Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Six

No Good Deed…

Waking up was cruel. I had received just enough sleep for my maltreated body to be teased into false repose. A drop of water whilst I was parched. Easing myself out of my bunk woke up all my pains as well. Some dull and throbbing as they were gnawing at my muscles, others playing with razor blades in my still fresh wounds.

The two and a half or so hours of sleep turned out to be a torment in disguise. Better to spare oneself the agony of awakening. One has to suffer through a day of woe anyway. In my more battle-hardened days I would party into my birthday, celebrate through my birthday, and let my birthday end with some serious clubbing. Of course this would involve ridiculous amounts of high-octane alcohol as fuel – something not easy to come by here. Not that I was able to tell whether today was my birthday. In my current state I was lucky to guess the right year.

The others weren’t holding up much better on the way to the washroom. All of us had dark circles under our blood-shot eyes and lacked any poise required of a ponygirl. Ten trotted closer, so did Eleven, shaking Fifteen’s leg in passing. The petite girl hadn’t joint our merry march yet. I just didn’t know how any of us could get through the day after a night like this. To make matters generally worse, it was to be feared that the “Hour of the Horse” bullshit hadn’t been an isolated event – it was tradition, or at least our tormentors wanted to make it one. And all this under the all-seeing eyes of that Navier woman. As the warden she should be the first to be held responsible: Either she had looked away from last night’s outrages, or she had got no control over her own institution. Same went for Kendrick in his capacity as lead handler. As for Miss Seva Cuntling, I believe no more words are necessary.


Ten and I turned to Eleven, who was still standing at Fifteen’s bunk

“Something is wrong.”

She shook Fifteen’s leg again, but the girl just curled up in a foetal position underneath her blanket and moved no more. Ten stepped to the bunk’s side and jabbed her in the ribs.

“Seriously, get up!”

The inked girl then tried to yank the blanked away, but Fifteen hold fast to it. Kandrin, who had supervised the morning scenery from the door, directed her attention to our suspicious activities. With swift steps she crossed the distance, whistle dangling around her neck, riding crop at the ready.

“What is going on here?!”

“Can’t you see she―” Eleven began in too accusing a tone, but was cut short by Ten just in time.

“Participant Fifteen is not feeling well.”

Miss Cuntling leant over the lower bunk and examined Fifteen’s vulnerable form.

“That so?”

Her free hand shot forwards, between pillow and blanket, and seized a good deal of Fifteen’s hair. The girl squealed and tried desperately to free herself.

“Just leave her alone!” Eleven half shouted, half begged. The group leader whirled around, never letting go of her victim’s mane, and delivered a vicious whip lash across Eleven’s face. The girl tumbled backwards, and – despite Ten’s and my combined efforts to steady her – fell to the floor.

“I’ve had it with you!”

She pointed her crop at Eleven’s rapidly swelling face.

“After the group fall-in we will see whether we can tame that big mouth of yours!”

Where the crop’s keeper, the broad leather tongue at the end, had connected to the girl’s cheek a prominent mark had already appeared. The flexible shaft had also made its impression, as Eleven’s nose was bleeding from the right nostril. We helped her back on her feet.

“And you…” Kandrin hissed at 1315, still clenching the whimpering girl’s hair painfully, “… get the fuck up, or I will give you something to hide from!”

In the end, both Fifteen’s refusal and Eleven’s social engagement had been in vain, even harmful. Surely none of them was slower a learner than I was, and still they couldn’t help themselves. The petite brunette might just have her mind locking up, but our book fan had acted deliberately, putting her own honourable morals over common sense. I truly didn’t know whether to be sad or glad not being able to do that in this situation.

Surprisingly little carnage greeted us as we dragged ourselves (and Fifteen) out into the lingering darkness. A couple of still shimmering glow sticks, large puddles from the hosing, a broad scorched line in the earth. Almost uncanny it was. The group fall-in, normally a time of scolding, boasted a singular highlight.

“Seventeen. Letter.”

I stepped forwards, knees weak. Miss Cuntling handed the envelope to me with a sly grin.  Finally I got word from my solicitor, but Kandrin’s sneer gave rise to the assumption that a) she had read the letter, and b) she’d liked what she had read. I wasn’t given time to open it, though, for our two kilometres of morning exercise wouldn’t run themselves. Unsurprisingly I was barely able to concentrate on putting one aching foot before the other. The fact alone that I’d received an answer meant somebody had looked into my case, maybe was even working on a way out for me this very moment! Miss Cuntling might sneer all she wanted, neither she nor Navier had any juristic say in that matter.

Sweating, panting, with trembling fingers, I pulled the letter out the second I entered our barrack. It went without saying that the envelope had already been opened. My breath and heart stopped as I read:


Dear Ms Wert,

sadly we have to inform you that we have exhausted all legal means to reverse or alter your current sentence. The practice of escalating reformatory measures described is integral to the experimental correctional programme and accepted by you during the trial as replacement for regular punitive procedures.

Yours sincerely,


My mouth turned dry. I sat down, stood up again, put the letter down, picking it up again. For a minute I wasn’t capable of even thinking of a way to cope with this information. In the end, I skipped denial and jumped straight to anger.

That’s it?! Two sentences?! And for that shyster I paid 5.50 € per hour?!

What had I been thinking?! That they would let me walk out of here? No matter how colourful my descriptions of this fetish hell, the DACC madness was officially viewed as an “experimental correctional programme”, as I now had it in cold print. It dawned on me that you can’t appreciate legal texts until you have read them in the original Klingon.

On a larger scale, one even could interpret my letter as a version of bargaining in my beloved Kübler-Ross model. Next on the list would be depression and acceptance. Depression sounded great right now; acceptance was a horse of a different colour. Kendrick had called me out on that when I’d approached him after my trip to the castle ruin. To quote the man himself, I was “playing along”, giving up just enough of myself to appear submissive. Deep within I still resisted becoming a true ponygirl. The lead handler had already rumbled me, but had decided to give me a chance to “better” myself. Kandrin, too inexperienced and too impressed by her own alleged skills, hadn’t arrived at that knowledge yet. But I didn’t dare imagine to what length she was willing to go to truly break me in.

A small foretaste of it was already underway. During breakfast as well as during the big fall-in Eleven was nowhere to be seen. My worries deepened when she also didn’t show up for the accursed pyramid training. As we were chased through our special fitness régime, my muscles screaming, my bum sorer than ever, I tried not to imagine what they were doing to her right now.

The first outdoor stint today was scheduled for not sooner than 09:30, for the Twoers. So each group could spare a duo to clean up last night’s débris all around the camp. I wasn’t amongst them. No, I got a special special assignment. I got tack duty. Like yesterday. Third time in four days. Therefore I had no doubts left this task was bestowed upon me with the wilful intent to establish me as the sole tack appointee, at least in my group. I decided to not let it get near me. I would do my work. I would interact with Slacker Boy as little as possible. I would take it easy.

“Slept well?” Slacker Boy smirked across the big table.

A split-second later I had slapped that dumb smile out of his face.

There went that resolution…

Young Nystrøm was so flabbergasted by my reply he just gawked at me, holding his burning cheek. How’d been your sleep, you twat? Had you been out there, too, hmm? Which one had you been? That cunt with the horse mask?

“What was that for?!”

“Still wanna know if I slept well?”

“You’re gonna regret that!”

Nope, I wouldn’t. Not even if they would have me perform the piaffe on a bed of glowing coals. I was only experiencing a slight sting of remorse that I hadn’t punched him in the nose. Made him bleed like Eleven had bled. The stablehand stared at me with a less dense expression. It was obvious that he was thinking about retribution.

“Now what, tough boy? C’mon, tell’em. Tell them you’ve been bitch-slapped by a ponygirl. That will earn you their respect.”

A week earlier, ironically on the day I’d posted my letter, I had already told him off for his inconsiderate attitude towards the inmates and their plight. Seemed it hadn’t stuck.

“I don’t have to earn anybody’s respect.”

“Then you must be a fully-fledged member of the handler caste. And as such welcome to all those funny team-building activities. You now, broing out, being boys.”

He made a sour face, suspecting where I was going with my little speech. I didn’t disappoint him.

“If I had visited you after the Hour of the Horse, would I have caught you white-handed?”

“I’ve never touched any of you, ever. And all I knew about last night was that a couple of guards and senior handlers planned some kind of prank―”

“A prank?!”

“I have done nothing. They didn’t let me.”

“Let you do what exactly? Prank a pony? Terrorise her out of her mind? Oooh, poor snoogles!”

Slacker Boy appeared to be sincerely hurt.

“I wanted to drive one of those ATVs. They race them through the old distributary, like they do with the Patrols, but I never had the chance so far.”

Fond memories of my scrubbing a white four-by-four resurfaced. I believed him. I didn’t want to; I wanted him to be one of those minions who had tormented us to the blood. But his statement, both in form and content, had been disarmingly naïve.

“If you haven’t been involved in the hazing, you should report it. It was a serious violation of our rights, inmates or not.”

“Report it? To the warden?”

“No. Who’s her boss?”

Slacker Boy looked at me in utter bewilderment.

“Who’s Navier’s superior?” I tried again, already reckoning I was wasting my time.

“She has no superior I know of,” Nystrøm confirmed my fear.

Lunch brought us back Eleven, together with the harsh truth about what had happened to her. Whilst the rest of us were eating, the demi-nerd sat in front of an empty plate. And why not? Ingestion was prevented by the cruel spade bit in her mouth. Immediately after the small fall-in Miss Cuntling had had Eleven taken to the tack room for her to be bridled. After the final buckle of the inescapable head harness had been closed and locked, securing the shaped steel deep within her mouth, the subduing mechanism had been put to good use. The whole morning a nude Eleven had spent prancing on the tip of her toes, half-dangling by her reins from a hoist in the barn. Any failing of her cramped-up calves and foot muscles, any pull at those reins would cause the bit’s shanks to act as the levers they were intended to be. So she was jerked up again into her torturous pose by a wave of pain as the spade was driven into her unprotected tongue. For hours her head remained tilted far back in the desperate attempt to appease the rotating metal in her mouth. Welcome to bit-hanging. When she was finally taken down, freed  from her armbinder and hobble and given her clothes back, the bridle remained around her head untouched. She would wear it until tomorrow morning – DACC’s version of bucked and gagged.

Eleven’s bridle came in quite handy, for after lunch it was our group’s turn to do some ponygirling. In the tack room altogether now, we were rigged up to whatever extent our handlers deemed necessary or pleasing. I was buckled into my new harness again, the one with the reinforced back and the discipline collar. Of course I wasn’t spared the reverse prayer bondage; undamaged muscles, tendons and ligaments are so overrated. After that there wasn’t any surprise regarding the choice of my head gear. A curb bit for my mouth, because I tend to be a naughty filly. A stud chain through my nose ring, because naughty fillies need the feeling of being controlled. A martingale hooked to my nipple piercings, because naughty fillies try to toss their heads around in defiance when feeling controlled.

In my hoofboots I high-stepped to the sturdy table for the final and most fun part. The extremely brutal tailing of last night had left me even more wounded. Miss Cuntling herself did me the honour of filling my bum with the pony plug. As I was leaning against the wooden edge, stiffly bent over and helpless, she parted my buttocks with needless diligence. This was one of the many tactics my nemesis would employ to draw this most humiliating moment out to the max. I steadied myself for the intrusion.

“Sssh, that doesn’t look good…”

I heard her snap on examination gloves before she palpated my swollen anus.

“Has your pooper been played with a bit too roughly, hmm?”

She pressed a finger halfway into me to elicit a response. I stomped once for “yes”.

“Oh, sweetie, why haven’t you said something? Well, now it’s too late; all your fellow ponies are waiting for you,” she sighed in a repulsive fake of sympathy. “If you’d just listen to me, then we could use some lube now. And maybe a nicer tail. Would you like a tail such as nice as 1308’s?”

Of course she wasn’t referring to the buxom girl’s tail as such, but to the enormous bulb holding it in place. Zero-Eight was an especially titillating example of a tailee, since her handler had announced his intention to turn her into a gaper. Meaning she was in danger of experiencing anal plugs of ever increasing girth to “train” her most private orifice into an always-open state. Each to their own.

“Today your old one has to do it, I’m afraid. But I’m sure we can work out a compromise tomorrow.”

I had no illusions about how that compromise would look like: still no lube, but a nicer tail. I bit hard on the mouthpiece as my regular plug entered me. Kandrin really was on a roll. First she had put it to me with the letter, then she had taken down Eleven some notches, and now my arse was in for death by buggery.

After yet another run through the woods that left us exhausted beyond description, we showered behind the barn. Eleven received a special treatment. Since her bridle was not to get wet, she was hosed down by her handler from her neck down. The water was cold right from the start, for the sun hadn’t revealed much of it today. Thick grey clouds hung in the sky, all too happy to provide a depressing background picture. At least we were handed additional clothes afterwards: white zipper hoodies without hoods, but with the fancy DACC logo on them.

Supper came eventually, and in accordance to the rest of the day, it was heavy on broccoli. I do not hate broccoli per se, in the same way I do not hate grey clouds. But there’s just something so dreary about it compared to other vegetables such as carrots or radishes or steaks. Eleven wasn’t conflicted with the menu, still spade-bitted and again having an empty plate as mockery before her. It was only consequent to let her suffer not in some detention cell, but in clear sight of everybody else. It added to her debasement just as well as it succeeded in confronting the rest of us with the ramifications of impertinence. Even in our last resort, the barracks, we couldn’t escape the message. For the same reason the whipping post was situated right in front of them.

“Way to go, bleeding heart…” Ten sneered whilst poking around in one of the locks on Eleven’s bridle. The tat girl had converted my pen’s ballpoint refill into a makeshift lock pick. Maybe at least something good would come out of that whole letter fiasco.

Eleven was sitting on the edge of her bunk, a towel in her lap to wipe off the drool her tantalised lips could not hold back. All other girls of our group had gathered around her. With empty eyes – the only part of her face which still would have been able to transport expressions – she endured Ten’s handicraft.

“You can’t mess about with that,” Sixteen criticised in an obnoxious tone. “Miss Kandrin will have all of us punished!”

“Fuck that noise.”

“If she’s not wearing it tomorrow, it will only get worse for her!”

“We put it back on just before the wake-up.”

“They will notice it had been tampered with!”

“Not if you can stop distracting me, they won’t,” Ten hissed back.

Sixteen kept quiet for a minute, then decided that sparing Eleven a night of suffering wasn’t worth the risk of group punishment. She made an attempt to get hold of the lock pick.

“Just leave it―”

Ten snapped around, raising her hand in a threatening gesture.

“Bitch, I swear to God…!”

With flaring nostrils she shoved the bent metal back into the lock, already knowing she would not be able to open any of the buckles.


She threw the lock pick to the floor and tied to pry the bridle open, shaking Eleven’s head in the futile process and scratching her cheeks.

“Stop it, you’re only hurting her more,” I heard Fifteen whine.

“I need something flat,” Ten stated in a halfway calm voice.

“Maybe if we can get one of―”

I was interrupted by Eleven making a pitiful, yet audible sound from behind her agonising bit. As everybody had turned their attention to her, she just shook her head weakly. She wiped her once again saliva-shining chin and crawled into her bunk, humiliated to a degree even we in our situation weren’t able to fathom.


About Venom

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

4 responses to “Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Six

  • Retroguy

    “On a larger scale, one even could interpret my letter as a version of bargaining in my beloved Kübler-Ross model. Next on the list would be depression and acceptance. Depression sounded great right now; acceptance was a horse of a different colour. Kendrick had called me out on that when I’d approached him after my trip to the castle ruin. To quote the man himself, I was “playing along”, giving up just enough of myself to appear submissive. Deep within I still resisted becoming a true ponygirl. The lead handler had already rumbled me, but had decided to give me a chance to “better” myself. Kandrin, too inexperienced and too impressed by her own alleged skills, hadn’t arrived at that knowledge yet. But I didn’t dare imagine to what length she was willing to go to truly break me in.

    A small foretaste of it was already underway…”

    This sounds ominously like a roadmap for the next batch of episodes. It’s interesting that at some level she knows, but isn’t really willing to fully acknowledge, where things are headed. I wonder what her thoughts will be when she’s farther down the road.

    • Venom

      You are absolutely right, there will be further escalations along the way. So let’s see if we can make a proper pony out of Seventeen. 🙂

  • John

    Please dont stop this series yet how will I be able to cope with life without knowing all is well with 17. Beg, Beg…….

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