Ponygirl Vet — Part Seven of All

Ponygirl Vet

Part 7 of All

Those ruminations from the human perspective had of course invited the wish for a complete picture to Vera’s notoriously avid mind. And what better way to achieve insights of that nature than pestering her favourite nocturnal work mate again? During what had become the night of her flogging, Adrian’s now-or-never attitude had caught her on the wrong foot. This time she had mentally prepared herself, had played the complete procedure through in her mind, including any variations and alternation she could think of. Vera had even chosen a more purposive set of clothing, so she wouldn’t have to hobble across the compound naked again. And so she stood before the near gate of the northern barn, dressed in a Stables-issued raincoat two sizes too large, her chucks, her inevitable glasses and nothing else. The legion of stars piercing the dark sky could only ever been admired in a clear night far away from any city, and still her attire prevented more questions than it would raise in a casual bystander. Vera found the gate and the separate door next to it locked. Not discouraged in the slightest, she knocked on the latter, having it on good authority that Adrian was tinkering inside. She didn’t hear any Metal of the Black, Death, Doom or other variety, though. Only the swoosh of blood in her ears and the nervous pounding in her chest. Vera rapped her knuckles against the entrance again, willing herself to hope that she would be granted entry. And indeed movement was becoming noticeable inside. A moment later the door swung open a crack to reveal Adrian’s frowning face.

“Surprise,” Vera singsonged, “am I interrupt—”

Adrian slammed the door back shut. Rolling her eyes, Vera kicked the hatch with the toe of her trainer. In a comical repetition it opened by the same amount as before.

“Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

“C’mon, Ayde, don’t be a twat.”

“Nevermore!”

Vera wedged one arm and shoulder into the crack and squeezed herself into the building against the handler’s mock resistance, her rubberised coat squeaking and creaking with every turn.

“You are not even supposed to say both…” more squeezing, “… lines!”

Once inside, she straightened her stylish raiment. Indeed the barn was lying in silence. Adrian’s work station at the far end had some oscillator thing going on, but the rest was murk at best. Speaking of murk: Next to her, Adrian did an excellent job of hiding his exuberant joy over her visit in general and her thoughts on Gothic poetry in particular.

“By all means, do come in.”

“Hiding a dead prostitute again?”

He closed the door and made no attempt to humour her.

“There’s something I need your help with.”

“You want another thrashing? Why didn’t you say so?”

“No, but thanks.”

As she followed him down the aisle, movement to her left caught her eye. One of the elite ponies had awoken and glanced dozily through the bars of her stall.

“Back to sleep, Amaranth. Don’t look at the weird woman.”

Although the meaning of his words was of course lost on Amaranth, she recognised the voice of her handler and the calming quality in it. So her night-bridled face disappeared from the bars as she settled down again.

“What’s with the mac?”

Adrian stuck with the soft timbre for a moment. Inadvertently, to be sure, as he didn’t waste his pony-whispering voice on her very often.

“I’m going full commando underneath – element of the brilliant plan you are about to participate in.”

Halting in his steps, he snatched a corner of the rubber and lifted it to have a peek.

“Oi, stop it, you perv!” she hissed.

“Are you wearing a tail?”

“No!”

“So what are you up to?”

“Have you got a branding kit lying around?”

Adrian was now back to his disdainful I-have-to-deal-with-humans voice.

“Are you off your meds?”

Vera had hoped that after his role in her flogging he would be disposed to venture further. After all, he had recognised her motivations, if not making them his own.

“Let’s skip the song and dance. I wouldn’t show up dressed like a flasher if I hadn’t made up my mind.”

“Do I have to remind you how close to your limits your made-up mind has brought you last time?”

“Yes, and in the most patronising tone possible, please.”

“Is it about the pain again?”

“No. About the experience of being marked. Looking at my body and seeing it has been claimed.”

Adrian did not resume his march, which Vera took as a good omen. They weren’t walking further away from the tack room anymore.

“And once the brand is done, it will encourage me to uphold its reputation. A constant calling upon my work ethic.”

“As always I find your dedication to the feeble concept of morality mildly amusing,” his usual pseudo-Nietzschean humbug came as expected.

“So you are in, or what?”

“Do I want to press a smouldering piece of superheated metal into your arse until you squeal in agony? Most certainly. Do I want to listen to your whiny lamentations afterwards? Absolutely not.”

“I’ll keep the bit in.”

The handler remained difficult.

“Tell you what, doc: Out of morbid curiosity I will do the prep work, and we shall see how eager you are once the temperature becomes cosy.”

Whether he was trying to deter her or goad her on Vera couldn’t tell for sure. But he should never underestimate a veterinarian in too big a raincoat after midnight!

“Lead the way.”

Indeed Adrian turned back south, eyes squinting as he was obviously making a mental list of what he would need to fulfil his colleague’s extravagant wish – or spoil it. Together they back-tracked their short way up the aisle without disturbing Amaranth again.

“I understand you want it placed in the official spot, on the inside of the thigh?”

“Yes, I do,” Vera was quick to confirm.

“You will feel that one.”

“I know. I can take it.”

“You’ll have to.”

That she would be professionally restrained like a real ponygirl went without saying. Normally the application of the Stable brand, nothing short of a sacred rite, would be performed outside at the hub in front of a grand audience. Owners and guests would attend this social gathering, in which capacity a whole batch of fillies would receive their crests. Indoor areas did not recommend themselves to such an event as the smell of burnt skin could be quite overwhelming. With but one wannabe pony and no spectators, the tack room and some minutes of draught would do.

Much could be said about Vahrenfeld Stables. A lack of tack was not amongst it. Like the last time, Adrian made his choice with fast-paced precision from the abundance of belts, bits and bridles.

“Why don’t you get comfy?” he insisted whilst draping his selection on the sturdy wooden table next to the equally sturdy wooden stocks.

Vera was still in her unflattering rain wear, battling the ever-welcome dribble of second thoughts by recalling the satisfaction that had filled her after her whipping.

“Turn around.”

“I have seen you naked from all angles by now, not that I am into such things.”

“But I don’t want you to see me undressing.”

“It’s only the raincoat.”

“Which makes it even more awkward. Last time I had more clothes on.”

“I don’t follow.”

Giving her the requested privacy nonetheless, Adrian stepped towards a cabinetry that had been hand-crafted between two support beams. Framed photographs of ponygirls in full show tack filled the space above it, together with colourful award ribbons and some lesser trophies (the good stuff was displayed at Vahrenfeld Mansion). From a lockable compartment he obtained a walnut case of bespoke design. That Adrian was using both hands testified as much to the caution he deemed appropriate as to the heft of the box and its content. A shiver ran down Vera’s spine at the sight of it. With tingling fingers she unbuttoned her sole garment, causing it to hang about her body even more loosely. If she took it off, it would mark to herself the point of no return, notwithstanding the escalating steps of tethers and gag.

Take it off, now…!

Pussy. Again: Three, two, one, now!

She took it off. A short sequence of creaks, and the coat rested folded in her hands. Vera kneaded it nervously as the handler placed his halidom onto the table top. The urge to cover her indecency felt out of place.

“I get it why you aren’t wearing trousers,” Adrian commented, “but what argues against knickers?”

“That I have to pull them down eventually.”

“I see. And why are your tits in the open?”

“Because at the time of my dressing, not wearing a bra was the logical continuation of not wearing knickers.”

At a loss with her logic for the second time tonight, Adrian busied himself with readying his tool of the trade, beginning with a critical look at the crested lid.

“I will have a few words with that barnling. Fingerprints everywhere.”

Obviously one of the barn assistants, by many considered the lowest life form on the estate, had not lived up to Adrian’s expectations. With great care he cleaned the polished wood and its brass inlays before opening the crested lid. As its case heralded, the branding kit installed within was a thing of beauty. Granted, its vintage look might come across a bit arty. But the big regulator handle and the cream-coloured temperature dial with its blued hand gave off such a steampunky vibe.

Wait till you got its business end. Then we will talk about its decorative value again, sweetie.

Vera’s unease intensified when Adrian took the branding baton from its resting place in front of the controls. The wrought symbol at its tip was non-interchangeable, its sole purpose to mark those mares who had been found worthy of joining the Vahrenfeld ranks.