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.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Nine

Rubberise It!

As expected I was haunted by nightmares. Most scenes blurred into intangible phantasms of blood and screams upon waking. One dream sequence remained clear: me running about the camp and the waterfall, desperately trying to find Ten’s clothes.

At precisely early as fuck o’clock we were standing in the dark and cold for the little fall-in, our group leader facing us. A light yet persistent rain was coming down, and Kandrin wore a DACC issued rain cape far too wide for her small frame.

“Better get used to the weather. Autumn in these regions is fickle.”

She kept fighting with the rim of her hood, which again and again fell over her eyes.

“But what’s a bit of rain, right?”

Sneak Peek: Pony Boot Camp — Part Thirty-Nine

Originally I had planned for Part Thirty-Nine to be released this month, but as so often before my writing routine was messed up by an annoying reality. Since I am now aiming at the first week of October, here’s something to shorten the waiting time:

Alterations for Pony Boot Camp (IV)

Again it is time for our popular series “things Venom, that dork, has botched up because he hasn’t got the first idea of what he is scribbling down”.

~

Part XXXVII:

I didn’t recognise the steep glade, but deduced that I was south-west of the camp, yet still east of the river.

is changed into:

I didn’t recognise the steep glen, but deduced that I was south-west of the camp, yet still east of the river.

I changed this quite shortly after uploading the chapter, so most of you have read the altered version. “Glade” had indeed been the word of choice originally, but “glen” created the better picture, so I decided to swap the terms. I simply forgot it till after the publishing, though.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Eight

Once More with Feeling

The others had gathered in the tack room, already in various states of bondage. A handler from another group was deputising for Kendrick. Miss Cuntling caught up with me and shoved me towards him.

“Tack her up.”

As much as I wanted to wallow in self-pity for the rest of this glorious autumn day, I had to move on – or that bitch would make me move. It didn’t take much imagination and very little of the soreness radiating from my fresh piercing wounds to deduce that I was now even more vulnerable. So let’s pick up the action as Ersatz-Kendrick finished the boring standard tacking and stepped compliably aside for Miss C. to bring on the new and exciting stuff!

Pony Boot Camp — Part Twenty-Seven

Seva Kandrin’s about to Make You Her Bitch

Our primary sense is our vision (at least as long as nobody comes up with the idea of putting full blinkers on us). The sense most closely linked to our memory is said to be the olfactory one. Yet there is something deeply influential about our hearing, too. Maybe it is the duality of hearing and feeling, of how the same sensation is processed twice by our minds. Or maybe I own a tendency for heightened acoustic recall, a proneness to certain rhythms and frequencies. To the latter, the frequencies, I was subjected again the next morning as Miss Cuntling whistled us out of our bunks. The insufferable sound heralded another day of anguish.