Torture of Proxy
Day two after the gymkhana, and I was still in limp home mode (I also was still on red alert, for those who are keeping book). Once again the wise and true word proved itself right that injured flesh hurt the most the day after tomorrow. After the fun of hyper-extreme nipple torture and forced self-inflicted clit flaying I felt like chewed and swallowed. According to public opinion, I looked the part, too. The thought of masturbating the edge off had come and gone – I couldn’t even pee without yelping. I was also positive I would never be able to wear bras or tops again; the fabric felt like sandpaper on my breasts.
Kandrin didn’t give the impression that she’d enjoyed her free day. Or maybe Kendrick had shown her her boundaries in stronger terms than usual. When she detailed us at the little fall-in, she did not look at Fifteen or Zero-Eight, let alone me.
“Same assignments as yesterday,” was all our group leader had to mutter.
This time I refrained from asking Zero-Eight about her tail situation as we dragged our sorry selves towards the mess hall. What was I supposed to say, anyway? “Tomorrow will be better”? Nope. It won’t. Nobody was spared pony training for three consecutive days without having been admitted to the infirmary. Tomorrow would see us bitted and bridled again.
After kitchen duty and our belated breakfast word was sent for us to engage in toilet duty. Seemed we had been direly missed at yesterday’s morning run.
“Why don’t you stay here and do the mess hall and then start at the guards’ quarters. I’ll do the barracks and then join you.”
This way, she wouldn’t have to walk the cleaning round through the camp with me. But my motives weren’t all that altruistic: I just couldn’t confront myself with her misery any longer.
I would happily not confront myself with my own misery any longer, too, but sadly that wasn’t an option. Whereas Sixteen could chill out at the infirmary after just one minge nudge, I had choked through a whole fetish festival after being naughty-cornered for an entire night. The deep-dwelling, nagging frustration settled in again. Fertile soil for spontaneous – read: stupid – actions. Like nicking a Maserati. Or kicking a bimbo.
I was done with the barracks way sooner than with my self-pity. So I wallowed a bit more whilst helping Zero-Eight at the quarters. Have I mentioned how unfair all this was?
At around 11:30 the last toilet bowl was enswathed in a spring-fresh citrus scent. With a groan we pulled the household gloves off, stowed the cleaning stuff away and readied ourselves for a lunch well deserved. Nothing wrong in taking pride in one’s work. No sooner had we stepped out into the mild early November air than this very same air was being filled with the sweet chimes of nipple bells. The clip-clop of hooves. Then, as what was left of our group’s ponygirl posse passed by us, the smell of fresh sweat, of metal and leather. Of harnessed bodies.
Odour is a powerful carrier of memories. The smell of cut grass takes me back to better days long gone. Vivid pictures rise during a summer rain like mirages. A very personal medium are car catalogues. As they lie in the show room, they take on the aroma of new rubber and flawless trim. When I was but a cheeky rascal and in my first very ungirlish automobile phase, I was out brochure-hunting almost every weekend. And of course I soon wasn’t satisfied with the material for run-of-the-mill motors on display – I wanted the good stuff. The AMGs and Ms. The GTs and Rs. Naturally the dealers told this little brat to keep her dirty paws off the paintwork and get lost. But I showed amazing stamina in tyrannising them until they coughed up the high gloss prey from which so sweetly the smell of engines radiated. A melange of raw torque and distinguished power. No online configurator can ever come even close to that experience.
The smell of leather, of glycerine and of wood. It would never fail to sling me back into the tack room. This smell hit hard the moment I so much as approached the door step. Not necessarily unpleasant in itself, but overwhelming in its almost taste-like nature. Of course, like in all environments, one temporarily loses the ability to register the olfactory onslaught after being exposed to it for some minutes. What remained in this rather unique case was a lingering tangy sensation.
“What they did to your friend was mean.”
I glanced at Slacker Boy quizzically, struggling to file his spontaneous comment. A gesture along the side of his head told me he was referring to Fifteen.
Encountering an unforeseen deficit within the DACC staff organisation, Kendrick had searched for anybody with farther-reaching coiffeur experience than the clipper guards. Eventually he’d detailed an adequately skill inmate to tend to 1315’s mane come afternoon. The result remained to be seen, but I highly doubted it would make things easier for the petite girl. No matter how elaborate the braidings, the sole occasion for them would emphasise her loss.
“You do realise how random a remark that is?”
“Sure. But that hair business in particular―”
I threw the damaged martingales I had been checking into the to-be-mended chest beneath the wooden table.
“Because it spoiled her looks for you? Don’t worry, with the braidings she will rock that show pony style.”
As before, S. B. caved in.
“That was not what I meant…”
I could push further, but if I overdid it, his attitude towards me would tilt. I wanted him one part ashamed, one part intimidated and two parts hoping for absolution.
“Leave the tack for now, Seventeen. Let’s do tails first.”
“You can call me Alex.”
I made it sound like a peace offering, but of course it was something entirely different.
He raised his hand awkwardly as if to offer it. Halfway up his insecurity won, and he turned to grab one of the tail buckets. I settled for leniency. After all I was the first ponygirl he had ever befriended.
We’ve already had an initial go at the tack of the two groups which had training during the morning. Bridles and harnesses next to armbinders and yokes piled in controlled chaos on the sturdy table. Hoof boots were lined up at two of its sides. The tail plugs had been collected in two buckets, or rather in lined and lidded containers. Arne handed me the one labelled “3” and kept the other with Group Two’s inserts for himself. Cleaned and with its actual tail section combed, each plug was to be stowed away in a special case box, one per group. Inside it would have its own compartment with matching number. The numbers were triple-digit and consecutive, though, with no open indication of which tail belonged to which pony. I had wondered about this system during my first tack duty, but with all that re-tailing going on it made sense by now.
The case in front of me was already holding four plugs. The easiest to identify was of course Sixteen’s bright-blonde one. The other three sported brunette ends. Two of them were stage IVs. The brighter one was mine. The darker exemplar belonged to Zero-Eight, who was still to be “lightly tailed” due to her accident. The fluffy part of her current appendix was lying in a separate compartment. From yesterday’s girl talk I knew where the rest was located. The last one, a stage III, had to be Ten’s intimate friend.
This work felt totally different from stumbling about my former flatmates anal toys. No giggling. No played disgust. No secret curiosity. Just bleach and a comb and thirteen objects meant to break us mentally nicely aligned for maintenance.
Pro-active me, I had also inspected the lately commissioned tails of our Group Four rookies. And not without envy I’d discovered a dainty stage I amongst them. It kept me wondering which lucky filly had her bottom allowed to remain near-cherry.
“Weather is getting colder over the next few days,” Arne forecasted for no apparent reason. “Comes from the west.”
He pointed across our shared table corner past me, well-ridden tail plug in hand. I leant back to avoid a Dirty Sanchez.
“Hmm.” Then, congratulating myself for thinking fast, I quickly added: “How rough are the autumns here, anyway?”
“Dunno. It will be my first one.”
“Not from around here, then?”
The stable hand chuckled, obviously unaware of my intentions.
“This is one of those places everybody is not around from.”
Damn. I had planned to weasel out geographical details in case the opportunity for a stroll arose. Seemed I had to adapt. In an attempt to steer our little conversation towards the presumably only road he had to use for coming and going, I formulated an innocent question about his hometown. I never got to actually asking it, for Eleven appeared in the door, her face bearing the still fresh marks of her bridle, her expression foreshadowing fateful events.
“You here to help?” Arne enquired not without surprise. Normally he only got one playmate at a time.
“Nope, Comic-Con is here for some extracurricular activities.”
Kandrin’s voice – and the rest of her wasn’t far behind. Eleven made a couple of careful steps into the tack room, followed in a far brisker way by our group leader. The blonde reached out to casually flick Eleven’s nose ring and crossed to the table.
“Let’s see if we can find something in your size.”
Dragged behind her on an invisible leash, the geek girl displayed a certain uneasiness, to put it mildly. Miss Cuntling pulled a harness from the first heap of leather, checking it against her pet’s frame. Unlike our hooves and tails, most of our other gear was off the shelf. Any harness for slim to skinny girls could be adjusted to a snug fit for Eleven. One appreciates a versatile and modular tack system when wrangling a herd of almost seventy ponies.
A woman has a myriad of manners to undress, mirroring the situation. In front of a lover, a doctor, a looking glass. As Eleven lost her clothing, the way this act was performed showed an intriguing blend of those three examples. Not their positive aspects, though. Insecurity instead of teasing. Anxiety instead of trust. The weight of self-loathe replacing the joy of dressing up, Eleven had bared herself for the sole and single purpose of having her nudity turned against her.
True to form, Slacker Boy gawked at the naked body opposite the table, but even he was evidently uncomfortable. From my peripheral vision I saw him throwing glances at me. I didn’t dare turn away, though. I was afraid that shifting my eyes would mean denying responsibility for what was coming to pass.
Kandrin wasn’t fussing about with the harness. Within seconds the supple leather webbing wrapped itself around Eleven’s torso. Safe to say that Kendrick was an excellent teacher, and Miss C. could certainly be a keen pupil if the subject served her own agenda.
“Breathe out and hold.”
The group leader deftly pulled at the belts of the waspie, thus ensuring a snug fit. A second round promoted it to tight, a final yank to breathtaking. Eleven’s helpless wheezes had a corseted quality to them.
“Hold!” Miss Cuntling scolded whilst securing the buckles in the small of her filly’s back.
Soon enough the rest of the harness had been drawn to equal severity. As a lonely exception Eleven’s crotch strap remained dangling between her bare legs. The reason behind this decision of Kandrin’s was obvious to us girls, and we haven’t had to womansplain it to young Nystrøm, either.
Miss C. turned to the table, but noticed her faux pas in time. With nimble fingers she replaced the flat pussy belt with the much more enticing braided version. If it had worked for me, why shouldn’t it work for Eleven?
Next a leather yoke was retrieved from the second heap and fitted over Eleven’s shoulders with the same diligence. It appeared a bit too large until properly adjusted, and I recognised it as mine. The one with the integrated posture collar. Under Kandrin’s nimble fingers Eleven’s breathing became even more compromised as the stiff leather closed around her neck.
Ten aside (literally for now), the girl being hard-tacked before me was the closest thing to a friend I had in here. Since Kandrin couldn’t lay hand on me, Eleven had to suffer in my stead.
“Fetch your boots.”
Eleven’s trembling lips parted to give a meek confirmation, then froze for a split second ― the exact moment her conditioning kicked in. She lifted her right leg and performed an unimpressive stomp with her foot. The dressing order made it unnecessary difficult for her to put her pony boots on ― items which even under optimal conditions required a good deal of flexibility and balance.
“Uh-uh. Your time will come,” Miss C. predicted as I moved to help.
After several attempts of questionable grace and insight in the concept of gravity, Eleven resorted to a multi-step approach. With laces loosened as far as possible, she positioned her boots between the others at the table lest they tilt. Pointed toes first, she guided her foot into the first one and swung her leg onto the table top. Leaning over with her breathing on pause, the girl pulled the boot fully up and laced it tight. This was of course still incredible strenuous, but it was a valid way to comply ― after all the only thing that mattered.
Her doing the other boot looked even more rickety, as she was now standing on one hoof instead of flatfooted. Yet Eleven eventually succeeded, and a gloating Miss Cuntling locked the lacings away underneath their flaps.
Legs dealt with, the arms were next. I could read in Eleven’s reddened face that she knew what was coming for her. She had seen me back-prayered, had witnessed the agony this bizarre bondage had caused me. She had seen the long fingerless mittens I had worn especially for this tie and therefore knew what was being forced up her arms. Built-in buckles locked, then leather creaked and did not stop creaking. Eleven gritted her teeth as Kandrin brought her hands high up between her shoulder blades by means of the ratchet at the yoke’s back. The creaking had ceased, replaced by a muffled smacking. Not the leather anymore. Eleven’s ligaments. Kandrin gave another hefty pull to the steel cable, and Eleven cracked.
The girl released a petrifying howl that coasted into a drawn-out hybrid of “ou!” and “no!”. In near panic she tried to twist away from Kandrin, and in a flash the group leader had her spark stick ready to ram it up between her victim’s legs. The electric discharge took all fight out of Eleven, made her knees fold away. With her free hand Kandrin seized the girl’s hair. Holding her up by it, she shoved her against the table edge. Hoof boots fell over. The plugs clattered in their cases.
“Ponies! Don’t! Speak!”
She underlined every word with a brutal jerk at Eleven’s hair. The terrified pony was awash with dread. Dread not of the danger to her arms, but of being a bad pony. Agonised or not, terrified or not: Ponies don’t speak!
One had to applaud Serva Kandrin for today’s move. She was using Eleven to take it out on me in effigy. But through her she was also showing me my future.
“You wanted to help?” she threw at me. “Secure her elbows. Make them touch.”
Lightheaded, I surrounded the table. Kandrin pressed something into my hand, and only when I was standing behind Eleven, I understood it was the elbow strap needed for my sinister task. An array of D-rings made it obvious how the strap was to be installed. I threaded it in, begged silently for forgiveness, and drew. A slow and steady pull, making this as easy on Eleven as possible and stopping the moment she would so much as whimper. But with her arms at the breaking point, all I earned was instant cries, no matter how gentle the tug.
With a scoff Miss C. pushed me aside and showed me how it was done right. Under Eleven’s renewed howl she forced the girl’s elbows together and tied them off against the waspie’s back ring. Not granting Eleven one millimetre of mercy, she compensated any emerging slack near the shoulders with the little pulley. Kandrin deadlocked the cuffs to the yoke, thus trapping Eleven’s arms for good and completing the full reverse prayer position.
“You of all should know that you spoiled parlour ponies try to wimp out long before it gets serious.”
I uttered a soundless “yes, ma’am”.
But inside myself I was screaming with despair. It was not even training time – she should have been safe!
With Eleven hooved and harnessed, it was time for the bridle. Miss Cuntling pulled out a fine example, half blinkers already installed. It snuggled tightly around the girl’s head, divided her lovely face into sections of soft skin framed by oiled leather. She was still recognisable, but nothing advanced the visual transformation into ponyhood like a full bridle – not even the mystified tail.
Kandrin nodded towards the bit board at the far wall.
“Hand me the spiked one. Why let it gather dust?”
Eleven sobbed, and I wasn’t far away from a similar noise.
Of course our impressive collection sported several spiked mouthpieces of all sorts. I know which one the group leader was referring to, though. The snaffle with the diabolical rocker Kendrick had shown me yet never used. Old Spikey. He must have told her whilst discussing tack options. Severer models did exist, up to the monstrosity I’d worn in strappado, but I saw none of them. A milder one I could not choose, not with Eleven held hostage.
Gingerly I took the bit off the board and offered it to Kandrin, who received it with wicked sweetness.
She brought it to Eleven’s quivering, slightly parted lips, pressed it against them without real force. The rear tip of the rocker slipped in, its intimidating thorns grazing the filly’s lower lip. She winced and opened her mouth wider, shallow breath quickening. Metal clinked against tooth enamel. Further in the bit went. Its spikes found the soft bed of flesh that was Eleven’s tongue, settled in, making her feel what it meant to be utterly controlled. And further still the steel was pushed, taking the corners of the lips with it. When Miss C. locked the bit to the bridle rings, the girl’s eyes were floating in tears. A moment later these tears run freely as Kandrin pulled the chin strap tight, thus rendering the bridle unyielding and forcing Eleven to fully embrace the bit.
The martingales Kandrin clipped to the bit ends and the weeping pony’s nipple rings were shortened enough to lift the breasts by their sexy jewellery. This being a blatant imitation of my daily woe, I knew those boobs were in for a wild ride. And given the presence of blinkers, her boobs were in for something else as well.
Just like the rest of us, Eleven has had her fair share of nip clamps. The ones Kandrin produced under chimes of their bells she hadn’t experienced yet. I had, though. Dressage clamps. And given my experience, Eleven’s reaction didn’t surprise me in the least. Her whole harnessed body convulsed as the jaws closed, and again she almost sank to her knees. As before, the group leader held her up, this time by her bridle. Eleven tried to breathe through the maddening pain, tried to moan through it, scream through it. But soon she would find out that her only option was to suffer through it.
Miss C. attached the obligatory reins and tossed them across the table.
I stepped back to my original spot but hesitated as I was caught by Eleven’s gaze. There was no begging in it, no expectation. What I did see through the hurt in her blood-shot eyes was a kind of understanding. A revelation of what this place truly was.
Covering me, Arne reached out to grab the reins.
“No. Let her take them, Mr Nystrøm.”
With a weak hand I picked the reins up. Whilst Eleven was enjoying her first set of ultra-tight nipple clamps, Miss Cuntling moved over to my side of the table. Her eyes wandered across the near-empty case boxes, and too soon she had found what she’d been looking for. Gently she pulled a large plug from its compartment. My plug.
“Every pony gets the tail it deserves, don’t you find, Seventeen?”
“Ma’am, participant 1311 might not be ready for―”
“Nonsense. It’s perfect for that cute little bum of hers! Just keep those reins taut.”
My plug in her right hand, Kandrin repositioned herself behind the doomed ponygirl. Eleven had never worn a stage IV, and I was beyond fooling myself with hopes of lubrication.
“I said ‘taut’. Now pull at those fucking reins, or I hang her from the rafters by them…!”
I pulled, pulled them taut with both my hands until a sobbing Eleven was bent over the table. Her torso resting between two heaps, clamped nipples crushed into the wood. She had tilted her head as far back as martingales and neck corset allowed. And still she was looking at me in dark enlightenment, her mouth twisted into that eerie pony grin.
Unnerved, I raised my eyes, only to witness Kandrin at work. On hand firmly planted on the small of Eleven’s back, she was obviously teasing her filly’s anus open. She eased the tail tip in against the resistance of the dry orifice, released the pressure, repeated more insistently. Before long she was rim-fucking the groaning girl. If Eleven had any residual lube from her scheduled training inside her, it had dried up. And as Miss Cuntling began to pry in earnest, the ponygirl before me became agonisingly aware of this lack of aid. Her groans turned deeper, more desperate. Single shrieks erupted, quickly multiplying as Kandrin screwed the torturous bulb in past its largest diameter, yet did not allow the overstretched sphincter to gulp it in.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but was unable to tune out the ever-increasing sounds of anguish. Their crescendo made my hands cramp around the leather until the knuckles must have turned white. Then the well-accounted-for breathless exclamation, the unmistakable signal that the plug had seated itself properly behind the sphincter rings.
“Oi, let go.”
I opened my eyes, realising that the group leader was talking to me.
“Let her stand up.”
I released the reins. Kandrin hauled them in and used them to force Eleven into a standing position. The over-plugged girl gave a series of yelps as her nips were agitated first by leaving the table top and then by being yanked up by the martingales. The bells chimed happily even after Eleven had found an halfway upright pose. Kandrin must already have put the vile crotch strap in place when I had my eyes closed. Now she made a final adjustment that brought the poor pony onto her hoof tips. Eleven was just as sore from her knot race as I was from mine.
“Wiggle it for me.”
Still trying to cope with the harsh tailing, Eleven performed some lacklustre hip moves. Her slightly off-colour appendix followed with similar verve.
“I see. We better get going so you can practice Seventeen’s cool swing.”
Eleven answered with a weary stomp beneath back-sniffing sounds.
I had underestimated Kandrin. So far all of her cruelties had been notched-up variants of already existing hardships. This, now, was an original one. Designed with the objective of getting to me. That bitch had read her Machiavelli and her Borr well.
“Doesn’t she look so much cuter in stern tack, Seventeen? All she needs now is a nice pony name.”
Kandrin pretended to ponder whilst choosing a steel-tipped girlwhip from a rack.
“I was thinking of Leafwhisper. Or shall we reserve that one for you?”
My stomach dropped a span.