Part 1
1) G Company (Exeter, England, May 1815)
The slash of the regimental Riding Master’s whip jolted me swiftly awake and I jerked in the restraining stall in which I had spent the night and, for that matter every other night since my arrival at the Devonshires’ barracks just outside Exeter. It wasn’t far from Mares Manor and, to some degree, it wasn’t that far removed from my previous life there.
A pony is a pony, and for us one day is much like another; we are subject to the whims of our owners, to the whip and the rein, we toil in harness and when the day is done we are stabled for the night. So it is for military ponies as for civilians, except that for the military pony, the discipline is universally harsh and, for much of their time, military ponies are run hooded, guided by reins clipped to rings through their nipples. It is the same for the mounts of officers and for troopers.
And all must face the discipline of basic training.
So it was that the RM’s whip now woke me rather than the boot of Sam the stable boy and it was the RM or one of his corporals who had the use of my body as and when he chose. There were other differences too; instead of spending the night in a bed of straw wrapped around one my fellow ponies, I was stabled in a restraining stall, my halter and boots clipped to the bars to keep me on my knees with cuffs around my thighs to keep my legs spread and and my stable bridle over the hood keeping me silent and holding my head up.
Released from the stable halter and with the leather ball of the stable bridle removed from my mouth I bent forward, searching blindly with my tongue for my water bowl as Corporal Locke pushed aside my tail and entered me roughly. I was wet, of course, and his cock slipped in easily, filling me and making my pussy tingle. We ponies are constantly wet; by the standards of those not born to the stable we would be considered slatterns of the worst kind but, as well as being beasts of burden we are expected to serve other needs of our owners and those that in turn serve them. We are bred to be on heat, our need constant and intense, fires that are stoked by the manner in which we are treated. In the discipline of the stable we are subject utterly to the whims of those who hold sway over us; satisfied or denied according to their pleasure. A pony thus has other incentives than the whip and the rein to perform well and to do it with the grace and elegance that will please her owner and to satisfy him or her in every respect. It is likely therefore that most of the plaintive moans of my fellow ponies were derived from their need rather than being roughly taken although some were no doubt in response to the whip which is used on us freely both to goad us in harness and chastise us for our failings which, in the eyes of the RM and his men are many and frequent.
Basic training or ‘G company’ as it is known had been harsh, brutal even, with a discipline far stricter than any I had previously endured: merciless training, harsh punishment and casual, often rough usage by any who chose to abuse my body. It had no doubt been far more so for those around me new to the ways of the stable. A man is paid a shilling to enlist in His Majesty’s service but he can earn five if he can sell the regimental purchasers a pony. So, what is to stop him gagging and binding the wrists of a nagging wife or wayward daughter and disposing of his worries for profit. There should be paperwork, of course, but in the countryside, this is often no more than a cross marked in a ledger that stands as a bill of sale and the transfer of property. Under the strict discipline of the RM, new ponies soon learn their place and, with regular use as their only reward, quickly develop the same lust that fills us all who reside within the stable.
Of course, the plugs forced inside us when we run, help things along.
So it was that I climaxed easily when Corporal Locke took me, my body shivering and my pussy spasming as he shot his hot seed inside me and then I diligently licked him clean after as I listened to the satisfied moans of my fellow ponies that had also been called into ‘morning service’. Then, when given permission I bent to finish my ration of water with a warm satisfaction between my spread thighs until he came and clipped a leading rein clipped to my nipple rings before ordering me to my feet and leading me from the stable into the fresh morning air.
Around me, I could hear the morning routine, the clatter of pony boots on the cobbles of the stable yard and the barked orders of the RM and his men, the curses of the stablehands and the thwack of leather on flesh as a girl was disciplined for tardiness or disobedience. It was a chill damp morning and even hooded I could tell that a mist hung in the air; feel its dampness on my skin and it’s coolness against the hot wetness between my thighs and smell the scent of the fresh earth among the odours of unwashed flesh, stale sweat, the leather of harnesses and, of course the rising smell of the latrine pit as I was lead towards it.
With my boots on the boards, my tail was removed and I squatted when commanded to relieve myself then braced against the chill of the damp sponge that cleaned between my legs before standing again to be taken for harnessing.
Military training harnesses are weighted; they consist of a high stiff ‘stock’ collar that keeps a girl’s head up and straps across our shoulders that are drawn tight above and below the breasts; then there is the girdle and the thigh straps; finally, there are the straps that goes between our legs and hold our plugs in place; although they are designed to control us, these crotch straps are also designed to please us; they rub a girl who is running and press constantly on our sexes, teasing and stimulating; there are tales of ponies who have run themselves to exhaustion to maintain the pleasure that a good harness can provide.
Thus, with a thick leather plug pushed inside my ever receptive pussy and my tail replaced, I was led to the training line with a familiar growing need inside me and secured by the nipple rein to the arm sheath of the pony in front of me.
A pony does not need to use her arms, or his, there are male ponies or, to be accurate there are mostly geldings and a few stallions kept for breeding. The military has always preferred mares even in the ranks of the heavy cavalry; we are more docile apparently and easier to train, more apt to adhere to the discipline of the whip and rein in combat. The arms of military ponies are thus, like their civilian counterparts, usually kept in a sheath which in cavalry regiments is usually triangular and designed to keep their arms folded up between their shoulder blades or, sometimes across to the opposite shoulder. It adds, I’m told, a pleasing aspect to the presentation of the breasts and, if nothing else, it ensures maximum access for the trooper’s whip when a girl runs in harness before his chariot. The back of a military harness is notoriously skimpy, narrow leather thongs mostly that do nothing to protect a girl from the whip but bite the flesh and part the buttocks deliciously. Although our harnesses are applied daily, we are kept in our boots; boots designed to keep us on our toes to lengthen our stride and usually sprung to provide us with more power in the canter and the gallop. The boots come just above the knee and provide protection for the legs; any higher and we would not be so easily fastened in the restraining stall at night which generally has cuffs for a girl’s thighs to keep them apart.
For three months, this had been my routine six days a week; helpless, hooded, utterly dependent. Thus, with my nipple reins clipped to the sheath of the girl in front and the reins of the girl behind clipped to my own sheath, harnessed, plugged and with growing urgency I stood awaiting the command to move and, when it was given fell into step with my fellow ponies so that, after a few strides our boots struck the cobbles in unison as we began our morning exercises.
I cannot help but think that the sight of us would be striking, twenty four ponies naked and harnessed, hooded, linked in line, trotting then cantering in response to the whip and the barked orders of the RM. I know that men lust after ponygirls, that they enjoy the sight of our bodies and, when they can, enjoy touching them too, using them to satisfy their base desires as they would any other common wench or, even, whore. We ponies are, of course, by our nature, shapely with toned bodies and we move with a poise and grace that many girls envy, be they farmers daughters or ladies born to the drawing room; and, of course, men know that a pony is always on heat.
Whether labourers in the field or passing tradesmen did stop to look at us, I could not tell. I knew only the drag of the rein on my nipple rings and the ache in my thighs as I strove to obey my new military masters all punctuated by the lash of the whip. We typically ran eight or ten miles according to my reckoning; beginning on the Plymouth road before taking the track up to the clifftops into the wind where the damp air became so thick with moisture it condensed on our skin and would have chilled us had we not been driven so hard. Then we descended to the sand, running on the beach, the waves lapping at our boots before crossing the bridge and circling through the town back to the barracks to stand sweating in the stable yard once again, panting hard, our chests heaving and sweat dripping from our bodies.
It was not just the heat of exertion, of course, that filled us; we ran plugged and, as always, in harnesses designed to press against our sexes; it has always been the way with ponies; exploit their natural needs and they will perform for you. As usual after the morning run I was hot between the thighs and my nipples, constantly stimulated by the leading rein throbbed urgently with the need to be touched.
I am sure I would not have been the only girl who, when we were watered and then fed, seeking our bowls out blindly with our tongues just as we did our morning water ration, took the opportunity to rub her aching nipples in the dirt and spread her thighs in the hope that one of the RM’s men would remove her plug and use her as she fed. I was not lucky that day but I could hear grunts of pleasure around me and the gentle nicker of ponies who were. I simply had to enjoy the pleasure the run had kindled in me and my food. In barracks, military ponies are well fed; we have meat in our diet frequently; something that is recommended by the regiment’s veterinarians to build our strength and stamina. For me it took a little getting used to after my previous diet of cereals and vegetables punctuated by the occasional sweet treat.
Once fed, it was time for more training and we were lashed to weighted chariots and heavy sleds sometimes alone and sometimes in pairs, forced to drag them across the rough meadow behind the barracks our haunches and buttocks whipped mercilessly if we stumbled or showed any sign of slacking. For me, this was the hardest part; I have spent many years between the shafts sometimes pulling heavy carts and even one year, harnessed to a plough. I was young and a little wayward in those days, new to the whip and the rein and, perhaps a little resentful of my treatment when my former friend was treated as a lady and even allowed to drive me in harness. A couple of seasons on loan to the estate’s farm manager soon taught me the horrors of pulling a plough in the rain, of heavy harnesses and a body and mane caked in mud; then there was the constant usage by rough farmhands, brutal beatings when I slipped and fell and nights left tethered in the rain as punishment for my weaknesses. After the second harvest, I literally begged Sir Charles to be returned to the family stable at Mares Manor and when he granted this, I became a diligent and obedient pony.
The strength training reminded me of my days toiling in the fields in front of the plough and pulling the heavy farm carts and the leg weights of cloying mud clinging to my boots. Although, somehow it was easier to bear than before because of knowing that I just had to get through this while I waited for the return of my master. Though I missed him and felt abandoned, it is perhaps as well he absented himself from me during that time; even with the resilience my life up to this point had given me, I think, had he come to me I might have collapsed sobbing into his arms to beg relief from this brutal treatment just as some of my fellow ponies wailed through their gags as we knelt in our retraining stalls at night.
After strength training came drill. This was, to me, little different from preparing for the country shows at which Cassie, Sir Charles’ daughter had exhibited me frequently. It was not, of course, Cassie that trained me but Mistress Goose, Sir Charles’ carriage mistress and, much as I may have resented her obsessive training, it stood me in good stead for drill training. It also brought me and Cassie, that is Mistress Cassandra, several prizes and, one year, the best in show rosette.
High stepping while hooded was not quite the same as showing off for the crowd with ribbons and flowers plaited into my mane and my harness polished to a sheen by Sam the stable lad. A military pony is not expected to swish her tail as she trots for a start but the basic high trot is the same and my previous experience, I’m sure, saved me frequently from the discipline cane that the RM uses to remind ponies to lift their knees to regulation height. He was even more of a stickler for perfect poise than Mistress Goose and I soon grew wary of the slash of his cane to my breasts when I dropped my head or across the back if I failed to push out my chest.
‘Officer’s pony!’ he would shout and a moment later I would feel his cane like a burning brand across my skin. ‘You have to set an example,’ he would bark although with my fellow ponies hooded, I guessed this was more an ‘honour of the regiment’ thing rather than because others might follow my example then and there.
Drill involved learning to follow the whip and the rein. I’d been trained with reins clipped to my bit but being guided by the nipples was a relatively new experience although I soon found it does make for a very obedient pony, particularly for a girl whose nipples are still swollen and sore from her recent piercings. It was just as they recovered that I’d experienced my first ‘bloodying’. This is an ordeal that all military ponies must endure, the deliberate bruising or literally bloodying of a girl’s nipples to ensure her continued obedience to the rein. The Devonshires use a cane, having the pony kneel down in front of the ‘bruising block’ where her nipple rings are clipped to chains that stretch them then each nipple is beaten twice, the nipples are then rubbed with salt. Needless to say it is exquisitely painful and reduces most ponies to tears, albeit briefly as the pain passes. Girls who seem less responsive to the rein are bloodied every week until their nipples become adequately sensitive.
At least drill involves being a proper pony, harnessed to the shafts of a chariot. Military chariots are generally heavier than civilian gigs but they are pretty manoeuvrable and the harness and traces are designed to allow for quick changes of direction and a tight turning circle. I’ve been driven by some pretty experienced drivers but, for all their brutal treatment of us new ponies, the RM’s team were among the best and, once I’d become used to the nipple reins, it was easy to understand the subtleties of their directions ably assisted, of course, by liberal use of the whip.
I’m a pony, born and bred to be submissive. I may not enjoy being thrashed but the slash of leather across my skin does something more profound to me than simply making me obey through fear of pain. I would not choose to go under the lash but, when I am running in harness, I feel a thrill that goes beyond the sexual teasing of the plug and a well fitting crotch strap. It is, I think, a kind of freedom; between the shafts, bridled and harnessed, I am in my domain, my own personal world where I am Mistress even though I serve another and, I think, serving another brings a pony pleasure too. There is also pleasure of knowing the hunger I kindle in others; all girls want to be objects of desire, to be lusted over and pony girls are no different, we thrive on the admiration of others be it the carnal needs we arouse in men and, indeed many woman, or the jealousy of chaste maids who’s beau’s gaze is drawn away from her to linger on the svelte, lithe form of a pony harnessed and bridled in her full glory. Though now locked in the hood, I have many times before seen the way others look at me, at my tight, toned body even with its small breasts; I am pert and beautiful with my copper mane and my swishing tail. When the whip is used on me, it adds to the allure that I am an owned creature, submissive to the will of another; it excites me just as it excites others to whip me and to see me whipped.
After drill we ate hungrily, ravenously, would be a better description and then our harnesses were removed so our grimy, sweat stained bodies could be rubbed down. After a day in harness this thrilled me, unseen hands running over my bare skin, touching and teasing my most intimate parts then removing my plug and tail to wash them. While ‘naked’ I often found myself used before my tail was replaced. Most nights I climaxed easily under this treatment be it from violation by hands or male members or, sometimes other implements that are used in the care of ponies.
In the evening we were teased and made sport of, made to ‘ride the river’, a knotted rope between our legs that is strung across the stable yard so that it rubs against a girl’s crotch as she is whipped to high trot along it; or placed on a booting saddle with an overly large plug inside us and our toes just off the ground so that we can only put one foot down at a time and thus have to squirm from side to side, our pussies spasming around the phallus that impales us. When we are abused like this, weights are often attached to our nipples so that each time we move they swing about, jerking on our piercing rings. These abuses provide a strangely erotic torture to increasingly conditioned ponies the effects strangely addictive despite the ignominy and the obvious discomfort. As time went on, I think all the recruits to G-company began to accept these torments and to understand the effects of them on a girl’s body.
Sometimes, on Sundays, girls were raced in unusual ways, two harnessed to a chariot with the ankle of one girl tied to the other girl’s or, when our arms were freed, made to crawl side by side on all fours, with the tips of a chariot’s shaft pushed inside their pussies or even our tail holes. This latter, I think, all of us girls hated although the troopers who inflicted it on us found it a great sport.
Then, of course, there was the ‘French chariot’. This has a single shaft with a phallus fixed to the end and this is attached to a pony’s harness so that she is forced to pull the chariot along using her pussy. I cannot fully describe the sensations this causes a girl; to be entered roughly like this is pleasurable even if a girl is surrounded by a jeering and unseen mob but the initial few steps are not pleasant as a girl feels like her pussy is being stretched mercilessly. However, the rise and fall of the shaft as a girl is brought to a high trot becomes rhythmical: rise and fall, rise and fall…in and out, in and out. When this was used, it was not unusual to hear my fellow ponies scream, not with suffering but with an intense ecstasy that is hard to describe. A girl might not like to be treated in this way but, once she has reached a certain awareness of her body, she cannot deny the profound effect this wicked foreign torment has upon her. I believe French ponies are driven like this all of the time. How they stand it I cannot say. Few of us could make it past one circuit of the stable yard without our bodies being rocked by the most intense spasms.
Yet, stand it we did and on the final night of my training I was harnessed to the French chariot and driven into Exeter by the RM himself. It was perhaps the most exquisite torture I have ever experienced since I grew into my birthright and became a pony. Needless to say, I was strapped into the regimental dress harness complete with plumes and bells. Like most dress harnesses, this is designed to show a girl to her full potential, sculpting her waist and lifting her chin; it has a belled display gag to ensure that everyone will turn to look. The crotch strap designed to fit the French chariot seems to perfectly tease a girl while the nipple bridle rubs a girl's sensitised nubs in a way that drives her to distraction. Combine all this with the RMs total mastery over a girl in harness and a pony might aspire all her life to relive the experience.
I had multiple orgasms, I climaxed so many times I thought I might never manage to do so again; I had the first one as I was trotted out of the camp gate and they kept cumming every few hundred yards. The RM knew what was happening and I think struck me with the whip each time my body went over the edge although I did everything in my power to hide my pleasure from him. They were, of course, not huge, earth shattering climaxes that make a girl scream into her bit and, I would have hidden them from most men who have handled me between the shafts. The RM however, was not fooled and, somehow, this added to my pleasure, not so much the fact he knew but the sharp admonition of the whip that seemed almost intentionally designed to set me on the road to another climax as the phallus pumped in and out between my legs. It seemed as if every part of my body endured the most intense erotic torture that only a seasoned pony girl can truly endure and enjoy.
In the city, I stood outside the tavern where he supped, eagerly awaiting the return trip as unseen hands caressed my body and brought me shuddering to further climaxes.
2) Master Returns
‘Down.’ Corporal Locke’s whip across the top of my buttocks made me drop to my knees. I knew I wasn’t in the stable but I assumed I was about to be fastened into a restraining stall, perhaps for review (by which I mean ‘grope’) by the veterinarian. However, I felt my bridle being unbuckled and worked to relax my jaw as it was pulled off my head. When a girl has been gagged for hours, her jaw becomes very stiff and when I was dressed with the large ball, it was almost more difficult for me to open my jaw to allow it to be pulled out of my mouth than it was to allow it in. Corporal Locke gave no quarter and seemed willing to take my teeth if I wasn’t able to release the gag so I fought down the urge to scream as I strained to open my jaw and the muscles attached to it spasmed painfully. Then, I heard the rattle of keys and felt a pull at the back of my hood; there was a click and then the laces were pulled through the eyelets.
My hood was being removed for the first time since I’d arrived at the barracks.
As it came off my face, the light hitting my eyes was blinding and I screwed them up tightly trying to turn my head away from what must have been no more than pale early morning sunlight through the dirty window of a tack room.
‘Keep still.’ A fist in my hair and another blow of the whip to my breasts made me face front again but I still pressed my eyelids closed for all I was worth.
‘You stink.’ He said.
He was hardly fragrant himself but I’d been in that hood for three months. My mane had been shaved before it was put on but my hair must have grown back and must be filthy. I had, of course, been washed down by the grooms occasionally but this was always a cursory nod to cleanliness and, as the water they used was always freezing cold, I wasn’t going to complain about their minimal grooming. And then there had been the trot to Exeter the previous night.
Corporal Locke then moved on to my arm sheath. I’d worn this pretty constantly too but it had been removed every Sunday (as required by the Pony Act of 1787) when we were supposed to be allowed freedom to use our arms. For a girl in a hood, the ability to use her arms is of little value but I’d always tried to stretch my shoulders before being strapped into my parade harness. These used the traditional long arm sheaths more common for civilian ponies and were a welcome change from the cramped military sheaths.
The muscles in my shoulders and arms burned as they were allowed to straighten for the first time in seven days.
‘Thank you, Corporal.’ A familiar voice made me start.
I opened my eyes and then shut them again quickly. I’d been restrained for so long it didn’t even occur to me to lift my hands to shade my eyes.
I was aware of Corporal Locke leaving with a muttered ‘Sir.’
My owner had returned.
‘Can’t bear the sight of me, eh, Red?’
I cautiously opened my eyes but it was all still too bright.
‘I’ve missed you, Sir.’ I wanted to run and embrace him, the throw myself at him, to kiss him a thousand times and wrap my thighs around him but I’m a trained pony and I knelt obediently, trying to look at him through my eyelashes.
‘Passing out parade today.’ he said, taking a step towards me, ‘I could hardly miss that.’
I heard him shut the door and cautiously opened my eyes a little more.
God, he was handsome, even standing there in his undress uniform and here I was, kneeling mud spattered and coated in grime and sweat with the ragged tangles of my remaining hair thick with grease.
‘You look good like that.’
‘Sir?’ I was genuinely shocked that he said it.
‘On your knees.’
‘Oh.’
Ponies don’t as a rule kneel for their masters; for a start, pony boots usually reach just above the knee so it’s not practical; it also risks scuffing them. Maids kneel and, I’m told, in countries where they have slaves, they are made to kneel too.
It was, I suppose, a sort of compliment and, rather pathetically, I was flattered. I remembered Catherine, Sir Charle’s maid telling me that he liked her to kneel, preferable with her skirt pulled up above her stocking tops and her legs spread wide so that her knickers were on show; she’d shown me how once, with her back a little arched so her breasts were pushed forward. Sir Charles seemed to like putting her in chains too; she was always being punished for something or other.
I have little doubt that most men enjoy the sight of a woman in some form of bondage and encounters ‘in the Prussian style’ are, thanks to our flamboyant Prince Regent, currently all the rage.
The major was carrying a harness; white leather and gold buckles in the tradition of the lancers.
‘I’ve had this made specially.’
Every pony likes to be fitted for a new harness, the scent and sight of the shiny leather, the fresh touch against a girl’s bare skin, the unfamiliar sensations one experiences as the straps tighten, stiff and constricting around soft flesh. We ponies are bred to be kept in harness, we love to wear them, to be restrained and, when that harness is buckled on a girl’s body by the man she has spent the last three months fantasising about, it’s enough to make her pussy gush.
I just wished my pussy wasn’t so sore. At least the RM had used my tail hole when we’d finally returned to the barracks.
‘The corporal’s right though.’ He sniffed. ‘You do stink.’
I bit back a comment.
‘Come along.’
He turned, motioning me to follow. It was all highly irregular. Ponies are supposed to be led by their bridles; they certainly don’t crawl after their masters on all fours. If I were to do that, not only would it be deeply humiliating it would also show him and everyone who saw me that I was willing to be treated like a slave or a pet girl.
I would not do it.
I would kneel here until he returned for me and bridled me and…
He was almost out of the door when I dropped to all fours and followed him, my head down and my face burning with shame.
I kept my eyes down, making a point of ensuring I would not see the smugly triumphant expression I knew he would be wearing and crawled after him, my gaze fixed on his shiny black cavalry boots. Boots seem to be another fetish that forms part of the Prussian style. Men like to make those who play slave girls kiss them in the manner that true slaves in Prussia are made to. I’m told that many women who play these games actually enjoy the ignominy of kneeling or lying at a man’s feet and ‘worshiping’ him. Some men, I believe, enjoy it the other way around. It is not hard to believe; we ponies love our boots to be shiny and love the way they keep us on our toes, shaping and lengthening our legs and when a girl is petted, it is not that unusual for a hand to caress a boot top as much as what lies above it.
Needless to say, he had picked an hour when the parade yard was full although, to be fair to him, the grooms and troopers were all present along with the same intention as he; to wash and groom their mares in preparation for the passing out parade. I was, however, the only one being treated as a pet girl and I saw eyes turn towards me as I crawled toward the water trough, fixing on me as I was paraded naked before the whole camp. I saw some of the men stop what they were doing, brushes in hand to watch me and my fellow ponies, many of whom I had never seen, catch their first glimpse of me, the pony or their commanding officer crawling like a common pet.
To have my head dunked in the freezing water of the trough was something of a relief and part of me wished I could keep my head under, drowning myself rather then face those judgemental gazes again but when he released me, I came up gasping before turning the full force of my glare upon him.
‘Would you rather I had the one of the grooms prepare you?’ he asked levelly.
I considered this for a moment.
‘At least the grooms here appear to know how a pony should be handled, Sir,’ I said rather pointedly.
‘Perhaps I should gag you?’
‘Perhaps you should bridle me, Sir.’
He smiled. ‘Patience.’
He took up a pot of soap and smeared some in my hair. I smelt lavender and chamomile…and felt his fingers on me. Just my scalp, of course, but this touch excited me. He had washed me once before, washed me, not groomed me on the morning we had bathed together after we…he had rescued Cassie from the highwaymen. The memory almost washed away my annoyance. Then, he squatted beside me and soaped my body. If the touch of his fingers on my scalp and in my hair had been enough to excite me, you can imagine what his hands did to my body.
‘The RM has clearly had his sport with you.’ He commented as his hands ran over the bruised lips of my aching sex after gently removing my tail. ‘And how did you fare with the French chariot?’
‘It was…interesting,’ I told him, recalling my ordeal, ‘but, I’m glad I’m serving the British cavalry, Sir.’
‘Quite right too.’ He slapped my bottom and stood to draw a pail of water and I knelt with my head down waiting for the shock of it to wash over my skin.
I’d crawled back to the tack room in the same ignominious way as I’d followed him out of it save that I was now clean, my skin oiled and my rather short mane brushed; a pampered pet this time like those who are taken for walks by the gentry in London; but still a pet. His hands on my body had bought him some mitigation for this treatment but inside I quietly seethed even as I longed for him to bend me over the hitching rail and use me despite my sore pussy.
However, when he stood behind me and slipped the high shiny collar of my new harness around my throat I could not help but shiver despite the heat of the early morning.
‘Excited, Red?’ he said softly.
Excited ! Despite my indignation, there was a flush on my chest and my nipples were as hard as musket balls. I was certain he would be able to smell my scent as my sex had begun to drool at his touch.
‘Big day for you,’ he continued.
‘Yes, Sir,’ I whispered, realising my mouth was dry and I could barely speak.
‘I thought this would all be in a day's work for an old mare like you.’
I bridled at the comment even as I realised the easy intimacy with which he was speaking as he handled me.
‘Every pony loves a parade, Sir,’ I said a little more sharply than I meant.
‘Indeed.’ He seemed a little surprised at my tone and lapsed into silence as he began to buckle the straps of the restraining sheath down my left arm, tightening them carefully so they didn’t catch my flesh and I knelt trying not to shiver with the delicious intimacy of his hands on my skin.
‘I think you’ll find this a little different to what you’ve been used to.’ He slid my left hand into the soft leather mitt and laced it up, trapping my fingers. The harness was in the military style, designed to keep a girl’s hands up behind her back, pressed together between her shoulder blades.
‘It’s in the continental style.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ I had wanted him so much for the last few months and now he was here I felt myself suddenly bursting with the need to tell him how much I had missed him, how in the brutality of my training I had yearned for him to hold me, to comfort me; prayed that we might rekindle the intimacy I had enjoyed that night before he had bought me. He must surely care, he had bought me and after he had paid Tom to fit my military nipple rings he had himself pierced me with a clit ring, the ‘love’ ring as it is often called. A ring designed to provide ultimate control over a girl; a ring that if fitted correctly provides a girl with near constant stimulation.
Then he had left me without a word, left me to the use and abuse of others, most of whose faces I had never seen with the only reminder of his memory, that ring. How much I had wanted him to come to me, to slip a rein through it and lead me away to use my body for his pleasure.
But a pony only speaks when spoken to.
Thus, I knelt in silence as he fitted the sheath to my right arm and then lifted my hands to restrain them to the leather panel on the back of my collar. Before entering military service, I had worn such harnesses seldom and only for short periods. Sir Charles had been an old soldier and occasionally for parade Sundays he had used a military dress harness for driving me to church. Having a girl’s arms restrained this way puts intense strain on her shoulders and I had always been relieved to be released from it. Like a standard civilian sheath it does pull a girl's shoulders back and push out her chest drawing attention to her breasts and every pony likes to be displayed for a full potential.
I had now, of course, worn one almost constantly for three months and was quite used to it.
As he tightened the straps the feeling was now familiar and the helplessness created by him restraining me was delightful.
‘You seem to like it.’
‘Yes, Sir.’ I wriggled my arms dutifully to show they were utterly restrained.
‘A little tighter, I think.’ He pulled on a strap and my hands moved another half an inch higher, if’d been able to extend my fingers properly, I would have been able to touch the back of my collar.
‘Thank you, Sir.’ It was almost impossible to keep my voice steady.
The oversheath came next, lacing around my bound arms and buckling to my collar, a strap across my chest above my breasts, another below it.
‘You are in good form.’ He told me.
I bit back a sarcastic response. Good form ! I was a sleek perfect pony quivering with need at his touch. Even the dimmest stableboy would have had me bent over a rail and his cock inside me by now.
’Indeed, Sir, I have been well trained.’ I felt myself blushing at my foolishness. For three months I had dreamed of his return and now, here he was, barely excited by my presence, treating me as the chattel I was.
‘I certainly hope so.’
The comment excited me. Perhaps he at least planned to use me ! Or, perhaps, he planned to sell me and wanted the best price.
He buckled the front strap of the harness to my collar, running it down between my breasts, his hand brushing my right nipple which swelled dutifully in response.
Three months of being led around by the nipples does that to a girl.
‘Your original piercings have been removed.’ He touched the ring in my other nipple and that swelled too, my body tingling with arousal.
‘Yes, Sir.’
It had been done on the second day of my training. My nipples, newly violated by the military piercings and then suffering from the effects of immediate use as he drove me to Plymouth had been left blue and swollen. Removing my original ‘bell rings’ had been a kindness though I had wept bitterly that night at their loss. The previous night I’d cried for the loss of my mane.
I didn’t cry after that although, if the major had come to me, I might have weakened.
The girdle was in the military style, solid at the front but held in place largely by thin straps at the back; it bore the insignia of the Devonshires; the lance and the chariot.
The crotch straps of pony harnesses are, perhaps, the most important part of them; we ponies are bred to be permanently on heat and the way we are harnessed is designed to exploit that; the plugs we wear almost continuously remind us of our bodies’ needs and a well designed harness is a powerful stimulus to make us run even without the encouragement of the whip and the rein. In the right harness a girl will willingly run to exhaustion and stories abound of pony girls collapsing with exhaustion with barely a whip-mark on their hides. The crotch strap of this harness split around my clitoral ring and the part between my thighs was covered in soft chamois which had been roughened and, from the moment it touched my sex I knew this was a 'well fitting' harness, soft and attentive like a lover’s tongue despite the bruises on my much abused pussy. There was a small loop that went through my piercing ring and, as he connected it, I could tell the tension in this loop would transmit any movement to that part of a girl’s body that she loves to be touched. Then there was the strap between my buttocks, thin and exquisitely tight; something every girl loves; it went in so deep, it would push the tail ring hard against my sphincter; I doubted it would even be visible from behind.
I let slip a soft gasp when showed me the plug. I knew what was going to happen even before it entered me; even before the gently curved base pressed against the inside of my labia; that curved base which was also covered in roughened chamois leather. At least I managed not to cry out as I climaxed although he knew what had happened.
‘I’m surprised you still have it in you,’ he said wryly, ‘after a night with the French.’
‘A good pony is always ready for use, Sir.’ My voice was unsteady.
‘Glad to hear it.’ He slapped my bottom and I nearly climaxed again.
‘I’m…’ I stopped myself.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m…pleased to see you back, Sir.’
‘I’m glad to hear that too.’ He busied himself between my legs ensuring my plug was secured inside and forcing me to bite my lip to stop myself climaxing.
I couldn’t hold back when he pushed my tail in, parting the thongs of the harness that were tight between my buttock. It was all too much.
‘Control yourself, Red!’ He slapped my buttocks again.
‘Sorry, Sir.’ I wasn’t and he knew it.
The rest of the fitting passed in something of a blur as I fought down the urge to climax repeatedly despite the rigours of the previous night. It should be stated that the fitting of a harness can be as intimate a congress between master and pony as sexual congress between lovers and just as meaningful. I suppose the two are synonymous to those who enjoy sex in the Prussian style as it is not unusual for women to ‘play pony’ in these encounters. I was not playing pony, of course; he was my master and he owned me, he was harnessing me for use not for his pleasure and yet, I hoped that the encounter would be meaningful, that he would see my love for him and show me some sign that he returned it.
There were moments, I was sure, where his hands caressed my body far beyond the need to tighten a strap or adjust a fastening but this gave me no hint to his thoughts; many men like to feel the firm flesh of a pretty pony. Yet, while these did not help me understand his intentions, they served repeatedly to raise expectations and to excite me so that when he sat me astride the booting saddle, the entire weight of my body pressed on my broiling sex to slide on my boots, I began to tremble so much he feared I was unwell.
‘I am quite well, Sir,’ I reassured him in a voice that trembled, ‘perhaps a little sore from my use last night.’
The boots were beautiful, exquisitely made, soft supple white leather with shiny gold buckles and laces that drew them tight around my feet and legs. There were, as is quite often the case with military boots, cuffs stitched around the ankle so that a girl can be hobbled at a moment’s notice should her master wish it. I sat on the saddle watching him as he knelt at my feet tightening the laces and buckling the straps, quivering as he took total control over my body. How I managed not to climax, I do not know but I did cum strongly when he clipped the shiny new gold bells to my nipples. They were beautiful, and jingled softly as he tapped them with his finger.
‘Sir?’ I asked, wondering why he wasn’t fitting the nipple bridle instead.
‘Shh!’ he said, holding his finger to his lips before turning to pick up my bridle.
It was as beautiful as the harness, carefully stitched with gold thread, fitted with blinkers and gold rings at the end of the leather coated bit.
‘My hood, Sir.’ I had been hooded for three months, run with a nipple bridle, my ‘bit’ a large leather or wooden ball used to silence me rather than guide me.
‘I told you,’ he said, holding up the bridle to show me, ‘this is in the continental style.’
Military ponies, that is British military ponies are run hooded for a reason, they must be obedient, they don’t need their eyes, they are not there to think but to obey the pull of the rein or the guidance of the whip. I thought of protesting, realising in not hooding me, he still considered me inadequate as a charger, wanting me just as a galloper or a Sunday mount. Fury and frustration rose inside me coupled with an intense sadness that brought such a heat to my eyes that it threatened to spill those tears I had held back so hard. Small as I may be, I had been trained alongside the other recruits and not found wanting; if there was any doubt, I wanted to prove myself. And yet, I reasoned, here I was with my new master and he was tacking me himself and the bridle was beautiful and a pony likes to look her best. I opened my mouth and accepted the bit, holding it between my teeth as he adjusted the straps around my head and under my jaw. It was a pleasure to be bridled this way again though my nipples were not entirely spared; chains ran from the end of the bit ‘in the continental style’ to my nipples. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a pony or mare who is led by her nipples is most obedient.
‘You are quite the show pony, Red,’ he said stepping back to look at me, his eyes roving over my helpless, harnessed body taking in my plume and my bridle, the tight harness on my body and the bells in my nipples, my legs laced tightly in the boots that would hold me on my toes as I trotted before him with my tail swishing gently behind me.
‘Shir.’ Despite my sorrow, I was pathetically pleased. I didn’t even think to correct his failure to use my name. Every pony likes to be told how good she looks and I couldn’t help blushing. He might not want me as charger but I could be his galloper and his Sunday ride.
‘Come on,’ he said, pulling the reins over my head so he could lead me by them and releasing the booting saddle so I slid off onto the tips of my new boots.
Then he led me out into the morning sunshine, strutting on my toes this time, with my head up and my breasts thrust out, his helpless and obedient pony.
I wasn’t the only one turned out in my finest, as I was lead out into the yard, I could see my fellow ponies being groomed and tacked up for the passing out parade, manes and tails platted, skins oiled, harnesses polished and whitened with pipeclay. Until this morning I had known no more of them than the sound of hoofbeats, their breathing as they ran beside me, their cries as the lash fell and, of course, the warmth of their bodies as we huddled together and the press of their tongues when we were not stabled in restraining stalls.
They, of course, were once again hooded though I saw a few faces, glances of eyes, wild and as unused to the light as my own as they stood ready to, once again, be plunged into darkness; as is the lot of the military pony. I regretted again that my master had not hooded me although the sights and sounds of the barracks, being able to see my fellow ponies and the men who handled us in their smart white uniforms was of some consolation.
It was the first time I had seen anything here. My master had driven me to Exeter hooded and, although my hood had been changed on my arrival it had been dark. I had worn the training hood constantly ever since. Curious as I was, however, I kept ‘eyes front’ so that, with the blinkers, my vision was limited. I could, however, see the stable block where I had spent so many nights behind the ponies as they were dressed in their regimental dress tack and plumes.
Corporal Locke was standing by to harness me to my master’s chariot, his mare already between the shafts of his own. She was a buxom little thing with a long blonde mane hanging from the back of her hood suggesting she had been in the regiment for some time and sturdy legs. She had clearly seen action too, a livid scar with rough stitching was visible on her flank. I tried not to stare at her or her owner; this man whose face I had never seen but who had freely used and abused my body or to react to his look of disapproval that I was not hooded. He said nothing, of course; my master was his superior officer and though he had until now enjoyed full dominion over me, he would not gainsay the major.
I was pleased when the major waved him away and began to fasten me between the shafts himself and though I once again enjoyed his touch, I couldn’t help watching as the corporal took up the reins of his own mare and patted her gently on her firmly rounded buttocks noting that, in return, she nuzzled him in a way that made her harness bells jingle.
In the absence of Colonel Rawley, the major was taking the salute and, on the stroke of twelve, the band struck up and the RSM called the new troopers forward at the trot into the parade square. It was a magnificent sight, A Troop, the major’s, leading the parade, then the marching band and finally the new troopers and their mounts; the men in the crisp white dress uniforms of the lancers and the ponies, now well and truly cavalry mares in their tight white dress harnesses trotting before them in perfect time, knees rising to hip height, lower legs at right angles at the apex of the step. They moved forward looking, to my eye, every bit as well drilled as the seasoned mares, heads up and breasts thrust out, blindly obedient to the reins fastened to their nipple bridles and beat of the drum.
As they passed the major, he put the whip to my hind quarters to have me mark time and the troopers turned their heads and saluted in a way that almost made it feel like the gesture was for my benefit. I’m sure more than a few eyes took in my body in its tight harness as I lifted my knees and my nipple bells jingled even as behind me, the major returned the salute.
Then, on the second tour of the square the major urged me forward and I took up my position at the head of the column as we led them through the camp gate and down the road towards the town.