Once More with Feeling
The others had gathered in the tack room, already in various states of bondage. A handler from another group was deputising for Kendrick. Miss Cuntling caught up with me and shoved me towards him.
“Tack her up.”
As much as I wanted to wallow in self-pity for the rest of this glorious autumn day, I had to move on – or that bitch would make me move. It didn’t take much imagination and very little of the soreness radiating from my fresh piercing wounds to deduce that I was now even more vulnerable. So let’s pick up the action as Ersatz-Kendrick finished the boring standard tacking and stepped compliably aside for Miss C. to bring on the new and exciting stuff!
My heart sank when I saw yet again a new bit in her hand. But to my partial relief the mouth piece itself wasn’t representing another escalation. Plain curb bit with chafers. Not the most pleasant object I’ve had in my mouth, but at least I was spared the spiked version. The difference in design lay in the presence of an additional pair of shanks. Unlike the ones for the reins, these pointed forwards, not downwards. A chain with a miniature karabiner in its centre and worryingly little slack ran between them.
“Open up… good filly.”
Once the bit was securely seated far back in my mouth, Kandrin tightened my bridle with well-known sternness. As always the bit was pulled even deeper, and as always I made a vain attempt to hold against it with my tongue. This time though it felt like I was receiving an electric charge from the curb as my two brand-new tongue studs came in contact with it. The sensation wasn’t overly painful, but of a sickening quality. I decided to keep my tongue down and relaxed. Miss C. finished buckling my chin strap, which told me I was properly bridled. She always did that one last. Until now the mysterious chain had been dangling in front of my mouth. That changed as the group leader snapped the small karabiner to my nose ring.
I had a bad feeling about this…
Kandrin surrounded me and, resting her forearms playfully on my shoulders, hooked an index finger into the respective eye at the rein shanks’ ends.
As she pulled, the bit rotated, pressing the curb’s port into my palate. Painful, cruel, but old news. Naturally the auxiliary shanks were following the movement, in their case downwards, taking the ends of my nose chain with them. I inhaled sharply. Immediately my eyes teared up in reflex.
“Stud chain. Nice, isn’t it?”
Yes, wonderful. I was thrilled by the finding that with a halfway firm yank a handler was able to rip out my septum piercing. I stomped once, just in case she was expecting an answer. I couldn’t risk any ill humour in our relationship right now. How I wished for her to hitch me to my sulky, whip me into a gallop and subject me to all the routine torments, so come nightfall I could cry myself to sleep without having faced any more new fetish horrors.
But of course she wasn’t through with me just yet.
“You are not the most docile pony around. On several occasions I had to take measures to break you of unwanted habits; flapping your arms, leaning into the harness too heavily, that sort of things.”
I heard her rummage somewhere behind me whilst continuing her harangue.
“You also have a notable inclination to tilt your head back in order to counteract the bit, to even toss your head in defiance – which is an unacceptable behaviour. I have therefore decided to address this issue by employing a martingale.”
What was a martingale? I feared it to be another whip, confusing the term with martinet at that time. Luckily Miss C. had decided to educate me. Once in front of me again, she hooked the end of a leather strap to one of my vertical main shanks, where the rein was fastened to also. An identical second strap was soon dangling from the other shank.
I was standing straight. I hadn’t got many options, given my heel-less plateau ballet boots and the ultra-tight armbinder (which Ersatz-Kendrick had fitted me with, being oblivious to the specifications handed down to Original-Kendrick yesterday). The only thing I could do was push out my breasts a bit more by raising my rib cage. And suddenly I knew where the free ends would go! My shiny new nipple piercings accommodated the straps’ lower hooks without any problems. As Kandrin took the slack out, the rings turned upwards within the fresh wound channels. I mangled the rubber covers on my bit in order to cope with the heinous sensation.
The martingale belts had rings sewn in at collarbone level. Kandrin clipped them together, which made turning my head or tilting it sideways even harder on nips. Although being able to keep pain to a minimum at the moment, I was appalled by the plain cruelty of this arrangement.
“That will do for now.”
I was sharing her confidence. There’s something very compelling about having one’s nose and nipple rings integrated into correctional bondage.
As before, the final and most degrading part of our tacking was to be performed outside. But this time the handlers didn’t utilise the corral’s rail. Instead they had each of us bend over their respective sulky. The reason for that became clear to me once I was struggling to steady myself. The whole affair was quite rickety, requiring advanced balancing skills – and a higher level of submission. Kandrin positioned the plug and pushed. I tried to relax and failed. Her tailing of me was neither quick nor gentle. Her primary goal wasn’t to simply stuff me, but to open me up whilst causing as much friction as possible in the process. With the bulb halfway in, stretching my ring of muscles to the max, she paused for no obvious reason. This modus operandi seemed to be considered hilarious amongst handlers. Creepy Chap had done this to me before, albeit on the way out. I hadn’t found it funny then, and I certainly wasn’t laughing now.
“If you apply yourself today, show me that your piercings are of positive effect and sufficient in number,” her free hand touched my non-ringed clit from behind, “I might be willing to use a bit of lube on your tail tomorrow. Maybe let you drool over it.”
Why, that sounded sexy! The self-abasing facet aside, I had to escape a practice of which I knew would give me chronic anal fissures sooner than later. To drive that point home, Miss Cuntling literally punched the stuck plug into my rectum with a single blow. Through the intestinal shock wave and my own shriek I tried to determine whether the last dozen centimetres of my digestive tract hung in tatters.
“Up, up, up.”
She tucked the reins thrice to get me off the sulky. The three times triple torture of my palate, septum and breasts was more than enough to keep me compliant. After I had experienced what the DACC collection of bits could do to my mouth, I had been positive a further augmentation to be highly theoretical. But by adding the martingale and the nose chain, the rein action’s power became unreal.
It was still chilly outside, with the sun rising only ever so lazily above the forest, and my nipples had painfully hardened around the rings. Our group leader had ways to warm us up. Once hitched up, we were again ready for a nice agonising drive.
“In your own time, Seventeen,” Kandrin announced after having seated herself in the sulky. Yet she was contradicting her statement to some degree by granting me a cordial cut across the unprotected part of my rib cage. It was a tell-tale for her maintaining the sadistic mood from the vet room – the strokes were landing closer to the bones. A lashing on the bottom might sting and burn and draw blood in the end, but one haven’t been properly flogged until the whip had found the thin, delicate layers covering spine, shoulder blades and the like.
I wasn’t the only one having a shitty start into the day. Ten and Zero-Eight were both wearing bits similar to mine, albeit without the auxiliary shanks. I couldn’t remember having seen any of them with a curb bit before. It was also the first time I was seeing fitted martingales from afar. They certainly looked the part. If Kendrick had been here, he might have argued that the arrangement bore characteristics of a chambon as well, since a martingale isn’t connected to the bit as such. But even if I had known the terms and differences back then, I couldn’t be bothered. And neither could my two companions in misfortune. Ten’s bitching about in the vet room might partly be accounting for her enhanced tack. With tame Zero-Eight, it was indeed all about improving head carriage, as whacky as it sounded. Breast carriage appeared to be the far more relevant topic. Although supported by an additional belt of the harness her boobs showed a very bouncy behaviour. As 1308 was whipped into motion the martingale became the second party of a nasty interplay. Running in generous angles due to her impressive rack, the straps were receiving slack and losing it again with every high-step performed. No explanation was needed of what her nips were going through. Her mouth wasn’t spared either, due to the considerable horizontal component of the forces transmitted by the wicked belt. The same rhythm tormenting her breasts was hammering the bit port into her tongue when the reins weren’t under tension. When they were under tension, the mirrored mechanism caused Zero-Eight to have her piercings hauled back even more fiercely than I.
Still, could be worse…
Ten prepared to merge in between Zero-Eight and me. Safe to say she was experiencing the same rigid control from her head & tit gear as we were. But judging from what I saw out of the corners of my eyes (no blinkers today), Ten had her speed regulated quite differently. An especially thin crotch strap cut between her labia minora like a wire. Her outer lips were fully accessible, so were the rings imbedded within them. Ideal conditions for a second set of reins. Clipped to Ten’s pussy piercings, the leather belts ran through between her legs and into the firm hands of her driver.
I took it I was beholding underreins.
In spite of running for only some seconds and showing no other signs of exhaustions, the tattooed girl was remarkably red-faced. Later, in a rare heartfelt moment, she would explain to me why – of all things – the underreins got to her so hard. It wasn’t so much the pain, she would state (given her history of body modifications, I had been able to sniff that out myself). Having her vulvar piercings pulled at harshly, mercilessly, endlessly was hauntingly close to the sensation she had sought for when she have had them done. Same went for the nip rings. Now the urge to re-shape and alternate her body, the streak that defined her the most, was used against her.
Her driver brought his pony and sulky in row with a smooth manoeuvre, working the double reins virtuously. I bet he could parallel park Ten with eyes closed. As he slowed her down via the pussy reins he counteracted her natural urge to bend over by means of the bit. Compared to Ten’s rampage during the pole training the other day, this was a quantum leap in obedience. Both the martingale and the underreins would become permanent features.
Kandrin made no attempt to overtake for the time being, leaving the lead to Zero-Eight’s bosom. Maybe she wasn’t feeling competitive today. A flick to the outside of my right thigh made me half-pass to the left. Now I was trotting with an offset to the others. I reckoned the group leader wanted to have all three of us ponies in her view. Past the main gate she had seen enough and sent me into a spirited gallop. The usual song and dance began. Having my skin whipped purple and my lips chafed raw. Being curbed so hard that I thought my palate would crack. Almost hoping for my piercings to be torn out of my flesh, so the torments of the nose chain and martingale would come to an end. Surely the wounds had opened.
After a stint through the Foxpipe we stopped on a clearing, framed on one side by a happily babbling brook, on another by an askew rock face. Behind us I could hear other teams following our example. The rocks, overgrown by moss, bushes and even trees, trapped the wind in times. I was standing ankle-deep in fallen leaves. Pony-ankle-deep that was.
The sulky became light, and I heard rustling. Miss C. performed her mid-foray check on me.
“We should have done those…” she tugged at my nipple rings “… right after your arrival. Would have spared us a lot of inconvenience, wouldn’t it?”
I doubted my opinion was of importance or needed, but I half-heartedly brought a hoof down into the leaves nonetheless. The day had now warmed up, even beneath the trees, and I was sweating sexily. Kandrin poured what was left in her canteen away and filled it with fresh cool water from brook. Again she watered me first before drinking. She also confirmed my earlier assumption: I was bleeding a bit from my septum and nips.
“Sometimes a pony has a grommet put in its nose, especially when fitted with a permanent stud chain,” Kandrin remarked in a mistimed chit-chat tone that made the combination of “grommet”, “nose” and “permanent” even more horrific. I also took offence on the term “stud”.
She did not comment on my bleeding tits, though. She didn’t rinse my wounds, either. The later was for sanitary reasons. The former allowed me to form the unspoken image of grommeted nipples myself.
“Remind me to fetch you a new yoke. This one has lost a rivet.”
Miss Cuntling then checked my bit for tightness, fingered this buckle here and that belt there, and tugged at my tail. Satisfied with my tack she ruffled my hair (I hate it when anybody does that!) and entered the sulky. Break was over.
Half an hour later I embraced the mercy of the behind-the-barn shower. I had survived my first stint with martingale and nose chain (which Miss C. obnoxiously kept referring to as stud chain). The piercing wounds had again started to bleed. Not much, but certainly not a good sign either. I carefully soothed them.
Still, could be worse…
Ten had blood between her legs. My initial thought involved torn pussy lips. Turned out the insides of thighs had been chafed raw by the underreins. The rock chick was absent-minded, pressing her hands flat against the wall as the water ran down her inked back. I could tell she had lost herself in gory revenge fantasies.
Whilst we were drying in the sun and becoming a bit more receptive, Kandrin gave us some interestingly detailed info about aftercare regarding our new jewellery, covering cleaning, rotating, signs of inflammation, stages of healing process – and the correct yet unspeakably cynical advice not to play roughly with them. I wondered whether Miss C. had got any body piercings herself.
The usage of a martingale portrayed in this chapter is based upon descriptions found at http://www.cpony.com: