Pony Boot Camp — Part Forty-One

L’Estrapade

I didn’t know how Sixteen was about to get back to the camp. I didn’t care beyond curiosity, neither. Even about my own fate I mused in a detached state of mind. In the wake of my fit of temper I was trapped in dark, almost self-destructive euphoria. I would be disciplined, that was for sure. Yet I hadn’t got the faintest idea about how harshly my actions would be dealt with. If I had attacked a staff member, things would turn extremely ugly. But another pony? I wasn’t even sure whose jurisdiction I was under in the case at hand. Kendrick’s? Miss Cuntling’s? The warden’s? Did they differ? Did it matter?

Maybe I would be long-term bridled like Eleven, maybe I would be hugging the whipping post.

A Dance in the Cage

 

A Dance in the Cage

You know the girls dancing in those cages at clubs? Sometimes on a pedestal, sometimes suspended over the raving crowd? Ever wondered how they ended up there and what makes them move all night?

Despite the allegedly soundproof glass Bianka felt the vibrations at her eardrums, in the pit of her stomach, in the tip of her pen. The bass pounded its way through every structure, item and living being in the whole building. It was the heartbeat of the club, and with the small hours of the night being near it was hammering wilder than ever. If the owner, manager and icon of Club Noir were to turn around from her desk, she would be able to overlook the main floor through the glass wall of her office. She would see the fetish folk celebrating its own depravity, loosing itself in the dark world the legendary Bianka Schönfeld provided. A world of masks and collars, of monogloves and hobble skirts, where leather was the new lace and black the new black. To the left the long cool-lit bar ran in a wide arc alongside the clubbing area, which in turn bordered at the right on the VIP lounge. Further in the back the entrance to the lower levels awaited those in search for more titillating activities. The rooms for this spicy kind of entertainment were soundproof, for sure.

Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)

Selfie (a.k.a. Rogue Tie)

You are always so good at making lists, Becca!

This is a compliment I hear a lot from colleagues and friends alike. Always meant sincere, it does have a backhanded element to it. It labels me organised, bureaucratic, predictable. Rebecca, the Excel Queen. Rebecca, mind you. Not Bec or Beckie. Not Becca, either. But people are so quick with shortening my name. Just as quick as with making list-related compliments.

A list, then – old-fashioned with pen and paper, in my girly handwriting:

• Restrains, 3 pairs (handcuffs, elbow cuffs, hobbles)
• Latex hood
• Ball gag
• Posture collar
• Nipple clamps

Pony Boot Camp — Part Fifteen

Had Some Fun?

The sulky was parked at its place near the path, then I was parked in the barn’s shadow and deliberately ignored by Kandrin henceforth. Some minutes later the handler brought a small bucket with water and held it up for me to drink from. Greedily I slurped the liquid to wet my parched and sore throat and soothe the pain from my oral wounds. I had regained some degree of composure again, enough at least to become aware of what was happening around me. There was muffled activity inside the barn, and I reckoned it was Group One’s turn to play pony. Although hard to believe after my recent ordeal, our own foray had been mercifully short. So the Oners were in for a rather long stint to fill the gap to 18:00.

Fashion Faux Pas

Fashion Faux Pas

Bianchetti had always been her first port of call during window shopping, and on today’s spree the exclusive boutique near the city’s financial quarter was confirming its status once again. Behind the glass façade, amidst LBD’s, designer clutches and outré court shoes Lorena discovered the short-sleeved top on one of the highly stylised mannequins. At first glance the item didn’t awake her interest. But then her eyes wandered back, and it intrigued her due to its unusual material. It was made of latex.

Play Time

Play Time

“I’ve got special plans for this weekend,” Biri purred.

It didn’t take too much imagination for Leif to determine what those plans would be. His girlfriend’s outfit made some very clear statements in that regard.

“Can you even breathe in this, sweetie?”

“As long as I don’t laugh,” she chuckled and let her latex-gloved hands slide along the skimpy rubber dress and tightly-laced corset. Kneeling in front of him in their living room, Bérénice was a picture of enthusiastic submission, ready to have her photo printed in a BDSM textbook.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Nine

Stranger than Fiction

Like always they let us march lock-step, a circumstance we had got used to. Our handlers who walked to our left were holding the reins of their two or three respective girls with slack, at least for the time being. What made our way towards the corrals so challenging was our special footwear. When stilting on your tip toes plus eight centimetres of fake hooves you might be somewhat distracted from synchronising your moves with those of the person in front of you – who is teetering about just like yourself.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Eight

Tacked

It was surprisingly cool inside, and the smell of straw immediately intensified. The further we went into the barn, the stronger a second aroma became. Leather. It didn’t take long to discover its source. At the circular area’s far side a large shed had been erected as some sort of building within the building, big enough to hold all of us. For someone like me who had never taken an interest in horsemanship nor come in contact with equestrian equipment, the amount of leather and metal gear stored in this place was awe-inspiring. Racks and walls were occupied by meticulously arrayed belts, harnesses, bridles and stuff I could not even name. I would come to know this place as the Tack Room, and I would come to fear it.

Dorei

Dorei

Box

The box had arrived just in time. Nakamura’s two “gentlemen” went to work unloading it as soon as the garage’s roller shutter had closed behind the inconspicuous white delivery van. One of them I knew by name: Tanaka, a ridiculously muscular bloke in an ill-fitting jacket. He was beyond any doubt capable of dragging the box alone. Hence his scrawny new colleague was rather latching onto the wooden crate while it was pulled out of the van.