The following short story is based on my longer narration Pony Boot Camp and is written specifically for cpony.com. I had originally planned it as a medley of several existing chapters, but found them too entangled to be shortened. So the content in this story is all-new. It is also not entirely in sync with the main narration chronologically and canon-wise, but would have its place roughly around chapter 30.
Having read the source work isn’t necessary to enjoy Stand-Alone Stable. Seventeen, who is called Pony 17 here, is sentenced to 90 days in a special boot camp, where her group leader Kandrin shows her the darker sides of pony play.
Like the narration, the short story is meant for owners who like to be a tad mean to their ponygirls now and then.
Pony Boot Camp – Stand-Alone Stable
I gave a wince of pain as Miss Kandrin pulled my reins tight across the overhead bar just outside the tack room. Secured like this, I couldn’t even back off or lower my head without causing myself further pain. And if there was one thing bestowed upon me plenty, it was pain. So I stood straight and proud, rocking slightly in my pony boots which literally kept me on my toes.
“Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Pony 17. I told you what would happen if you show that attitude again.”
In Miss K.’s opinion I had “dragged my hooves” during the morning run. That I’d come in first place anyway wasn’t considered in mitigation, nor that it hadn’t been a race as such – a ponygirl never holds back. The common picture of ponygirls prancing about in skimpy tack and with plumes on their heads, only to be “groomed” afterwards by their owners had nothing to do with my reality. I had been sentenced to this. Equestrian discipline was considered a powerful tool for taming wayward girls. Kiss those bleeding heart days good-bye when you’ve got 100 hours of community payback and no dessert for a week as a first offender.
Miss Kandrin double-checked my already breathtaking harness, adjusted buckles here and there, making sure the crotch strap was digging deep between my legs. Naturally that meant my girly parts were in for a treat (they didn’t call it minge splitter for nothing). As an additional effect it was forcing the anal plug even further up my rectum. Every pony needs her tail, and there just isn’t a better, meaner, more debasing way of tailing a ponygirl than anchoring that fluffy friend deep in her bum.
I could tell that my de facto handler was really pissed at me. Instead using my standard, adequately cruel monoglove on me, she had twisted my arms into a full reverse prayer. My new plug was way too big, and my bit was simply the most barbaric contraption I had ever encountered under bridle. I had worn twisted wire bits that chafed the corners of my mouth bloody. I had been subjected to the never-ending anguish of curb bits, specifically designed for tormenting a girl’s oral cavity. The monstrosity Miss K. had chosen for my punishment was a spiked spade bit. Both the bit corpus and the extending spade were adorned with metal thorns, each about three millimetres long and sharp as fuck. The spade part was horizontally positioned, hovering between tongue and palate. And it reached in far, too far. Even when not agitated by rein action, I could sense its presence at the entrance to my throat.
“Keep those legs together…”
She kicked against my left hoof boot, causing me to stumble forwards a little. Immediately I felt the bit tilt in my mouth. Tasted the metallic flavour from both steel and blood. The shanks at the ends of the mouth piece served as levers, converting translational motion into rotatory motion and thus a quick yank at the reins into intense pain. When pulled from the rear, even in such a steep angle as now, the spade would press against my palate – an experience most invasive and intolerable, and the main way of how I was subdued when being steered out of a sulky. When my handler or driver registered a lack of compliance whilst leading me from the front, the bit would pivot the other way, and my tongue would suffer.
With nimble fingers Miss K. hooked an additional strap to each shank’s eyehole. I already knew what the two belts were for, and I wasn’t proofed wrong. Miss Kandrin linked the free ends to my nipple rings and took the slack out via a connecting buckle at collarbone level. I breathed in sharply as my poor nips felt the tension. Martingales weren’t used often on ponygirls, but that sadist had a penchant for them.
Still not done tacking me up, Miss Kandrin threw a second set of reins over my shoulders. They found attachment points at the fulcrum of my bit. If utilised, they would pull the mouth piece as a whole back, thus making it work my lips and trigger a gagging effect so violent it would take all fight out of me at once. The severity of my tack was an unmistakable signal to me that nothing else than absolute obedience was acceptable.
“I promised you something, didn’t I, Pony 17?”
I stomped once with my right hoof for yes, although I was unsure what topic she was aiming at. Miss K. had promised me many a thing: that my arse was on her list, that she would break me in and turn me into a submissive filly, that I would curse the day we had met.
“I promised you a five kilometre gallop with the nasty bells on if you dawdle one more time.”
Oh. Right. That one. To be honest I’d seen that coming thanks to her earlier statement, yet hoped she had meant it in a more figurative way. A single kilometre in gallop was already gruelling; a 2k stint with phases of trot in between had pushed me to the brink of being sick. And the nasty bells better not be what I was thinking they were…
My nemesis fetched something jingling from one of the many drawers in the tack room. Stepping back in my sight she allowed me a quick glance at the items before teasing my already trapped nips into hardness. Nasty bells it was.
Think of the most wicked endurance clamps, suited for really serious pain play. Clamps so extreme the sub has to be silenced with the biggest ball gag possible lest her screams be heard at the other end of town. Then think of them as a vanilla joke compared to these buggers. They were of the crocodile kind, viciously serrated, but with only a few teeth to minimise the contact points. From each a cute bell was dangling, announcing with sweet chimes the presence of a pony under torture.
My nips had treacherously responded to Miss K.’s ministration. Helpless as I was, I could only watch in dread as she readied the first clamp. She needed considerable strength to open the jaws against the tension of their high-powered spring. Kandrin positioned the teeth around my right nipple, but not the whole one. Only the tip including the pierced part would be bearing the onslaught. Clamps on pierced nipples are not for the faint of heart, regardless the severity, and the less flesh gets clamped, the higher the effect.
Kandrin eased her grip on the clamp, allowing the brutal device to perform its hideous task. My right knew flew up in a futile attempt to double over. My harness, though, was too tight for my body to follow, the reins were holding me upright, ramming the spikes into my palate. The martingale yanked at my piercings, adding to the agony in my right nipple. Cold sweat was burning underneath the straps of my bridle, tears were running down my cheeks and soaked up by the leather.
The pain was engulfing, crippling. I can’t actually describe it, so I will start with “excruciating”. She had to take that clamp off, she just had to!
But Miss Kandrin was following a slightly different plan. She wrapped an arm around my bound waist to stabilise me, then guided the second clamp over my left nip. This one she let snap shut.
I flew into a frenzy, howled from behind my harsh bit, tried every contortion, fought against my restrains and her embrace. Grinding my body against hers like a dyke on heat.
“Pull yourself together, Pony 17! Remember, I can always make it worse.”
And true to her word she did. My new, rather large and rather conductive tail plug fired an electric charge into my rectum. For a split second the spasms running through my lower intestines almost made me forget my martyred tits. Almost.
As my howls had died to pathetic whimpers, she let go of me.
“I know, I know; they are unbearable. The faster you run, the sooner they come off.”
I couldn’t tolerate the ultra-extreme endurance clamps for five seconds whilst standing, how could I possibly survive five kilometres of flat out gallop?!
Miss Kandrin attached the shafts of the aluminium sulky to my flanks and released the reins from the overhead bar. Additional weight was transferred to my shoulders, which told me she had entered the cart. Miss K. reefed my reins, and my martingale with them. Not to the point of punishment, just to let me know that play time was over. Her buggy whip seared my back. A slicing pain, and this lick hadn’t even drawn blood. The next one would, and every one after that, until I got into gears. And even that would not grant protection against further motivations. I wouldn’t be the first filly with a nice pattern flogged into her skin at the end of a jaunt. I put my weight into the harness, and three more lashes followed, this time to my bum. Still stingy, these were only meant as signals for me to skip walk, trot and canter and fall immediately into a gallop. Already my initial high step sent the bell-weighted clamps into a wild dance. I yelped around my spiked mouth piece as the horrid pain in my nipples was notched up again. Only 4999 more metres to go.