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Pony Boot Camp — Part Fifty-Two

Hierophant

As awe-inspiring as my driver’s tailing technique might be, it left me quite unsurprisingly with my tail sticking out of my bum, marking me as a demi-human at best. In that regard I was the same to H-Beard that I was to Kandrin, only his attitude towards such an entity was hopefully more benevolent. He did, however, believe in a well-split vulva just as everybody else around here. The thin leather belt, though oiled, brought fresh pain. But Kendrick’s delegate had earned so many bonus points during the last five minutes that he could use the electric branding iron on my clit and still win a popularity prize. Continue reading


Alterations for Pony Boot Camp (VIII)

Since I did a little retconning on PBC, we can have some more fun with Roman numerals (because I once adopted them for the chapters to match the Alterations posts’ method of counting and am now stuck with ’em)!

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Part XXX

Just for the records, I like castles and stuff. They’ve got something brooding, especially the razed ones. But I don’t wet myself over them like those “Lord of the Ice and Fire” fanboys do.

has a part added:

Just for the records, I like castles and stuff. They’ve got something brooding, especially the razed ones. But I don’t wet myself over them like those “Lord of the Ice and Fire” fanboys do. I know what I’m writing about; Sandrine’s and my next-door neighbours once had hunted us down with foam swords for intercepting their Chinese delivery. Turned out hardcore RPG nerds didn’t take well to having their level 15 Spring Rolls of Doom get nicked. Continue reading


Pony Boot Camp — Part Fifty-One

Bliss

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?” Continue reading


Pony Boot-Up

With the next part of Pony Boot Camp being of course delayed, the following short story may serve as a little appetiser which lets us revisit the D.A.C.C.’s more benign sister institution known in the ponyverse as The Orchard.

Pony Boot-Up

The cold touch of steel to her lips sparked a new surge of excitement through Firefly. Revelling in it, she willed her mouth shut to prolong the moment – and to tease her handler. Adam just kept the bit pressed against her lips, knowing that she was playing coy and would surrender to it timely.

“Feeling feisty today?”

Firefly lifted her pony-booted right foot and brought it back down for a snappy solitary hoof sound. An obedient filly, replying to her handler instantly and in appropriate fashion. That the answer itself defied this very action only added to their mutual game. Continue reading


Wardrobe Fail

The following work is an expansion to my 2014 story “Fashion Faux Pas” and was commissioned by fellow author Jon Smithie (“Slavery 101“, “Mina Berkeley’s Voyage“), whose frequent input to its creation is highly appreciated (as is his patience).

Wardrobe Fail

Did that sick lady actually believe she was into this?!

All blood had drained from Lorena’s face, her stomach been deflated into itself. And still the tautness of her nipple chain led the path along the length of the boilers, past gaggles of pervy party-goers who congratulated Ariane on her latest conquest. Even in her distress Lorena noticed the difference in atmosphere back here. The industrial music was still prominent, yet clearly not aimed at this more private section. Patrons in pairs or small groups were obviously advancing on their voyage to debauchery. Silent assistance in it they were sure to find in the bar maids. She was positive there had been none of them in the main area, thus their services were exclusive for those willing to travel deeper into the iron abyss of the Boiler House. Continue reading


Bridled Passion

Bridled Passion

Ten minutes into light canter the camp had hidden behind the wooded slope of the nearest hill. Keeping the reins in one hand, Adam gestured to the remaining two sulkies. After filing out of the Orchard Correctional Centre the ten teams of drivers and ponygirls had by and by dispersed to train in their individual speed. His colleagues signalled back over the threefold rhythm of hoof beat and bell chime. They kept following the main path as Adam had his pony sway left onto the smaller track before the solitary ash tree. The pressure of the bit to the left corner of her mouth acted as command, as gentle as compelling. Necessary it wasn’t, though, not with this mare. OCC schedule required the handlers to rotate within their respective group to become conversant with each pony’s quirks and needs for exercise. Thus it was only every tenth day that Adam could tack up Number Zero-Five, a time span that had grown almost unbearably long over the last several weeks. The Orchard did not name its stock beyond a number, but Adam had felt to do so with this one.

Continue reading


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


Pony Boot Camp — Part Forty-Eight

Moonlighting

I was still thunderstruck after Kandrin had led her ersatz victim out for a private training session. If the group leader had found Eleven’s book under my mattress – and nothing other had her remark implied –, she had also discovered the newspaper. It being in my possession might or might not have any juridical significance. For Miss C. it could very well serve as pretence to search my stuff or me for contraband. And of course it was a great opportunity to mind-fuck me from behind.

“That was not good.”

Arne sounded sincere in his sympathy for Eleven. He might be game for the more smutty aspects of pony-based re-education, but blatant torture repelled him like it does any other descent human being. Continue reading