A Tail’s Tale
I couldn’t help but gulp as I studied the row of plugs draped on the big wooden table. It was tack duty for me again, so unlike in the kitchen yesterday, I was alone with my tasks. Well, not quite. Mr Nystrøm a.k.a. Slacker Boy was around as well, dumb smirk on his face. I bet he’d creamed his trousers over playing with my bum the other day. I was still furious that he had been allowed to tail and untail me. The stablehand was savouring this sweet memory ever since, and today he decided to rekindle its magic with a little allusion.
“Can you tend to those pony plugs over there, please?”
But what he was actually asking me to do was punch his stupid mug in with something heavy. By doing the next best thing to fucking me up the arse he had gained some sort of psychological leverage over me. I kept telling myself that him taking liberties with me had been a one-time situation, and only under Kendrick’s say-so. It was working poorly. Also, this was the second time in just two days I was put on tack duty. I wondered how long Miss Cuntling, who had done the assigning in her capacity as group leader, had been watching us trying out the hoof gloves. If she had seen Slacker Boy having his way with my rear, it had certainly given her ideas. After all, her quest of dragging me through as much debasement as possible was still on, even when I was not under bridle.
One of the plugs was noticeably bigger than the rest. Zero-Eight one’s. You may recall the “gape training” she was in since that coin incident. As I had seen the anal intruder for the first time the day before yesterday, I had shuddered from its size and the mean intention behind it. But afterwards it kept me musing about our tail anchors. In contrast to the hen’s egg sized standard plugs, Zero-Eight’s version was sporting the dimensions of a goose egg. Punitive enough, for sure, but without any further twists to it. As though it were a first evolutionary step, an enhancement of the most basic attribute before the sophisticated stuff was thrown in. If something as complex as bits were made worse with major effort, what would they come up with for plugs?
Unlike the bits on their green board the tail plugs weren’t put on display anywhere. If not up a ponygirl’s fundament they were stowed away in their boxes, nine in each. Of course I could check the tack room for more of those cases, but an investigation as this could only end well for me if being discovered. Power of deduction and my own dirty imagination allowed me a hypothetical transfer of ideas, though. Kandrin now routinely used a bit with chafers on me, so why not knurl a plug’s neck to chafe the sphincter that is forced to grip it? Remember Old Spikey I had been threatened with? A spiked plug would do wonders to a frisky filly’s behaviour.
Further anal-related thoughts were halted by the arrival of the Oners, as it was their turn to play pony. At least today I was spared this lot as Kandrin had left for her weekly day off – not without having indoctrinated Kendrick regarding how to keep me busy and miserable, of that I was sure.
As leather was buckled tied across young flesh, girlish features were distorted by bits and bridles, the tack room became populated by half-tamed mares. I was lacking the insight of how well members of other groups had adapted to their equine fates, but could tell from the angry whip marks that at least some were still in need of a strong hand. I envied them nonetheless, for even the more troublesome ones were granted the mercy of at least a thin coat of gel on their tail plugs. Just as with my group, the tailing was performed as the final act of transformation, and in an almost ritual way.
Some would go so far as to argue that the tail is even more essential than the bit. That piece of eternal wisdom had been handed down to me by Kendrick during my first tacking. A pony needs her tail. Of all the stuff buckled, clamped and strapped onto a ponygirl the tail is considered the most horsey. Symbolism aside, it is also believed to enhance the elegance of a pony’s stride (there certainly is a difference in gait between plugged and not plugged). And the fluffy bundle of hair swinging so alluringly underlines that the pony is currently enjoying the dark pleasures of having her rectum occupied by something kinky.
If one is a good filly, she can hope for the kindness of lubricant being applied to her plug. She may be further prepared with fingers and more lube. And if she’s not only a good, but also a lucky filly, she enjoys having her bottom played with, maybe even in combination with additional petting.
For more spirited ponies, however, or if the filly in question is trained without a harness, full lubricational benefits may be revoked to the point where only a dollop to the plug’s tip is used. This results in a much snugger fit and a stronger disciplinary effect. Completely dry insertion is the highest escalation level and sadly my field of expertise. Although I believe it is generally possible to draw pleasure from this sort of penetration, the DACC style of dry-tailing is torturous through and through. Ever since Miss C. had put me on her no-lube list I was sore and bruised back there. As a punitive measure it truly was in a class of its own. And every time Kandrin had me bend over, I dreaded not only the acute pain but also the very real chance to get another step closer to permanent bowel problems.
The pony nearest to me in the tack room was of the semi-lucky kind. Her handler believed in natural lubricants. With her leaning over the table, he held the bulb under her chin, gathering a silvery strand of saliva descending from her bitted lips. Whilst having a belled nipple fondled she then allowed the intruder into her rear. Taking tail like a pro, she only bit her mouthpiece as the thickest part went past her anal sphincter. If one were to test a pony’s eagerness, one might push the plug only halfway up her bottom. If she tilts backwards and against it, thus accepting her tail, she proves herself well-trained or even a natural. If, however, she moves forwards and away, a more rigorous breaking regime is advisable.
A ponygirl who has lost her tail or, worse still, has pulled or pushed it out, is ill-advised to hope for any lenience. The very least she can expect is a sound flogging, most likely followed by one or more forms of rectal retaliation.
“You done yet?”
I handed Slacker Boy the box with the readied pony plugs.
“Yes. You can shove them back up your shelf.”
Kink came to smut on my further cleaning tour through the DACC. Already I’d run across the fatal effect isolation had on our guards: They became bored. Harassing us at every corner or mud-racing the four-by-fours were classic compensation strategies. Not that there weren’t offered alternative spare time activities. As my “hygiene installations caretaking” brought me to the male guards’ barracks, I also took an unsuspicious look at their recreation room. A huge hyper-HD telly, video game console to its right, dominated the far wall. On the opposite side of the room a pool table stood next to a football table (no spinning!). Some barbells were thrown into a corner as well, although there was a weight room down the hall – just follow the roid smell. The recreation room’s centre was occupied by an array of lounge-ish couches. Draped on them were gamepads, blu-ray disc cases and all kinds of litter. I picked up the empty soft drink cans and crisp packets just in case somebody walked in on me, so I could pretend tidying up whilst snooping about a little bit more. The cinematic selection offered no big surprise. Obligatory Jackie Chan flicks. Some sports documentaries. Porn. Lots of porn. So fucking lots of it. Amongst the most memorable titles were Death by Anal, Black Invasion IV – Anal Assault, and, to keep things classy, Fist for Fun. I started to see a pattern there…
On the floor I found something of much higher value than Sixteen’s dearly missed vegan food or a scrounged cigarette for Ten: a three days old newspaper.
Inmates had absolutely sub-zero contact with anybody beyond the camp’s fences. Keeping us incommunicado was a neat way of breaking resistance and sanctioned by the highest echelon, if the farce around my – most likely confiscated – letter had been any indication. So it was last Wednesday’s issue of a reputable daily paper that granted me a forbidden glimpse of the world outside. What I read didn’t do much to lighten my mood, not whilst wearing a DACC outfit. The already big article on the front page was expanded by a huge coverage on page three, titled “Burning Bright”, having nothing to do with tygers and leaving little doubt behind that taking sides with troubled young adults wasn’t politically opportune at the moment.
The articles referred to events having occurred at the beginning of the week. Seemingly a Parisian tagger had sprayed one graffito too many and had been chased by the rozzers across a nocturnal goods station. In an attempt to shake off his pursuers he climbed atop a waggon, thus coming too close to the overhead wire. My newspaper, standing true to its non-party believes, gave insight to backgrounds and facets of the incident. Many other media had not, breaking complex details down to biased and/or simplified versions, depending what lair they were affiliated with and how long their target group’s attention span was.
The brutal henchmen of an unscrupulous police state drove a “joie de vivre”-juvenile into a horrible death.
The untimely yet evolutionally necessary demise of a rowdy gave his marauding accomplices a pretext to cry havoc on the streets of the City of Love.
Truth nowadays is not measured by its amount of trueness. Truth is what has got the most “likes”, the best slot, the shrillest voice and brightest colour. Now Paris was preparing herself for the heaviest riots for years. Eight of the twenty arrondissements had already been literally sealed off by the police, and the real dance hadn’t even started at the time the paper had gone to press. Which gave other major European cities a head start. Barcelona, Berlin, Frankfurt am Main, London, Madrid, Marseille. In each the sprayer’s death had already ignited violent outbursts. And not all of them had been spontaneous occurrences. Several peaceful demonstrations had been literally hijacked by what were described as “turmoil tourists”, thus being turned into rally points for those with an agenda of their own. Anti-riot forces – or urban pacification units, as they are called nowadays – were dispatched to trouble spots and places of strategic importance.
Having smuggled the pages out under my shirt and waited for the evening, I read them more carefully in my bunk, going over each line as if it predicted my own future. The same I did with the photos illustrating the coverage. One showed a tensed policeman sitting on an armoured vehicle, smoking in a very non-relaxed way. What made this picture even more disturbing was the writing on the water cannon next to him:
Ultima Ratio Regum
The Last Argument of Kings
Whether the use of the phrase was meant to be ironic or cynic, I could not tell. Both would be lost, though, on the indigestive conglomeration the high pressure weapon was pointed at: apolitical idiots on a demolition spree, far left-wing agitators and wanna-be Ches for whom burning down a twelve years old C-Class defined the paramount of revolutionary uprising. And from above were ranting those who seek to gain from the upcoming chaos; backbenchers, chancers and fear mongers alike, all of which had appointed themselves as the sole true hearers of the vox populi.
The tide that was about to break over the great cities might have had many causes, from lack of prospects to lust for destruction. But sure enough one of our esteemed zealots had a louder answer already at hand. Failing to address the actual problem or to provide anything to its solution, he stated that…
“… nearly 70% of all car burners are younger than twenty-five, with over 50% between eighteen or nineteen”.
Not only stayed the source of these statistics in the dark, he also ignored the fact that nearly 100% of all people younger than twenty-five weren’t car burners. Let’s state a value of 99.95%, which leaves us with 0.05% destructive imbeciles. That’s 1 per 2000 citizens. That’s way lower than the percentage of hipsters within the European population (they’ve got a rather high dark figure) – and no law has been passed against them yet! But according to my experience, mathematics and populism have never gone well together. Zealot no. 1 had explained what was wrong with the world, and nobody had had to wait long for zealot no. 2 to come up with a world-saving answer:
“And therefore a curfew for everyone under the age of twenty is without alternative!”
The articles didn’t hold any information whether the curfew had actually been enforced in the city in question. But since eroding civil rights was in vogue these days, I opted for “aye”. This Saturday had started so relatively well with Miss C. being away. But having been thoroughly annoyed by Slacker Boy and deeply unsettled by my reading, I just wanted it to fade into the night.
I stuffed the newspaper underneath my mattress. It was too dangerous to keep these pages in the open. I comforted myself with the knowledge that despite everything this day would not be a total loss. Tomorrow was the last Sunday in October – the clocks were going to be adjusted from daylight saving time back to standard time. Which meant the blessing of one more hour of sleep. A small holiday for a ponygirl.