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 (IV)

Midriél and Evandolas

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

The Dire-Stones (continued)

Midriél’s muscles were exhausting themselves in a twisting frenzy, the uncontrolled trembling of a woman being lashed to madness. Ever deeper the whip reached into her sundered flesh, ever more laboured the cycle of her breathing became. All worlds had shrunken to the black denseness before her and the red mayhem behind. Thrice more the whip struck with such furore that she could not keep her torso under tension. Air came and went in ragged gasps, the thrill of suffocating addictive. Lightheaded, Midriél allowed the pain to overwhelm her whilst the final lines, curving towards the monolith’s very top, were redrawn in her blood. Lust and suffering, her very essence she gave to the stone, and it accepted her gift.

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.

A Simple Game

A Simple Game

Tonight we would play, the five of us. Nothing fancy, just some hours of fun. A simple game. Gwendolen, perfect hostess that she was, had prepared the lounge-like playroom for the events coming to pass with the expected level of experience and style. Centrepiece was the square wooden board, standing upright on carved legs. A thin steel sheet made its front compatible with magnets.

I gave Jessica’s leash a short tug downwards, and my slavegirl fell to her knees into a traditional waiting position; mouth ball-gagged, eyes lowered, arms behind her back, naked bum on her bare heels. We had arrived together with Dobs and her latest project, a sporty girl with medium-long brown hair. Mina bore the rope marks so typical for any project girl of Dobs’ – some fresh, some fading, all of them in intricate patterns. Dobs was a bondage fanatic, above all she adored flesh imprisoned by knots. What Dobs was not was a dominant per se – arguably the main reason she had “volunteered” Mina for the evening. Jessica and I were here because we both liked the thrill.

Pony Boot Camp — Part Forty-One

L’Estrapade

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.

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.