that she wasn’t acting out of a charitable disposition. We would all be allowed to drink at lunch, if not before. It was one of her perfidious mind games. Kandrin had been the one watering me during the dressage session earlier on. Now she was letting me know it, forcing me to connect the gratitude towards an anonymous benefactor to her person.

“Quite an experience today, huh?” Miss Cuntling enquired innocently whilst putting the bottle away. “Blinker training can be intense.”

Technically still under bridle, I stomped once.

“And these…”

She balanced each nipple bell on the tip of an index finger and, after releasing them, was rewarded with a twee twin-jingle. I remained stoic, enduring both the additional charge of pain and the sexual connotation of it. Miss Cuntling, not in the mood of calling it a day without having seen me cry, flicked the clamps. That brought results. Visibly intrigued by my yelps and gasps she opened the two sets of jaws simultaneously and removed them from my body.

For a split second I sighed in relief. Then the blood rushing back into the tissue fired up every single pain receptor in my nips. They had been clamped dangerously close to three quarters of an hour, and I underlined this circumstance with an unbridled scream (no pun intended). It turned out to be an insufficient reaction, so I doubled over in an attempt to howl myself into unconsciousness.

“Yep, I always liked that part best, too.”



The pony play dressage portrayed in this chapter is based upon descriptions found at http://www.cpony.com:



About Venom

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

16 responses to “Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Three

  • Retroguy

    So has Miss C. been on the receiving end of some of this treatment, or am I reading too much into her last remark?

    • Venom

      No, it’s a valid theory. There are also some hints in earlier parts (the “memory lane”-description during the branding scene and her abilities as a runner).

  • LapinDeFer

    I like the perspective of this statement:
    “what I had experienced that day and every time I’ve been severely blinkered since”
    Very nice chapter!

  • Vandalay

    Well worth waiting for! Love the chapter title, too!

  • Dennis smith

    It would be in the best interest of AA the girls to get together and, using those steel shod boots, break the knees of their trainers. Shattering both knees on ALL their supposed trainers would send a message that their trainers are not as invulnerable as they’d like to believe. It’d also take them many months if not years of painful rehab and therapy to ever walk again. And I seriously doubt that the state authorities would pay for it. Or keep a job open fro them. And if the girls should be tried for the assault, tell the judge that you DO NOT WANT their public defender! Make it plain you DO NOT FEEL he/she has their best interest at heart. Get it on the record that the last one betrayed their trust. And be damn sure to talk to the press about what went on at DACC. Force the public to demand a full and open investigation of the place. Along with ALL the people working there. There’s a good possibility that the scandal could bring down a goodly number of politicos when it breaks. Unfortunately being as they are politicos they’d go to a country club style prison instead of a true prison where they belong.

  • Vandalay

    Be tough to break anyone’s knees considering the weight of those pony boots… As for the politicos, think they get Pony Girls in that country style prison?

    • Venom

      If you know how to do it, it’s quite easy to dislocate a knee cap (instant agony). As for the politicos, I expressed myself quite clearly within a comment on Part Ten, and will incorporate the main points into the next chapter.

  • LapinDeFer

    Me, I’d kinda like to see the training and the mental conditioning continue to its conclusion. No rebellion for me.

  • Retroguy

    Regarding the “no-lube” list: Any other names (or numbers, I guess) on this list? Any way to get off of it?

    • Venom

      Seventeen is the only one on that list, at least of her group, being originally put on it due to her behaviour during the warden’s welcome speech. How to get off the list? Becoming a good and obediant pony, I reckon.

  • John

    Realy like the story. Well written and had to put down. More please

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