Right now, Kendrick wasn’t a happy handler.
As whimsical and prone to antics as he might be, the staff leader always became noticeably ill-humoured as soon as he found his charges ridiculed – the fate of the four “winners” being a prime example. Kendrick truly held up the idea of a dignified ponygirl. Personally I always experience a certain lack of dignity when I drool out of my forced-open mouth whilst having a fake tail stuck up my arse. Better, then, to approach this concept from a different angle. Continue reading
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. Continue reading
Under my hooves the ground changed towards a more bouncy, less cushioning nature. My perfectly executed high steps caused hollow sounds, and the wheels of the sulky began to rattle in a distinct frequency. That, and the intensified noise of flowing water told me I was crossing the old wooden bridge. It was the first time Miss Cuntling had made me take this route instead of the trail that led upstream towards the Deepfall. I’d love to describe the scenery as I trotted deeper into the woods, but Kandrin had opted for the full blinkers. No distractions from the rein commands. And since this measure alone wasn’t sufficient to solve my alleged attention span problem, Miss C. had done what she liked to do best: She’d fitted me with a new bit. Continue reading
Miss Cuntling’s Day Off
The ridiculous honking noises startled me so much I almost fell out of my bunk. Sure as shite that wasn’t Kandrin’s whistle.
“Goooooood Morning, Deepfall!”
In the barrack door stood Kendrick, a bulb hooter in one hand. It looked original, like those brass horns on really old cars. He was obviously enjoying his toy, honking cheerfully at girls to chase them this way and that as he strode up the aisle.
“Forecast says cloudy, then clear, 24°C, light west wind. See you lovelies outside!” Continue reading
First thing after the big morning fall-in was corral training. For reasons nobody had bothered revealing to us we were to be fitted with full tack right from the start – which paved the way for another gratuitous dressing scene. As Kendrick pulled my crotch strap tight, I went on the tips of my toes – or, given that I was already standing en pointe, on the tips of my hooves. From another corner of the tack room our resident pervert glanced over whilst continuing the tedious task of lacing up Eleven’s monoglove. Creepy Chap might hold strange beliefs when it came to romantic interactions, but he knew a randy pony if he saw one. Continue reading
This was an undeniably beautiful spot, I had to admit that much. Located right at the foot of the mountain plateau, the glade was basically a cul-de-sac, with the trail being the only way in and out – at least if one was yoked to a sulky. Miss Cuntling had reined me to a relatively gentle stop near the natural pool where the water collected after its non-stop decent. A fine mist filled and cleansed the air and created ethereal rainbow effects. Even in my exhausted condition I gazed at the impressive display before me, the churning and roaring flow crashing down into the pool. Not that the Deepfall sported an extensive amount of water. The height of the drop was what gave it its might. The fall’s brink, surrounded by huge spruces dramatically clinging to the ground, lay 200 metres above us. Continue reading
By now more ponygirls had arrived to be readied for a little tour. Handlers were busy harnessing them to the carts. A tall and thin tomboy with scraggy black hair caught my attention in particular. 1310, if I wasn’t mistaken. Despite being snugly embraced by tack her lean body still managed to show off the elaborated tattoos running intricately along her limbs and down her back and sides. The dark inkings went disturbingly well with sturdy leather. Continue reading