1) Bryony
It was still dark when Sam, the groom, woke me, pulling me reluctantly by my stable halter from the blanket where I lay wrapped in the warmth of Honey’s body. It was early autumn and the air in the stable was chill making my skin ripple with goosebumps and my nipples harden. Any anguish at being roused so early from sleep, however, was soon displaced, by the pleasure of Sam’s rampant cock entering me roughly as I knelt still blinking the sleep from my eyes and trying not to shiver.
This response to such use may sound wanton but I can’t help it, I’m a pony girl, it’s in my nature to be constantly horny; I am bred to be like this and, even if I wasn’t, the way I am kept and treated, the constant bondage and relentless sexual exploitation of my body would be enough to overcome the sensibility of even the most chaste maiden.
Needless to say, I was already wet and, after a few thrusts I was panting; by the time he shot his load into my slick, dripping pussy I was moaning loudly around the leather bit he pushed into my mouth to stem the tide of my cries as the first orgasm of the day erupted in my submissive and constantly randy body. I say ‘first’ but it might have been the second; Honey, my stablemate, had been particularly on heat overnight, her willingness to please me outstripped only just by her need for my tongue in her own hot honeypot. I think it was seeing the look in her eye and the trembling need in her body that had made Sam omit the leather night bits he usually leaves wedged between our teeth when we are stabled together. It is not that a pony girl can’t pleasure her stablemate with a bit in place but with our arms always strapped into pony sheaths and our feet laced into pony boots, a girl has to be pretty resourceful if she is to stay popular with her stablemate.
Having satisfied himself, he wiped his cock on my hair and led me out into the yard where I stood shivering but pleasantly satisfied while he harnessed me to the large cart ready for the early morning run into town.
For those unfamiliar with pony harnesses, I should mention that there are a variety of styles and, for the dawn trot at the hands of the stable boy and under maid, the harness used is heavy and very workaday; certainly not the sparkling, polished and sleek tack any self respecting pony likes herself to be seen in; come to think of it, most ponies would prefer not to be seen at the jog-trot in front of a cart driven by the stableboy but I am owned by a modest household; Sir Charles may be knight of the realm and a veteran of the peninsula war but having married off three of his four daughters with suitable dowries he is no longer as rich as he once was.
Sam thus removed my stable halter and dropped the heavy leather work harness over my shoulders and buckled the collar around my neck before crossing the straps between my breasts. Most pony harnesses have a high collar that keeps a girl’s chin up and reduces her ability to turn her head from side to side; combined with blinkers this seriously restricts a girl’s view and keeps her mind on the task in hand; that of slaving in harness under her master’s or sometimes mistress’ whip. Military ponies are, of course, usually driven hooded. Most harnesses have some sort of girdle and in work harnesses this is usually padded and buckled tightly in place both to ensure the harness doesn’t slip and because even the most slovenly of ponies likes to have a slim attractive waist. Then he tightened the crotch strap.
It’s small wonder that we ponies are always horny; crotch straps are carefully designed to help fulfil a girl’s needs, fitting tightly between the buttocks and then nestling into a girl’s sex; they allow for our plugs, of course; a tail in the rump and, usually a much larger one between the legs. Whenever a pony is in harness, she should be plugged and, with crotch strap, tail and often stimulation from bells jangling on our nipples we frequently find ourselves running in a state of dreamy arousal, the miles seeming to fly by punctuated by the tick of the whip to mark our moments of ecstasy. It is quite common for a pony girl to climax while running in harness especially when at the rising trot and, while this is supposed to be a humiliation, a way of showing our betters we are nothing more than animals subject to base lusts, I think, secretly, many ladies envy us. Knowing their pony is aroused under their whip is I’m sure, something that gentlemen find exciting; certainly, it is my experience that when a pony climaxes in harness she is far more likely to find herself bent over the hitching bar or tumbled into the hay and used by her driver when she is finally reined in at her destination.
With me harnessed and hitched to the cart, already hot for more with my orifices plugged and the crotch strap rubbing deliciously at my sex making me eager to be off, Sam went to fetch Honey.
‘Shlut.’ Honey said around her bit as we stood together.
‘Yesh,’ I whispered back. Ponies are not supposed to talk, not in the presence of others at least.
However, Honey’s always jealous that Sam usually works out his morning erection on me and not her. It’s not as if she doesn’t get it; she’s the favourite of Tom, the blacksmith who seems to be constantly in our stable to check on us ensuring our shoes are not rubbing or our piercings not tarnishing. He’s always finding an excuse to have Miss Cassandra drive the lovely Honey over to his workshop to adjust a harness strap or replace a nipple bell. Honey always comes back with a smile on her face and her mane tousled; she usually has half a dozen new bruises on her tits and handprints or the mark of a whip on her rump too. Although, sadly for Honey, I think it’s all front; in my opinion, Tom is really hot for Miss Cassandra, not that he’ll ever get the chance, being a blacksmith and her being a lady.
Once Sam had finished harnessing and hitching Honey, we stood waiting in the chill morning our breath fogging around our bits, and rocking on our hooves partly to keep the circulation going, partly to enjoy the caresses of our crotch straps and partly to swish our tails at Sam who sat in the dog cart holding the reins and idly flicking the whip above our heads until eventually, Cat emerged. Catherine is one of the master’s two maids. As usual on cold mornings, she was wrapped in winter cloak but as she stepped into the stable yard, it parted revealing the little black maid’s dress she wore underneath. Honestly, we ponies are considered louche for deliberately flaunting our nubile bodies by tossing our manes and swishing our tails as we trot past with our nipple bells jingling but maids are such flirts and those little skimpy dresses they wear expose more that they cover up. The neckline of Cat’s dress is so low that Sir Charles can see right down the front when she curtseys to him and he gets more than a flash of her lacy white knickers when she bends over to serve Lady Barbara. Her stocking tops are always on show and those heels maids wear are more saucy than pony boots. Having said that, I still think tight leather beats clinging lace any day.
Sam helped her up into the cart and I heard the rustle of chains. I’ve never quite understood why maids are kept in chains, it’s not as if they are slaves and it must interfere with their duties. We ponies really don’t need our arms and it's sensible to keep them strapped out of the way behind us in pony sheaths; it stops us playing with ourselves for one thing and, of course, with each other - mostly. Cat was in her day chains this morning, a collar with a chain down her back to cuffs around her elbows and then cuffs linking her wrists joined by another length of chain to the cuffs around her ankles that are a little like pony hobbles. The effect is not displeasing and seeing a pretty maid tripping along after her mistress with tiny hobbled steps holding a shopping bag in one hand and a parasol in the other can be quite distracting; after all, it’s not as if we’re made that differently.
2) The Dairymaids
With Cat on the seat beside him, Sam flicked the whip across our rumps and Honey and I broke into a jog trot out of the yard.
It was only just beginning to turn light but there were already folk abroad; labourers mostly, some driving carts and, in the fields, I could see others at work whipping ponies harnessed to ploughs as they prepared the ground for the winter crop. As a rule, agricultural ponies aren’t worth a second glance; they’re mostly thickset, dumb creatures although occasionally one comes across a girl with a pleasing body and a decent tongue.
We approached Mortonhampstead without incident; the roads are good this side of the moor and the only real danger in these parts is highwayman who certainly won’t bother a stableboy and maid on a dog cart. Anyway, they are said to muster in the woods out near Bovey or on the main Plymouth road; they’re also unlikely to be abroad at this time in the morning if the tales are to be believed.
As we approached the town, a gig suddenly loomed out of the darkness, approaching at a canter which certainly gave me a turn and I heard Honey let out a startled nicker; but it turned out to be the doctor off on an early call; his pony is a pert blonde with a winning smile who can barely be old enough to be in harness. She’s a pretty little thing and I was excited by the way she winked at me as she passed her mane and tail flying and her deliciously firm looking breasts bouncing delightfully.
In the town, Sam drew us to a halt outside the bakers where the miller’s cart was already drawn up delivering flour, his twin red-headed ponies panting, their breath steaming and their bodies sweating despite the chill from the exertion of drawing his heavy cart. He’s an ex soldier and likes to run his ponies in the military style; hooded and using nipple reins. His pair are good buxom lasses; Italian or Spanish or something like that which he brought home at the end of his campaigning days. As far as I know, neither speaks a word of English but then that doesn’t really matter for ponies especially if they have strong thighs and nice tits like this pair.
If only Sam had drawn us up a little closer where I could renew my acquaintance with Sonia or, perhaps it was Sasha, who I was tethered with at the harvest fair last year?
Cat climbed down from the cart discarding her cloak and went in to collect the bread. Like I say, maids are such flirts; the shop might be warm because of the ovens but the baker is handsome and I could tell by the way she was standing, leaning over to flash her cleavage and bending to test the loaves in the baskets on the floor that she was flirting with him. She emerged with a smile on her face and walked along to the milking parlour her heels clicking on the pavement and her chains rustling. She does have a lovely arse and she knows how to shake it and those stockings she wears make her legs look almost as toned as a trained pony girl.
Sam let us walk along behind her and, as we reached the dairy, Goldie emerged carrying a pair of churns balanced across her shoulders. The blonde dairymaid is a common sight in the town delivering the milk, her yoke locked around her neck and wrists; typically for a dairymaid, her large breasts were bare and milk was dripping from her swollen red nipples; from the look of her breasts and the carefree expression on her face, I gathered she’d just been milked. She wore the usual blue and white dress, a mantle with a high frilly collar and long sleeves linked to the bodice below her breasts by a thin strip of cotton; typically, the tightly fitted bodice split just above her sex to leave that bare like her breasts and and the split skirt was drawn in at her ankles with more lacy frills. The look is quite the fashion in society at the moment although society dresses are not usually blue and white checked and tend to have a skirt rather than closing around the ankle like men’s breeches. I can understand the need for a dairymaid’s breasts to be bare but don’t really understand the need to have a sex and inner thighs on show although I’m told it’s something to do with cleanliness which perhaps explains why dairymaids are shaved daily.
Inside the parlour, the other dairymaid, Bristols, was being milked by the owner. The little brunette was locked into the milking frame, bent at the waist, her legs spread and locked in steel cuffs around her thighs and ankles her wrists cuffed behind her to give the dairyman full access to her udders which he was pumping rhythmically as he squirted her milk into the steel pail positioned below her. I’m not sure I’d want to be a dairymaid; much as I like the idea of bigger breasts, and having my nipples played with at least twice a day, I much prefer the sleek look of a pony girl in harness.
The dairyman paused in his labours as Cat collected our usual churn of milk and filled a small bottle with Bristol’s latest efforts; Lady Barbara likes a tipple of maiden’s milk when she breaks her fast.
With our shopping completed by a visit to the grocer, Sam turned us around and drove us back to Mares Hall. It was almost fully light by the time we clattered into the stable yard and D’Cream, Cat’s fellow maid, was waiting in her close chains, a serving table strapped between her breasts ready to take breakfast up to Sir Charles’ and Lady Barbara’s chamber. As this would be a visit to the bedchamber, D’Cream was suitably attired which is to say she wore a little silk belt to hold up her stockings and her chains. Personally, I can’t see all the fuss that’s made about a frilly belt and some metal clips to hold up a girl’s fishnets but there’s always giggling and hilarity when she flashes them; I mean, it’s hardly as enticing as a full dress harness. Close chains do interest me; I’m a pony, I spend my life in bondage, I’m bred and trained to enjoy it and, quite frankly, the tighter the better; so seeing saucy French maid, D’Cream, with her pert little titties and darkly rouged nipples shoved out over a tray of breakfast and her shoulders pulled back so tightly she could be wearing pony-sheath always grabs my attention; especially when you see the short chain locking her wrists high behind her back to the back of her shiny steel collar and her bicep cuffs locked little more than a hand’s breadth apart; naturally she wears thumb cuffs when she’s chained this.
She’d done her makeup in the usual way this morning, setting off those lovely big eyes with coal-dark eyeliner and smoothing her complexion then darkly rouging her lips to match those pouting nipples. If she ever ventured into the stables to serve me breakfast, I’d definitely take a tumble in the hay with her; sadly though, she never does and I understand, when not required to service Lady Barbara or any other member of the household who surely keep her extremely busy, she likes to share her bed with Cat.
With Lady Barbara’s ‘sweet milk’ placed on D’Cream’s tray and Cat tottering into the house with the other provisions, Sam led us back to the stable, unhitching us from the cart and feeding us. He likes to do this by hand which is sweet and a lot less messy than crouching over a feed trough trying not to dip our breasts in the oatmeal; so as we do on most mornings, we knelt at his feet, still in harness as he fed us bread and cheese and slices of apple before holding a ladle of water to our lips.
Honey had just finished thanking him when Mistress Goose came to collect me for Miss Cassandra’s driving lesson. Miss Cassandra, or Cassie as I once called her, is the youngest of Sir Charles’ daughters; the one he hasn’t yet managed to marry off. She is my age and, when we were children, we often played together until we came of age and our lives took sharply different turns; Cassie becoming Miss Cassandra, attending balls and wearing dresses and me fulfilling my birthright as her naked, harnessed and obedient pony. It is perhaps as a result of our history that Honey usually gets to play pony for Miss Cassandra; I like to think it’s because Cassie feels uncomfortable about strapping her former playmate into harness and whipping her rump. The exception to this rule is when the major visits when she prefers to use me. I’ve never really understood this arrangement although I am a better pony than Honey; I mean Honey is good but I’m better so, when the major’s here, it’s important to put on a show; a little like having the maids use the best china or taking tea in the best drawing room.
Life will change for Cassie sooner or later, of course; sooner probably with all those regular visits from Major James but, if he doesn’t propose soon, that change might be even more significant. It’s not unheard of for a daughter left on the shelf to be sold off as a pony which is probably why most young ladies have both carriage driving and ‘exertion between the shafts’ in their curriculum along with French, drawing, needlepoint and deportment. Today, though, it was very definitely me being Cassie’s pony.
Cassie’s equestrian lessons, of both kinds, are given by the carriage mistress; ‘Mistress Goose’ as she is commonly called behind her back, on account of her slight awkwardness and rather large nose. Mistress Goose is a formidable woman who likes to leave nothing to chance and thus prepares Cassie’s loyal pony herself; it also gives the old retainer a chance to grope said pony and, if she’s in the mood, to enjoy the pleasures of her tongue. I often wonder if Cassie ever thinks it odd that Mistress Goose always appears for her lessons with a healthy glow on her cheeks; perhaps she thinks it’s all the leather the blonde carriage mistress likes to wear.
3) Driving Miss Cassie
Mistress Goose was dressed in her usual leather when she entered the stable; a tight bodice which displayed her obvious assets of a slim waist and big tits to the world and leather breeks with a codpiece that resembled a man’s; I know why she wears has this, it’s for easy removal when she has access to a willing or, at least, obedient tongue; her thighs are always bare and, I wouldn’t be surprised if she could play a pretty fair pony with those toned legs; her shiny boots are Spanish, Toledo leather, and come up to the thigh. The hard ‘playing with the boys’ exterior is all very genuine with the Goose; she’s as tall as Tom, the blacksmith and woe betide anyone who crosses her; play with the boys she might but she definitely doesn’t lie with the boys; she likes a girl’s body next to hers and she’s not above using the odd toy she’s picked up on her travels to the continent to enhance the experience.
Today though there was clearly going to be nothing exotic for me, just the usual tight leather harness, plugs and the kiss of the whip; it’s enough for me especially combined with Mistress Goose’s skill in handling a pony; which is not to say she’s gentle with us. She tutted the moment she saw me and realised that Sam had left me in my work harness. That earned me six blows of the whip to my rump as a punishment and she would have turned the whip on Sam if he hadn’t gathered up Honey and led her quickly out of the stable to hitch to the delivery wagon.
I’m a pony, I’m used to being whipped, it goes with the territory; I even enjoy it sometimes, done right when a girl is after something a little rough, but on this occasion it felt unjustified; it clearly wasn’t my fault.
The harness a pony wears for a young lady’s gig is very different to the heavy duty work-a-day harness even if it’s not quite up there with a full dress harness. Young ladies expect fine leather and Cassie, sorry, Miss Cassandra, likes the blue studded leather one with the high collar and little cups for my breasts; these are nice, they push up my little mounds but because of the way they are designed with a gap between the sides do tend to pinch a girl’s nipples. I like the blue studded harness too; the girdle is a soft supple leather and it has thigh cuffs that look like a maid’s stocking tops. The crotch strap has three strands, two to part my labia and a third that goes right inside and is knotted and roughened in a way that gives a girl just the stimulation she needs. After our trot to town and kneeling at Sam’s feet with front and tail plugs still working their magic inside me I was ready for more and, after venting her displeasure, the Goose’s fingers ensured I was kept on the very edge.
She really knows what she’s doing, bringing a girl to drooling heat and then smearing her juices on her nipples just in case they're not stiff enough. By the time I was bridled and belled, I was panting like the proverbial mare in heat and more than ready to go down on Mistress Goose to offer my tongue and anything else she asked for. I tried to be a good girl, I really did, but when she tightened the central crotch strap, pushing my plug deep inside me I just lost control and howled into my bit earning myself another six stripes. She’s a woman who likes to use her whip on a pony and after handling me was clearly ready for a lashing with my tongue so when I dropped to my knees more than ready to thank her she unlaced that aforementioned codpiece and I thrust my tongue inside giving her the full benefit of my considerable training.
We were both panting slightly and the Goose was positively radiant from the orgasm I’d just given her when she led me through the arch from the stable yard to the main courtyard ready for Miss Cassandra’s lesson. I was harnessed to the ‘lady’s gig’; light and manoeuvrable and with a soft pink finish; it has a silk cover that can be raised to keep the sun off a lady’s fair features. It is a pleasure to pull for a working pony.
As we arrived, the footman was just releasing Miss Cassandra, from her deportment restraints. I don’t honestly think daughters of the gentry have any more freedom than we ponies; every time I see Miss Cassandra she’s laced into an arm sheath that is every bit as restrictive as my own even if it is made of fine silk and not rough leather; her elbows still touch and her shoulders are pulled back making her tits stand out. That, of course, is the point; Cassie really needs to be married off; like me she’s twenty seven and that’s way too old really; still Sir Charles and Lady Barbara keep trying. It’s not as if she’s not comely, she has curled blonde hair and a pretty face; and very kissable lips; she’s a little plumper than might be considered ideal, gently curvaceous really which when she’s tightly corseted which she always is, makes her waist look tiny and her breasts jut out like a dairy maid’s udders; and then there’s those strawberry red nipples.
She was wearing the popular ‘dairy maid’ style split front gown; high collar, bare décolletage; the bodice and corset beneath serving up her bare breasts like two large creamy dumplings and the skirt flaring away from her hips to expose her stockinged legs and the shiny steel chastity belt she’s been locked into for the last nine years. I guess there are various ways of keeping a girl sexually charged, one is to keep her plugged and use her frequently, the other is to lock her away and just let her needs build. It’s probably just as well she’s kept in the deportment restraint most of the time, it probably stops her clawing at that belt any time she’s left alone; if it was me, I wouldn’t have any fingernails left. I wasn’t surprised to see her newly freed hands move almost instinctively to her groin. The footman coughed discretely and, with a pained look, Cassie slid her hands behind her back as the footman removed her gag.
Young ladies, like ponies, are to be seen and not heard.
Finally, the footman handed her the driving whip.
‘Good morning, Bryony.’ Cassie said as Mistress Goose brought me to a halt in front of her.
Like a good pony, I stood quietly awaiting my mistress’ pleasure.
‘What’s the matter?’ She asked. ‘Not talking today.’
Obviously, I had a bit between my teeth; although this doesn’t preclude speech it certainly hampers it even if most ponies can communicate between themselves perfectly easily when bridled unless fitted with a specific ‘pony gag’ to prevent this; I’ve worn a few of these in my time and they are not comfortable.
Cassie’s hand caressed my rump and she used the whip to set my nipple bells ringing.
‘I hope you’re going to be a good girl for me today,’ she whispered, her lips close to my ear and her fingers tracing along the straps of my harness. She sniffed and I knew she could smell my arousal; I’m a redhead, you can’t miss it; she could probably smell Sam’s cum too where it had run down and dried on my legs. I shifted slightly under her touch feeling the plugs move inside me. ’I hope you’re looking forward to having me drive you to the ball this evening.’
I understood the implications of this: ponies like me are sold at auction, young ladies like Cassie are sold at balls.
There was a tremor in her voice and I could almost feel her anxiety in her breath on my ear; her chastity belt clicked against the shaft of the gig. I found this behaviour a little odd, I’d have expected her to be excited; the major was surely going to propose at the ball and after all that time locked in her chastity belt she must be absolutely desperate for release. Maybe she was just excited; word under the stairs and in the stables was that she’d been rather volatile of late.
‘Miss Cassandra.’ The Goose broke the moment.
Typical! Imagining Cassie’s need and the way her fingers were touching my body was really making me hot. Young ladies aren’t so different in their needs to ponies and I hadn’t missed the way she’d deliberately brushed her nipples against my side.
I felt Cassie climb into the gig and take the reins.
‘Remember!’ The Goose said. ‘When driving a Lady’s gig, keep the reins tight.’
‘I know,’ Cassie snapped irritably, yanking on the reins.
If I’m honest she had been holding them way too slack but now she drew them too tight, pulling the bit hard into my mouth. I tossed my head and pranced, fighting with the bit and earned myself a stroke of Mistress Goose’s whip on the rump.
‘Steady!’ the carriage mistress admonished.
Maybe she should try having a volatile young woman jerk a metal bar against her jaw. Like most ponies, I’ve had six of my back teeth pulled to allow me to take the bit more easily and my mouth is pretty hardened but too much tension in the reins can still be unpleasant. However, this was no time to complain even if I could and, an instant later, a sharp snap in the rump from Cassie’s whip set me off at the trot.
‘Keep those legs up!’ Cassie called unnecessarily.
From then on, my performance was subjected to the most critical of appraisals with the two of them, young mistress and Carriage Mistress, apparently vying to outdo each other with comments on my gait and posture and pretty much everything else and the steps they took to correct it. Thus, every infraction earned me a slap from Goose’s training crop usually across the thigh or breasts or a slash from my young mistress’s whip mainly directed at my aching and rapidly reddening rump. I’m a good pony; in fact, like most of my kind, I pride myself in being as near physical perfection as a pert redhead bred for tack and harness can be; but there is always going to be a step where a girl’s thigh comes a little too high in the trot or worse, a little too low; or a girl’s stride is too long at the canter or she leans a little too far forward at the gallop. This latter was less of a problem on the tight rein and I earned quite a number of stripes across the breasts for keeping my head too high; so much so that, after a gallop down to the gatehouse, Mistress Goose pulled me up and fitted me with a martingale to make me keep my head down; these run either from the ends of the bit down to a girl’s nipple rings or, if she has one, to her clit ring. Colts are frequently made to wear them but it’s really humiliating for a fully trained pony to be treated like this.
At some point in the proceedings we were joined by Sir Charles and Lady Barbara; the old veteran is a decent enough bloke but he’s punching way above his weight with Lady Barbara or ‘Barbie’ as she was once known; yes, that’s right, Lady Barbara was born into the stables not the drawing room. It’s not rare for a pony girl to be lifted out of the stables, moving into the aristocracy is almost unheard of; however, it’s pretty obvious why; in her day, Barbie must have been one hell of a filly with that blonde hair and those blue eye and breasts the size of small melons that must have kept schoolboys entertained all along the turnpike. Even now she’s pretty hot especially in those split front gowns she likes to sport despite her age; she carries them off too, much to the chagrin of her daughter who for some reason feels she has to compete with her mother for the lowest cut, widest slit and tightest waist at the ball.
Far worse from Miss Cassandra’s point of view, it’s common knowledge that Sir Charles still likes to strap his voluptuous wife into harness and take her for a trot round the estate to relive the days when she served him so admirably on campaign. They do this somewhat clandestinely at night but the whole estate knows and rumour has it that the lovely Lady Barbie is still a pretty fit pony. If I’m being truly bitchy, I would say she probably still has it more than her daughter but then, of course the dam was born to it. The understaff’s gossip has it that in the mornings after these nocturnal perambulations, the Lord and Lady’s bedchamber remains firmly locked until at least lunchtime and Cat and D’Cream both swear that when they finally do enter, the room is littered with pony tack and other paraphernalia suggesting that Lady Barbara’s time in harness extends way beyond her nocturnal sojourns between the shafts and the couple enjoy their congress in what is often called the ‘Prussian style’.
4) The Pony Race
Finally, after some two hours, my performance and that of my young mistress were deemed to be acceptable for a pony being driven by a young lady to meet her beau at the ball and Mistress Goose replaced Cassie in the gig, setting me to a final gallop towards the gatehouse while the footman resecured Cassie in her deportment restraints.
A young lady can be prone to idleness and we all know what idle hands are prone to.
Just like a certain pony she’s always under discipline and after two hours of teasing crotch strap and plugs, I had a virtual river running down her thighs, not to mention very stiff nipples from pinch of the breast supports; I was more than ready to mount the nearest hitching rail and hump herself senseless even if it would earn her a whipping and a night in the restraining stall.
I knew from the off that there had to some artifice in Goose’s little diversion; it couldn’t just be to let me open my legs and cum under the whip like the slut I am; and, just as I reached the end of the drive, I found out when another pony trotted through it.
I recognised her instantly and her driver too.
The pony was Chrissy, and her driver the dashing Major James.
Chrissy is a beauty; raven black hair and storm grey eyes that are almost hypnotic; and her body…. I get wet just thinking about her; that milk white skin of a lady and soft curves and gently full breasts that completely deceive the eye, masking the steely resolve beneath. She runs beautifully; almost, I think, as if she is something more than a mere human pony, as if perhaps she is some sort of faerie changeling. I’d never admit to believing in such things but if there was a man that could charm a faerie it would be the dashing major.
Chrissy was in military harness; leather whitened with pipeclay after the fashion of the lancers and buckles of shining, burnished gold; the white straps of the bodice nipping her waist and the small cups lifting her breasts; she had a high stock collar about her throat and was wearing a dress bridle rather than the the usual battle hood; her boots came high on her thigh. In military fashion she was being run with nipple reins, a bridle bar linking her nipples and had a restrainer clipped to the ring piercing her sex.
A pony girl’s fantasy come true.
And then, of course, there was the major; tall, dark, handsome and, talk about fit; a pony would, I think, die for him or perhaps die just for the pleasure of being his; that body and that curly hair a girl might run her fingers through if she was ever allowed to use them; and then there’s the uniform; we pony girls love a man in uniform.
I almost missed my footing as they came into view, the major swerving his pony elegantly to the right to avoid running right into us. Mistress Goose pulled me up sharply and even forgot to chastise me for my lapse as she turned me hard. I found the major waiting for us looking back at us…at me. I blushed furiously as his eyes raked over me, pleased to be in the second best tack and drawing a gig not a cart but the martingale showed me to be under discipline and, far worse, prevented me from tossing my head tempestuously.
I saw him lift his gaze to look at Mistress Goose, an easy smile on his face.
‘Shall we?’ He called back, flicking his reins and taking Chrissy back to a gentle trot.
I saw him look at me again and then Mistress Goose’s whip struck me hot across the rump and she shook the reins hard enough that the bit threatened to dislodge another two teeth. I got the message and leapt to the gallop from what was almost a standing start.
Chrissy was just coming to the canter as I flew past her, my boots digging into the gravel of the drive and every muscle in my body straining to give me as much of a start as I could get before Chrissy found her stride and drew past me.
I didn’t need Mistress Goose’s whip to keep me at the gallop; I had every incentive to win this race even though I was racing Chrissy, a fully trained and decorated military charger and my chances were slight; I could probably have evened the odds in my mind by reminding myself that she’d probably trotted from Plymouth that morning and the climb through the villages towards the edge of the moor was long and steep; I might also have thought about Mistress Goose who for all her awkward angular height was slim and probably a good two stone lighter than the major; then there was the fact that he was driving a military chariot even a light unarmoured one was much heavier than the lady’s gig.
Afterwards, I thought all these things and reminded myself that I had just endured a gruelling coaching session which had left me fully warmed up and probably, although I hate to admit it, sharpened my technique. However, I didn’t think of any of this, I just concentrated on running and running is what we ponies do.
I just didn’t want them to pass me and when I finally burst into the stable yard, my lungs burning, my legs throbbing and my heart pounding as much as my hooves on the stone I was still ahead. I was dimly aware, as Mistress Goose pulled frantically on the reins to slow me, of Cassie and the footman still lacing her back into her deportment restraints looking up in alarm; I was also aware of the blackness threatening to engulf me and, a moment later of the unexpected weakness in my legs or, perhaps that was just in response to the way the major was looking at me as he pulled Chrissy to a halt just head of me.
Sucking air in around my bit, I tried to hide just how much of an effort it had cost me to beat him although it must have been obvious from the way my chest was heaving and the sweat that was literally dripping from my skin now that I was no longer running. Ignoring the martingale I gave him the full pony come-on, tossing my head and rather enjoying the tug on my nipples as I showed him what a champion pony I was.
I enjoyed even more the way his eyes raked over my body.
Sam came to take me to my stall but Mistress Goose sent him away saying she would remove my tack and rub me down which I guess was probably to spend a little more time with Major James who would probably be doing the same for Chrissy. Deep down I couldn’t help fantasising that they might even swap ponies; a girl has to have some dreams. Sam offered to take Chrissy too but the major sent him away and I saw him shortly after leading Honey out to the exercise field. As she wasn’t hitched to a gig, I was pretty sure I knew what sort of exercise he was after.
Surprisingly, Cassie disappeared rather quickly. You might have thought that if her beau had just arrived and she was expecting him to propose she might have come to pay her respects but when I looked up she was gone.
‘The ball tonight, Major.’ Goose is awkward at the best of times but seeing her with the major makes me cringe.
The dashing major was, however, gallant as always.
‘You had me there, Mistress Goose,’ he said with a smile. ‘Just as well I didn’t make a wager.’
They kept up a little banter during which I watched the major removing Chrissy’s tack and then rubbing her down before putting her back in harness and preparing to stable her.
The Goose took her time, her hands running over my body although I could tell she was thinking about something else. She did manage to get me out of the dress harness and remove my plug before strapping me into my stable halter. This is essentially a bridle with or without a bit, a collar and a strap round a girl’s chest below her breasts that is used for light restraint in the stable. . Some grooms just use a bridle but here in the west country we have the halter top too and the top of a pony’s arm sheath is usually clipped to it in case she has any ideas about trying to free herself.
Then we watched the major lead Chrissy into the stable.
‘I don’t know how you did it.’ The Goose said to me under her breath.
Neither did I. I’m sure Chrissy let me win but she’d obviously put on quite a show from the way she’d been panting round her bit.
Deprived of the distraction of Major James, Goose’s hand slipped between my legs and she played with my clit. I’d been training for two hours, with harness and plugs moving inside me and the crotch strap teasing me mercilessly, and then I’d raced against and beaten one of the hottest ponies I’d ever met.
I was up for it and Goose was up to let me have it. I whimpered as she teased me with practiced skill and enjoyed the way she held tight to my bridle as I climaxed easily then I dropped to my knees to thank her.
5) Intimate Relations
In the stable I saw Chrissy kneeling in the restraining stall as usual; I guess it’s a military thing. Every stable has a restraining stall, a small compartment barely wider than a pony’s shoulders and fitted with rings and straps to keep a girl very firmly in her place and, usually, on her knees. This one has an open front but is boarded behind; it’s not a good place to whip a pony anyway. They are usually used for punishment or to confine and calm a temperamental pony and used by blacksmiths and veterinarians. The major usually puts Chrissy in it when he visits and I saw that he had taken the time to strap her into the restraining harness and bridle that ponies in the stall usually wear. As you might imagine this is designed to hold a girl very firmly; it is fitted with rings to which the restraining stall straps are fastened. She thus knelt upright with two dozen straps holding her firmly in place. I noticed that he hadn’t fitted her with a bit or gag.
Even the remarkable Chrissy wasn’t going anywhere for the moment.
Mistress Goose led me past Chrissy and into my stall. I think the carriage mistress was still rather away with the faeries, presumably still thinking about Major James; anyway, she was so distracted that she didn’t tether me properly or even bolt the door to my stall. She did remember to remove my tail though; if I was going to look my best tonight it was going to need a wash and a comb. I pony gets very attached to her tail, it makes her look good and, along with her plugs and cleverly designed harness straps keeps her more than a little entertained once she gets used to it so I hoped she wouldn’t keep it long; I felt rather empty without it.
I guess I was a bit distracted too because I didn't notice Goose’s lapse until the door of my stall swung open and, when that happened, I couldn’t resist peering round it at Chrissy.
She really is magnificent and seeing her kneeling there so submissively reminded me what a superb pony she is and what a superb body she has. There was a strap running from the top of her bridle to the beam across the top of the stall holding her head up and one on each side of her cheek straps that stopped her turning her head; her eyes were closed and there was a serene smile on those soft pink lips. I felt my pulse quicken.
That’s when I felt my tether just slip out of the ring.
I looked at it for a moment in surprise realising exactly that this meant.
Chrissy opened her eyes and looked up at me giving the full force of those storm grey skies and that beautiful face framed within her bridle. The restraining harness is black and studded and suits her pale colouring perfectly; there’s also something about a powerful charger like her being rendered utterly helpless.
‘Won’t you be punished?’ she asked, glancing at my open stall door, a smile playing across her lips.
‘Only if I’m caught.’ I knelt down in front of her.
My arms were restrained as were hers, we are ponies; that is normal for us; but, in the scheme of things, I was virtually free and she was completely helpless, straps running from her bridle and collar and the girdle of the harness to the sides of the stall keeping her on her knees; her arm sheath was tethered to the back of the stall. That body was irresistible and it was all mine.
I really didn’t care if I was caught.
As I leaned forwards and she tried to turn away but there was a soft click of a clasp as straps tightened keeping her where she was; I thought I caught a flash of fear in her eyes although I could not imagine such a pony fearing anything I might do to her or anything that she might suffer as a result of it.
I had planned to kiss her but seeing her reaction, I dropped my head and kissed the soft white skin of each of her breasts in turn and saw them begin to rise and fall a little more quickly. Her nipples responded too. Military ponies have sensitive nipples; this is partly because of the use of nipple bridles to guide them but also from the practice of ‘bloodying’ them to keep them that way. A man’s life and that of his pony can depend on her response to the bridle in battle, all cavalry regiments thus have a system for keeping their ponies as responsive as possible. The Hussars have a specific ‘nipple whip’ that his a tip coated in crushed glass; at the passing out parade, a trooper is required to ‘bloody’ the nipples of his mount with it in two successive clean strikes before her earns his pelisse and the right to wear one of those ridiculous moustaches they all seem to sport. The Lancers’ approach is a little more practical and is the duty of the veterinary surgeon although there are some officers who prefer to undertake the process themselves on their own chargers, sometimes biting the nipples of their mounts on a regular basis.
When I licked her right nipple she stiffened, the clasps restraining her clicking but I preserved; like me she had been bred for submission; her mind might be wanting her to resist but her body was responding naturally and I felt her nipple harden further under my tongue; heard her panting.
I switched nipples.
When I lifted my head she didn’t try to turn away and when I kissed those soft pink lips they parted meekly and, as I probed with my tongue, she allowed it to enter her mouth, greeting it with her own.
Her restraints clicked again and I heard chains creak as she pushed forwards against them eager now for more. When her tongue thrust itself into my mouth I felt her probe for a moment, felt it brush the gaps where my teeth used to be at the bottom on the left where two had been pulled then it darted up to the top to find the single gap above. I felt her smile. Military ponies get to keep their teeth.
I moved a little closer feeling our breasts touch, aware of my nipple rings clicking against hers.
When I drew back her eyes flew suddenly open fearing perhaps that we had been discovered and I’m sure I saw a look of panic as she strained against her harness; leather and wood creaking; but then I realised she was simply expressing her need for me, as excited as me now with our illicit encounter.
‘Won’t you be punished?’ I teased.
‘Only if I’m caught,’ she responded with a smile.
I rolled over onto my side and then onto my back placing my head between her thighs then squirmed up towards her as she lifted her hips allowing me underneath her until the soft glistening pinkness of her sex gaped above me; the ring piercing her clit shining dully.
When I flicked the ring I heard her gasp. The clit ring is another military thing although some civilian ponies have them; it is embedded deeply and, placed properly, is almost as stimulating as the plugs we ponies wear when toiling between the shafts. In a properly placed clit ring or ‘love ring’ as civilian ones are sometimes called, every movement is transmitted to those nerves a girl has that make her orgasm; some ponies are said to climax simply from being led along by this ring if the chain used is allowed to swing as they walk. Bridles might be used to guide a pony but using her clit ring gives military precision unless a pony finds herself unable to control herself while on parade.
Chrissy’s was clearly well placed and above me, she squirmed as I teased her, my tongue caressing her salty lips and then pushing gently inside. Decorated veteran she might be but she is just like the rest of us down below and was already very wet. She squirmed at my touch, the clips of her restraints clicking again and the leather creaking as she arched her back and gave a small moan then moved backwards trying to make me touch her clit ring again. It was hot work but then that’s what ponies are bred for; her scent filled my nostrils as he juices dripped steadily into my mouth.
Ignominious as it was, I was on my back between her spread legs with my tongue in her slit; she was completely helpless and I was very much in control so when I judged she was ready I pushed her over the edge using her clit ring. She was more than ready and she bucked so violently when I flicked that ring that the whole of the restraining stall shook and I feared she might tear the bolts that held her from their fastenings so that those powerful thighs might just clamp shut and crush me. It’s a testament to her military training that she didn’t scream although I’m sure she pissed herself even if it was just a little bit; it was hard to tell in among all the stuff that was squirting into my mouth at the time.
6) Major James
As she calmed down, I wriggled out from between Chrissy’s legs and rolled myself back onto my knees; ponies spend most of their lives without the use of their hands, a girl soon learns to get up without them. What I saw gave me quite a shock; Chrissy was no longer the demure, collected pony I was familiar with; even after the race up from the gatehouse she had had that air of capability in harness even if she was rather flushed. What I saw now was very different; she was kneeling at a slight angle, held up, it appeared, by the straps constraining her in the stall; her bridle was a little askew and there was a deep flush across the pale skin of her breasts. She regarded me with those lovely grey eyes but they didn’t quite appear to focus; she was drooling slightly from the side of her mouth.
Her lips moved and for a moment I thought there was something wrong but then they curled into a smile.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered weakly. ‘I should…’ Her words trailed off.
‘You certainly should,’ I told her firmly, climbing to my feet and pushing my sex into her face. I could have kissed her again; there’s something delicious about kissing a girl who’s just licked you out, every pony loves it. I would have made her to suck my nipples but the heat and scent of her body and the taste of her in my mouth were more than enough to keep me excited. It wasn’t a time to mess around with foreplay; besides, I’d been down on her for nearly half an hour. I really didn’t mind being caught and whipped for playing with another pony but I wanted to make sure I really deserved it.
Confronted with my drooling slit, Chrissy made a rapid recovery and despite her restraints pushed all the right buttons as I thrust my pussy into her face. I could say her style was a trifle rigid and military but that didn’t stop me cumming like a mare in heat. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite have her discipline and I wasn’t bridled so when I climaxed under the torrents of hot lust she released from my rampant sex I made a lot of noise. It’s probably just as well I don’t have a clit ring; my clit is really sensitive and I think I might be one of those ponies that spoils the parade.
As my orgasm faded I looked down to see Chrissy’s composure had returned even if her face was covered in my juices. Some girls are just so messy.
She smiled up at me and I felt a sudden urge to kiss her but, as I dropped to a crouch, there was a noise outside and I quickly changed to licking her face then scurried back into my stall leaving the door slightly ajar.
It was the lovely Major James in his gorgeous uniform.
I saw him stop and look at his pony. I couldn’t see his face but his body stiffened slightly. Even if she’d have composed herself perfectly, the air probably reeked of our scent. There’s only so much that fresh straw can cover up.
I watched him turn slowly.
I suppose I could have tried to crawl quietly out of sight but I didn’t.
‘The redhead,’ he said looking at me with an amused expression.
‘My name is Bryony, Sir,’ I said very quietly.
To this day I can’t say what made me say it. Ponies never speak to their masters; and certainly not to anyone else; we’re not even supposed to talk to each other although everyone knows we do which, I suppose, is why they invented pony gags to use on us when we’ve been naughty.
I saw his eyebrow lift but he didn’t take his eyes off me.
‘Well, Bryony,’ he said calmly. ‘Since you seem to be in a talkative mood, perhaps you can explain to me what you’ve done to my pony.’
I opened my mouth to speak but Chrissy got there first.
‘She’s been earning us a punishment, Sir.’
He looked down at her. ‘You, I will deal with, when we get back to barracks.’ Then he turned back to me. ‘You will have to be dealt with now.’
I have a defence at these moments, most ponies do; we are submissive girls kept helpless in bondage; we are groomed and trained not only to perform but to be beautiful; at least better bred ponies are; given the opportunity we can flounce and pout and present every part of our bodies at its best angle to please our masters or, if we choose, any who watch us. If we are to be punished we can sometimes lessen this by similar tactics; I sort of bite my lip and look a little tearful and, if I’m lucky, my hide doesn’t get quite as tanned as it might otherwise have done.
‘And you can stop that at once,’ he said brusquely as I deployed my defence. ‘It’s the first time you’ve disappointed me.’
The comment took me by surprise. As far as I was aware, it was the first time we’d really interacted; he’d watched me on a few occasions when Cassie had been having lessons with Mistress Goose; he’d also have seen me on the few occasions when the major and Cassie had also driven out together; it was probably the reason I’d got the hots for him and his pony; just watching her in action and him driving her was enough to wet a girl’s thighs. He’d once patted my rump and told me I was a good girl after we’d forded a river and Cassie had emerged with her skirts dripping but then men pat the rumps of ponies in the street if it takes their fancy.
My mouth literally dropped open.
‘And don’t act all surprised, you little cock-tease,’ he said.
I began to blush at this; I’m a redhead, I blush easily and when I blush I really blush.
He pushed his way into my stall and took hold of my halter rope drawing me behind him then he dropped to his knees and pulled me across them.
Then he began to spank me.
As a rule, ponies don’t get spanked; we might get a sharp slap on the bottom for stepping out of line but usually, if we’re being punished we’re strapped over a hitching rail and laid into with the crop or, if we’re really naughty strung up in the yard and bullwhipped.
Spanking was a new experience for me.
His fist was wrapped in my stable halter and I was laid across his knees, my thighs pressed against one side of his legs and my breasts against the other. I could feel the rough wool of his trousers on my belly and the heat of his body against mine; I could feel the strength of his grip and the power of his hand. I’m used to physical pain, most ponies are but this was something else; the sheer power of his body was at once terrifying and exhilarating; the pain was intense almost unbearable; after several minutes and two dozen slaps my rump was burning and I could feel hot tears on my face.
I wanted to tell him to stop; to beg him; but ponies don’t speak and I’d already broken that rule once but, far more, despite the pain I wanted him to keep punishing me, not because I was enjoying being punished, I’d rapidly gone beyond that, but because it kept me near him, our bodies pressed together.
When he stopped, the relief was almost as intense as the disappointment and I tried to hold onto him, drawing up my knees and wrapping my body around his but he threw me off easily and I lay in the straw bereft, my face stained with tears and trying not to sob.
Then I felt him grab the back of my arm sheath and lift me onto my knees. My bottom was burning and I wasn’t sure I could take any more abuse despite my pitiable desire for him not to leave me. I was aware of him kneeling behind me and then a pressure on my sex.
I gasped as he thrust his cock into my pussy.
I’d thought the dashing major a gentleman and, to some extent, I suppose he was; at least he didn’t use me anally. He was rough though but then, I suppose that’s what a girl wants; ramming his stiff and excitingly large cock into my rampant and very receptive pussy. It was not the first time I’d been fucked after a good thrashing; beating a pony girl seems to be a turn on for most men and, perhaps surprisingly, it’s a turn on for most pony girls too as long as it’s not too rough but I guess that’s been bred into us.
Having his loins slam up against my very sore bottom made me gasp but not as much as having his cock shoved deep inside me. When a girl is taken from behind, as ponies usually are, size matters, particularly length and the major was very well endowed in both dimensions; having his hands on my body more than made up for any discomfort; those strong hand twisting themselves in my mane and squeezing my breasts; his fingers teasing my nipples, sliding in and out of my nipple rings and, at one point playing with my clit as he pumped away groaning as his climax neared.
I’m a good pony but I’m also a bad one; under this second assault, I climaxed before him, howling even more loudly than I’d done when his pony had tongued me several minutes before. I’d have cum a lot sooner too if I hadn’t just had that fabulous orgasm from Chrissy but his punishment and then his lovely cock just made me respond like the feral beast I was bred to be and, when I heard him grunt and felt him spurt inside me I shuddered to another climax that was almost jarring in my bruised post-coital state.
It turned out he is a gentleman after all, not only did he hold me for some time afterwards as we knelt panting together but after he slid out of me dried his cock on some straw rather than my hair. Then he stood up, pulled up his breeches and, after fastening my tether securely to the ring in my stall, planted a kiss on my cheek. Then left me alone without a word as I lay wallowing in an almost unprecedented post coital bliss although I did manage to rolled over in the straw so I could peer around the stall door and watch him as he returned to his own pony.
7) Ponies in Harness
If Chrissy was upset or jealous that her master had enjoyed the pleasures of my body, she didn’t show it; her composure had returned although she was still rather deshabille with her bridle crooked and her hair tousled. I watched the major crouch in front of her and saw them look into each other’s eyes, then he planted a kiss on his finger and transferred it to her lips. Chrissy kissed it and then took it lasciviously into her mouth.
‘You are still on a charge,’ he told her.
She nodded a fraction, her restraints clicking and his finger still in her mouth. I thought there was a slight smile on her face. I’m sure she knew I was watching but she didn’t look at me.
He took his hand away and reached into the kitbag stowed beside her stall and dropped something in front of her.
‘Strict discipline on the way to barracks. I’ve been far too lax with you lately.’
Chrissy nodded again as much as she was able. She was definitely smiling now.
Major James reached up and unclipped the straps holding her bridle to and then removed the bridle itself. Chrissy shook her head, her dark hair settling little from its tousled state. Then he hooded her; a white leather battle hood, thick and padded; a girl wearing one of these can see nothing and the padding muffles sound; it is designed to protect a pony’s ears from the roar of the battlefield, especially the explosion of cannon fire; it also renders girl utterly dependant on her master; she must go where he leads; there is no room for trepidation and, if she is guided by nipple reins there is little chance of resistance especially if she has been ‘re-bloodied’ as is the custom before battle.
Once he’d secured the hood, he gagged her, standing behind her and pulling a large wooden ball covered in white leather into her mouth and buckling it tightly in place. It looked huge but Chrissy seemed to take it easily. Then he began to unclip her harness from the restraining stall and I watched saliva build on her lip; by the time he had finished unclipping her, the saliva spilled over onto her breasts.
I’d never seen a nipple bridle fitted before and I watched with interest as he slid it through her piercing rings; she knelt still as he did this but I could see a flush blooming across her chest and her nipples swelling as he handled her breasts. Then, hooking his finger into the bridle, he guided her to her feet and removed the restraining harness as she stood still in her hood and sheath. Then, picking up his kitbag, he cast one final glance back at me as he hooked a finger in her clit ring and led her away.
I rolled onto my belly enjoying the tickle of the straw on my skin and the pressure of the hard cool stone beneath on my nipples and my sex; after what had happened, I still felt horny but I was exhausted; I’d bested Chrissy then I’d fucked her and then the gorgeous major had fucked me. Quite a day for a little provincial pony. That’s when I remembered he’d spanked me and not all that warmth in my loins was post-coital bliss. I rolled over cautiously; fuck that was sore.
Sam had to shake me awake a second time that day and I blinked sleep from my eyes. My mouth was dry but I was sure I could still taste Chrissy’s pussy.
‘Come on you slattern.’ Sam slapped my bottom and I squealed.
‘Up.’ He lifted me by the halter and untied it from the hitching ring then he led me outside.
‘Oh my!’ He said, looking at me. In the late afternoon light I probably looked much the same as Chrissy had.
He brushed straw from my hair.
You stink!’ He walked around me still holding my halter rope.
‘We only have an hour to make you presentable to be a lady’s pony.’ He touched my rump again and I winced. ‘What did you do to upset the major that much?’
A good pony doesn’t speak and I decided this was an occasion when the rules should be firmly obeyed.
Sam led me over to the water trough and picked up the bucket. A splash of chill water left me more awake and a second left me shivering then he took soap and a brush to my skin apparently trying to make the rest of me as red and chafed as my rump. By the time he’d washed my mane I was shivering uncontrollably and my teeth were chattering in the cooling afternoon.
‘Soon have you warm,’ he said cheerfully towelling me down with a rough blanket and then leading me at the trot around the stable yard.
After three laps I felt a little warmer and by four I was more or less dry and had stopped shivering.
Then he removed my stable halter and oiled me.
This was quite nice; a pony looks good when her skin is oiled and having his hands on my body soon made me feel a lot warmer. My nipples that had been stiff with chill were very soon stiff for a completely different reason.
‘I should probably have done your arms today,’ he said as he knelt in front of me and rubbed the oil into my thighs with his strong hands. ‘But there isn’t time.’
Ponies are usually released from their arm sheaths once a week to exercise their shoulders and ensure they are not suffering damage to their skin from their bonds. This can seem a bit of a chore and, quite frankly, is sometimes more of a pain than a pleasure. A girl’s shoulders are really stiff after a week in a sheath and she can’t use her hands at all for a few minutes then she’s forced to move joints that aren’t supposed to be moved and lift weights with arms that usually do nothing. It’s usually more of a pleasure when the sheath is replaced and any ache in a girl’s shoulders from her arms being pulled tightly together behind her back goes away after a couple of hours back in her sheath.
The best tack was already out waiting for me; the studded blue stuff that Cassie likes is nice but the best tack is beautiful; fine Italian leather tooled with intricate patterns and pictures of ponies in harness; the buckles are coated in gold leaf and the whole thing had been polished so it shone; the perfect ball dress for a pert oiled pony. I couldn’t help looking at and feeling excited as he combed and plaited my mane and wound ribbons into it.
Then he dressed me in the harness, laying it carefully over my shoulders and adjusting the breast rings; sadly, he had to shorten the straps which clip to my nipple rings. I wish I had larger breasts; whoever had worn the harness before me had clearly been very well endowed. I had a suspicion it might have been Lady Barbara but I knew better than to ask.
Then he tightened the straps behind my chest and around my waist before plugging me and tightening the wide crotch strap; the soft leather against my pussy was delightful and more than a little teasing; it was a good ten miles to Buckfastleigh and I was going to be one hot pony when I arrived in every sense of the word. The collar on the best tack is very high and stiff and cups a girl’s chin forcing her to keep her head up and, combined with the heavy ornate bridle, almost completely prevents her from turning it. I stood there with my head up enjoying the increased restriction as he tightened it snugly around my neck. Please don’t judge, I’m a pony, I’m bred to enjoy this treatment.
Next he put on the oversheath; more heavy, ornate and very shiny black leather which slid over my usual sheath; it was more for decoration; my own sheath is enough to keep my arms out of trouble however, the oversheath is stiffer than mine so that when it is fastened to the high collar, my arms are held almost completely rigidly out behind me. It’s mostly for aesthetic purposes but it also allows better access to a girl’s rump when her driver uses the whip; not something I particularly relished after my spanking from the major but then a pony wants to look good too and having her hands forced out behind her in harness adds a lovely curve to a pony girl’s spine and focuses the eye on her breasts and rump.
The bridle on a dress harness is usually heavy duty and heavily blinkered; there is typically a plume too and a very ornate bit; these things are not comfortable but then a pony deals with such things if she wants to look her best.
With my head up and weighted by the plume and its mount and the noseband and blinkers partly obscuring my vision I had to concentrate on my balance as Sam removed my usual pony boots or ‘hooves’ as we usually call them and guided my feet into the dress boots. Standard hooves keep a girl on her toes; dress boots force her a little higher but not onto the tips of her toes like a maiden’s court shoes. My own boots are sprung for my weight but the dress boots have heavier springs meaning that when I use them I have to exaggerate my step; something I’m told that makes my stride look very elegant in the style of Prussian ponies; it looks particularly fine in the shiny thigh high dress boots.
Then came my tail; when a girl wears one almost constantly, she misses it and it felt good to have it in place again neatly combed and plaited to match my mane.
After that it was simply a case of attaching the gold nipple bells and I was a perfect prim pony, my mane pretty and plaited with ribbons, my skin oiled and glistening and my tack shining, buckles glinting; who wouldn’t want to own me?
8) Cassie Drives Out
Sam took my reins and led me round the stable yard to ensure everything was properly fastened and adjusted and to give me a chance to settle into the unfamiliar rig; then he harnessed me between the shafts of the gig which I noticed had been polished since its last outing. It was a good few months since I’d had the pleasure of going out like this; a girl likes to be dressed up and taken out, even a pony girl. I thus followed Sam obediently, enjoying the fact that Cat had just emerged from the churning shed to enjoy the sight of me and even Sir Charles was looking through the window of his study with one hand in the pocket of his breeches.
As Sam led me to the front of the house, I saw Miss Cassandra, waiting at the top of the steps accompanied by the footman and her mother. D’Cream, the under-maid, was there too, a tray strapped to her chest and two glasses of sherry nestled between her pert breasts. Sir Charles soon joined them, taking one of the glasses and offering the other to Lady Barbara as Cassie elegantly descended towards her carriage. She looked a peach; Cassie is pretty in that ‘girl next door’ way with a rounded face and big blue eyes and all that curled blonde hair. She was wearing a stunning gown of blue velvet in the currently fashionable split fronted design which displayed her lovely full if slightly soft breasts with their big pink nipples and, in her case, the shining silver of her chastity belt. This too glistened and I gathered the servants had spent much of the day polishing everything in sight.
This style of gown is eminently suitable for young maidens as a clear way to display they are chaste (or, at least, supposed to be); displaying bare breasts with suitably rouged nipples is obviously more for flirtation but it does offer the advantage of allowing a prospective suitor to ensure a girl has not been ringed thus confirming she has not born to the stable or the milking parlour and thus showing her to be suitable marriage material. The bodice of Cassie’s dress was strikingly tight; her waist corseted at least another two inches smaller that her efforts that morning and, as she walked I thought she looked rather breathless although as this simply reflected in an increased rise and fall of her creamy breasts, this was no bad thing. Her stockings were white and deliciously loose weave in the ‘fishnet’ pattern worn by French showgirls which was all the rage in London and her boots kept her right up in the tip of her toes. I honestly don’t know how a girl can walk in such things, let alone dance. Needless to say her make up was perfect, lips matching nipples, matching nails; all a shining crimson; cheeks and breasts powdered, eyelids a shade of blue to match her dress and lashes darkened with kohl. Sometimes I wish ponies were allowed this indulgence but I suppose it’s not very practical and as soon as we started sweating it would all run across our faces. Slung across Cassie’s shoulder was a long velvet cloak with ermine trim; in her hand was a driving whip and on her head a blue fascinator in the form of a small lady’s hunting hat although a little taller.
I guessed that Lady Barbara, now enjoying a tete-a-tete with Sir Charles at the top of the steps, had had a hand in dressing her and probably in helping her apply the perfect makeup too. They must have been hoping it was enough to ensure she fetched a good price at the auction; sorry, I mean was suitably enchanting at the ball. I had little doubt that all that deportment training was going to pay off tonight.
I could comment that nobody does deportment like a well trained pony girl but that would be unfairly detracting from the perfect young lady. Furthermore, I might add that, had I not been born of the stables rather than the drawing room, I might have been descending the steps alongside my childhood friend. This makes me sound a little bitter but I am not; I was born a pony and, for the most part, I relish the hand that life has dealt me. It may sound odd to say that I was as excited about attending the ball as I thought Cassie must be; such events offer a chance to dress up and parade oneself in front of others; to be admired and, quite probably to get some hot sex even if, in Cassie’s case, it would probably be at least another nine months until the sound of wedding bells and the handing over of the key to her happiness.
Cassie smiled as she swept past me, a flash of blue eyes and those perfect little white teeth between ruby lips. She could have mounted the gig from the left but she chose to walk past me to mount from the right in the continental style probably because she wanted me to see her in her full glory.
I probably should not have winked at her; but I was excited for her and there’s little a harnessed, bridled pony can do to show her appreciation; I could hardly clap or offer her my hand. It felt the right thing to do even if I was about to pull her ten miles and then stand outside in the cold, naked and harnessed while she was going inside to dance and be proposed to by the man of her dreams.
He had recently become the man of my dreams too but that’s the life of a pony.
The brisk flick of the whip to my sore bottom got me moving even more quickly than usual although I managed not to yelp and off we went at the high trot, my harness jingling and my gold nipple bells tinkling; down the drive towards the gatehouse where I’d met Chrissy and the major earlier in the day and then out onto the Buckfastleigh road.
It was late afternoon in autumn and a little cool but, for a girl in harness pulling another one in a gig, it certainly didn’t feel too cold even if my nipples were a little stiff. I was relieved that Cassie used the whip sparingly even if she did keep me at the high trot far longer than was necessary. Lifting your knees to waist height with every step might look beautiful but it is tiring especially in the heavier boots of the best harness.
‘You’re looking good, Bry,’ she said, flicking the whip when my knees started to drop.
I lifted my knees and trotted on. I was hardly in a position to return the compliment.
‘I hear you beat Chrissy today,’ she said conversationally.
Some people do have a habit of starting these sort of one-sided conversations with their ponies and I’ve noticed Cassie does it when she’s nervous.
She told me a few things, mostly about the major. Nothing she said was new and when she told me again that he was expected to propose to her later I tried to turn my mind to other things and not dwell on the matter; I even consoled myself with the fact that I was one step ahead of her so to speak after our encounter in the stable earlier. That hadn’t ‘meant’ anything, of course; gentlemen take a tumble in the hay with ponies on a regular basis. It did give me a lovely warm feeling between the legs, however, which combined with the soft caress of the dress harness’ crotch strap and gently bucking plugs took my mind off my sore bottom.
Eventually, she let me drop into a jog trot and we continued in silence for a couple of miles.
‘You know, I do envy you,’ she said suddenly as we entered Tangle Wood.
It was a pretty thoughtless comment especially as the next moment she whipped me to the canter. For a moment, I regretted winking at her but deep down I was still fond of her even if our lives had taken very different paths. Convention stated that we could no longer be friends but I still cared about her and I guess she cared about me although it might be better if she remembered this when she next stood by and watched me being whipped or even when she whipped me herself, not only between the shafts but as punishment.
There were unlikely to be highwaymen around this early but a lone maiden and her pony should never linger in such places as Tangle Wood and, despite any emotions Cassie was stirring up inside me, I did my duty as a good pony straining to maintain the pace she demanded up the long climb. At least we would be returning with the major after the ball and this stretch of road would run down hill on the way back.
I was relieved Cassie didn’t elaborate on her ‘envy’ even when we emerged from the other side of the wood unmolested. It was probably an outlet for her nervousness but maybe there was a hint of truth in it; she was, after all, the daughter of Lady Barbara; not quite born to the stables but there would be pony in her blood; and then there was the chastity belt.
As the road levelled out, and she let me drop back to a trot I tried to feel sympathy; tonight was a major step in her life if you’ll pardon the pun and she would, no doubt, be anxious. She must have been excited too, heading for release after nine years of chastity; I’d have been climbing the walls or more likely pleading with Tom the blacksmith every time I attended for adjustments begging him to make me a duplicate key. Maybe she was right to be envious, maybe I did have the best deal in life: there she was living in relative luxury with her own pert pony and about to marry the man of her dreams after nine years of chastity but here I was strapped into harness under the whip, kept in a state of almost constant sexual arousal and forced to make myself available to any man that wanted me.
9) Arriving in Style
Perhaps, if they’d all been as dashing as the major I’d have remembered more about the men who’d used me. I remembered my early training; it had all been a bit raw then being a girl on the estate one day and tied up in a stable being subject to the whip the next. I cried for a while and I was difficult; truculent might be a good word, it’s certainly one my trainers used a lot; I was regularly beaten and abused and frequently kept behind for extra training which, as well as putting me through my paces, usually ended being lead back to the stable where my trainer claimed his or, sometimes, her reward for the extra work they’d put in.
I remember some of the men, but rarely the faces; a pony is, after all, usually driven from behind and taken from behind. I do remember my fellow ponies though; Honey started around the same time as me and there was another girl called Candy who is kept on the estate. We were trained together and, when we could, we consoled each other. When I think back, I therefore see bridled faces, eyes peering over a nose band, teeth pulled tight against bits by throat latches; I see blinkers and girls with their heads erect, necks strapped into high collars; then there are harnesses, tight against bare flesh, bare breasts and rings in nipples; I see tails and manes fluttering and toned legs striding with increasing elegance. Around them , I just see hands wielding whips and holding reins and the pull in my bridle and my harness.
It took a while but I gradually realised my breeding, endured, gradually accepted then enjoyed my training; the roll of the plugs inside me as I ran, the rub of the crotch strap, the stretch of the tail plug, the tug of bells on erect nipples, the wind in my mane.
I think I know which one of us was more content although…Major James…
And there he was, suddenly, Chrissy trotting past me oiled and utterly enchanting in her white dress harness. She was hooded, not a battle hood but a dress hood, her bridle strapped over this and, I suspect, fitted with a pony gag as her reins were attached elsewhere. There were welts down her back and some bruising; red steaks with bright points in suggesting the major’s threat of punishment had not been an idle one and had probably involved the knotted cat o'nine. Despite this she ran with precision, an easy canter as if she had not already run the six or so miles from the barracks. I watched the swish of her tail resisting the impulse to match her pace until permitted to do so by my mistress.
Then came a flash of white, a parade chariot flashing suddenly orange by the late afternoon sun and him standing in it, his pelisse fluttering behind him, whip in hand, holding Chrissy’s reins and glancing back at me.
Cassie whipped me to the canter to catch him but there was no race this time as Chrissy and I ran abreast and then settled back to a leisurely trot to climb the hill overlooking Buckfastleigh and Lord Devonshire’s estate. I could see the lights in the windows of the grand house and those of the abbey beyond and then the town. Ahead on the road there was a line of coaches and gigs; some teams of four hauling heavy carriages, barouches with twin ponies and a line of single gigs and chariots, some privately owned but most hansom carriages hired from Exeter or one of the other towns on the coast road.
We rounded a bend through some trees and found ourselves behind a coach and four; the ponies I suspected, large and muscular and probably sweating hard to draw the big, heavy carriage behind them. I felt the slap of the whip and thought I heard a second beside me and broke into a high trot; Mistress Cassandra was planning to arrive in style and I felt sure that Chrissy was prancing beside me. I could hear her step above the rumble of carriage wheels ahead and made myself match it; I wasn’t about to be shown up by a military hussy however decorated.
We paused at the gate, marking time to let Lord Salisbury’s barouche enter before us; his party lounging in the back while he drove his famous matching pair; blondes that would have equalled Lady Barbara in her heyday; bronzed from their summer in Italy and sporting long almost silvery manes, slim waists and long legs; they kept perfect time as they trotted past, harnessed to the gig in the Russian style with the shafts between their thighs and, I knew, kept in place by large plugs; how a girl can run like that I don’t know but I understand it’s very stimulating if one can do it.
Lady Salisbury acknowledged the major with a wave and cast a languid glance over Cassie. It was the end of the summer season and she must have known my driver as the daughter of Sir Charles and Lady Barbara and, I suspect, like most that season, was a little surprised at the major throwing in his lot with a mere colonel’s daughter when he could have done so much better. Sir Charles might be decorated but he was no more than a squire’s second son who’d served his country with distinction; he’d done himself no favours by elevating his pony to the drawing room either.
As we swept up the drive behind Lord Salisbury’s barouche and the house came into view I could see there were dozens of carriages already lined up along the front of the great house. This is pure affectation, what aristocrat wouldn’t want to show his influence by having the carriages of the great and the good displayed to show his status; and, to be fair to Lord Devonshire, it was a marvellous sight; all those oiled bodies and manes, sparkling harnesses and wafting plumes not to mention all those polished carriages and liveried grooms.
Who doesn’t enjoy the sight of a man or a girl in a nice tight uniform even if it is only the livery of a rich aristocrat?
We waited for Lord Salisbury and party to dismount, again marking time together which was far easier to synchronise with the crunch of the gravel even if it was harder to maintain and then, when waved forward by a footman came to stop side by side to allow our drivers to dismount. As the major took Cassie's arm and lead her up the steps to the house, a pretty blonde footman in unnecessarily tight silk trousers and blouse slid a hand across my pussy before climbing into my gig and whipping my sore rump to have me trot to the end of the line of carriages where she could park me and the gig for the duration of the evening.
10) Pony Talk
I watched the pert footman go somewhat ruefully, she’d patted me on the bottom and even flicked my gold nipple bells, but then I guess she did that to all the ponies she parked up. I was next to Lord Sainsbury’s pair; they really were superb; blonde manes, beautifully sleek and breasts to die for but they were already nuzzling each other and, with the phalluses inside them and the shafts between their thighs, who could blame them. I looked across to see Chrissy being driven in beside me. She was still hooded and gagged and I had a feeling that it was going to be a very long evening.
Fortunately, the water boy came along and removed my bit before holding a ladle of rather unpleasant watery beer to my lips; I might have turned my nose up at it but I’d just run ten miles and I have a strong stomach, so I took the risk. He looked a bit bemused by Chrissy’s gag and perhaps he thought the was being punished but eventually, presumably seeing the sweat lathering her flanks and the glow of her skin, he took pity on her and unbuckled the strap holding the huge ball in her mouth and pulled it out before redoing the buckle behind her neck. Then he gave her a drink too before passing on to the next pony who was being driven in to join the line.
Stepping slightly to the side I rubbed my shoulder against Chrissy’s.
‘Are you trying to get us punished again?’ she whispered keeping her head facing front in good parade ground style.
‘I’m sorry I got you whipped,’ I said, my lips caressing her shoulder after quickly glancing round to make sure we weren’t noticed.
‘It wasn’t the worst I’ve had,’ she told me, taking a slight step towards me and a subtle turn of her body. ‘Though the quartermaster did my nipples too.’
I’d noticed they’d been blooded.
I bent and kissed one.
‘That’s not helping,’ she said, obviously smiling behind her hood. ‘It is nice though.’
I licked the swollen bruised nub which swelled in response.
‘That’s nice too.’
I looked around and stepped closer, sliding my boot behind hers and pressing my leg against hers.
‘My master thinks you’re very cute,’ she said.
I was flattered and the warm feeling this brought on reminded me I’d just run ten miles with a dildo in my pussy, a tightly buckled crotch strap and bells dancing on my nipples.
‘And what do you think?’
‘I think you’re a randy little bitch that needs the discipline of a regiment before you really get yourself into trouble.’
‘Oh.’ I was a little taken aback.
‘But you are cute,’ she turned her head now and managed to kiss the top of my head.
I lifted my head and she managed to find my lips.
‘I hope you’re keeping a lookout,’ she said.
I glanced around. We weren’t the only ones necking. I bent and licked her nipple again and felt her shudder.
‘Did you let me win today?’ I asked.
‘Does it matter?’ She tried to kiss me but I moved my head away.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m forty three,’ she told me.
‘So?’
‘You’re, what? Twenty six?’
‘Twenty seven,’ I told her. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m forty three and I’d just run eight miles,’ she said a little sadly. ‘You won fair and square.’
I nodded although that meant little to her in her hood. Whatever she might think, she looked exquisite, lean and muscular; military ponies undergo intensive and very arduous training. Chrissy might be a little smaller than the usual charger but I suspected she was up there with the best of them.
‘Do you think the major will propose to Miss Cassandra?’ I asked.
She turned her head towards me. ‘Why should he?’ She asked in what sounded like genuine surprise.
Ponies don’t enquire about the doings of their masters and mistresses but surely she knew the situation.
‘He has been coming to Mares Hall for the last six months,’ I said, surprised by her apparent indifference.’
‘What makes you think he comes to see Miss Cassandra?’ She asked.
I was about to reply when my favourite footman returned, the one who had patted my rump and toyed with my nipple bell. This time she was a little rougher, attracting my attention with a slash of her whip across my rump.
‘Stop that you two,’ she admonished, delivering another stinging slap to Chrissy’s breasts.
We both faced front like good pony girls.
‘Open,’ she said.
We obeyed. It’s a standard command, open your mouth to take the bit.
She pushed Chrissy’s gag between her teeth and strapped it in place then she refitted my bit. Most ponies can talk around a standard bit but Chrissy’s gag left her reduced to grunts and while the dress bit wasn’t quite so brutal, it was designed to keep a girl’s tongue down and was enough to render even the most eloquent pony incomprehensible.
‘Much better.’ The footman opined, appraising my body. ‘I like a pony who knows her place.’ Rather maddeningly, she played with my nipple bells again and checked the tension in my crotch strap. ‘Be a good girl and I may come back later,’ she said with a wink then brought down her whip on my breasts before delivering another slash across Chrissy’s. Then, she turned and walked away.
Those silk trousers really were very tight.
For the next hour or two I pondered on Chrissy’s comment. Who else, I wondered, might the major have been visiting? Surely not Lady Barbara; she was a fine looking mare but she was firmly attached to Sir Charles and the gallant major was far too late for Cassie’s older sisters. I dare say he’d had a few tumbles in the hay or encounters in the linen closet with the maids during his visits but I could hardly see him loading Cat or D’Cream into his chariot and whisking her away. Besides, he spent all his time with Cassie; I know, I’d been there; he’d watched her train me, guided her in my discipline in the few months after his visits started; he’d even started the habit of training me in leg weights and a heavy harness; he was a very exacting trainer, I could see why Chrissy was such a perfect specimen of pony-hood.
I’d been pretty good before but now I really was hot.
The speculation passed the evening although it was frustrating knowing that my questions could probably all be answered by the pony who stood next to me if only l could remove her gag. The blonde footman returned a few times and I had hoped she might take pity on me but she seemed content to make use of my body, groping me and teasing my nipples under the apparent pretext of checking my tack.
She was pretty and those trousers were deliciously tight and she’d spilled water on her blouse at some point making it stick to her breasts allowing me to see the outline of her hard pink nipples which she seemed to enjoy rubbing against me. On the third visit she checked my shoes, I was beginning to hope she might lead me round to the stables to ‘examine me’ more closely but at that moment a commotion at the top of the steps to the house made us both look round.
It was Cassie hurriedly drawing on her cloak and pursued by an anxious looking footman. I saw her run down the steps with the blue cloak billowing behind her rather dramatically and stop for a moment and look down the line of ponies. I’m easy to spot, there are very few red-headed ponies in society; we’re considered stubborn and hard to train; I’m both and proud of it. She spotted me and waved to the footman to bring me round. My blonde paramour seemed reassuringly disappointed to be deprived of her plaything but responded with the expected subservient deference and lead me forward.
As I approached her, it was clear Cassie was in a bit of a state, flushed and almost tearful. In the old days I’d have put my arms around her and asked her what was wrong; even now, looking at the state of her, if I hadn’t been bridled I would have asked her what was the matter even if it would have earned me a couple of stripes; however, from the thunderous look she gave me it was perhaps better that I couldn’t enquire. Snatching the reins from the groom she mounted the gig and flicked the whip across my rump.
I might not have been able to speak but I did hesitate, looking up at the house expecting the major to emerge; it took a second lash to get me moving and in case I remained slovenly she continued to whip me until I reached the canter.
This did not bode well.
11) The Road at Night
It was dark and I was not pleased to be out on the road alone at night, especially not hitting the road at a canter and then being whipped at the gallop for the climb out of Buckfastleigh. I was winded by time we reached the top and despite her urging had to slow a little to regain my breath.
Nothing good could come of this and nothing did when a couple of miles later we entered the edges of Tangle Wood.
The chariot blocking the road was painted black and the rider was dressed from head to foot in black; boots, cape, tricorn hat and a black scarf over his face. His ponies were either negresses or had been blackened with coal dust; an old smugglers’ trick. I only saw the whites of their eyes when we were close but even before then it would have been too late. I slowed instinctively and that seemed to alert Cassie who pulled me so sharply round to the left I felt the gig begin to roll.
Of course there was another figure already behind us and now we were facing uphill and had no momentum. This man was dressed similarly but his ponies were not blackened, in fact they were so pale skinned that in the moonlight they looked like phantoms; gypsy girls I suspected with luscious black hair and fierce blue eyes.
And they say redheads are tempestuous!
Cassie flicked me with the whip and pulled on the reins attempting to guide me around him.
‘Stand and deliver,’ he said, inevitably, levelling a pistol at us.
This could only end one way; the shot would bring me down and my mistress would be theirs to ravage and probably sell on abroad as a slave or pony. I felt Cassie pull on the reins to slow me but I knew there was a chance he would miss or only injure me; there was a chance I could dodge past him; he wouldn’t shoot Cassie, she was too valuable. However, even if I did this, the odds of escaping were slight; two rested ponies pulling a gig with a single driver against one who had been driven hard for at least three miles.
I didn’t slow. I’m fast and probably thanks to the major’s training I’m stronger than the average pony.
And I’m a redhead!
I saw him tracking me with the muzzle of the pistol as I disobeyed my mistress and struggled to reach the canter with Cassie and the gig dragging heavily behind me. It was hard going and, in avoiding him I found my hooves struggling for purchase on the soft moss that covered the side of the road. That’s when the third highwayman emerged from the trees barring our way, his rapier drawn and glinting in the moonlight; reluctantly, I succumbed to the inevitable, slowing in response the pull of the bit tight in my mouth.
It took only a moment for two of the highwaymen to pull Cassie from the gig and bind her hands and feet with cords and gag her with a cloth as the third one continued to threaten me with his pistol; then my mistress was tossed into the chariot of the highwayman with the drawn pistol and with his prize lying at his feet he urged his ponies to the trot and disappeared into the woods. One of the others took hold of my reins and, stepping back into his own chariot, led me after them.
Their camp was some way from the road; enough that the fire they had burning could not be seen by passing travellers. There were a dozen other men and women crouched around the fire or sitting on logs drinking; they appeared to be a mix of smugglers and highwaymen. To one side stood a heavy cart loaded with several barrels of what I guessed to be rum. Off to the other side of the camp, I could see a line of ponies kneeling tethered to a long hitching rope. Judging by their looks and their tack, they were a mix of smugglers’ ponies and better quality highwayman’s mounts; I guessed there were probably a few girls there who’d been rustled from their stables or, perhaps, surprised in the woods as we had been. The fact these woods were riddled with highwaymen was well known and yet people still travelled through them alone at night.
It was rumoured that some young maidens, excited by the thought of being taken by a highwayman, deliberately exposed themselves to the risk and there appeared to be three girls in the camp that had either had their heads turned in this manner or were very stupid. I wondered if their ponies thought the risk was worth it. The three of them knelt together round a tree stump that was clearly doubling as a tethering post; all three had rings in their nipples which I guessed were newly placed and were tied to the stump by short cords forcing them to lean over it. This is a common way of breaking in new ponies; I had been through it myself; chained on her knees by her nipples a girl cannot stand or even lie down, the tether it too short; it is uncomfortable and cramped and one can barely move without disturbing the other two girls who are equally cramped and whose nipples are throbbing like hers from their recent piercings. The girls arms were sheathed and they were harnessed and bridled; all three wore a tail too and I knew that each would be plugged vaginally too. It was a brutal introduction to their new state; kneeling in enforced submission, cramped and sore; violated and open to abuse; unable to speak and probably drooling like the ‘dumb’ animals they were being forced to become.
If they had succumbed to any romantic notion of being a highwayman’s mistress, I wondered what they thought of it now.
A few of the camp’s occupants rose to greet their three returning brethren and inspect their booty.
‘A fine pony.’ One of them said, appraising me and flicking one of my nipple bells. ‘Nice tack too.’
‘A little small up top.’ Another said squeezing my breast.
I glared at him.
‘Feisty too.’
‘Her mistress more than makes up for it,’ the highwayman who had been leading me said, jumping from her chariot to release me from between the traces of Cassie’s gig. That’s when I realised she wasn’t a highwayman at all. ‘Her mistress is a lovely buxom wench.’ She spoke with an Irish brogue. ‘Plenty to hang on ta if ya knows what I mean.’ She thrust out his hips and the others laughed.
‘As if you’d know, Saoirse,’ one of the men chided.
‘I’ve got more balls between my legs than ye, Austol,’ she countered pushing past the smuggler as she lead me to the hitching rope where she looped a long leather cord though my nipple rings and tied me in place next to a small squat blonde in a heavy harness and bridle who I gathered was probably a rustled pit pony.
‘I’ll be back later ta see if you’re as fine with yer tongue as ya are between the shafts,’ she told me then strode away with her cloak sweeping behind her, to hobble her own ponies who it appeared were staying in harness presumably to be out on the road again later.
I knelt up watching as Cassie was lifted from the chariot in which she’d been dumped and dragged towards the fire. An area had already been cleared and four stakes hammered into the ground. I suspected each of the girls crouched around the tethering post had enjoyed a turn here being ceremonially deflowered if, indeed, they had been maidens when captured.
Cassie’s bonds were cut and she was stretched out between the stakes, arms and legs spread.
‘Nice.’ The highwayman who’d carried her back to camp drew his rapier and tapped the tip of it against Cassie’s chastity belt as her wrists and ankles were bound in place.
Cassie looked up at him, wild eyed over her gag, watching as he sheathed his rapier. To her credit, she let out only the smallest whimper as drew a knife, and crouched beside her. I watched him sliding the tip into the bodice of her dress. Even in the glow of the fire I saw Cassie pale then, he cut sharply up, ripping the velvet and the corset beneath so that it burst open exposing Cassie’s body. There was a ragged cheer and the highwayman proceeded to cut away the sleeves of the dress leaving her in just her stockings and boots and the chastity belt.
‘Arthur, can you take this fucking thing off?’ The highwayman tapped the chastity belt with the handle of his knife.
A thick set man with a limp waddled over and dropped to his knees to examine the belt.
‘’Tis good work,’ he said. ‘It will take me a while.’
It did; and it was, I suppose, a credit to Tom’s work that it took the man nearly thirty minutes to remove Cassie’s chastity belt; starting with picks and eventually resorting to a hammer and pin. I wasn’t surprised that the process left Cassie increasingly upset and finally reduced to sobs. However, at last the belt popped open…
And there it was glinting in the torchlight at the apex of Cassie’s spread legs, Cassie’s love piercing.
12) Cassie’s Secret
Young ladies do not have piercings. As I’ve mentioned, military ponies have them; it’s part of their discipline, some mining ponies have them too; when a girl won’t obey her bridle, the clit ring is a sure way to make her obedient. When other ponies have them; they are inserted by a master who has grown attached to his pony and it is for this reason they are sometimes called ‘love rings’. Lady Barbara, of course, has one left from her military days and, probably now for the love of her husband/master but I had no idea why Cassie would have one. Moreover, I could only think of one person who could have inserted it.
Tom, the blacksmith!
Shit; all those visits Cassie had driven Honey over to the forge for her belt to be checked…
It was the perfect cover for…for their relationship.
God, I’d been stupid to miss it, but it explained why Cassie always took Honey over to Tom’s forge and why she couldn’t agree to marry the major. I wasn’t the only one to be taken aback. The highwaymen gathered round to examine it as Cassie lay whimpering gently with her head to the side and her eyes squeezed shut.
In one way, this discovery was a good thing. It had distracted the highwayman so when the major’s chariot crashed into the clearing they were a little too slow to act.
The man who’d stripped Cassie was the quickest to respond, drawing his pistol but the major had the advantage and fired his own pistol at point blank range so the highwayman toppled backwards, his own shot going wide. The major cut down Arthur who had still been kneeling between Cassie’s legs before he could stand and then clashed blades with the highwaywoman who’d lead me back to camp. His attack faltered for a moment but an uppercut to the chin sent her sprawling back and the major drew his second pistol shooting a smuggler who was rushing at him with a cutlass.
This was enough to send the other rogues running, scattering in all directions and the dashing major duly pulled Chrissy to a halt and leapt from his chariot. The sight of Cassie lying there gagged and with her legs spread and her secret revealed so to speak was enough to give even the gallant major pause for thought but he duly hacked her bonds away with his sabre and lifted her to her feet.
I had expected him to aid her onto his chariot and gallop to safety with his prize however, I saw him pause a second time and look around; perhaps, with Cassie clinging, half swooning, to his neck he wished to make sure of his escape but he continued to look around as if searching for something. Then his eyes met mine and, to my utter amazement, he deposited Cassie none too gently in his chariot and strode towards me with his sabre drawn. Jerking free the makeshift nipple halter holding me to the tether rope he turned without a word and drew me rather quickly behind him. I stumbled after him, still shocked that he should waste any time on a mere pony, least of all one that had let her mistress down so badly.
Reaching his chariot, he hooked my nipple halter to one of the rear posts and then, helping Cassie up beside him, took up the reins and urged Chrissy to make haste.
It was, I think, the first time I had truly appreciated the power of a military charger. Chrissy responded instantly and, transferring the reins to his left hand, the major took up his whip and urged her to the gallop. Chrissy obeyed, drawing the chariot forward with a power that left me almost trailing in her wake despite my lack of encumbrance. Hooded and completely at the whim of her master she sped forward crashing through bushes and at one stage trampling over the body of a fallen highwayman.
It appeared we had made our escape and surely, the major would return with a troop of regulars in the morning to round up any of the remaining brigands.
I’d reckoned, though, without one final challenge.
Near the edge of the clearing a figure suddenly rose, a smuggler; I saw the glint of steel and saw the raised cutlass almost at the same time as the major. Hooded and at full stride, Chrissy galloped headlong towards him changing her course only when the major tugged on her reins; she swerved so sharply I nearly tripped over the chariot. Perhaps if the major had had his hands free he might have turned us just a little more or perhaps a little sooner; as it was the blade missed Chrissy’s body but bit into her right thigh.
She stumbled, fleetingly, but then ran on just as before as the major thrust the whip in his teeth and drew his sabre, slicing out viciously and almost cutting the smuggler in two in his fury.
Chrissy ran on.
It took some time to reach the road and that’s when I realised how deep Chrissy’s wound had been. Despite her increasing limp, the major drove her on, only when we emerged from the woods did the major pull her to a halt and dismount his chariot, kneeling to inspect the wound.
Chrissy’s chest was heaving madly from the exertion of pulling the heavy parade chariot and its two occupants and, I suspected, from what I could see of the wound, from loss of blood.
The major pulled off his tunic and ripped a strip from his shirt to bind the wound then held it in place with his belt. Then he climbed back into the chariot.
‘Shir!’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘Pud me in her plasche.’
‘Hold your tongue, red!’ He snarled then added more kindly. ‘Though it is a good offer.’
‘She can’t, Shir!’
A pony should never argue with her master; it was the first time I had done so.
‘I said be silent!’ he spat. ‘She is a charger and you are not. Besides, we must make haste. If the brigands overtake us, we are lost.’
I hung my head.
He flicked the whip and Chrissy took off at the trot with me trailing behind.
With her leg bound, Chrissy managed a more even gait and what the major had said proved true; I would never have maintained such a pace with two in the chariot. However, after about three miles she began to slow and after a further half mile the major dismounted to tighten the dressing and, from then on, ran beside her with Cassie curled on the chariot under his pelisse. By the time we reached Mares, Chrissy’s pace was only a little above a walk even with the major beside her holding her bridle.
As we reached the house, we found the militia assembled, torches flaming, ponies hastily harnessed and placed between the shafts; a galloper knelt over a bowl of water, her face pale and her skin drenched in sweat; but her flanks no longer heaving as I guessed they must have done when she arrived; her driver stood beside her with a glass of brandy.
Sir Charles was addressing his troops and as we drew to a halt he turned to greet us. He had pressed Lady Barbara into service, there she stood, strapped tightly into a beautiful purple leather harness, her head up and her huge breasts thrust out proudly, their rings glinting in the torchlight like the ring piercing her below. Sam had Honey in harness and looked grim; other members of the local gentry stood by in chariots and carts, their ponies prancing nervously between the shafts.
Tom was there too and I saw his eyes widen as the major helped Cassie from the chariot. She had the major’s pelisse draped around her shoulders but other than her stockings she was naked. The blacksmith paled as his eyes drifted down her body taking in the ring. Sir Charles had seen it too.
‘What?’
‘Peace, Sir Charles.’ Major James held up his hand. ‘Your daughter is safe.’
‘That is a matter of opinion, Sir.’ Sir Charles said angrily as one of the footmen stepped forward to support Cassie. Sir Charles waved him away. ‘She can stand unaided,’ he snapped.
The man backed away hastily.
Cassie looked at Major James and then, very deliberately stepped away from him, standing up straight and casting off the pelisse to stand proudly despite her nudity.
Sir Charles looked at major James.
‘Thank you, Major,’ he said more politely although the effort to control his anger was clearly causing him trouble. ‘We’ll take it from here. We must round up these rats and bring them to the justice they deserve.’
‘With respect, Sir,’ the major said. ‘This is a matter for the regulars. Your daughter is safe, there is no more to do tonight.’
Sir Charles rounded on him, his patience expiring. ‘And with respect, Sir, I command here.’
There was a moment’s intense silence and the two men glared at each other.
Major James knew when to withdraw. ‘Indeed, Sir, but please allow me to accompany you.’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘Thank you, Major.’ Then he seemed to notice Chrissy’s wound for the first time. The charger was barely staying on her feet; there was blood down her leg and spattered across her boots. ‘But surely, you have played your part major, and your pony needs attention.’
Major James looked around, his gaze falling on Tom who was staring wide eyed at the exchange and intermittently looking at Cassie who stood alone, trembling now almost as much as Chrissy.
‘I’m sure there is one here who will care for her,’ he said, ‘and care for your daughter.’ He looked meaningfully at Cassie.
Sir Charles frowned.
‘And fortunately, I have a spare galloper.’ The major continued, turning to look at me. ‘That is if she does not object,’ he said in a lower voice.
Sir Charles laughed grimly.
‘She is headstrong, I’ll grant you that, and as you have so frequently reminded me these last months, Major, a fine specimen.’
Tom came forward and crouched beside Chrissy although part of his attention was clearly on Cassie. ‘I will see to her, Sir. It looks a deep wound. I will send for the veterinarian.’ He began to release Chrissy from the shafts.
‘Thank you, Tom.’ The major said. ‘I’m sure you may send Lord Devonshire’s galloper to fetch the veterinarian when she has recovered.’
‘Sir.’ Tom nodded.
‘And Tom.’ The major’s tone became more grave. ‘We will need to speak later.’ He glanced at Cassie.
Tom paled. ‘Yes, Sir,’ she said very quietly.
‘Sir Charles.’ Major James turned to the ex-colonel. ‘Your daughter…’
‘Put her in the stable…’ Sir Charles said bluffly. ‘In the restraining stall to keep her out of trouble.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Tom said quietly.
Sir Charles turned. ‘To me, men.’ He pulled on the reins and Lady Barbara pranced in her boots, her blonde mane dancing and her tail swaying. ‘I’m sure you’ll catch us up, Major.’ And with that he whipped his pony’s rump and she leapt forward at the canter, the rest of the militia following behind.
13) Pressed into Service
That night passed in a blur of pain and excitement, fear and ecstasy. He ran me hooded, between the shafts of his parade chariot, but still in the dress harness although he used nipple reins muttering something about having to get used to life as a military pony as he gagged me and jerked sharply on my nipples to test my response. The battle hood made it hard to hear so he may have said something else but I understood why ponies are treated that way in battle; they are completely helpless, completely dependent on their driver to guide them and, blind and with their hearing reduced, they are far less likely to be spooked.
I also discovered why the military use nipple bridles; a girl certainly finds herself becoming very responsive to reins attached to her nipples but standard rings are really not designed to take them. It’s not unusual to get sore nips from running with nipple bells for more than a few hours, especially the heavier ones and I’d just run back from Buckfastleigh with the gold nipple bells bouncing around on my little buds. After a night guided by nipple reins it felt as if my poor nips were swollen like plums and stretched like a lady’s finger.
It was exciting though, even if I had little idea what was going on; the cries of ‘tally ho’, the report of pistol shots, the clash of steel and all this with a phallus in my sex and a tail in my rump. I might have started the night wanting to make him take back the comment about me not being a charger but after a while I forgot about everything except the whip and my harness and his complete mastery over me.
Major James removed my hood at dawn and I felt the cool air wash over my face like a stream. I must have been quite a sight; flushed and soaked with sweat, my flanks heaving, my body bruised and muddied, my flesh torn and bleeding where we had pursued the scoundrels through the woods and into thickets.
‘Well done, Red,’ he said to me as he stroked my rump in time honoured fashion.
He had given me no more quarter than he gave the brigands as he had thrashed me and driven me beyond any limits I thought I had possessed. I was on my feet only through sheer determination not to show myself up in front of him.
I nuzzled his shoulder feeling myself begin to shiver.
He was in little better shape than me; no longer the dashing lancer in his pristine white dress tunic and breeches but just as mud spattered as me and with a gash on his cheek that was crusted with blood. Perhaps that was why he wrapped his arms around me and held me close.
‘Tom,’ he called. ‘Bring a blanket.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Tom hurried to obey, bringing a rough wooden winter blanket from the stables and wrapping it around my shoulders.
‘How is she?’ The major asked and I knew who he meant.
‘She has lost much blood, Sir, but she is stabled and resting,’ Tom told him. ‘The veterinarian wanted to take off her leg but I wouldn’t let him.’
‘You are sound in such judgement, blacksmith?’ The major’s voice carried a note of challenge.
‘My father served with Sir Charles in the peninsula, Sir.’ Tom said proudly. ‘He taught me all he knew. The leg will be sound again, Sir. You will have your charger back.’
‘And how is…’ The major lowered his voice. ‘Sir Charles’ new pony?’
‘She is well, Sir.’ Tom began to blush.
‘Sir Charles believes the brigands pierced his daughter while they held her.’ The major said.
Tom just stared at him.
‘I do not propose to dissuade him from that theory,’ the major said.
Tom nodded. ‘Your charger will have the best care, Sir.’
‘See that she does.’
I shuddered violently.
‘I would have your silence too, Red,’ he said to me, holding me close to him.
I looked at him. God he was handsome. I wished I was a charger; his charger. I pressed my body against his. I was unbridled and ungagged; I could simply lift my mouth and press it to his.
‘My name is Bryony, Sir,’ I whispered quietly.
Around me men were exchanging tales of the night and D’Cream in close chains was distributing glasses of porter from a tray nestling beneath her breasts; Cat carried a tray of warm ale. Sir Charles appeared ten years younger than he had before, setting out even in his fatigue as he guided his wife, still between the shafts of his gig, among his men to congratulate them. She was not quite as bloodied and dirty as me but looked like a pony who had worked hard for her master. She really must have been quite a sight when he was on campaign.
If he had any thoughts for the fate of his daughter he didn’t voice them.
The major released me from the shafts and I expected him to call one of the stableboys over to remove my harness, rub me down and guide me to my stall. Instead, he led me towards the billet that had been rigged for him in one of the storehouses. When he had stayed before, he had been put up in the main house; today, however, he was one of Sir Charles’ lower ranking guests. He paused at the threshold and then, to my shock, led me inside. I was still shivering and grateful when I saw that a fire had been set in the hearth.
‘I was wrong,’ he said, starting to remove my tack. ‘You are not quite a charger but you would make a good one.’
I stood in silence. Ponies don’t talk and I had no idea what to say.
I shivered again and he pushed me towards the fire, tugging at the buckles of my harness, pulling it away from my body until I stood naked save my sheath. Then he guided me into his cot and climbed in beside me, pulling the blanket over us and holding me close to his body. I was shivering uncontrollably now, a mix of cold, emotion, anticipation.
What happened next was an inevitable result of my animal need and the pressure of the iron rod that strained against my thigh. I lifted my head and he kissed me fiercely, his hands drawing my body tightly against his and suddenly I was no longer cold. It wasn’t in any way romantic and gentle; it was brutal and rougher than when he had taken me from behind in the stable but it was what we both needed, the consummation of the bond that had formed between us overnight, between master and pony; and, I knew, the end of it.
I howled as he entered me and screamed as we climaxed, his hot semen spurting into me as his manhood ravaged my hungry sex filling my entire body with hot passion as I shuddered with overwhelming joy.
Pony’s don’t get treated like this very often, we don’t usually get kissed, except by each other and as we lay panting, I wrapped my thighs around his body and pressed myself against him in a pitiable attempt to stop him from leaving me. I even bit his chest, clamping my teeth into his flesh as he tried to disentangle himself from me.
I sobbed after he had left me because I knew where he was going.
Then I fell asleep.
I woke to find him standing over me bare chested, the bite mark one of many wounds on his chest but this one fresh and livid.
‘She is sleeping,’ he said and I fought down another sob, the chill returning as if cold steel had pierced my heart. It was Chrissy he truly cared about.
While I had been sleeping, the maids of the footmen had filled the bath that sat by the fire and now he scooped me up in his arms and lowered me into the steaming water, my bound arms resting over the side. Then he stood behind me and began to undo the laces of my sheath.
It must have been ten years since I last bathed; ponies get a bucket of water over them and a rub down in the yard. To feel warm water on my skin was so heavenly that I barely noticed as he’d freed my arms and rubbed them gently before guiding them into the water too. Then, removing his breeches, he climbed in with me, the hot water spilling onto the floor.
It was cramped and I could feel his legs against mine; I couldn’t move without more water spilling onto the floor. Above all, I had no idea what to do with my arms.
‘You ran well last night, Bryony,’ he said.
I looked at him. Ponies don’t talk.
‘And as I said, you would make a fine charger.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ I felt myself blushing and looked down.
He took hold of one of my hands and held it to his lips.
‘Please, Sir…’ I tried to pull my hand away, uncomfortable now in his presence but he held it firmly.
‘You don’t get out of it that easily,’ he said with a laugh. ‘You stink and I need to return you to your owner in something like the state he loaned you to me.’
His words turned the blade in my heart.
‘Yes, Sir.’
He stood and climbed out of the tub then took up the soap; then he began to wash me, soaping my arms and my body.
‘In the field,’ he said. ‘A soldier must care for his own pony.’
His hands on my body excited me again and I squirmed with a mix of delight and awkwardness.
‘Surely an officer has a groom to do that for him.’
‘Sometimes a man prefers to do certain things himself.’
I thought of Chrissy, squirming under his touch, her body responding as mine now responded and tried to stop myself hating her. She was wounded, dying possibly, at risk of losing her leg although, like the major, I trusted Tom’s judgement more than the drunken veterinarian.
When he had cleaned me, he lifted me out of the water and wrapped me in a blanket before washing himself.
Then he took me to bed.
14) The New Pony
I cannot recall that next hour we spent together without a wetness forming between my thighs.
I had never been with a man without my arms being bound and I had often been harnessed and bridled. I did not know what to do with my arms and I did not know what to say as his hands ran across my body.
‘Bind me, Sir,’ I begged.
‘I command here,’ he told me.
‘Yes, Sir,’ I said meekly, pressing my face against his chest.
He guided my fingers to his body and I traced the scars that puckered his skin and felt the roughness of his chin with my fingertips before he took them in his hand and kissed them one by one. Then he held my hands and bent his head to kiss my bruised and swollen nipple, flicking my piercing ring with his tongue. I squirmed under his touch my body even in its freedom utterly in thrall to his control. When he took my nipple in his mouth and his hand slid between my thighs I wrapped myself around him, kissing the top of his head.
He took me slowly this time, entering me a little at a time, teasing my hot, yearning body with his touch until I was ready to scream with frustration.
‘Please, Sir…’ I whispered but he put his finger to my lips.
‘Ponies do not speak,’ he reminded me gently.
‘Then gag me, Sir,’ I begged.
‘Do you seek to command again?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ I told him, now fully impaled on his shaft and arching my back to feel its full length as I clutched him desperately, digging my fingernails into his back the better to hold him. ‘Punish me,’ I whispered as he filled my body with joy.
‘Punish me and then keep me,’ I added silently.
As I lay still clinging to him in my private bliss, I gradually became aware of the noise of the stable yard, and could hear the click of hooves on cobbles. I knew immediately from the step that it was Sir Charles’ new pony being taken through her morning exercises by Reuben, the head groom. I knew Cassie would be wearing the rough training tack and hitched to the old, heavy training gig. I doubted she’d been made to perform under these conditions by Mistress Goose. I was pretty sure she would not have worn a tail before but knew she would be wearing one now even if it was a borrowed one for the moment.
Major James heard it too and rolled over groaning, his cock sliding out of me.
‘I need to go and buy a pony,’ he told me, slipping from under the rough blanket that covered us.
That blade in my heart twitched again. He might not be able to marry Cassie now, but he could still own her although I wondered what he would do with her. I was barely a match for Chrissy; Cassie would never be.
I watched him pull on his shirt and breeches knowing it was the last time we would lie together and fought back the hot tears that welled up once again in my eyes. Despite my nap, I was still tired, exhausted really but I had the sense to realise this was clouding my judgement and I was in danger of becoming a jumped up little pony with ideas above my station. A few mornings with Sam spending his erection inside me and trotting to the town hitched to the cart would bring my hooves very firmly back to the ground.
As the major left, I lay for a moment looking at my arms and moving my fingers; it was as if I was playing with some unusual toy. The nails were long, Sam had been rather distracted in his care for me of late. Then Cassie clattered past again and I scampered out of bed excited to see her in harness.
Her poise wasn’t bad and she lifted her legs well but was clearly tiring even though she could only have been training for about a quarter of an hour. I watched Reuben flick the whip across her rump and saw Cassie startle, her head turning, fighting with the reins and earning her her second stripe. She was already in a martingale to stop her tossing her head and her rump was criss-crossed with red stripes; she had them on the back of her thighs too.
Sir Charles stood watching, stony faced and a sad looking Lady Barbara stood beside him. The blonde was returned now to her role as mistress of the household in a split front frock her huge ringed breasts brazenly displayed just as they had been in harness the previous evening; her own ‘love ring’ was visible too as if to remind her daughter that she had occupied that station once. The fact Lady Barbara was wearing a deportment sheath and was gagged suggested that she had tried to use her wiles to save her daughter from the fate that awaited her.
‘Major.’ Sir Charles beckoned the major over.
If he saw one of his ponies in the doorway of the outhouse unbridled and unsheathed, her naked body displayed like a harlot’s, so recently used that her lover’s seed still ran down her thighs, he did not comment.
‘Sir Charles.’ Major James strode towards him then stopped to watch Cassie trot between them.
‘What do you think?’ Sir Charles commented nodding towards the blonde toiling between the shafts.
New rings glinted in Cassie’s nipples and I gathered Tom must have visited early or perhaps stayed all night. Her ample breasts bounced enticingly as she ran and I watched the major follow them, his eyes, I was sure, sliding to the firm round rump and swishing tail. She was more buxom than Chrissy but I gathered the major had an eye for the fuller figured pony not skinny ones like me.
‘A shocking business.’ Sir Charles shook his head.
‘Indeed, Sir.’ The major nodded, accepting a glass of porter from D’Creme’s tray, deliberately catching her nipple with the stem as he lifted it.
I felt another flare of jealousy.
‘She had a nice step,’ the major said after a sip of porter and then looked around at Lady Barbara’s lovely form.
I leant on the doorframe, forgotten.
‘If only you’d arrived a little earlier, Major.’ Sir Charles said, still watching his daughter. ‘That… the ring…’ he gesticulated.
As Sir Charles spoke, Reuben drew Cassie to a halt in front of the pair and I saw her turn her head sharply as she overheard her father’s misunderstanding. If he’d looked more closely he would surely have realised that his daughter’s ring had been there for some time and the piercing had healed unlike the fresh ones adorning her nipples.
‘I can only assume they were going to sell her to the army or maybe even the damn navy.’ The major kept his voice neutral.
‘Indeed, Sir.’ The major took a sip of porter to cover his smile.
‘Would ‘e care to examine ‘er, Sir.’ Reuben asked His Lordship pointedly.
‘Allow me, Sir.’ The major said politely and rather quickly, replacing his glass on D’Cream’s tray and giving one of her nipples a playful flick.
‘Go ahead, Major,’ Sir Charles said. ‘I’m sure you know a thing or two about horseflesh.’ He tried to laugh but only a kind of strangled gasp came out.
Lady Barbara turned away.
I watched Major James examine Cassie in a way that I felt sure he would never have done with Miss Cassandra.
He began by taking her bridle and checking her teeth.
‘They’ll be pulled later, Sir.’ Reuben assured him. ‘Blacksmith’s coming back.’
I wondered what expression he might read in Cassie’s face and her blue eyes.
Major James’ hands moved down her body, one slipping between her harness and her back, the other cupping her large breasts in turn. I watched him check the new nipple rings and was sure Cassie’s nipples swelled under his touch.
‘Smith did ‘er nips this mornin’, Sir.’ Reuben told him. ‘She’s ‘ad some basics ‘afore, like. In a week or two you’ll not distinguish her from a yearling.’ He glanced at Sir Charles. ‘That’s begging yer pardon, Sir.’
Sir Charles looked away. The major’s hands moved lower, feeling Cassie’s firm round bottom and sliding between her thighs.
‘The ring is well set, I believe, Sir.’ Reuben said. ‘She’ll be very responsive.’
Cassie’s shudder proved his point and I wondered if she’d shuddered like that for Tom when he’d used her.
The major crouched to examine Cassie’s thighs and calves.
‘A little weak at present,’ he said. ‘But they’ll strengthen.’ He looked up. ‘I’d value her at fifty guineas.’
‘Really, Sir?’ Reuben sounded doubtful.
‘She has a fine gait and good hips; a few weeks in harness she’ll be leaner and stronger.’ He glanced at Lady Barbara. ‘Her breeding will out.’ He straightened up and brushed off his hands.
‘You know your horseflesh, Major.’ Sir Charles said rejoining the conversation. ‘But I think you overvalue.’
‘I stand by my earlier offer, Sir.’
‘As you wish,’ Sir Charles shrugged. The two men clasped hands striking the bargain.
Cassie, it seemed, had been sold to the major for fifty guineas.
I covered my face and slid back into the darkness of the outhouse, pulling the blanket around me and weeping.
15) The Charger
Sam came for me about an hour later.
‘Come along, Bryony,’ he said, whip in hand his eyes taking in my red eyes and tear streaked cheeks.
The tack was laid out in the yard and I stopped beside it when Sam commanded.
I looked at him. Ponies don’t speak. This was Chrissy’s tack.
‘Sir,’ I said as he had me stand with my arms behind me to sheath them.
‘You’ll get more than my whip on manoeuvres,’ he told me, striking my rump with his crop.
‘Sir, this is Chrissy’s tack,’ I said. ‘Please don’t do this to me.’
I took another three stripes for that.
‘You’ll be going out of here gagged,’ he told me sharply. ‘Or t’ major will ask for his eighty guineas back.’
I turned on him, snatching my arms from the sheath.
‘It was fifty, Sam,’ I said vehemently. ‘The major paid fifty guineas for Cassie.’
’T' major’s not bought Cassie though, ‘as ‘e?’ Sam said firmly. ‘He’s paid eighty guineas for you, though there’s none of us can say why.’ He raised the whip. ‘Now, unless ye want that hide flayin’ off ye you’ll settle down an’ behave. If the major weren’t t’ be off in t’ hour I’d have ye in t’ restrainin’ stall and yer ‘ide tanned.’
‘Is my pony causing you trouble, Sam?’ The major suddenly stood beside us.
‘Must ‘a ‘ad a bang on t’ head last night, Sir.’ Sam told him. ‘Thinks as she’s woken up mistress o’ the ‘ouse an’ you’re takin’ t’ new blonde pony t’ peninsula.’
The major fixed his dark eyes on me. ‘Well Bryony?’
‘Sir,’ I said to him, my voice shaking. ‘Sam seems to think you’ve bought me and wants to dress me in Chrissy’s tack and I think he’s being cruel because he knows…’ I faltered. ‘He knows I love you and he’s…’.
I knew I’d gone too far. The major snatched Sam’s whip and took me by the hair. ‘I seem to have spent the last day and night disciplining you,’ he snapped, bending me over a hitching bar and bringing the whip down on my rump with the full force of his arm. ‘They told me you were wilful but, Lord knows, you have too much spunk for a pony.’ He whipped me again twice; hard enough to split flesh. ‘In the army, when a pony is given an order, she obeys…and you will obey me.’
I felt him pull my wrists behind me and bind them then, taking me by the arm he dragged me into the stable with tears flooding my vision.
Cassie was in the restraining stall, kneeling harnessed, and I saw her lift her head as the major dragged me in, the straps holding her clicking as she turned to look at me. There were tears in her eyes and they widened in surprise as the major dragged me past her into my own stall.
Chrissy lay on her side but as the major entered, she tried to drag herself to her knees. She was deathly pale, her eyes sunken and her right thigh was heavily bandaged. I could smell blood and cauterised flesh but not the sickly odour of infection.
‘No.’ The major tried to stop her rising, crouching beside her and holding her about the shoulders but she shrugged him off and made it to her knees, the pain of this obvious in her expression.
Despite her wound, Chrissy was still sheathed and wore one of Sir Charles’ stable halters, its rope tied to a ring in the wall.
I realised again the strength that Chrissy possessed that even now she gave her all for her master.
‘As you can see, I have little choice of ponies,’ he glared at me. ‘I had thought you might suffice.’
I looked up at him realising for the first time that this was not a joke.
‘What do you think, Chrissy?’ he said. ‘I paid eighty guineas for her.’
Her look of shock vanished as quickly as it came.
‘I’d say, Sir,’ she said, her voice weak and hoarse. ‘That you were an excellent judge of horseflesh.’ She smiled weakly. ‘I know she lacks discipline as did I, when you bought me.’
She fixed those storm grey eyes on me.
‘Look after him,’ she whispered.
I blinked back the tears and nodded.
An hour later, I trotted along the drive to Mares Manor, the gravel loud beneath my new military boots, the parade chariot heavy behind me. I wore Chrissy’s dress harness and her sheath and, like a proper military pony, I was hooded. The exertions of the previous night still weighed heavily on me and my body ached or perhaps that was the beating my new master had just given me for arguing with my former owner’s groom and speaking out of turn.
There had just been time for Tom to fit me for a military bridle and my nipples throbbed where they had been newly pierced for the bar of a to be bridle inserted. The hood left me again utterly reliant on my master to guide me using my aching swollen nipples. As with many military ponies, my original nipple piercings were still in place and bells danced on them.
I had another piercing too; a ring through my clit, deep and, as I ran, intensely stimulating; working along with the plug that filled me and strap teasing my crotch; I guessed I would be very sore the next day but by then I’d be in a restraining stall on a frigate out of Plymouth on my way to the continent, the property of His Majesty’s armed forces and of my new master.