Pony Boot Camp — Part Sixty

The Hand that Holds the Reins

(Pony Boot Camp 10^th Anniversary Chapter)

I made it back in time and slipped into the barn through the mild chaos the arrival of the Twoers had raised. Leather gear collected next to spit-dripping steel bits and of course ponysuits. More than one fellow filly needed my assistance to get out of the snappy material, as exhaustion, pain and roughly two hours of sweating rendered the procedure significantly more difficult for them as it had been for me a short while ago. We unbuckled, unlaced and unbridled for twenty minutes until the last pony was stripped down and under the outdoor showers.

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 (II)

Midriél and Evandolas

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

The Dire-Stones (continued)

Evandolas relished his newly-found wanderlust with vigorous steps. Easy was it for Midriél in her plight to picture herself taken by brutish raiders to be sold into thraldom to some Esvren warlord. In time her truelove might assume the role of such a dreadful master, who would hold her in heavy irons, and whose extinct dialect was said to know a full dozen words for pain.

For a quarter of an hour they followed the winding path through wooded foothills. Each stumbling or slowing of hers was met with a hefty tug to the lead, which in turn resulted in a well-gagged shriek and immediate obedience. Only through a veil of scalding throes did Midriél after such an incentive quicken her gait. Yet quicken it she did, across stony wash-outs and underneath fallen trunks. Sweat stung in the small of her back and the crooks of her elbows, where the stick had roughened her skin. Before her, always a tad too far away for the comfort of her bosom, Evandolas kept a jaunty celerity in spite of this numerous burdens.

Midriél and Evandolas — Part Two of Two (I)

Midriél and Evandolas

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

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.”

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.

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 Forty-Seven

Torture of Proxy

Day two after the gymkhana, and I was still in limp home mode (I also was still on red alert, for those who are keeping book). Once again the wise and true word proved itself right that injured flesh hurt the most the day after tomorrow. After the fun of hyper-extreme nipple torture and forced self-inflicted clit flaying I felt like chewed and swallowed. According to public opinion, I looked the part, too. The thought of masturbating the edge off had come and gone – I couldn’t even pee without yelping. I was also positive I would never be able to wear bras or tops again; the fabric felt like sandpaper on my breasts.

The Office Horse — Part Two of Two

The Office Horse

Part Two: The Horse

Immediately she tried to wiggle out of Rob’s grip, yet at the same time seeking hold at him to lift herself off. Her legs stretched out in a wild search for the ground, but more than a span remained between her toes and the carpet, no matter her struggles. Jördis managed to get a hand before and the other behind her, pushing herself up a crucial centimetre.

“Are you fucking mad?! Let me down!”

The edge was painfully digging into her palms. Reuben had repositioned his hold to her shoulders, effectively preventing the girl from throwing herself off the horse.

“Are they always making such a fuss?”

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 — Stand-Alone Stable

The following short story is based on my longer narration Pony Boot Camp and is written specifically for cpony.com. I had originally planned it as a medley of several existing chapters, but found them too entangled to be shortened. So the content in this story is all-new. It is also not entirely in sync with the main narration chronologically and canon-wise, but would have its place roughly around chapter 30.

Having read the source work isn’t necessary to enjoy Stand-Alone Stable. Seventeen, who is called Pony 17 here, is sentenced to 90 days in a special boot camp, where her group leader Kandrin shows her the darker sides of pony play.

Like the narration, the short story is meant for owners who like to be a tad mean to their ponygirls now and then.

 

Pony Boot Camp – Stand-Alone Stable

I gave a wince of pain as Miss Kandrin pulled my reins tight across the overhead bar just outside the tack room. Secured like this, I couldn’t even back off or lower my head without causing myself further pain. And if there was one thing bestowed upon me plenty, it was pain. So I stood straight and proud, rocking slightly in my pony boots which literally kept me on my toes.

“Don’t feel sorry for yourself, Pony 17. I told you what would happen if you show that attitude again.”