Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Nine

Boys Will Be Boys

For the rest of the morning I was given a special task. I hated special tasks. With toilet duties or laundry one knew what they were in for. But special tasks could be anything. Bloody recipe for disaster.

I was hoping to be sent to the tack room again, even if that meant to be intellectually violated by Slacker Boy. But Her Cuntlingness walked me towards the oil-tight area where the four-by-fours were parked. Vehicle maintenance, then. Which normally was a group duty, given the number of cars. The Oners had washed the whole fleet last week, so I assumed (correctly) I was expected to tend to only a single car. Boring, menial, but not too bad. Until I saw what I was up against.

“Some of the boys have had a little bit of fun.”

Trophy Wife

Trophy Wife

Looking pretty in case her husband brought home his new business partners.

Mercédès’ schedule for today could be summarised by this. Being a beacon of beauty whilst striding otherwise pointlessly through the contemporary residence, or, like now, biding in the technocraticly styled conservatory. After all, her husband was known to be a connoisseur of decorative objects, a collector of everything pleasant to behold.

And wasn’t it her sacred duty as a wife to fulfil his standards?