Under my hooves the ground changed towards a more bouncy, less cushioning nature. My perfectly executed high steps caused hollow sounds, and the wheels of the sulky began to rattle in a distinct frequency. That, and the intensified noise of flowing water told me I was crossing the old wooden bridge. It was the first time Miss Cuntling had made me take this route instead of the trail that led upstream towards the Deepfall. I’d love to describe the scenery as I trotted deeper into the woods, but Kandrin had opted for the full blinkers. No distractions from the rein commands. And since this measure alone wasn’t sufficient to solve my alleged attention span problem, Miss C. had done what she liked to do best: She’d fitted me with a new bit.
The port threatening both my tongue and my palate was as mean as the one of the previous curb bit, but that wasn’t what made this new item so exciting for me to wear. No, the fun was coming from the chafers. Where the corners of my mouth were resting on the bit, the metal was knurled, thus featuring a highly abrasive surface – “to add a stronger controlling effect to the lips”, I had overheard. Needless to say Kandrin had fastened my bridle extra-tightly to grant me the full benefit of the coarse areas. How I had missed the sensation of being utterly controlled…
I, like supposedly most people, incline to demonise villains and view them as shell-like beings, bereft of all human needs for leisure and fun. Twenty-four hours a day they muse how to vex the heroine (that would be me) or how to obtain world domination. It is a mental picture meant to build up a comfortable distance between us, the good folk, and “them”. Blofeld never limited himself to battling James Bond only forty hours a week. And I’m pretty sure Darth Vader didn’t invade Endor to go on holiday.
For obvious reasons I had welcomed Miss Cuntling’s day off, but in its aftermath it was disturbing to imagine her leaving work behind, having a private life or – heaven forbid – friends.
“How was your week, honey?”
“Weary. That little troublemaker I’ve sent you a picture of is still acting up.”
“Don’t mind her now. Here, I’ve made you a hot chocolate.”
Creepy, isn’t it?
The acoustics around me changed again, although I was still trotting on forest soil. But the sounds took on a more reverberating quality. With every step the chafers did their trick. There wasn’t even any rein action necessary to have them grind my lips. I understood this was the whole point: to soften me up for the actual rein commands. My estimation was promptly confirmed by a casual course correction to the right. It felt like salt in a wound. Before I could pity myself too much, Miss Cuntling sent me into a canter with a well-aimed lash of her whip. A real nasty one close to my tail. For symmetry, the other side received one, too, and I sped up into a gallop. She held me there for several minutes, giving me no chance but to adopt a fatalistic attitude towards running full speed through unknown terrain with my eyes covered. One protruding root, and we would crash. Maybe, if I broke my legs, she would fetch a rifle and put me out of my misery. Until then gallop it was. I obeyed, blind, panting and jingling (you didn’t actually expected her to not fit me with my nipple bells, did you?). Further down and back things weren’t much better. The plug up my bum was indirectly pumping against my bladder. I had skipped urinating this morning due to schedule conflicts, and now nature was calling. I ignored the urge as best as I could. I had other priorities right now, like sucking enough oxygen into my lungs. A mean reach-around lash across my right breast interfered with my efforts.
“Don’t lean in!”
A shot to my kidney.
Eventually the pressure against my lips spiked up to intolerable levels – Kandrin was reining me in. For some seconds I walked, now slightly uphill and apparently away from the main path, then she slowed me down to a halt.
“You are showing progress,” she stated as she released me from my partial sensory deprivation. I had to blink despite the soft light. All around me huge oaks were shielding the ground from the sun.
“It is important you trust me that I won’t let you gallop face-first into a tree.”
A blind date with a trunk would certainly get me some infirmary time, but I liked the shape of my nose.
“I’ve chosen the Foxpipe because none of you knew it until today. The trail up to the waterfall isn’t a challenge anymore.”
She was talking bollocks. Nobody of us ponies could have memorised the Deepfall trail that well to run it blind. Miss Cuntling just wanted us to be driven longer and harder. From where I stood I could partly oversee what she’d called Foxpipe; a holloway flanked by shoulder-high earth banks, gently meandering through the forest. Now and then a sulky passed, but none stopped. Only I got to spend some quality time with Miss Cuntling. I could think of a more pleasant company, but was thankful for the break. My bad ribs hurt again, and there was that other problem, too. Although a ponygirl was supposed to remain in the stay pose once having been brought to a halt, I stepped slightly from one hoof to the other. The international sign for pee emergency.
“Have to tinkle?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she mocked. “Here, let me assist.”
She disconnected my crotch strap at the front and left it dangle. Ponies pee where they stand. I managed to hold back another record-breaking twenty seconds. Then I resigned and let go. I spread my legs a bit, expecting to be corporally corrected later for breaking pose. If I hadn’t, I would be punished for soiling my boots. When I had finished, Kandrin wiped me dry with a leaf. That action triggered tears. Urinating in front of her, giving up bladder control, had been humiliating beyond words. But at least subconsciously I’d seen that one coming. Being cleaned in that casual, yet repulsively tender way – details like this hurt and degraded just like having ridiculous object inserted into one’s rectum.
Kandrin re-tightened my pussy belt and grabbed her canteen to water me. Due to the bit being still installed, half of the liquid ran down my chin, taking the saliva I’d drooled out with it. I tried to press some water past the chafers to cool my wounds. The sweat stung in them like nettle acid. When she decides I had enough, my de-facto owner took the canteen away to drink from it herself – an act that, quite frankly, surprised me. Why had she allowed a mere beast of burden to drink from her water, and before her? Only later, facing the usual hauntings whilst waiting for sleep to come, I recognised its double-edged meaning: A warrior always tends to his weapon and armour first, only then to himself. An equestrian always takes care of their horse’s needs before they addresses their own. She always parked me in the shade, she allowed me to pee, she watered me – as her charge, I came first. And without a shadow of a doubt she whipped me senseless and bridled me into submission for my own good.
Clearly having my benefit in mind, Miss Cuntling checked my nips next. She removed the belled clamps, and I had a split-second to brace myself against the insane pain that I knew would come. Then the circulation set in, making me dance on the spot anew. She palpated my nipples very thoroughly, not alarmed in the least by my curbed cries and whimpers. I reckoned she knew best how much her filly could take.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed our little shakedown,” she cooed whilst massaging the blood back into the tips.
For those unfamiliar with the gentlemen’s sport of rally racing: A shakedown is a preliminary stint allowing driver and co-driver to test the car’s setup and to get a final impression of route and general conditions before the actual race. Therefore one seldom finds a no-holds-barred battle against the clock at such an event. But it lies within the nature of a shakedown that it is followed by a special stage.
Miss Cuntling allowed the threat to linger in the clean forest air as she traced the angry welt across my breast.
“Did you understand what this was for?”
I brought my right hoof down twice on the leaf-covered ground. Luckily Kandrin was in the mood to enlighten the dumb animal that I was.
“Your first week is almost over, so it’s reasonable to introduce you the finer points of gaits and cart pulling. This lick was for putting too much weight into the gallop. You are not to visibly lean into the harness except for hard accelerations. I noticed some other unwanted habits, but this was the most annoying one. Remember to maintain a serene and dignified posture at all times.”
I wasn’t going to serenely dignify that statement with a response.
Kandrin reached down to the hem of her shirt, to which she had fastened my bells. The sweet chime closed in on my nipples, and a moment later I was properly re-clamped. Nip clamp aficionados and -das routinely claim that the pain maximum is hit when those little rascals are removed, not when they are fastened.
If you are looking for nipple pain that makes you curse the existence of your boobs, wear really tight crocodile clamps on your buds (not behind!) for a prolonged time of physical activities, remove them, have your nips teased really hard – and put them back on. I bent over and pulled a leg up in futile attempt to cope with the searing agony.
“Knock it off. I’ve just told you something about posture, have I not?”
She cupped both bells and moved her hands upwards. Immediately I was standing straight as an arrow.
“Trust me, you don’t want them to slowly slip off during gallop.”
She read something in my consternated and newly tear-wet look that made her smile, then it went dark again as she re-blinkered me. She added her negligible weight to the cart and shook the reins out.
“Ready when you are, Seventeen…”
I’d got it by now. It pulls the sulky, or else it gets the whip again. Sadly, though, I had to wait, for her conclusive quotation wasn’t a valid command. Wait for it, wait for it…
A precise whip stroke landed between my shoulder blades.
And on we went again along the Foxpipe, albeit in opposite direction. Kandrin hadn’t been kidding when using her rally allegory. The cracks and swooshes of her evil toy were pervasive, and so were my yelps and cries. As she was red-lining me towards the bridge, she concentrated her fire on my rear end, until she was whipping the insides of my buttocks again and exclusively. For the first time I was glad to be tailed as the plug’s base and crotch strap were protecting my anus.
If the gentle reader asks as to how I made it back to camp, I would love to hear the answer, too. I’ve got no idea how I’d survived that ordeal. The whole way back had been a nightmare of blindness, exhaustion and pain.
“See what I mean? It’s irritating.”
I had been tacked down to boots, harness, plug and monoglove. Kandrin was standing behind me in the tack room, discussing with Kendrick how my armbinder-ed arms interfered with my tail. I was aware that my trapped hands brushed against the arched horse tail, but couldn’t help it, bound as I was. If that was one of the unwanted habits Miss C. had mentioned, she was looking for cheap excuses to torment me further.
“Never argued the converse,” the lead handler clarified. “We do have bondage gloves for box ties nearly reaching the same level of restraint as the standard binders. But rigging a pony with them is far more time-consuming, simply because each arm has to be individually―”
“I understand the mechanics,” she cut him short.
“Very well then: My second suggestion would be the wrists secured to the side of the harness in combination with an elbow tie or an elbow yoke.”
Just as a reminder, I was still in the same room. But since I hadn’t any say in how my arms would be rendered useless in the future, the two just continued behind my whipped back.
“No. I want her arms like this…”
There was a pause, and I reckoned that Kandrin was either showing a picture or assuming the desired bondage position herself.
“Yes, and all the way.”
This time she did not cut him short to prevent one of his “how to train your pony”-lectures. She didn’t want to spoil the surprise for me.
Truth be told, I hadn’t got the strength in me to worry about that episode as I hauled myself into my bunk. After one week of pony training, I could really feel where my body started and where it ended: From my toes up to my jaw muscles were aching I hadn’t even known I’d had. My left flank, the one that had suffered the rib contusion, still smarted under exertion and was prone to side stitch. And courtesy of Miss Cuntling’s nipple bell fetish, my nips were super-sore. They felt (and looked) as though they had been chewed off and stapled back on. One week over. Only twelve to go.
Time would fly.