A Day in the Life
After we loaded what would likely be the last cartload for the day, something was off for the team. Generally well matched, Lara struggled, hooves skidding on a stone, as we started up the rise. I snapped the reins firmly and she stopped, hooves skidding in on the path and pulling the cart off to the right. Cara stopped trying to pull and tried to look over at her, but her bridle and martingale did not allow her to turn her head far enough to see around the blinkers. She sighed as Lara launched into a tantrum.
I wasn’t surprised, in fact, this was long overdue. I had paired her with Cara on purpose, the experienced and patient ponygirl understanding how foreign and frustrating this well would be for Lara, and how exhausted she would be. That she had lasted until Friday, rather than losing her composure during training on Monday and Tuesday, or on her first real workday on Wednesday, was a testament to her temperament.
I gave her a few moments to collect herself, rummaging in the tool box under my seat on the cart, being sure to clank things loudly. I walked quietly beside her and turned in front of her, knowing the blinkers would leave her unable to see me until I was almost in front of her. She started, but didn’t stop struggling, pulling at her fore hooves, which were safely strapped up where they belong, and at her elbows, anchored to her strict corset-harness at her waist. She was pushing at the bit in her mouth, a fairly large rubber training bit with a rubber ball pressing on her tongue, and tossing her head to the limit allowed by the bridle, reins, and farthingale.
Her focus darted from me to anywhere but me, so I reached out and grabbed her reins, both in one hand, and lifted her to where she was teetering on her hooves. Her eyes went down, trying to find my hand, then back up to me. She quieted, but tears streamed down her face. A surge hit me, I wanted her more than ever in that moment, but I kept my face passive.
I let her cry for a few moments, then said “You have done very well this week. I know this has been hard for you in so many ways. I am certain you can still complete this week successfully, but now it has to be harder. Understand?”
I give her a moment to digest that, to see if she will balk. She stares at me, a flash of anger passes over her. Good, she should be angry about this.
“If you need to talk, we can talk now, but there will be a penalty. Do you want to talk?”
I see her mull it over, then she stamps her right hoof once. I wait several beats to see if it is followed by another, for no, but it is not. I smile and release my grip on her reins, unsnapping them from her bit, hooking them to her harness, then I slip the bit out of her bridle and from her mouth. I offer her the rubber ball that had been pressing on her tongue and she obediently licks the drool from it, then I put it in my tool belt pouch.
“You have the floor.”
She stares defiantly. God, this gurl breaks my heart over and over again. “Why?! Why me?!”
She continues to stare at me, but she’s shaking. I know she is probably near the limit of her physical strength. She has no way of knowing it, but tomorrow will be much easier for her, possibly even fun. A very new kind of fun, but maybe fun. But for now, she needs to get this cart over the hill and back to the barn.
I kiss her, her lips flattened and unyielding but she doesn’t pull away. I look from her lips to her nose to those eyes I could just die in and say “Because you are mine. Because I’m strong enough and mean enough and asshole enough to take what I want. Because you are the most precious thing in all of creation. And because I crave your pain and your obedience, and I will take that too.”
She’s heard this before, but not enough, not nearly enough for it to become her personal credo. Yet. She will. I find myself hoping it takes years, decades, to fully break her. I let her process this for a minute, I can see a new awareness of what I mean dawning on her. She looks at me, her next question written on her face, so I touch my finger to her lips so I don’t have to add to her torment now.
“It’s not your fault. It’s never your fault. It is always my fault. You have to do this because I’m an asshole, not because you are bad, but because you are so very good. Never ever doubt that, not for a moment.”
The tears flow freely now. I silence another question with a touch, one we both know the answer to. A let her cry for a minute, then two, then I lift the new bit into her vision. Where the training bit had a rubber ball that filled her mouth and pressed into her tongue and the roof of her mouth, this has a flat surgical stainless steel plate with spikes top and bottom. The bit will press the spikes into her palate when pulled on, the bouncing of the reins will presse them into her tongue. She stares at it in horror, eyes widening, then sniffles and opens her mouth. Wide.
I work the bit behind her teeth, slip it through the rings in her bridle, and attach the reins, being careful not to jerk the bit around. I kiss the tip of her nose and say “That is what your question cost you. For balking…”
I bring out a short length of chain with wire links, quite open in design. Her eyes open when it enters her view, she knows what this sort of chain is for. I tighten her reins over her shoulders, enough to keep her facing forward or press the spikes into her mouth, then move to her side. I release her hair from the scrunchy keeping it in a low ponytail, split it into thirds, and set about braiding it into the chain. Her hair is still fairly short, about shoulder blade level on her tiny back, so I am only able to brain a half dozen links into it this low. I leave the chain swinging past the tail that blooms out of her harness and reach into my tool back one more time.
Stepping in front of her, I pull out a large-ish hook. The tip is a solid stainless shaft with a ball the size of a golf ball on the end, both shaft and ball covered with dimples like a golf ball. I bring up a tube of play lube with the other hand, squirt a blob of lube onto the ball.
Her face is a mixture of fear, panic, and lust. I grab the reins behind her head and lift up, pulling the spikes into her tongue. She rears her head back snapping against the martingale. I push her harness aside where it passes forward between her legs and work the ball and shaft straight up her lovely little ass, then grab the chain and click it into place at the top of the hook. I release the pressure on the reins and she jerks with a squeal, driving the hook up inside her, then her eyes go wide as she realizes where that ball is.
I step back in front of her as she tries to adjust to this, mincing little steps exploring what the ball is going to do to her. I pointedly look over my shoulder where the sun is sinking below the hill, then back at her. I touch where the cruel chastity cage I have inflicted upon her since the moment she became mine keeps the last tiny shred of her manhood locked inside her, unable to peek out even the tiniest bit.
“You are allowed to orgasm, but you are not allowed to stop. Understood?”
She tosses her head, shrieks a tiny bit, then makes a single tentative stomp.
“If you stop again, I will leave Cara without her bit tonight.” Her eyes widened. After a week of hard work, even a well trained pony like Cara might be ready to meet out some pony justice if left her teeth or a fore-hoof to use as a weapon. The ponies are always hobbled at night, both to keep them at a moderate pace and to prevent kicking.
With that, I return to the cart, empty my tool pouch into the box under the seat, slam it, and climb on. I pick up the reins, one set in each hand, and make sure I give both a firm shake as I quietly order “get on up.” A bit of left rein brings them back onto the track and Lara digs until, gasping and squeaking as she tackles the hill.
As we crest the hill, the ponies are bathed in the setting sun. I almost feel sorry for Lara, at the beginning of this life she didn’t choose, but then I am mesmerized by the sight of the pony tail, the hook and her bouncing ass.