Author Archives: Venom

About Venom

Bloke from Central Europe; Petrol Head; Observer of Human Depravity

Pony Boot Camp — Part Fifty

Supply and Demand

If I passed out, I didn’t remember it afterwards – whatever one is supposed to remember from passing out. I’m pretty sure I did Kandrin the favour of staying conscious, polite girl that I am. Since I now have a deeper understanding of how it feels to have my nipples flayed by means of a razor blade.

Miss C gave me little time to recuperate. Her quick fingers shortened the martingale belts again, putting me in serious stress even for today’s standards. I reckoned that with some bucking I could rip my rings clean out. To further sharpen my response she brought the dressage clamps back up to my breasts, positioned them slightly differently and let them snap shut. In my writhing I didn’t sense her climbing the sulky. Her whip encountered no difficulties getting through to me, though. It fiery licks led me to the finding that I could simultaneously high-step and cry, and to the delusion that no harsher tack was possible. Continue reading

Pony Boot Camp — Part Forty-Nine

20 PSI on Stock Internals

My mind kept being preoccupied during the morning. Thoughts spun round and round in ever-same circles. Not the pondering of whether or not, but the agonising over how and when. I had set the upcoming new moon as the night of my escape, and if only to have an anchorage point. Taking the time I needed to prepare, essential as it was, held the danger of my being further deprived of physical and mental strength. With every day that the inhumane ideology behind the DACC could solidify, the abuse we were subjected to would increase.

“Tongue out.”

Kandrin waved a small but bright torch in front of my face, and I flinched.

“Tongue out, Seventeen, and fucking keep it out!” Continue reading

Bad Tail Day

As promised in the last post, here’s the short story inspired by the correspondence between LapinDeFer and me. Enjoy!

Bad Tail Day

Leaning against the wall of the barn’s central aisle, Émilie performed the ancient signal strength dance with her mobile in hand. Arm higher – zero bars. Turn to the right – null. Stretching to the left – why was she even trying?

Vahrenfeld was the largest ponygirl stable in private ownership; four separate barn buildings around a central coral hub, surrounded by tracks, trails, meadows and 600 square kilometres of wooded glens. And apparently not a single radio mast. The handlers’ quarters and the administrative area had Wi-Fi hotspots to satellite connections, but of course nobody could have been bothered to hand the password down to her. In vain Émilie had tried out the cardinal points of the cross-like structure arrangement. Now standing at the southern gate of the southern barn again she was running out of options and time. Her broom was waiting. Sliding her phone into the thigh pocket of her stable-issued cargo trousers Émilie shuffled back to her menial morning routine. Continue reading

Village Road

Village Road

It has been over half a year since the last chapter of Pony Boot Camp, so it is high time to get back in the saddle. To kick things off again, I gratefully accepted a special offer from LapinDeFer, a 3D artist and connoisseur of all things pony.

Of course it was only a matter of time for our paths to cross, and he suggested to post his work Taken for a spin on my Word Press site. After some minor modifications it became Village Road. I had suggested a pony tail for the jockey (“not that kind of pony tail”) since she’d looked like having a bad hair day. And as this train of thoughts took up speed, my upcoming story Bad Tail Day was born.
Continue reading

Life Imitates Art

Posted on 10th May 2020

Weirdly enough, the initial aspect Denise’s mind took from the scene before her was how loud a silenced gun actually was. In contrast, R’s presence didn’t qualify as a surprise any more. As that nutcase ex machina was crouching on the squat member, strangling him out with a knee to his neck whilst keeping her gun trained at the second Rapid Responder, Denise could glimpse the mean-looking sniper rifle with its black skeleton buttstock strapped to R’s back.

Æquinoctium — Chapter Four (Part 3)



Big Rig

(Part 3)

Denise looked along the semi, heartbeat tattooing on her eardrums. A pair of light cones loomed into view and headed up in her direction. As they closed in, the machinery behind them solidified into the shape of a car. With a minute to spare it rolled to a stop a couple of metres in front and to the side of the tractor unit. Even if completely dislocated from this situation, Denise would have had no trouble matching vehicle with driver: a plain mid-size saloon, in its inconspicuousness on a par with the man behind the wheel. Neither big nor small, neither old nor new, it would merge into the background noise of any given street scenery. Even whilst directly looking at it right now, Denise couldn’t tell its colour. Only the souped-up engine rumble was giving away its true abilities. Continue reading

Æquinoctium — Chapter Four (Part 2)

Although the chapter is basically finished, I have to devide it into all in all three parts. Due to an eye injury I can’t currently work in front of a screen for longer stretches of time, and therefore editing and proofreading of the last paragraphs have to be postponed. I will submit the third part as soon as possible.



Big Rig

(Part 2)

Right at that magical moment when the whiskey was still burning her throat but already beginning to warm her core, the zombie phone chimed into life. Sugar Daddy was calling.

Denise hurried out of the pub to take the call, her heart beating against the calming effect of the alcohol.

“Your loyal subject awaits your orders.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Ms Carlisle.” Gabriel’s I-want-a-pillow-made-of-it voice. “Are you ready for your grand appearance?”

“I was born ready.” Continue reading

C. F. S.

Greetings, my plentiful readership!

As you can already tell, I am way behind my writing schedule. In parts – and here only indirectly – this is attributed to COVID-19. With kindergartens and schools closed, some colleagues of mine have to stay with their hell spawn fledglings, and priorities have to be set. Since I am neither a virologist nor an epidemiologist, I have no business with commenting on how to behave and what to avoid in the current situation. Yet I cannot help but notice how certain individuals and organisations are attempting to use the outbreak‘s slipstream to push their own agendas (curfews to fight the climate change, just to name a random one).

So the best strategy for this crisis and everything which may come afterwards once again boils down to C. F. S.

Common Fucking Sense.

Alterations for Æquinoctium (II)

Earlier on I pondered the possibility of retrofitting the chapters I – III of Æquinoctium with individual titles and was literally buried under one reply. This being approving of my idea, I now have to come up with some witty headings – because that’s how democracy works, y’all!


Anomalous Materials

It is with the making-up of a super-rare element called Tristanium that our charming redhead heroine sets the whole story in motion. So of course the first title is predestined to reflect this vital plot point. “Anomalous Materials” is also the first level of the video game classic Half-Life (1998), not counting the intro. Continue reading

Æquinoctium — Chapter Four (Part 1)



Big Rig

(Part 1)

For the second time this day Denise awoke with a start. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The numbers station. Upon sneakily returning from her little excursion she had laid down to get some rest for her grand finale (to her utter relief and eternal pride the lock bypass had worked like a charm). Denise couldn’t remember many details of the weird nightmare that came to her in her sleep – only that she had been chased down a subway tunnel through many doors she could not open yet which allowed her to pass in exhausting dream logic. She’d managed to escape via a daring jump out of the truck trailer, only to find herself standing in front of the central station.

The cheap alarm clock on the table reported 20:37 in a tired red glow. Continue reading