The one tacking me was of course Miss Cuntling – I don’t know why I even bother mentioning this explicitly. Soon I was tall on my hooves and ready for my harness with the high-collared leather yoke. For the ensemble an upgrade in form of a new crotch strap was available. Kandrin made sure I saw her fitting it. Replacing the simple belt was a length of braided leather, partly split like its predecessor. Somehow, in my capacity of deputy kit manager, my first thought was that the interwoven design would be difficult to clean. Those worries were quickly pushed aside by the prospect of multiple sharp leather edges working between my legs.
Buckling up the rest, Kandrin left the crotch strap dangling for the time being and got busy on my arms. As dreaded my shoulders were hyper-sore today and seriously impaired by the swelling. Miss C. moved my arms this way and that, pretending to check their movability. That was just for show. If she had her way, I would be back-prayered. But Kendrick had reined her in, so to speak, and ordained a less severe bondage pose. For the relative mercy of a box tie my group leader produced an armbinder in the broader sense, with each end reaching way up above my respective elbow. I couldn’t really decide whether it was a single leather tube with an internal pouch for each arm, separating them, or two gloves already connected. I could grab my lower arms through the inner leather wall, then Miss Cuntling drew on some strings, and I could not let go anymore. She kept tugging with ever-increasing force, removing any asymmetry before securing the lacings by buckling and locking a leather flap. Once again I was helpless.
“Wanna try something new?”
Even without being physically bridled yet, I was already in pony mode. So I hoofed my answer in.
Of course her question had been rhetorical. A double-stomp would have changed nothing on the outcome, except for my experiencing it with some additional crop marks.
“You will love this…” she promised.
Out came my bridle. Symbol of total equine submission. Means of absolute control. Its straps embraced my head, my face, parted my hair and seized my jaw. Every buckle, rivet and stitching existed only to serve the sacrosanct bit. And that dreadful piece of metal had shaped itself into an even more abhorrent form of woe. Was it Kandrin’s personal aim for the whole three months to fit me with every bit the tack room had to offer?
My mouth was sore, and I winced when the steel pressed on delicate spots. But today my tongue and palate would only be collateral damage. I gagged as the bit’s middle piece hit the back of my mouth. That port turned out to not only be longer than its counterparts on curb bits, but also slightly curved down. Another tug, and its rounded end slipped into the entrance to my throat, triggering a fit of violent coughing.
“Don’t fight it, let the bit seat itself.”
Pushing back my gag reflex, I tried to calm down and relax my throat. It relaxed indeed, but then decided on its own that swallowing multiple times would be a great idea. A new round of coughing followed.
“Not a good bit taker, are we? Just go back to all those fond moments when sucking off some loser in a toilet stall.”
I have to point out some inaccuracies in Miss Cuntling’s suggestion: I’ve never performed fellatio in a public toilet, and the losers routinely assisted me in my oral efforts by pushing down my head. I suck at deep-throating. I took it all the way down on several occasions, but one should not mistake quantity with quality. It is beyond me how many blokes find it erotic when girl threatens to puke all over their genitals.
When I was able to tolerate the wicked mouth piece just so, Kandrin pulled the neck strap even tighter, adjusted the chin strap and secured the buckles. My teared-up eyes grew wide – she intended to keep me like this! It took all my willpower to fight down another torrent of unlady-like noises. I was in anguish. The curb bit knew at least something like a neutral position to some degree. A position where it “only” inflicted fear, but no further physical pain. With the throat bit I had to actively suppress my misery literally all the time.
Today I would suffer for Kandrin. Constantly.
And since one end of my digestive tract was already suffering so nicely, it was only fitting that the other joined in a timely manner. My appendix anchorage (vulgo tail plug) was already at hand; a stage IV with a knurled stem. I carefully wondered about lube, silly me. Miss C. interpreted my look past the blinkers correctly.
In an agonising stick-slip motion the plug embedded itself in my rectum. There it provided that comfy feeling of fullness all ponygirls are longing for (at least that’s what the box says). Miss C. tugged cattishly at my tail to check the fit. Vainly seeking some ease I flexed my muscles around the well-known intruder which caused forbidden sensations in my bowels.
Kendrick, overseeing the tacking of all fillies in a combination of Stetson, double denim disaster and bolo tie, prevented Kandrin to enjoy herself even more by suggesting a trifle o’speed. My group leader left my tail alone and tightened the crotch strap. As expected the braiding sawed into my womanhood. Somewhere there was a wager on how many high-steps it would take me to amputate my pussy lips.
The iron-sweet tang of metal had trickled down my throat. Unlike a curb or a spade bit, my new toy belonged to the honourable family of snaffle bits, thus acting by direct pressure instead of leverage. Like on occasions in the past Kandrin threaded the reins through the loops at the bit’s ends rather than just hooking them in. To employ a nasty pulley effect the reins ran back and found hold on bridle rings near my ears. My esteemed driver was able to control me with the tip of a finger.
But because I was a feisty one, Kandrin did not pass on additional backup in form of the martingale. Luckily this device did not depend on the shanks of a curb bit to work like a charm. She shortened the belts until my breasts were lifted a bit by the nip rings. Since the posture collar prevented me from compensating by tilting my head forwards, the pierced flesh would carry that bit of extra load until further notice.
Following the protocol for handling blinkered ponygirls, Kandrin finished me with bells. The serrated jaws of their clamps showed no mercy on my nipples and crushed them once again against the piercings. I drew in my breath in acute agony, which the horrible bit transformed into a gurgling noise.
Two dozen or so ponies were already in front of the barn, accompanied by an increasing number of staff folks. Miss C. made sure that all members of our group were ready as well and hooked a finger under the connection between my martingale belts. Soundtracked by the muffled clonks of my hooves, the chimes of my bells and my distressed breaths she led on and walked us outside as well. I had been too preoccupied with my plight to realise, but the DACC did not have nearly enough sulkies at its disposal. Whether that was a problem I could not tell, because I still owned but very limited insight in what was going on.
Just in case I wasn’t alone with this informative deficit, Warden Navier did not hesitate to find the right words (oh how that woman loved her speeches).
“Ladies and Gents, successful months lay behind us,” she addressed the staff, and far more casually than usual. Ponies not only don’t speak, they also not listen into their betters’ conversations. Which was fine with me when it came to DACC propaganda. Yet some passages were worth tuning in to.
“Phase 2 of our educational project has exceeded even our wildest expectations, and the next step will irrevocably cement the concept’s reputation to be the answer to petty crime, disruptive behaviour and juvenile waywardness.”
To this very point I believed the Advanced Correctional Crap to be an “as is” affair – that, apart from increasing the number of “participants”, there was no ambition for evolution or progress. Just a merry band of pervs who like to stick fake horse tails up bad girls’ arses. But obviously Navier was far from having turned the whole of her twisted vision into reality. Without going into details regarding the specific milestones she had left no doubt about planning to tighten the bridle another notch in phase 3.
“Today will bring a welcome diversion from our daily routine, an event of recreation and recuperation.”
Because tying up babes, rallying through rivers and celebrating the Hour of the Horse wasn’t recreational as fuck. That recuperation was also privilege of the staff alone became clear the minute Navier had ended her Strength through Joy speech. What had been built up in and around the corrals the day before could best be described as stations. What these stations created in sum was, for all intents and purposes, a gymkhana – which is a snobby way to say horse games.
Since nobody bothered to explain the rules to me, I had to figure them out on the fly. Some stations required the pony being sulkied and driven by its handler. At others the graceful creature was asked to perform solo. Regardless of their nature, all stations were well-attended by spectators. Of course all hands were on deck handler-wise, but guards, cooks and techs were perching on the corral rails or watching from the grassy slope that went up to the northern fences. Everything had a touch of festival atmosphere boosted by the clear morning that was spreading out from the east after the clouds of the last few days.
As there were more ponies than stations – and handlers, for that matter –, those currently not in action were put on hold in one of the outer corrals. A parc fermé, if you will. Side by side, they maintained the stand pose in perfection. Toned bodies straight, harnesses snug to breathtaking tightness, bits all shiny and chrome. The spectators were of course invited by this display of equine splendour to choose their favourite. Maybe the leggy thoroughbred? Or that cute filly with the extra-long tail?
It should be mentioned that we got shuffled beforehand. This would not be a series of intra-group exercises or group versus group competition. Each pony for its own. And I with Miss Cuntling. She hitched me to one of the waiting sulkies and took the opportunity to fit check reins. I couldn’t move my head without causing myself considerable pain. If I caused myself considerable pain, I could move my head a fraction of a centimetre. Wasn’t worth it. As a final touch Kandrin upgraded my standard blinkers to full blinkers, thus blindfolding me. The last thing I saw was Tweedledum and Tweedledee. They were propping themselves on a fence rail, pointing this way and that and generally showing the eloquent enthusiasm of sports commentators.
“Good morning ponies, handlers and spectators to the First Annual Deepfall Advanced Correctional Centre Gymkhana, and a good morning to my co-commentator, Tweedledee!”
“Thank you, Tweedledum, and it is a glorious morning here at the DACC! Soon-to-be 19 sunny degree Celsius under a soon-to-be blue sky, wonderful weather for this fantastic event!”
In a way the tacking and hitching routine was weirdly calming. It separated the upcoming games from the nocturnal horror five nights ago. Today everything was orderly, scheduled, event-managed. I felt weight added to my harness as Kandrin entered the sulky, but her deplorable custom to whip me into motion was yet to come. Like the girls at the parc fermé I remained in perfect posture. Having nothing else to occupy my mind with, I quickly became aware of all the little torments which came with not-so-playful pony play. The strain on my feet from the hoof boots was something I normally wouldn’t even mention anymore. Currently I was more worried about that braided crotch strap that already had―
Kandrin’s whip blazed a fiery path across my arse.
Self-pity time over, I fell into the high-step walk the crowd was so eager to see. My driver steered me into the corral area, noticeable by the sand replacing the rougher dirt and grass under my hooves. I did not know what discipline would be the first to be performed by me, and I detested the fact I had to trust Kandrin. Around me other ponygirls had been set into motion as well. Expectedly our nip bells were just for show. Even if believing for a moment that their main purpose was to help locate each other when being blinkered, they were useless today. With so many of us concentrated on one spot, the chimes merged into one sickeningly sweet tinnitus.
“And the initial batch is already warming up. Very important, especially at these still slightly low temperatures.”
“Always heat your pony up before giving it the spurs.”
Kandrin showed me off in a wide arc, lashing me up to canter. True to form she was hard on the reins, enjoying my new bit a bit too much. Even the slightest corrections had a nauseatic effect on me. When a sharper turn command to the right ripped at the corresponding corner of my mouth, I confirmed it with a strong retching. Miss Cuntling reined me in to a stop, and I pumped more bile up.
“The first teams have already taken their positions, and the audience is ready to see some driver-pony chemistry.”
“Absolutely, Tweedledum. Full blinkering increases the importance of a refined relationship between driver and ponygirl drastically. There’s no room for miscommunication.”
“That’s why we see all those advanced bridle arrangements?”
“That’s correct. Nothing to build up trust and interact with your pony than unmistakable bit action.”
A fresh whip stroke requested my compliance. Again high-stepping in a walk, tits lightly bouncing on the martingale, I was manoeuvred efficiently in a sinuous line. The pole slalom, I strongly assumed. The inertia of the sulky swayed behind me, pulling my harness this way and that without being able to shift it out of place. Between my legs the braided crotch strap began to saw in earnest. The sulky kept swaying. A slight metallic vibration was transferred through the arms of the cart. We had grazed a pole and most likely sent the tennis ball on top dangling – one minus point. I hoped Kandrin remembered I was not competing, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Left and right I went, always struggling to cope with the demanding bit. Over my own choking I heard people cheer. A last left-right-left, then a lash-induced gallop brought me through the final two stakes acting as a finishing gate. The crowd was cheering more loudly. Miss C. brought me to a brutal halt. My throat convulsed. The hard spasms made me want to bend over, but my check reins had none of this.
The cheering continued as the sound of bells passed me on the left. As there had been two separate pole parcours erected, I reckoned I had been raced against another ponygirl. Who had won I couldn’t tell. I was too busy not throwing up vital organs.
“That has been a tight race, but of course we have to consider the results of the pole contacts. Tweedledee?”
“Precisely. Our ponies are well advised to leave those balls alone.”
It was the parc fermé for me after that. Miss C. had unhitched me and left without a word. Not a good sign. But even this short exercise had taken its toll on my deranged body. The U-glove, although far more benign than the classic monoglove or a full back prayer, was still hard on my shoulders. Soreness had spread all around to my pectoral muscles. My left side, the one prone to stitches, was affected similarly. I was determined to toughen it out. Knees together, back straight. Somebody – not Kandrin – had removed the parts of my blinkers blindfolding me. I couldn’t see who was waiting next to me, and I didn’t dare turn my head. Not only because of the martingale, but because we were watched. A handler or guard was patrolling up and down behind us. He was holding out his spark stick so its tip run across the back of our thighs as our tails brushed over its shaft.
At least I was able to look straight ahead. Just like us, the games were shuffled as well. Currently a set of tug-of-war was on between four separate pairs of ponies. The closest duo consisted of Zero-Eight and an athletic lass from Group One or Two. The girls were positioned back to back with a distance of about two metres between them. Both were showing a certain lack of enthusiasm, and for a good reason: The rope they were tugging at had replaced their individual crotch straps. The harder they pulled – or were pulled at – the deeper the coarse material cut into their honey pots. So none had gained any additional distance to the line drawn on the ground. Even with the abrasive leather braid tickling my own womanhood, I could only imagine their fun. Under their handlers’ lounge whips they eventually got their heads in the game, the One-or-Twoer even more so than Zero-Eight. The former dug her hooves into the sand and leaned fully into her harness. Her bit-distorted features showed determination even more than pain. One step, then another she gained on her opponent as the lash kept falling on her already weeping buttocks and thighs. Due to her angle to the ground they looked like actual high-steps. Zero-Eight was acting with far less vigour. Unable to endure more pressure on her pudendum, yet twisting under the whip of that fat handler of hers, she made a badly placed step backwards. Her right hoof skittered to the inside, and she basically tripped herself. Under One-or-Twoer’s relentless pussy pull the curvy pony lost her balance completely and fell backwards. Unable to soften the landing with her sleeve-bound arms, whatever part of her body would make contact with the ground first had to take the impact. Unsurprisingly enough, it was her arse. Which is normally not the part most unfit to cushion one’s fall – if not stuffed to the brim with a massive plug.
A drawn-out “oooh” sound went through the audience, not without a compassionate vibe to it (I can’t speak for everybody, though). 1308 was convulsing in the dirt, cramped up in a foetal position. The blast to her bowels had put her out of commission instantly. The other pony’s handler unhooked the tug rope and led the de-facto winner away. His fat workmate checked on Zero-Eight in a way that told me his reaction had been more in the “woohoo” category. Under her bridle her face had flushed from anguish. Having one’s kidneys sucker-punched from the inside does that to one. As the shock waves were still vibrating though her intestines, fatso rolled her into the doggy position and yanked her tail out.
“This was indeed a nasty accident and could very well bring an early end to the poor pony’s gymkhana debut!”
“Indeed. If a pony isn’t in the condition to sport its tail, the officials have no option but to disqualify it. Sadly that’s the rule.”
“Sadly, especially with this busty one. 1308 is definitely one of the crowd favourites.”
I had expected her to be taken to the infirmary immediately or at least being checked by the lady doc, but nope. Obviously an expert on anal blunt force traumata the fat cunt decided to palpate Zero-Eight on site. Discarding the torturous plug in the sand he went to work on her gaping orifice with a daring number of fingers. Moans and whimpers came in a steady flow, but whenever she tried to buck or squirm away, the buxom girl was brought back to heel by a savage pull at her prong bit.
“As actions are taken to get 1308 back in the game, this is a great occasion to take a closer look at that rear end adornment. Can you tell us something about this beauty, Tweedledee?”
“With pleasure. What we see here is a so-called curved tail in the colour-adjusted 50 centimetre version with a stage IV base plug, courtesy of our sponsor and official equipment partner Æqua Performance – More than just Tack for more than just Ponygirls.”
After a thorough medical fisiting that left Zero-Eight even more red-faced and plundered she was declared fit to continue. Her handler picked up the plug, which was still moist from blood and deep rectal secretion. Sand was consequently sticking to its surface; I knew what was coming. The next moment Zero-Eight knew, too, as her worn sphincter was sandpapered. With no other choice than to swallow the hellish stopper her ring of muscles closed (sort of) around the stem, letting the rectal lining have a taste of emery.
Once so exquisitely re-tailed she was pulled up by newly-fitted reins. Tidying up her messy tail, even backcombing it, the fat handler removed any evidence of it ever been involved in causing a ponygirl such immense agony.
I did not like my own stage IV so much anymore…
“Seems we’ll be seeing more of 1308 after all, thanks to our committed staff.”
“That’s really great news, so stay tuned for more pony action! We will be back in a jiffy after a tiny commercial break!”
Details about snaffle bits are taken from www.cpony.com: