Adolf Würth founded his company shortly after the war, recovering from a minor career dent in 1945 just like his prominent Austrian namesake. Originally a screw wholesaler only, the Würth Group had risen to global market leadership in construction fittings over the decades. I had but superficially been aware of its existence, mainly due to the phonetic resemblance to my own surname. Until this morning…
The side cutter, sporting the red and black colour scheme of Würth’s heavy-duty tool line, was lying near the edge of the tack table. Every now and then Arne would pick it up to fumble with the pony boot sole he had committed himself to mend. I had a hard time keeping my enthralled eyes off it, to such an extent that he eventually held it out for me.
“Need to cut something?”
I felt caught. And stupid for allowing my intentions to show.
“Yeth, here’th…” I murmured whilst fiddling inconclusively at the waspie in my hands.
Fuck yeah did I need to cut something!
I took the pliers and pretended to trim the lacing, all the while pondering on how to get my thieving hands on them for good. The strong cutting jaws would have no problem with the wire loops holding the fences down. After an unsuspicious length of time I handed the cutter back to him.
Arne used it himself, then switched to another tool.
“What’s with the lisp?”
I considered ignoring his question, but found benefits in the alternative. Skimming some pity. Or stirring him up. That he had the hots for me I could see blinkered. I stuck my tongue out, way out, to let him have a good view of the two piercing studs in it – and give his mind plenty of time to run the possibilities.
“Didn’t you get those weeks ago?”
Fifteen days ago, but who’s counting?
“I had them out because Miss Kandrin messed up my tongue. Now I’m not used to them,” I reported truthfully, actually managing to create some proper fricative consonants.
As requested by her Highness I had shown her the self-locking piercings embedded in my licker at the group fall-in – an action more humiliating than offering myself for the tail every day.
“Do they hurt?”
That question I ignored, for dramatic reasons. They did not, although their presence was anything but pleasant in flesh wounded by the bit’s thorns. The prospect of receiving more of the same later this day was a real mood lifter.
Not getting an answer, Arne presumably deemed his question inappropriate and refrained from asking again. Instead we engaged in light conversation, all the while I was busy bolting my escape plan together.
On my way to lunch I was stopped by Kendrick. Instead of entering the tack room he had waited at the barn gate to intercept me, so much was clear.
“Seventeen. Come to me for a minute.”
I complied and stepped over. There was a grimness lying on his strangely ageless face.
“Turn around and lift your shirt up.”
The order specified gave reason to believe he wasn’t just interested in a boob flash. I turned my welted back to him and raised my top, keeping the hem slightly beneath my shoulder blades.
“Thank you. You may join the others for lunch.”
I mumbled my own thanks and hurried outside, finding nothing creepy about his investigation whatsoever.
Lunch time came and went. Steamed broccoli and carrots with a rumour of fish somewhere in it. Any more of that veggie crap, and I would resort to cannibalism. On our way out of the chow hall Eleven caught up with me.
Unlike with Kendrick earlier on, I already knew where this was leading to.
“I’ve got duties.”
“I come with you.”
“You’ve got duties, too.”
The geeky girl matched her pace with mine. It had taken her a day and a half to muster that level of determination, but now she was in boss fight mode.
“Where have you been the other night?”
“What are you talking about?”
I must not tell anyone about my moonlighting, especially not anyone as close or as vulnerable as Eleven. A trip to the barn, and she would crack. I knew I would.
“I saw you sneaking in and taking your clothes off.”
“You were probably just dreaming.”
I walked faster, giving her a hard time keeping up with my longer legs. She sprinted past me and blocked my way. If she had been Sixteen, I would have pushed her. If I had been Ten, I would have pushed her as well. In all honesty, it was for her not being the former rather than for me not being the latter that I stopped.
“Look, I’m sorry for what Kandrin did to you, and that I couldn’t help you.”
My holding the reins to her spiked bit whilst that sadistic piece of bitch shoved the stage VI tail of mine up her unlubricated rectum was one of those memories which asked for enhanced alcohol abuse.
Eleven lowered her head and gazed from under brows drawn into a keen horizontal line, perfectly parallel to her compressed lips.
“You know I don’t hold anything of that against you. And you damn well know that isn’t at all what I’m talking about.”
“Seriously, we can’t stand about like this. We talk before lights out.”
I was buying time. The concept for a cover-up story already solidified in my head, but I was nowhere near having pondered its implications. Eleven kept scowling at me.
“I’ll be there.”
Where else would she be but in the barrack? After all, that was the main problem. Even if I delivered a half-decent explanation tonight, she would keep an eye on my after-dark activities. And some more of those definitively had to come. Currently I saw no possibility to get to the cutter during daytime. But with a bit of luck, Arne wasn’t in the habit of locking the tack room and the tool cabinet within it.
For prying the fences up I had no practical idea so far. If nothing popped up soon, I had to grasp the nettle and fully cut my way through. Not enough, I was becoming increasingly unsure about another aspect: climbing down the Northern hillside. Although I understood that gravity was #but only a social construct, the patriarchy would still force me to deal with it nonetheless. Ironically, in spite of all the bondage overkill going down on a daily basis, I had so far failed to see a single mundane coil of rope hanging about for the taking.
Afternoon duties over, it was finally time for today’s trip to ponyland. The scheming had kept my mind occupied, but as we Three’ers gathered in front of the barn, a physical sickness took hold of me. Kandrin was waiting amidst the other drivers, lunge whip oiled, and I knew I would bleed again.
Instead of sending us straight inside to tack up, Kendrick had us fall in line. Before the barn gate the drivers arranged themselves in a less orderly fashion, yet, too, signalled the lead handler their undivided attention.
“Listen up, batch. Adhering to the well-proven D.A.C.C. policy of job rotation, a couple of changes are made in the participant/carer pairings. That means nothing more than come November some of you will have a different driver assigned to break up the routine and offer fresh perspectives. This month the following new pairings will be in effect: …”
I called utter bullshit on this rotation policy, as it was only thrown in to put up a smoke screen. That we were already the fourth day into November – granted. But one glance at the handlers confirmed that they hadn’t been aware of that particular corporate philosophy, either. Despite Kendrick’s making it sound like he was discussing the weather, his lone gunman announcement was pure dynamite. I did not know the exact limits of his authority in relation to Kandrin’s and doubted he had any say regarding group leadership, but in terms of actual training responsibilities he just had pulled rank, and hard. At least in front of us ponygirls the handlers assembled bowed to his greater wisdom.
Miss Cuntling’s latest excess on me might very well be the final straw. Sly fox that he was, Kendrick did not appoint himself as my new driver, so not to leave me with Kandrin alone again when he had his day off. Kandrin was reassigned to driving Zero-Eight, which broke with the tradition that a handler always drove one of their two or three ponies in need of handling. In her case, being the group leader and thus in charge of all seventeen of us might act as a loophole, but the other new pairing pretty much made the custom obsolete.
I didn’t envy Zero-Eight. Although Miss C. did not harbour any personal hatred towards her I knew of, the buxom girl would still be the next target of the group leader’s oral fixation. At least she and her rear passage were a tad safer from her handler and now former driver, a.k.a. the fat cunt. That article was asked to steer his other charge, skinny Zero-Seven, who’s derriere was far less spank- and abusable.
Kendrick had made several other changes to cloud his intentions to those not in the know. To Kandrin, however, it could only come as a blatant affront. And she wasn’t the personality type to self-reflect on it. Even without her yanking my reins anymore, there might be fallout coming from it in the future. The expression on her face as our glances met conveyed a corresponding message:
Enjoy it whilst it lasts.
With regards to my exit plan I could return the same advice to her.
Kendrick’s intricate castling had matched me with a thirty-something of the hipster hair style variety. He was one of the handlers not native to my group, who joint in as driver to fill up the ranks. After having finished his declaration, the lead handler had stepped over to him with low-voiced instructions. The driver listened with the intensity of somebody who believed a juicy secret was shared with him, glimpsing at me every so often whilst stroking his incredibly soft looking beard. Eventually a crisp nod of his signalled affirmation, and Kendrick turned away as if no words had been spoken.
Tack time at last, my new bohemian friend engaged in selecting my gear from the abundance the storage had to offer. I was again trusted with pulling my pony boots on, an activity perfect for getting me in the mood. Left and right of me the sounds of straps and roller buckles heralded my own immediate future.
As I finished hoofing up by securing the leather flaps over the lacings, thus locking myself into my extreme foot wear, the driver approached the bench with a pen light. His free hand cupping my chin was signal enough for me to open my mouth and extending my throbbing tongue. He inspected it from several professionally-looking angles, then clicked his miniature torch off and had me rise.
“Bend over with your legs straight. Place your forehead on the table top,” he requested with an accent and a specificity I could not quite place.
I leant over the work table and tilted my head under a groan until I touched the wooden surface. Check reins have the potential of causing serious damage to the neck. A hand on my lower back steadied me, then a dry finger of the gloved other one made contact with my anus. I tensed and needed some seconds to unclench the abused ring of muscles. Playing with a ponygirl’s bum was an established custom amongst drivers, so an unnecessary digital exam was well within my expectations. Imagine my surprise, though, when the hipster-bearded fellow did not pry any further but contented himself with investigating the state of the delicately folded skin.
“Rise up. Stay like that.”
He disposed of the glove and organised himself behind me. The leather and buckles I heard now were meant for me. It was my normal waspie-reinforced harness, and he didn’t spare me the yoke, either. At least H-Beard did not pin my wrists to it back-prayer style, as a nice symmetric box tie was deemed restrictive enough for my damaged arms. Soon they were laced up in the leather U-glove, and the laces covered in turn by the lockable leather flap. I steeled myself for the bridle, for the iron taste of spikes and the copper one of blood. A sting of claustrophobia jabbed me as the webbing of straps and rings was quickly lowered into my field of vision, already too close for comfort. In my hoof boots I was considerably taller than his one-seventy-five-ish-ness, so he must really be stretching into it. I closed my eyes in reflex as he pulled the bridle to my face. Something slipped smoothly past my lips, settled inside my mouth without the deep violations of past tackings.
It was still a curb bit, yet in its benignest form. Short shanks, a humbly sized single port. Sleek polished metal whithersoever my trapped tongue dared explore. I almost cried with relief. Not letting himself distracted by the sexy clicking of my tongue studs against the bit, he buckled the head gear up. Of course the bit pinched and pressed and tweaked at my bridle sores – to expect anything else would have been unrealistic. But it wasn’t doing so by design, and wouldn’t have caused such wounds in the first place. It was chosen well, fitting my jaw size and width of mouth. And although I knew the curved steel bar would exercise control over me in a very compelling fashion, I did not dread its mere presence. I even found myself tenderly champing on it, a habit I had broken with the introduction of spikes. Did I want the smooth curb to be sitting in my mouth? Not as such. But as long as I was bitted with it, I was protected from the insane abuse that came with the alternatives.
Now officially under bridle, I wasn’t supposed to react to verbal commands. Hence I remained balancing on my hooves until I felt his hand between my shoulder blades, a sign for me to bend over again. With my arms rendered useless I would have tilted over, an issue H-Beard took care of by steadying me through a firm grip at my harness. Once more I found myself in that endearingly compromising position so familiar to every filly throughout the ponyverse. With my rear a perfect target, my new driver didn’t dawdle to position the tail plug for its dark voyage. I held my breath at the initial nudge, bracing myself for the ripping sensation to follow. And gasped it out again in shocked surprise. Nothing could have prepared me for what did follow.
Having arrived at the D.A.C.C. an anal virgin, I had no means of comparison when it came to taking it up the arse. All I ever knew was rape. The sensation that washed over me in this moment simply wasn’t included in my cognitive wiring, thus finding me utterly vulnerable in more than just the physical way. My eyes widened as the stage III plug slid into me, lubed and warm and filling. Pure bliss. My sphincter was stretched to proper diameter, and even more relentlessly so due to the lack of friction and effort. But the absence of any pain beyond extended discomfort sent me and my askew standards in schuss down the slippery slope of gratitude.
In retrospective it is impossible for me to tell whether there was an erotic component to this experience, surpassing the obvious sexual one. At least on a theoretical level it had brought me closer to understanding the lame trope of fictional ponygirls falling in love with their handlers for the silliest of reasons. Not a second was I at risk of crushing on Hipster-Beard. But, boy, did I appreciate his way of handling a forlorn filly.