That Hipster Beard shared Kendrick’s vision of the Perfect Pony was a safe bet. The vast majority of lashes he dealt to me on our jaunt through the woods I received for poor execution or silly mistakes. At no point he would use more than one stroke to speed me up, let alone whipping me into a frenzy as Kandrin had done on multiple occasions. Long before we reached the halfway point of today’s tour, I was hell-bent to be the bestest pony for my new master.
The canter, cushioned by autumn-wet leaves, brought us through the ancient holloway known to man and beast as Foxpipe and onto a lesser sunken side path. Correctional licks to the thighs now and then rid my high steps of any last flaws, and at one point I simply closed my eyes to concentrate on maintaining the quality level of my leg work. I had done so before, with Kandrin, as she had tied off my check reins so hard I had to blink against the sun. To trust the bit blindly did not come naturally, but with the compelling mechanics I was subjected to. As the whip was keeping my gait true and the reins my course clear, my blinkered vision lost its already compromised relevance. A one-sided pull on my mouth indicated a light left, then the pressure evened out to both corners of my lips whilst the spikeless port sought contact with my palate. I slowed down to a stop with a last set of high steps performed on the spot. And only then I remembered to open my eyes again. Trees. Who would have thought?
Hipster Beard had chosen to perform his mid-stint check in the wooded proximity of a tiny mere, whose surface allowed the ground being seen in the day’s weakening light. My driver dismounted the sulky to hunker down next to the water. I wasn’t surprised in the least that he washed his hands and dried them with a handkerchief before he would tend to his sweaty, drooly ponygirl. Not only made he sure that no piece of tack was chaffing or loose, his examination also included my body as such. Especially the location of my not-so-well healed rib contusion got special attention – the kind opposite to the care it had received in the Naughty Corner. I had no idea how my driver thought of my human alter ego, but he valued me in my equine aspect. Which was luring me into a bizarre trap after being treated like dirt on both career paths by his predecessor. Because now I had been handed the opportunity to stick it to Kandrin, by proving Hipster Beard and ultimately Kendrick right.
The former used the remaining minutes of our break to rehydrate me from a squeezy sports bottle – not without washing and drying his hands again. As always with the bit in and the bridle tight, I had trouble swallowing, but he took care to keep me from choking. Still unsurprisingly a certain amount of water ran down my chin, then my chest, to mix with sticky saliva and fresh sweat. It struck me as odd that with all his pedantic ado my driver would leave any of those fluids on his racy purebred. The way they trickled along my skin in various combinations as I pulled away from the pond did not appear particularly sexy to me. Maybe it was a fetish of his, mirroring a fancy for sloppy blowjobs. I quickly dismissed that theory, since he clearly did not perceive me as a sexual being at all, let alone a woman. It took me some more minutes of closed-eyes thinking and the calming rhythm of the trot to come up with a more reliable if not less disturbing hypothesis.
Drooling and slavering and sweating all over myself was a natural state. It was meant to be, just as my bridle and harness were meant to be buckled and immaculate. The same mentality that had him obsess over my tack prevented Hipster Beard from interfering with my mess. Within its own warped logic, it was terrifyingly coherent.
I did open my eyes again as his rein commands became more intricate. The bit action was still spot-on and fully sufficient to steer me, but my own mentality prevented me from unlocking that level of trust just yet. That pesky Alex persona inside of me kept clinging to the illusion of having any traces of control left. The sounds of water had already revealed my general location, as did the occasional splashes underhoof. Hipster Beard was navigating me through between the boulders of the western river bank, albeit north of the wooden bridge. For some refreshing minutes I added river water to my collection of liquids, before a pebble field with a gentle enough incline offered an opportunity back into the forest. The old bridge was close now, and crossing it meant entering the final phase of today’s training.
I cantered out of the woods east of the river, and with a virtuous play on my reins the bearded driver aimed me along the path through the brittle wildflowers. A lash, well placed about my right flank, put me into a spirited gallop. A second one, sneakily snapping up below my tail, made it imperative that this pace be held until further notice.
As I was dashing onwards my senses once more became disconnected. Instinct forbade to close my eyes again – not at full run over uneven terrain, no matter how small my options in case of tripping. But the rolling hills in the east, the blurring autumn field, the very path before me became visual white noise. Sounds of river sounds were drowned in the hisses of the cart wheels, which in turn fell silent against the pounding of blood in my ears. Beats of hooves and heart merged into one, more felt than heard.
The steel in my mouth had me draw a brisk arc to the left as my elongated legs hit tarmac. A single giddy thought formed in the ebriety of hard pacing, teasing proudly that I would have sent the sulky into a drift if the surface were made of gravel.
My driver held the gallop along the main road as it steepened, draining his well-lathered mare of every ounce of endurance she so willingly offered, then brought me down to trot with a smooth long pull on the reins, manipulating my bit into pressing rather than biting. Kandrin would have flogged me up the knoll. Hipster Beard allowed me to ride the wave of endorphin all the way to the main gate.
I returned from under bridle a considerable length of time after my physical bridle had been removed at the barn. Actually, I zoned out of pony mode to the sensation of having Hipster Beard’s fingers in my mouth. Gloved, of course. As he was checking my tongue and lips for any injuries, I discreetly clenched my muscles around my still present tail to make sure that he had not yet investigated my rear in a similar way. No feasible doubt he would have changed gloves after, but reservations regarding that order of palpation remained on my part. Purely hypothetical, as I was still in harness and boots. However, the yoke had already gone, and I helped removing the trapping leather around my torso as soon as my driver and new rein hero had freed me from the armbinder. Apart from a slight tingling my arms were fine and at once usable. I felt neither strain nor sprain as Hipster Beard moved my shoulder joints. Too late I thought about throwing in a fake wince. Just as adamantly as he would limit my arm restraints to mild bondage until healing completed, he would then promote me back up to monoglove and eventually reverse prayer, including the dreadful elbow strap in its final iteration. And I feared that, when the time would come, I would welcome it.
Over the next minutes more of my tack fell. My crotch strap was released, revealing a stickiness in the area. The belt had been too tight and too well-oiled to cause chaffing, so I supposed I wasn’t bleeding from that. My mensies were officially over, but who knows what effects being exercised with an anal plug deeply seated had on neighbouring organs. I dipped a finger between my legs, expecting it to return red. Imagine my horrors as I found the digit covered in the clear-ish secrete associated with female arousal.
I was wet. Worked up without my knowing, and blessedly without my cumming. If I had orgasmed from being ponygirled, nothing short of traditional seppuku could have restored my honour. But the knoll had been the tallest mountain I had climbed today. Therefore I was able to push the narrative of my increased discharge resulting from heightened blood flow or being some body reaction to exhaustion-triggered endorphins – and to not bother wondering why I had experienced the likes of it never before. Soon the waspie was gone as well, granting access to my quivering flanks. My driver ran his fingers across both sides, although it was my bad left one he was showing particular interest in. More than I could remember I was ticklish in that area, and I worried about adding my ribs to the list of erogenous zones.
At least the outdoor shower would cool my treacherous body down again. After wiggling out of my hoof boots dainty steps on bare feet brought me outside to join the others under the cold water. Drops bit into my heated skin, ate cracks into the layers of sweat and forest dust as I rested my forehead against the free-standing concrete that shielded the actual barn wall against moisture. We were no parlour ponies, mind you, so after-stint showering came with its fair amount of scrubbing and groaning. It was the sudden lack of those noises that had me look up and around.
My group mates had stopped minding their cleansing, the plant fibres entangled in their hair and the lime tree leave stuck between Zero-Eight’s boobs. Hipster Beard had followed me outside and hunkered down behind me, face where my tail had been minutes ago. Unswayed by the eyes of the other ponygirls he seized my left ankle and stood up.
“Keep braced against the wall.”
I struggled for balance and obeyed his instructions as he bent my leg backwards. His thumb pressed into my sole, causing me to flinch. Other spots were pressed, the ball of my foot, the heel, muscles all the way up to my calf. I should have been crept out by this, and seriously so. Once in a while I would have received a compliment on my having pretty hands and accepted it with favour. But replace hands with feet – in its anatomical self not a big leap – and you would have me wonder whether your last girlfriend was now hanging in your wardrobe as a skin suit. I had no such premonition with Hipster Beard, simply because he was dwelling so deeply in his own astounding oddness that he could not be bothered with petty creeping.
He took his time feeling my right foot and lower leg up as well, even squatted down again afterwards to ensure himself of the correct alignment of my knees. I had begun to freeze under the steady rain of shower water and realised that Hipster Beard, too, must be receiving his share of spray. He was just too focused on his orthopaedic studies to ask for the water to be turned off. Unasked then, I moved the robust valve lever to its horizontal shutoff position, accepting the slight increase in my own comfort as a mere side effect.
The final events on our daily schedule came and went in a blur, and when entering our barrack five minutes after the last bite I could not tell what I had for supper. Spectres walked past me, through me, now and then taking on the forms of my fellow inmates. Fifteen, in these days ghostly even in the worldly realm, revealed herself to me only by her torturous hairstyle. Somewhere Ten was cursing name and lineage of her driver, who once again had put his professional trust in underreins.
I was in dire need to un-fuck my brain. Hipster Beard had guided me to a feverish place, vibrant and terrible. He had accomplished that without directing much more than two dozen words at me, without false pleasantries or physical bribes. In the contrary: I had been lashed to speed and curbed back down the way a ponygirl should be and a free woman never would. If I had been thrown into his capable hands right from the start, his methods might not have unlocked my equine side that quickly. It was my own unhinged perspective that made me easy prey. That made me attribute my sexual arousal to post-menstrual effects. Made me shudder for more reasons than I was ever willing to admit when pondering what underreins would have done to me today.
I startled visibly on my bed as I noticed Eleven’s bridle-marked face next to mine. At once I remembered to what I owed the pleasure of her visit. In my current condition I was so not up to the task.
“Now is not a good time.”
The girl at the side of my bunk remained standing on her chosen spot. I had strung her along once; she wouldn’t allow me to do so a second time.
“I have to insist.”
“Insist from your own bunk.”
I turned over, knowing fully well that I would not get away with this tactic. The creaking and rocking of the bunk frame proved me right as Eleven climbed up to sit at the foot end.
“Excuse me, can I help you?! Get down!”
I felt the urge to kick her off the bed spiking up for a second, fuelled more by my attempt to use her peskiness as an excuse to shoo her away than by her actual behaviour. Eleven slid towards me, not minding my legs. In the end I had to swivel them over the edge, thus bringing myself into a sitting position next to the brunette lass. She gazed at me from kissing distance, unflinching.
“Alright,” I groaned, “tell me your troubles and doubts…”
Activities had quieted down around us, and Eleven spoke in a low voice that oh so well suited her conspirative attitude.
“Are you up to something?”
Accusation and hope entangled in one question, portioned into five words.
“I’m up to not getting whipped and tail-raped more than absolutely necessary.”
“The other night you had been outside. Way outside. Your clothes were dirty.”
She was whispering it as a statement, but the question lurking behind it demanded an answer. And the only answer satisfying this demand was bound to spawn new questions. Not that I had many options to begin with to explain the appearance of grass stains at midnight.
I was sleepwalking. Good thing you didn’t wake me up!
I have recently developed an interest in chiropterology. Did you know there’s a small colony of common noctules in this area?
Halfway believable (the half that stated bats to be living here).
Okay, here goes nothing:
“I was meeting with Arne. You know, the stable boy.”
“Holding hands in the moon light? I didn’t peck you for the romantic type.”
“I gave him a hand job in return for his keeping tack duty come my way.”
A page straight out of Ten’s book of social interactions. Going explicit might increase the credibility of my fabrication and gross Eleven out at the same time. However, the nerdy girl deemed my moral standards too high for such a lewd transaction.
“A hand job?”
(Not to be confused with a hoof job – that’s what I had treated Sixteen to. Good times.)
Eleven brought her brows in line and tilted her head down.
“Don’t give me that owl look again!”
She maintained her expression a moment longer before a seldom seen mischievousness took over.
“I witnessed you gulping down a litre of water after Miss Kandrin had put you through your paces. With that throat control, no bloke would settle for a hand job.”
I didn’t see that one coming, not from Eleven. Certainly a quality comeback. So my anecdote had failed to catch. Save to say she already had her own theory regarding my nocturnal activities, and it might even match reality reasonably well. Still, I would not differ from my lone she-wolf approach. My plan had too many moving parts as it was, and I simply could not afford including an escape trainee, no matter how witty her retorts.
“Let’s say I am up to something, only for the sake of argument—”
“I knew it!”
Gone was the fellatio spotter, back was Geek Girl who just remembered the twentieth decimal place of pi correctly.
“Then let’s also assume that there is a delicate planning phase, like, low profile need-to-know stuff.”
“Got it. I can help.”
Did I speak Mandarin? Rarely had I suspected myself of being too subtle. As I was debating whether to rephrase again or give in to the rekindling urge to kick her out of my bunk after all, we reached the well-deserved occurrence of lights out.