Ponygirl Vet — Part Three of Definitely More than Six

Ponygirl Vet

Part 3 of Definitely More than 6

Off to her side Adrian remained still for a noticeable length of time, as if to ponder the deeper meaning of their nightly encounter. Vera did not dare breathe, then had to nonetheless.

The whip carved a searing line across her shoulder blades. Searing in its coldness, before the burning pain erupted. The muscles in her torso cramped up, shaping her back into a concave and pressing the freshly taken air straight out of her lungs again. But the pain bent with her body, lingering and building, her first-ever lash like true love’s first kiss. With a groan Vera forced herself to relax, to relish. Where the cracker had landed near the outer ridge of her right scapula, the pain was hottest; a spike perpendicular to the pulsing trace of the leather across her shoulders, giving the hurt a three-dimensional quality.

Ponygirl Vet — Part Two of Maybe Five

Ponygirl Vet

Part 2 of Maybe 5

Beyond, the central hub was but scarcely lit by a skeleton crew of sodium lamps. The four barns ran away from it like cardinal points on a compass. None showed any signs of activity. Following her out, Adrian closed the gate to the northern building.

“Don’t want to disturb the fillies, now want we?”

The spot where Vera was about to cause some potential disturbance lay straight ahead. Two upright H-beams set in concrete were looming against the night sky, wire ropes dangling from them. Every step towards them rid her of some of her embarrassment and added a good deal of timidity. Changed the state of her face from flushed to pale. With ponygirls, corporal punishment as a concept of repentance and deterrence was obviously pointless. The key to controlling those pesky little critters was pain compliance, either through acute correction or – in the long run – through imprinting the fear of consequences, should unruly behaviour occur.

Ponygirl Vet — Part One of Three

Ponygirl Vet

Part 1 of 3 (but Let’s not Fool Ourselves)

Her first hoofed patient this morning was Applejuice.

As the ponygirl was led in by her nose lead, Vera spotted the slight founder even with her glasses gone AWOL. Applejuice was favouring her left hind leg over her right, and continued doing so even when being slowed down to a halt in the centre of the examination room. The chimes of her bells drifted away.

“I’m with you folks in a sec…” she ensured whilst binding her hair back.

Where are those bloody glasses?

The pony’s handler checked her field watch not too subtly, an action utterly failing to prompt the veterinarian to unprofessional haste. Vahrenfeld Stables had a foxgirl roaming about the compound as an unofficial mascot. Without Vera finding her glasses, they could add a molegirl to their collection as well.

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two:

The Dire-Stones

For a sennight the welts drawn on Midriél’s rear faded, and for the same sennight her dark desire rose anew. The pleasure she had found under her lover’s cane had been absolute, but oh so fleeting, the memory of it turned to a mocking phantasm. The burning Evandolas’ pole had left in its wake was gone, replaced by an emptiness along her oral passage and up the more sinister one of her bottom.

Sun-danced water caressed her skin, washed away the day’s strains and replenished the Elf-girl. She dove down into the coolness, broke the surface again, the copper of her hair turned rust. Midriél spun about and fell still, floating on the tiny waves, eyes closed against the late light. With her ears submerged she could not hear the forest, yet timely a smile found her soft lips. Neither turning her head nor opening her eyes she began a gentle backstroke towards the sole pebble shore of the steep-banked loch. As the ground reached up she abandoned her levitating pose and tumbled to stand upright. The water bared her shoulders, and she could see – and could be seen from – the stony stretch before the trees.

Evandolas was sitting in the midst of it, next to the boulder on which her attire was neatly splayed out. His voice, teasing and gentle, was carried over to her with the faintest of echoes.

“A goblin once snuck through the leaves,

Saw close a maiden bathing.

He grabbed her clothes, the worst of thieves,

All deer roused by his laughing.”

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (III)

Midriél and Evandolas

Part Two of Two (and of this the third share):

The Dire-Stones (continued)

The grassy soil was untrodden within and without the circle, and touched only by windborne leaves. A hidden force, almost physical in nature, sought to repel her with ever greater potency the closer Midriél advanced the centre stone. It bore uncanny resemblance to the effect one witnessed when trying to bring together the opposing ends of two witch-iron pieces. And still Evandolas’ firm hand on the slave chain was needed less and less, as Midriél at last hearkened to the primal promises before her.

Intend or time had slanted the outer stones, and them alone. And whilst they were encrusted by moss and lichen, the solitary monolith bore blasphemous carvings across every region of its untainted surface. Mesmerised by the ever-similar yet never-same patterns Midriél tilted to reach them with a finger. A stern yanking on the lead was needed to tear the she-Elf away.

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).

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.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Eight

Welcome to the Stud

Ten regained some degree of consciousness as she was unhooked from the whipping post, and I pitied her for that. The lashed girl was shaking violently, shivering as if exposed to freezing cold – although she seemed to burn up at the same time. The guards dragged her naked form down the platform and away, leaving the whip and the Ten’s clothing behind. The lady doc followed without too much of a haste.

If Warden Navier addressed some final words of righteous anger to us, I did not process them. I couldn’t clear my mind from the images of the blood whipping I had just witnessed. This quality of cruelty, this wilful physical and mental destruction of a human being would never fail to make me sick to my stomach.

Pony Boot Camp – Part Thirty-Seven

… Goes Unpunished

“Since today all of you are in their third week here,” Kandrin stated correctly during the little fall-in the next morning. From Eleven up to me, it was day 15. The others of my group have had a one day head start.

“As stressed various times in the past, bearing is crucial for a ponygirl. Every move and every pose are to be inherently sublime. After two weeks a certain grip on basic techniques as well as personal engagement to constantly better yourselves is expected. Therefore poor executions will not be tolerated anymore.”

Our group leader chose not to enlighten us when such things had ever been tolerated.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Five

The Hour of the Horse

The turmoil that ripped me out of my sleep was absolute. Yelling and shouting everywhere. Infernal noise. The barrack lights going on and out again, as fast as the neon tubes could cope. On and out. On and out. I hadn’t got the slightest idea of what was going on or how late or early it was. Men were storming in, kicking against the steel bed frames. They thundered stroke after stroke down on the startled occupants, literally whipping them out of their bunks. After another staccato the lamps stayed dark, but our nocturnal intruders keep switching their torches on and off, flashing in our faces, blinding us. From all directions came the eldritch crackling and white-blue arcs from spark sticks being set off in the air.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Two

Vanilla Dreams

Sleep did not come easily for me. Staring into the dark room I tried to blank my mind, but only opened it to the day’s grisly events. I tried to occupy it with pleasant thoughts; funny moments with my flatmate, my favourite music, the smell of a new car. Ere I knew it my silly subconscious had made sinister associations with the Maserati I’d borrowed and the odour of freshly worn leather tack. Eighty-six more days of this, and I would be in need of some serious therapy – if I would be able to lie on a couch, that was.