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.”

The boys certainly had. Turns out a bunch of guards had summoned their inner ten year olds and hosted their own Trans Africa Rally in a partly dried-up distributary of the river. The formerly white Nissan Patrol was caked with dust and dried mud, as if it had wallowed right through the Okavango Delta. Twigs complete with their leaves stuck around the bullbar and behind the sump guard. There was mire all over windscreen up to the roof.

“I’m well aware you have difficulties following orders, so here’s a simple one: Clean it – as in: showroom condition. I do not want to find a single splash of mud, not a spot of dirt, not a grain of dust. Am I rightly understood?”

“Yeth, ma’am,” I slurred across my studded tongue.

She directed me to the cleaning utensils and turned away.

“Enjoy.”

I was left alone in the face of my adversary, bucket in left, sponge in right. 57 kg of Alex vs. 2.4 tons of car. I had a standard garden hose at my disposal, but a pressure washer would be of much greater help. I’d seen one of those locked away in the nearby shed, but we inmates were forbidden to touch it. Safety reasons. It could be used as a weapon, since on short distance the pressure was believed to be high enough to rip a person’s organs. Depending on the person, it would have been fun trying out.

The twigs were to go first, and I really had to put my back into pulling them out. Whoever had driven the car had spared it nothing. I hoped they had at least looked after the mechanical components. After such a stint one better changes the oils of engine, transmission and diffs in case water had found its way in. But who was I to comment on non-pony-propelled vehicles?

After removing half of Sherwood Forest from the attached parts and excavating wheels and axles I gave the car a first rough wash, just to see what was under all that dirt. More dirt, as expected. It took me ages to remove the worst of it. But I was hell-bent not to give Kandrin any excuse to haze me again today.

About an hour in Sixteen hastened past me carrying a big cardboard box, and she got it with the garden hose.

Having soaked her satisfactorily, I continued cleaning the white behemoth. And I cleaned it everywhere. Everywhere, let’s say it together! I wiped around the plastic snorkel the engine was getting its air through – more leaves had been hiding between it and the A-pillar. With smarting calves I climbed on the bonnet (there were chequer plates on it for that purpose), so I could wash the roof and swabbed down that self-important flashing light seated there. I tried to pull the steel cable out of the winch in the front bumper to make it easier to clean, but it was blocked somehow. Maybe I needed ignition for that, but for obvious reasons no key had been handed over to me. The car was locked, too, so nobody could open the bonnet to do some sabotaging. Believe it or not, I even wrapped a cloth around the hose’s nozzle and scrubbed the inside of the exhaust pipe like a chimney sweep. The final rinse was again from bottom to top, so the parts rinsed first wouldn’t get water spots in the sun. For the same reason I had to hurry drying the hulking body with the wash-leather.

When I was finally finished I was panting with exhaustion, and my clothes clung to my skin like after a won wet T-shirt contest.

“You took your time,” was all I received as feedback when Miss Cuntling showed up a couple of minutes later. Never mind. I was more interested in the spiritual reward anyway.

Kandrin took her time as well to assess the quality of my work. She felt underneath the wheel arches and behind the door handles, and didn’t fail to check the profile of the spare tyre bolted to the back door for residues, either. With a jump she was on the bumper and with another on the bonnet. Maintaining a Lara-Croftesque pose, she unscrewed the cylindrical case on top of the intake pipe and tilted it slowly until…

I groaned in frustration as a fine cascade of sand and dust trickled down on the freshly furbished car.

Welcome to a new episode of Auntie Alexia’s Awesome Automobile Aworkshop! Today your favourite ponygirl explains to you how a cyclone air filter works. Mostly of flat cylindrical shape, it is more often than not combined with a snorkel thingy, namely sitting on top of it. The air sucked into the system is sent into a spin by virtue of the filter case’s design. Centrifugal stuff happens, whereby dirt and other particles are asked to step towards the inside wall. The engine slurps in the clean air from the centre, the dirt pours down the wall and collects in a part of the removable case where it can be utilised by anorexic slags to tantalise their adorable victims. Educative, wasn’t it?

Kandrin screwed the cyclone back on and jumped off the bonnet.

“Contempt of a direct order – not good. We better take precautions that this doesn’t happen under bridle.”

She turned away, letting the allusion to even crueller bits and bridles lingering between me and the re-stained four-by-four.

“You’ve got five minutes to clean that up.”

I managed to do it in four. So I had some time left for kicking myself. How could I have missed the sand inside the filter?! I had literally been standing next to it when cleaning the roof. All I had to do was unscrew it – righty-tighty, lefty-losy. I would have been one thing if Kandrin had tricked me with some hidden or planted dirt. Or if I’d had no clue about cars in general and off-roading in particular. But I’d known what that doobry had been, yet had failed to make the connection.

Before lunch I was allowed to change into dry clothes. After lunch I was allowed to further improve my cleaning skills. This one was a standard gig: me, three other girls and the staff’s barracks. Two of us went for the recreation area and its small kitchen, Zero-Eight and I took the locker room and the showers, respectively. The locker room was far less a mess than I had expected a men’s locker room to be. Here and there a pair of work boots was standing beneath the benches, or a shampoo bottle was placed upon one of the white steel compartments. The air was humid with the remnants of a recently ended shift, though. Wordlessly we split, and I tended to the washroom and the actual shower area. I heard the buxom girl pottering about between the rows of lockers for some time, then she went out to fetch something.

I was alone.

Which, debatably, was a good thing, for it granted some “me-time”. I believe I mentioned my anxiety problem earlier on. The other night I’d been just horny. Now all my hurt, the physical and psychological anguish from my new piercings and not so new brandings accumulated. The frustration and anger at the mean trick Kandrin had played on me with her dirty Easter egg hunt were dragging me down. I needed to get off so I could keep going.

Quickly I barricaded the entry to the washroom with the bucket and some other cleaning tools. Anyone who saw those indicators of a recently mopped floor would either have the decency to come back later or had to put them aside quite noisily. Cowering into the darkest corner I shoved my hand under the waistband of my trousers. The smooth skin beneath my fingertips might be an erotic signal in a more relaxed scenery. In the DACC staff showers it was a reminder of the pre-waxed stripes issued to us by Miss C. I started working on myself in the full awareness of the perils. No elaborated fantasy this time. No sexily suppressed moans or sweet gasps as I brought my naughty self to climax. This was a smash-and-grab mission. I masturbated with nothing in mind but the outcome, an action defined and fuelled by itself. For a gloriously inappropriate moment I though how it would feel if Kandrin had pierced my clit. Such a turn of events would have asked for quite a bit of pain slut qualities, I reckoned.

When I came, it was epic, or so I kept telling myself. The release was short-lived, though, and as my crisis subsided, I cried without restraint. The sad truth was I’d rubbed my yet to be ringed womanhood for no other reason than to numb myself. And I hadn’t even succeeded in that. What I’d triggered had been a feargasm, and none of the good kind, either. None that had been induced or heightened by the possibility of exposure (think fooling about in public spaces), but one that had been tainted by strenuous listening to the tiniest sound indicating another person’s presence. It had also been a hategasm. A paradox, a bitter mockery of a climax. I had thought myself squirting in the faces of Miss Cuntling, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Creepy Chap – well, not in that of Creepy Chap; he might actually be into that. It did take the edge off a bit, but for how long I could not predict. I hoped my attorney would answer soon. It was the one thing that kept me going. Little did I know that this orgasm would become a bitter waypoint in a long and still far from completed descent.

A voice from the locker room made my heart nearly skip a beat.

“Are you done in there?”

Zero-Eight had returned without my noticing. Sneaky wench.

“Yes…,” I got a grip on myself and my irritating tongue studs. “Yes, just finished.”

About Venom

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

23 responses to “Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Nine

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