© Copyright 2012 - Gryphon - Used by permission
Storycodes: M/f+; ponygirls; harness; bitgag; boots; naked; outdoors; bdsm; whip; object; slaves; sex; cons/reluct; XX
Chapter One: The Caravan
Sarak crept every inch closer, his hands were placed slowly on the ground before him, testing what was beneath his palm and fingers before transferring body weight. Then slowly raising the other hand he repeated the manoeuvrer, hand forward, test, place and bring knee into the spot from whence his hand had come. For almost an hour now he had crept forward on the encampment of this Masan, for almost an hour he had hardly made an iota of noise as he slithered slowly towards the picket line to the south of that camp. And there, attached to the picket line were the seven tired and bedraggled ponygirls.
Sarak was a thief, a trader, a pirate, a pillager and always an opportunist. He had been in the town of Daroc, spending the monies from his last trade, that of three fine cows he had earlier stolen and dragged across the deserts to this flea hole of a town. He had received three gold pieces for each cow, from the local butcher who had almost immediately butchered and sold them, thus removing from any following Kings Soldiers any evidence of the dismal trade.
Three gold pieces had been enough for a week of food, board and wild women, and Sarak had had his few women, his many feeds and now as always was lying in the gutter, the morning after, still half drunk, still in dirty wine and food stained clothes, and of course weeks of growth upon his face. He heard the whips of a trader entering the town square and heard the clip clop of pacing ponies as the caravan wound past his drunken and lice ridden body to come to a stop in the centre of the square, alongside the water troughs.
Looking up through bloodshot and swollen eyes, Sarak viewed the sight of seven ponygirls in caravan, all carrying backpacks of trading wares, and all standing with heads bowed, heaving bosoms, and sweat drenched bodies. The caravan leader was a Masan, standing fully seven feet in his long flowing robes, his right hand holding the lead reins connected to the lead ponygirl, and then leading off to all the other ponygirls. His left hand held a long whip which he cracked to the ground and the seven ponies all dropped to their knees, nearly all falling forwards with the weight of the backpacks and the depths of their own fatigue.
The Masan walked down the line of the ponygirls removing the backpacks attached to their arms securely tied behind them, and as he passed each one he cuffed them alongside their heads, abusing each one for her tardiness and weakness of spirit, for he had meant to have reached this town of Daroc earlier than this, for now it was approaching noon and being the hottest part of the day, he would not be able to spread his wares to the townsfolk to peruse and purchase. Leaving the ponygirls where they had fallen, the Masan strode across the square entering the tavern behind Sarak, looking for some wine and food for himself, and yet with no thought nor care for his ponies, lying in their humbled and fatigued nakedness in the centre of the square.
Sarak, still dazed at the sight of the seven ponygirls slowly got to his knees and then his feet, staggering slightly as he slowly walked across the square, braving the almost forty degree heat of the scalding sunshine. He noticed that the ponygirls were all bound with arms behind them, chest harness across and around their breasts lifting them and forcing them forward, a leather belt down, around and through their legs, chafing against their thighs and yet holding the butt plug and tail in place. The headgear ranged from a full ball mouth gag, to a metal bit, surmounted by a full head harness complete with plume. Bells attached to rings through their nipples completed their outfits, soiled with days of walking and trotting, soiled with their own body excretions, sweat and saliva stains apparent everywhere.
As he continued across towards the ponygirls he noticed their boots were worn and in need of being reshod, the harness was in need of cleaning and repair, the ponygirls themselves in need of pasturing, feeding and a goodly rest stop. But at this time they were more in need of water, and the closeness to the water troughs, and yet their inability to move, was causing distress amongst the ponies, for they were whimpering past their respective gags and their eyes were rolling in despair. Sarak went to the water trough, and taking a ladle of water approached each of the ponies in turn allowing them but just a short sip of the cool clear water, for too much too soon would hurt these sweet and beautiful creatures.
Sarak was returning to the trough for another ladle full of water, when the pain of the whip wrapping around his neck registered a split second before the noise of the whip reached his ears. Jerked from his feet he tumbled backwards to land in the dust, spinning quickly away from the whip he came to his knees as the boot of the Masan tribesman, connected with his chin, and that was all he remembered until he awoke later. Sarak dragged himself from the knockout and the sleep to be greeted by the wife of the tavern owner, a plumpish woman, a great cook, and now an adequate nurse. With a bemused look upon his face he listened to the tale of woe that had befallen himself, he heard how the Masan had continued to kick him until he was completely unconscious, how he had whipped all the Masan ponygirls until their skin ran in red rivulets of blood, dripping into the sands of the square, and how he had reloaded the backpacks, sworn at all the townsfolk, and departed with the weeping and pained ponygirls.
After three days of recuperation in the bed, Sarak managed to lift himself and stand with the help of his nurse and her nineteen-year-old daughter. All through his recuperation he had been bathed and pampered alternatively by both women, spoon fed, washed down in all areas, shaved, for he lay naked beneath the sheet, and when the girl’s administrations had reached his manhood, and in fact when the tavern masters’ wife had done the same, he reacted with an erection that both women had played with, however the wife had taken no advantage, yet the daughter had slipped into his bed every night since his arrival, mounting him whilst he lay there, slipping his erect and upright penis deep into herself as she seated herself, riding him to both his and her climaxes. Another two days of strength building of his muscles, another two days of being taken by the nineteen year old, another two days of feeding on the lovely fare from the tavern, and he was ready to leave. The tavern owner had given him an old pair of his leather breeches, a clean yet white shirt for his journey, along with a bag of food, a few silver coins and a short yet sharp dagger, held in a leather sheath, attached to the belt holding up his breeches.
Sarak was now ready. He had decided in his wisdom that he wanted the backpacks he had seen for his own trading, the ponygirls also for trading or use, and to this end he had made an agreement with the tavern keeper that the first and full backpack would be his as payment for his recovery, and the small belongings he now owned. Looking down upon the townsfolk, from his elevated height of about six feet, and looking down into the eyes of the daughter, the wife and the tavern keeper, for none stood taller than five foot, he realised why there had been no fight with the Masan, who powerfully built and towering at least two feet over the heads of the tallest townsfolk, looked and acted like a giant amongst midgets. Sarak was taller than the townsfolk as he came from the land far to the south and across the deepest deserts, he came from Tormina, a land of flowing rivers, green fields and ice capped mountains. A land he had left three years earlier at the age of eighteen, to find his fortune in the other lands available for travel.
The first four days and nights of travel, following the tracks and the spoor of the ponygirls, was taken mostly at a run, eating up the miles they had travelled in a short time. The next two nights he had watched from a great distance as they moved out, marched, and camped for the following night. Sarak ate sparingly from the knapsack provided by the tavern, augmenting his fare with a few wild hens he had managed to spear with a stick he had whittled the first evening, nearly twelve feet of dead straight wood blackened and hardened at the tip over a small fire in his evening wait. He noticed as he followed that the ponygirls were now in very poor condition, occasionally one would trip and fall, only to be whipped by the Masan until she arose and they could all continue with their march northwards. The Masan was heading towards his homeland, taking with him the ponygirls, for there were no women in the lands of the Masan, all females were bred specifically for this life and this sole purpose of being a ponygirl. They received no tutoring in Masan life, just training in carriage and duties, few learnt to speak, fewer managed to escape, and those that did were hunted down and killed as a future deterrent.
The Masan people were a cruel race, this man a definite advocate of this cruelty, and now Sarak was preparing to take on this particular large and nasty trader and caravan owner in an attempt to rob him of his wealth and his ponies, for his own benefit and financial future. Sarak almost lost his deal with himself on the first night out from the town, for in his own stupidity he had allowed a hungry and mangy wolf to creep up on him whilst he slept, and it was only that fatal cough the wolf made as he leapt, that had awoken Sarak from his sleep, and as he spun out from under the wolfs leap, he drew the knife, and before the wolf could recover and turn again, Sarak was on his back, pulling his head back, slicing the jugular with the fine bladed edge.
The wolf’s skin had been taken and cleaned, hanging over his back, towards the sun as he travelled, curing itself as he went. But now as he moved forwards slowly through the night, slowly towards the line of ponygirls, slowly towards the campfire, he wore the skin over his shoulders, the wolf’s head crowning his, and only a very careful scrutineer would not have said this was a wolf stalking his prey. The Masan twitched in his sleep, pulling his cover closer about him as he sat before the fire. The wolf crept ever closer, never intending to do anything, but check out the campsite from a closer perspective, getting to know the mind set of the Masan, and to formulate a plan for the next day or the next. It was however the very skin that hid him, that became his undoing, for as he approached the line of ponygirls, the third from the end woke from her sleep, stretched herself to her full six feet, and proceeded to urinate, and whilst in the midst of this task, her eyes caught the eyes of Sarak, her eyes caught the sight of the wolf skin, and her sensitive nose caught also the smell of the wolf.
The ponygirl panicked, her shod feet stamped as she raised her head and woke the other ponygirls with a loud and reverberant neigh. The ponygirls woken with fright moved quickly, and although they were tied securely to the picket line, they moved around, their breasts bouncing, their bells ringing loudly. The Masan sprung to his feet to investigate the ruckus, and although he marched around kicking the grass and the small trees he found no sign of the man nor the wolf, for Sarak had instantly also disappeared into the night. Sarak sat on a high rock watching as the Masan whipped again the ponygirls forcing them to their knees and the sleeping pose. Watched as he also built up the fire for his own comfort, stamping around looking into the night for whatever had startled his ponies.
Sarak stared back, feeling a growing hatred for this Masan, as he began to devise a plan to outwit the Masan and steal his possessions. Maybe Sarak would have to kill to achieve this, maybe not, but Sarak wanted the Masan gone, and he wanted the trophies in the backpacks before him and he also wanted the ponygirls. Tomorrow was going to be another fine and hot day.
* * * *
During the night whilst the moon was hiding behind some clouds, Sarak circumvented the encampment and struck out on the route he expected the Masan to take in the morning. He travelled a reasonable distance before he found a suitable place for hiding, for he intended to watch as the caravan and the Masan passed, and learn from the sights and sounds, and hopefully recognise something that would give him the edge in his attempt to liberate the ponies and remove the Masan as a problem. Sarak had placed himself at the edge of a small stand of trees, burrowing under a small fallen tree trunk, into the leaves and detritus surrounding it, and completely covering him so that only his eyes could be seen, and thus he waited.
The day grew warmer, Sarak started to sweat and itch, as the insects started to work their way under his clothes and drink from his body. Just as he was about to give up due to his discomfort, he heard noises approaching from the direction that the caravan was intending to travel. He turned his head slowly, avoiding disturbing his camouflage, and swore under his breath as he saw three of the Kings soldiers approaching with a walk that can only be described as that of drunken men. As he watched, Sarak saw the goatskin being passed from one to the other, and each in turn was taking a hefty swig of what one could only surmise as being wine. The three soldiers came to a halt, joking with each other and walked up the slight rise towards the trees, near where Sarak was lying in wait. They reached the shade and all three whipped out their small and unimpressive pieces of manhood, for they were soldiers from Daroc, the town Sarak had just left and they too were small men like the townsfolk. They all urinated on the ground. Laughing as they played around trying to make the water go further than their associates did. Finally, they all finished, but to Sarak’s horror, they moved slightly further away under the trees, lay down and proceeded to go to sleep!
Lying there in his discomfort, with three soldiers less than 20 feet away from him, Sarak contemplated his next move - stay there or creep away? Before he could decide, he saw in the distance the caravan come around a bend in the trail, seven tired and bedraggled ponies, laden with backpacks driven by the Masan, who standing clearly a foot higher than his charges was easily visible. His whip cracked as he urged the ponies to continue, pain giving them the incentive to take yet another step, another pace towards whatever respite might be ahead this night. The whip cracked more fiercely against the buttocks of the lead pony, for she was the one that led the rest, and where she went the others had to follow, due to the reins leading through the mouthpieces from front to back of the caravan. Blood was flowing freely from the lead pony's buttocks now, and flies were attracted to the smell of the warm juice. More flies hovered around the other ponies, for each pony in some way was marked and scared and cut by the whip. The Masan had no care for the ponies, to him they were just pack animals and he treated them shamelessly. Fed them and watered them only just as required, brutally removing their girdles and butt plugs each morning to let them defecate before strapping them in tightly for the day, and if they wanted to urinate, well they just did it as they walked along.
All the ponygirls were in considerable pain from the chaffing of the leather strap between their legs, a couple were limping from the disrepair of their hoof boots, and all of them were red and raw from the tight bindings up and around their breasts. The ponygirls were lean however, tall women condemned to a life of servitude as ponygirls, fated to remain so for their working lives, and yet the constant work they performed kept these ponygirls in trim form. The thighs of all of them were thick with muscle and showed strength, the buttocks tight and firm, the waist narrow, the breasts high, pert and perfectly formed, a tapering neck that held the proud head confined within a harness and dressed with a plume. Although these ponygirls were undernourished and pushed to their limits, they still managed to perform their respective duties, albeit under the whip of the Masan. They continued in their staggering step along the pathway, the whip occasionally sneaking out and touching one of the ponies, making her start and lift her pace a bit, the noise from the action drifting across the grassy plain to Sarak’s place of hiding. He glanced at the soldiers; maybe they would sleep through the passing of the caravan, but no luck. As the caravan drew abreast of the trees one of the soldiers awoke, saw the caravan and nudged his sleeping comrades awake. The three of them sat still and watched the caravan as it drew closer, then with a whisper amongst themselves they stood, shaking off the effects of the wine, and straightening their uniforms they walked down the hill towards the Masan and the caravan.
As the soldiers closed with the caravan, Sarak saw them make gestures for the Masan to stop. Standing across the intended route, they started to demand something from the caravan leader, maybe some tithe to allow him to pass, Sarak thought. He could not hear the words being said by either of the parties, but by the waving of the arms and the crude gesticulations, he quickly came to the conclusion that whatever the soldiers were demanding the Masan was refusing to accept. The caravan was at a total standstill, the ponies hardly moving in their exhaustion, a small twitch as a fly annoyed some part of their body, a flick of a muscle as another bit into their tender skin, or a toss of their heads as the flies attempted to drink from the saliva running down their chins. The ponies continued their respite, as the argument proceeded, and now the soldiers and the Masan had seated themselves on the grass alongside the caravan. Their persistent argument drifting across the grass towards Sarak, and he lay there wishing he could hear the discussion and the outcome. Then with a laugh and a slapping of backs, they all rose and it became obvious that a decision had been reached.
The Masan took up his whip again, then grabbing the lead reign he started to lead the caravan straight up the hill towards the trees, and the shade, and almost to the very spot where Sarak lay. The soldiers moved over to where they had originally been sleeping, as the Masan set up a picket rope and separating each ponygirl from the reins tied them individually to the rope. He removed the backpack from each tired and weary pony, and as the Masan walked down the line, Sarak had a clear view of each girl's face, and their brief look of relief as the heavy weight was removed from their backs and shoulders, and their obvious reprieve as they enjoyed the coolness of the shade and the respite from the hot sun. The Masan went back to the second pony in line and unhitched her, removing her from the picket line and leading her towards the tree trunk under which Sarak lay. Sarak lowered his head a little, averting his eyes into the leaves he hoped his place of hiding would remain unfound. He listened to the set of boots that a week ago had kicked him unconscious, and to the tap of the hoof boots on the grass sward as they approached, he heard a grunt, a scuffle and then both heard and felt the trunk move as the pony was tied to it. He lay there, quivering as the steps retreated and returned twice more, the noises echoing the first set he had listened too, whilst he attempted to make himself so small and insignificant. Again he heard the boots retreat and listened as the Masan offered the soldiers some fresh red wine from his packs, and heard the cheering and laughter, as all four must be drinking from the skins.
Sarak slipped his head back and out from under the trunk, slowly edging back from the trunk, until he could raise it enough to look at what had happened above him. His mouth gaped open as he saw the three ponygirls had been forced to their knees, with their necks tied tight to the trunk by their lead reins, forcing their faces over and towards him. As he saw them, they saw him, and with a quick "Shuss", he tried to calm them, for they immediately tried to clamber to their feet, immediately tried to tear their heads away from the binding holding them to the trunk. Sarak watched, as the fright in their faces was apparent, the eyes rolling back, wide and terrified, the lips around the bits in their mouths curling back, guttural screams from within coming out as a whinny of alarm. The ponies were shocked by his visage, and as he rose to run, he realised that they did not see him as a male, but as the wolf, for he still wore the wolf skin over his head for added protection. He lifted his head further and the three pony girls saw into his face for the first time, and he watched as a mixed feeling of relief and astonishment passed quickly across each face, and looking over their heads he saw the Masan coming over to see what the ruckus was about. Sarak edged further back, managing to get a thicker tree trunk between him and the approaching Masan, and listened as the Masan scolded his ponies and smacked their raised hind quarters hard with his hand. The Masan returned to the soldiers and Sarak, hand over hand, went up the tree he was behind, until he was mainly hidden by the branches and the leaves, and yet he had a clear view below him of the three ponies.
Glancing to the soldiers, he saw then stand and follow the Masan back towards the three ponies tethered to the trunk below him. Sarak watched as the Masan undid the strap between each of the girls thighs, watched as he parted their knees with his boots and watched as he bent to each in turn, lifting their tails away, exposing their outer lips. He played with each one, rubbing and fingering, slightly patting, until he was pleased with the response from each pony, for each pony was now aroused and wet. This was another duty of these girls, to satisfy their master or in fact anyone their master wished, and whilst the ponygirl was bred as a slave and as an animal, the ponygirl was also used for sexual gratification. The ponies beneath him were now panting, they had no recourse but to accept their fate, and the rubbing and administrations from the Masan had taken them to the awareness of the needs of their own bodies, the need to act accordingly and to accept a man's penis into themselves. The soldiers knelt between the stretched legs of the ponies, each removing his manhood from their breaches, each rubbing away at their small penises in an attempt to harden them for penetration. Before each soldier was an upraised pair of buttocks, round and beautiful in shape, yet scarred with whip strokes and bloodstains, and between each buttock there was impaled in each anus a butt plug complete with hair forming a tail, hair in fact removed as it grew to length from their very own heads. The soldiers all looked down beneath the butt plug, looked as the lips of each pony quivered in anticipation of being taken, being mounted, looked as moisture leaked from between the lips forming lubrication for the imminent penetration.
The soldiers as one reached forward and grabbed a buttock in each hand, as one they touched the ends of their cocks to those lips, and as one they thrust forward, forcing themselves straight down the juicy wet and available vagina in front of them. The ponies made guttural noises as the thrusting continued, their movements restricted by the tightness of the binding to the tree trunk, but slight enough to allow their breasts to rock backwards and forwards under the increasing tempo of the soldiers. A jingle of bells was all that was heard for a while, as the breasts swung, then as the soldiers began to move towards climax, their thrusting rhythms increased, their own moans and grunting got louder, the ponies too were nearing climax, for being also bred for this purpose they were always ready to be mounted. Sarak watched on with a mixture of envy for the soldiers, of sadness towards the ponies, and of hate towards the Masan. The other ponies could not see what was happening, but from the noises coming from the tree trunk, they too were getting aroused, and they in turn became fidgety and in need of relief.
The Masan ignored them; he was more concerned with watching the scene unfold before him. Sarak watched on and then his heart leapt to his mouth as he saw the Masan draw a long stiletto blade from his sleeve, then stepping behind each soldier in turn, he grabbed them by the hair, pulling back their heads and exposing the neck, then with a quick slice completely severed the neck right through to the spine of each man. The Masan was so fast with his actions and his blade, that none of the soldiers realised their predicament, none felt their own death approach, so concerned were they with pleasuring themselves upon the backs of the ponygirls. Sarak watched as the Masan moved between the three, watched in horror as the blood spurted from the severed jugulars to splash upon the backs of the ponies, watched as the bodies slumped forwards and fell, sliding in their own blood to lie alongside the thigh of the pony they had just been riding. Three pairs of eyes stared up into the tree, dead eyes that looked into the eyes of Sarak, almost blaming him for not interceding on their part. Sarak turned his eyes back to the Masan. He watched as the Masan cleaned his knife on one of the soldiers' breaches and then turned and walked off to drink from the very wine he had just shared with the now dead soldiers.
The flies quickly came to the blood as it congealed and dried upon the backs of the ponies, but the flies have no consequence of thought when it comes to moisture, and they also congregated around the warm and wet lips of the ponies, driving them to intense discomfort as they drank and fed and bit into the tender and tormented flesh. The Masan ignored the plight of the ponygirls, the attacks of the flies, their discomfort at the iron smell of the drying blood, continuing with his wine, watching the day pass as the temperature dropped, and then in late afternoon he reformed his caravan, taking no care with the demoralised and filthy ponygirls that had been taken by the soldiers. Shortly thereafter the Masan left the tranquillity of the trees with the caravan walking out ahead of him, and still his whip hand drove the tip of the leather against the skin of his ponies. The hidden Sarak dropped from the trees, glad to stand again on the green grass, although his fright from almost being discovered kept his legs shaking for some time. The blood was now dry around the slit in the soldier’s throats, some flies still hovered, and Sarak in his own wisdom robbed the dead soldiers of their possessions, knowing that they no longer had any need of these small things. In total he claimed twelve small silver pieces, and a long thin knife, plus a small squat and fat blade from the boot of one soldier.
The rest of the clothes were too stained and there was nothing of any value he could take with him, for he now was even more determined to go after the Masan, and avenge these soldiers as well as try and take the backpacks and the ponygirls for himself. Sarak now recognised that the only way he would or could accomplish this was to kill the Masan himself, yet looking back at the speed and ferocity of the Masan’s deadliness in his killing attack, Sarak was now worried about the outcome of their future meeting. Gathering his spear from where he had hidden it, Sarak strode out after the caravan, determined to catch up, go around and lay a trap for the Masan. His determination saw him by nightfall, some few miles ahead of the caravan. But he continued on through the night, for what he thought would be a day's march for the caravan, coming upon a small stream forming a large pond amongst a stand of trees. Sarak washed and ate a small rabbit he speared, then settled down to sleep and rest for what was to come, knowing that the Masan was tired now, and that the days grace would see the Masan’s attention lowered, his alertness diminished, and the ability to rest in this cool and comforting place would put the Masan at ease and at his potential mercy. Sarak’s last though before sleep caught up with him, was of the sight of the three ponygirls being taken and their obvious delight at the incident, and as he dosed off there were no remembrances of the death and the bloodshed, just the joy of the occasion.
* * * *
Sarak had spent the day walking around and around the campsite he had come across, as he travelled ahead of the Masan and the ponygirl caravan. He had walked the width and the breadth of the area, memorising as much as he could, so that when he sprung his trap he would be able to flee the Masan and know where he was heading. The pool at the centre of the stand of trees was about waist deep throughout, arriving by means of a small stream from the north, fresh from the mountains and dark and cold at the centre of the pool, but during the day was warm and golden with the sun coming through the trees and reflecting off the sand at the bottom. Sarak had walked the few just recognisable pathways through the trees, had sat upon the sandbank and the grass bank surrounding the pool and formulated his plan. He knew that he was not as heavy, nor as strong as the Masan, but he believed he was quicker, and it was his speed and dexterity that he was hoping would allow him to defeat the Masan.
On one of the paths he had found, he came across an overgrown area, where a bush had grown partly across the path before the path took a turn to the left, going around a tall tree trunk. It was here that Sarak had fixed his spear, driving the butt end into a crack in the bark, the point at waist height held by the branches of the bush. It was his plan to annoy the Masan, get him to chase him, and then whilst he supposedly fell beneath the bush the Masan would push through and impale himself upon the spear. The plan was flawed, as he knew, but he had to try it, for he could think of no other way he could overcome the bulk and the strength of his opponent. And then with his revenge for himself complete, he could rescue the ponygirls and claim them for himself. The day drifted into afternoon and Sarak fed on two birds he had knocked down from the trees and spit roasted over an open fire, gorging himself upon the sweet flesh, and throwing the bones back into the coals. Sarak wanted the Masan to find the dying warm fire when he arrived here, wanted him to know that there was someone around, wanting to put the Masan on edge and wary of something.
The afternoon drifted on and Sarak went to the edge of the stand of trees and arranged a mess of leaves and broken sticks to be his hide as the caravan approached. He had filled himself with the birds and drunk the water from the pool, and sitting there with his back to a tree he drifted off into a small and restful nap.
Then, he heard the crack of the whip and the cry of the Masan, and looking up he could see the caravan not more than 100 metres from where he sat, but luckily for him the Masan was more concerned at this stage with the extremely tired and travel weary ponygirls. For he was shouting and cursing as they struggled to keep moving, each pace it seemed, driven on by the touch and feel of the tip of the whip across exposed buttock. Sweat poured from the upturned faces of the girls, running across their cheeks, dripping and mixing with more sweat across their breasts. Lines of sweat had travelled down their sand covered bodies leaving lines of clean against the stain of the sand. The ponies in such obvious distress with their soiled and stained bodies, continually rubbing against their confining straps, and all carrying loaded backpacks, staggered on under the curses and lashes from the Masan. Sarak drew the wolf skin over his head and shoulders and slipped into his hide, watching as the caravan limped past and into the cover of the trees. He then heard the girls walking down the path towards the pool, and listened, imagining in his mind what he could not see. He reckoned the Masan had tied up the ponies, then discovering the remains of the meal and the fire, the Masan had done but a brief search to ensure no one was also present there with him. The copse of trees became quiet, and after some time to allow the Masan to settle, Sarak began to creep from his hide and slink like the wolf through the undergrowth towards where he thought the Masan would have pitched his camp for the night.
Slipping through some tufts of grass, Sarak could see the ponygirls were kneeling bunched together around a sack strewn upon the ground, and realised the Masan had just thrown this feed down, for the girls bent at the waist and gathered what they could of the feed around their mouth bits and reins, for the Masan had done nothing for them. The ponygirls were starving for they had been on short rations for a long time, and the Masan believed in only just keeping his animals alive, feeding and watering only when necessary. These ponygirls, all seven of them, were the Masan’s property, and he treated them as he felt fit, for to him they were pack animals, something to carry his trading wares around for him, and sometimes he would take and abuse one for his own pleasures. Sarak watched as he went to each girl in turn, and dragging them by the rein brought them to their feet, pulling them towards the pool, where with sheer ferocity he kicked each one behind the knees, forcing them to drop into the wet sand at the waters edge, before allowing them to drink. Having watered the ponies, fed them the mixture of dried fruit and grains in the sack, he tied each one up to the halter rope he had set, and then with a deliberate act of cruelty he literally ripped the butt plugs from each one, throwing the plug with attached mane to the grass before them. No thought did he give to their arms tied behind, the chaffing of any of the belts and straps that formed the outfit each wore, nor the bits in their mouths, nor their pains and the hurts gained from the considerable journey they had come. The Masan walked off leaving them to drop to the ground and sleep as they saw fit, he walked off, discarding his clothes and stepping into the water for his own bath.
Sarak put his plan into action, creeping around so that he was closer to the ponies, waiting until one saw his timely arrival dressed as he was still as a wolf. The third in line saw him first, stamping her hoof to warn the others, she lifted her head and nodded up and down, her breasts jiggling, and her bells ringing. Two others took up the dance, their eyes wide and open as they all now were staring at the wolf creeping through the grass towards them. Panic set in amongst the ponies, they nudged each other and strained against their tethers, pulling back away from the halter rope as they stamped their feet, and made loud noises of terror and alarm at the sight of the wolf before them. Sarak had stopped and was now content to look through the prancing legs of the ponies, and gaze across the sward to where the Masan could be seen with just his head above the water line, staring intensely in his direction. The Masan was looking for the source of the ponygirls fear, and Sarak was almost staring into those piercing eyes as the Masan scanned the surroundings. The ponygirls were beginning to settle so Sarak moved again, startling them into a renewed effort to escape, the girls lifted their legs and stamped hard to the ground, their bells crying out in a renewed effort of noise.
Movement through those legs caught the eye of Sarak, and as he refocused he saw the Masan stand up in the water, saw him rise with a sheath of six knives strapped to his chest and watched as the Masan threw the first knife straight at him. The knife seemed to travel in slow motion, seemed to take forever to cross the distance between the two play makers, and Sarak knew he was about to be hit by that knife when a ponygirl leg interceded. The knife hit the muscle at the back of her shin and she fell, dropping to the ground before Sarak, her eyes wide with fear and pain, not knowing what had happened, not realising her predicament, for although the knife had felled her, she saw a wolf before her. Sarak’s eyes clashed with hers, realising that the knife meant for him had struck this ponygirl instead, and that should he remain there would be another knife aimed for him, and that the remaining six girls were in the way. In the split second that this registered to the ponygirl on the ground and the idea of fleeing crossed his mind, Sarak was on the move. However not quick enough for the Masan, who was already making his way out of the water, following the second knife that he had thrown, which again as he had no care for his charges, hit a second ponygirl in the thigh, and she tumbled to the ground also as Sarak leapt for the undergrowth and the supposed protection of the screening.
Sarak had dropped his cloak of wolf skin, and he was off running down the path, his heart hammering from his own fear, and from the result of his plan, that had seen two of the ponygirls hurt. He paused in his flight, to see whether the Masan followed him, and accelerated quickly on hearing the Masan just a few steps behind him, leapt along the path looking for his bush and the spear planted at waist height for the Masan to run upon. Sarak almost missed the place to trip and fall, and as he fell knowing the Masan was just steps behind him, his forehead actually clipped the bush, the branch and the spear, causing a deep cut to his forehead, and a scream of pain from his lips as he tumbled over beneath the bush. The Masan heard the scream and leapt through the undergrowth, pushing the bush aside, but not far enough, for the spear tip entered his left side, puncturing the flesh before tearing through stomach and organs, and exiting through his back on the other side. The force of the spear penetrating his body stopped the Masan in his tracks, and through the growing pain he looked down at the spear entering his side, looked past this to see Sarak on his back beneath him, at the man who had dealt him this injury. The Masan slowly, through his fog of pain, reached up and drew another knife, lifting it up to throw it through his tormentor beneath him, and as he raised his arms Sarak kicked out at the spear, snapping it between the tree and the Masan, forcing the Masan to spin as he loosed the knife.
The knife travelled on however, hitting Sarak in his left shoulder, just under the collarbone and penetrating to the hilt, such was the power behind the throw. A throw driven by Sarak’s kick, spinning the Masan, and the Masan’s own weight as he lost balance falling to earth alongside Sarak. The Masan lay still, winded by his fall and the pain through his body. Sarak lay still, shocked by his success and the pain in his shoulder, and gasping at air to fill his panicked lungs. He lunged forward and away from the Masan, turning to look him in the eye, eyes filled with hatred and a longing to rise up and kill Sarak. The Masan seemed to slump and fall in on himself as the severity of the wound caught up with him, and he realised his impending death, brought about by the man before him. His eyes closed and gasp of exhaled air signalled to Sarak the passing of the Masan, and Sarak turned and made his way slowly back to the area where the ponygirls were tied and still distressed. The knife in his shoulder no longer pained him, for the shock had taken over, releasing him from the agony, as he walked the path to the clearing
Five ponygirls stood staring at their two fallen companions, breasts heaving as they drew air to compensate for their fear and their emotions. The two on the ground were not so active, the first was now sitting with legs folded under, the knife still protruding from her lower limb, a trail of blood slipping down her leg to her hoof boot. The second was kneeling, her head bowed as she looked down at the pool of blood between her legs, for she was in deep distress, as the knife had penetrated her thigh, and on falling had torn itself loose, creating a huge wound, so deep that her life force, her blood, was pumping it’s last few drops from the severed artery. Sarak walked over and knelt before this stricken ponygirl, realising that there was nothing he could do to save this poor pony, realising that he had been the cause of this terrible wounding. The ponygirl below him looked up into his eyes, saw his face streaked from his own blood from the cut to his forehead, and as the two communed in silence, the thoughts passing from the ponygirl to Sarak seemed to suggest her forgiveness and her thanks at the rescue effected by him, and further the relief from the pains and tortures inflicted upon her by the Masan. Her eyes were full of sorrow and regret, pain now long forgotten as her life-force slipped away, her eyes once so bright and wide now glazing, as a tear escaped and slipped her eyelid to slide down across her cheek.
A movement across Sarak’s shoulder caught her fading eye, which changed to horror, and Sarak twisted away from her to see what she had seen, and as he twisted a knife crossed his shoulder, hitting the ponygirl in the centre of her chest, driving the last of her life from her in a thump, as the knife buried itself, and a last gasp of expelled air crossed her lips. Sarak was in motion, leaping from the ground, taking a last glance at the now dead ponygirl as she fell to ground, as he exploded from his feet towards the mortally wounded Masan, standing inexplicably at the other side of the clearing. As he rose from his squatting position, Sarak reached across to the knife buried still within his shoulder, watching as the Masan drew his fifth knife from the sheath across his bloody chest, as he started his run towards Sarak. Sarak pulled at the hilt of the knife buried in his own shoulder and drew the knife from its bloody hole. The Masan was dying on his feet, determined to kill the man before him, as he accelerated towards Sarak, the two meeting in a clash of titans as Sarak stabbed and the Masan slashed. Sarak’s blade took the Masan in the side, beneath his heart, not a deadly blow but enough to force the Masan to stagger in his run and fall past Sarak, landing beneath the terrified feet of the remaining ponygirls. The Masan’s slash cut the shirt from Sarak’s chest, as the Masan’s fist drove the knife towards his throat, and yet the force of the swing allowed the blow to drive Sarak up and away from the edge of the blade, to be tossed over and over as he rolled across the grass.
Winded, Sarak raised himself to his knees, shaking his head to clear himself, desperately trying to turn towards the noise behind him, aware that the Masan was there amongst the ponygirls, aware that he could be causing more injury to them, and aware that they could not defend themselves. Short seconds passed as he stood and turned, wiping the blood from his dripping forehead and clearing his eyes, and stood in awe at the sight before him, for five scared and very determined ponygirls were having their revenge upon the Masan. Kicks from heavily shod hoof boots rained down upon him, breaking ribs, teeth and other bones as in turn, they kicked the remaining life from the Masan. Sarak slipped to his knees, continuing to watch as the kicks turned the Masan, from a demanding and fearful caravan Master, into a red, wet mess of broken flesh and bone, and finally the girls stopped, for they realised that their revenge had driven all life from the man they so hated, yet could not escape.
The ponies had settled, they are at rest. The evening darkens as the sun wanes, and the wind drops. Sarak had moved the ponies from the bloodied ground, and sat waist deep in the water, washing his hands, forehead and the wound in his shoulder, that still pains him, yet bleeds little. Sarak had bandaged the leg of the pony, after removing the knife, and realising that with care she would be able to walk again. He had also removed the body of the dead pony to a clear area and covered her with his own wolf skin. Sarak had gone onto removing all the tack from the ponies, all the straps, all the tail plugs, and they now stood or lay upon the grass, their only restraints their bits and reins connected to the new halter rope. They felt strange in their release from bindings for the night, even their arms were loose and at their sides, and yet there was no thought of escape, no thought of running, for these were born and bred ponygirls. They knew no other existence than to serve their Master, serve him as a beast of burden, or serve him as a place to deposit his seed, and in later years, in another place they would bear their Master some young, which in turn would become as they were. The six ponygirls had changed their Master, and to them the outcome would be the same, they would be his ponies, and he would care for them. And yet, as the death of their last Master had released them from some pain and hurt, what would this new Master bring them? Would he bring his whip? Would he berate them at all times? As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, those last ponies still awake, looked upon Sarak with these questioning thoughts as he himself drifted off to sleep beside the warm fire.
story continues in Sarak 2: Sarak learns about Ponygirls