Part 3
5) Crossing the Channel
It wasn’t all bad. The officer of the watch, who I soon realised was the first officer, was watching me intently despite the efforts of her exotic little pet busy entwining herself between the brunette’s legs and nuzzling her crotch with diligence. Furthermore, when I was led below I found that I was to be sharing a cabin with the major, albeit in a restraining stall. I guessed it had been refitted and the ensigns who usually inhabited it would be spending their nights in hammocks among the salts for the duration of our crossing.
The boatswain was clearly used to handling ponies and in short order had me down on my knees to secure me in the makeshift stall, clipping straps to my harness and adjusting them efficiently to make sure I was held firmly on my knees with my head up. At least, if it was a rough crossing I wouldn’t be bouncing around the deck.
Having secured me, the boatswain had one last treat in store for me, lifting her smock and pressing her salty box against my face. A restraining stall is more or less perfectly designed for this; a stablehand, master, mistress or, indeed, anyone else given charge over a pony doesn’t even have to bend down to enjoy her oral skills and when her mouth is firmly wedged open with an embarkation bit she has little choice but to satisfy.
It’s important to maintain a cordial relationship between His Majesty’s loyal services so I diligently did my duty.
My master’s kit was subsequently brought down by the captain’s steward who was clearly also familiar with the advantages of keeping a pony in a restraining stall and considerably more appreciative than the boatswain who had given little more than a grunt when I’d flicked her swollen bud for the last time even as her juices gushed onto my face. As many of them are, the pert little steward was barely eighteen with the callow figure of youth and I suspected might even be a virgin when it came to cock. She was no blushing virgin when it came to cunnilingus and peeled her tight breeches off to reveal a neatly trimmed blonde bush and soft pink petals already dewy from the sight of me kneeling ready to serve her. However, before she enjoyed the benefits of my tongue she squatted behind me and enjoyed herself pressing her pert little body against mine and playing with my nipple rings before slipping those mischievous fingers between my thighs to find the love ring poking through the crotch strap of my harness.
‘Who’s a good little pony then?’ she asked as she teased me.
She clearly didn’t mean me. I came remarkably quickly under those skilful fingers that were probably well used to handling Captain Arlott’s tight little body.
When she finally stood I was panting quite hard but still up to the task and her orgasm produced a delightfully girlish squeal. Then, having used me, like the boatswain, she departed and I knelt alone listening to the crew making ready to depart.
The boatswain and the steward were not the only members of the crew to make use of the ‘officer’s pony’ as I heard them calling me. From almost the moment we left harbour and the ship heeled in the wind, I had a steady stream of sailors on the off-watch lift their smocks in front of me and even a couple of ensigns as I knelt in my little cabin with little choice but to be obedient to their whims. A girl in a restraining stall can barely move with straps clipped to her harness on either side and her ankles in hobbles, typically the top of her bridle is fastened to a ring above her head and her bit also secured so that she cannot even turn her head. Most of those I served were appreciative, stroking my mane and even kissing my forehead but none provided me with any satisfaction as the steward had done. After a while I found myself restless, frustrated by my confinement, tired of the taste of pussy and despite the juices that flooded onto my tongue with each climax I supplied, I found myself running my tongue over dry lips much in need of some fresh water to wash away the tang of salt.
I quickly learned to distinguish the sound of footsteps approaching, the pad of bare feet on the deck planks, subtle among the strain of the wind in the rigging and the creak of the deck, looking up expectantly to see a figure slipping through the cabin door. Then, at some point in the night after the ring of yet another round of bells to change the watch had jolted me from a welcome doze, I wasn’t surprised to hear the approach of another of the ships company seeking solace in my tongue if not my arms.
My heart sank at the thought of another salt or officer requiring my services and I longed to hear the step of my master’s cavalry boots. However, my master was, doubtless, nestled in the tender caress of that hussy of a captain and the approaching feet were bare. I was thus surprised to see it was the major. He was wearing only his shirt and breeches, carrying his boots and coat; the shirt hung open exposing his chest. Despite my labours, the sight of him quickened a need in me and I watched him, excited as he bent to put down his boots quietly. He was, I saw, moving awkwardly. That was when I saw the bruising on his chest and the blood on his shirt. As I watched he pulled off the shirt exposing the scratches on his back.
‘You’ve had a busy night, I hear,’ he said, turning to face me.
The bruises on his chest were definitely bite marks.
‘Esh, Shir.’
He reached down and removed my embarkation bit, easing it out of my mouth.
‘You’re bleeding, Sir,’ I said in a rather more accusatory manner than I meant to.
‘Just a few scratches,’ he said, dismissively.
There were considerably more than a few and they were mostly parallel lines, twos, threes or even fours. Nail marks if ever I’d seen them.
A pony should know her place but I was tired and thirsty and felt more than a stab of jealousy.
‘Has there been some sort of incursion, Sir?’ I asked with as much naïveté as I could muster ‘Was the ship boarded?’
‘No!’ He shot me a look that told me he wanted my silence.
‘But you are wounded, Sir. You should call for the ship’s surgeon.’
‘Shut up, Red.’ He bent and picked up a water canteen.
‘My name is Bryony, Sir.’ I stiffened in the stall, the straps jerking on my harness, rings clicking.
‘Look, do you want some bloody water?’ he asked me irritably.
‘If my master is willing to offer me some.’
He held the canteen to my lips. It was warm and metallic but it tasted a lot better than the salt juices that currently coated my mouth.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ I said rather stiffly.
He took the canteen and, wiping the bottle, took a swig himself.
‘I think we have both done your duties tonight,’ he said with a wry smile that completely disarmed me.
‘Indeed, Sir.’ I made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
He bent and unclipped me from the restraining stall then took me to the cot, harness bridle boots and all. Though I was in need myself, he and the captain had obviously been playing rough so I wasn’t expecting much from him. However, as I pressed myself against him, I felt his cock stir. It wasn’t much to start with but a girl likes to wield some power over a man and few men can resist a pretty pony girl in full harness. My ankles were still hobbled but I could part my thighs for him and it was just a case of ensuring that he removed my plug and replaced it with something more desirable.
It wasn’t long before his hands were on my nipples, his fingers playing with the chains that we still clipped to my bridle.
‘Sir?’ I murmured.
‘Yes.’
‘A mare aboard ship is supposed to wear her embarkation bridle unless she is being fed and watered.’
‘You wish me to gag you?’
‘Sir might prefer his pony not to alarm the watch when he uses her.’
‘Perhaps I could use another means to silence you.’ He told me with the grin of a man who holds all the right cards.
‘Indeed, Sir. If you wish to follow in the tracks of a dozen sailors.’
‘Only a dozen?’ he chided. ‘It was my understanding that Captain Arlott’s steward made two shillings from you.’
I looked at him in surprise.
‘I overheard her selling your favours,’ he said, by way of explanation.
He may have overheard but he didn’t intervene. However, I resisted the urge to chide him. It probably was nearer two dozen anyway.
‘If I may be so bold, my labours this evening have left me much in need of release myself, Sir.’
‘Have they now?’ He toyed with my nipple chains again. ‘I thought that was what your plug was for.’
‘A girl needs more than a plug, Sir,’ I told him squirming with need. ‘As I believe you demonstrated earlier on the road here.’
‘Hmm.’ His hands slid down my body and I felt him fiddling with my crotch strap.
I stretched back in pleasure, enjoying the pull of the chains on my nipples as he released the strap and gently eased the plug out.
‘I sometimes wonder if I can compete with this,’ he told me.
‘Take it from me, Sir. There is no comparison.’ I pushed myself against him. Nobody can resist a pony girl in full harness. ‘And don’t forget to gag me.’
The following afternoon, after a long morning in the restraining stall pleasuring those of the ship’s crew who hadn’t booked their slot with me the night before, the major took me up on deck to exercise me, running me around the main deck in a lunge rein clipped to one of my nipple rings. I trotted obediently for him, putting a slight swing into my step so my tail swished for the pleasure of the watching sailors and the first officer who continued to display her interest by leaning over the rail of the quarterdeck to watch me perform. She really was a piece, more so than the captain if truth be told, with her dark hair and pale skin, the moon to the ‘captain’s’ sun but possessed of an allure that suggested more than smouldering passions hidden behind her blue eyes and betrayed by the curl of those gently pouting lips.
She clearly had an eye for pony flesh and was certainly enjoying the show; her eyes were definitely on me and not my master. There was little doubt which way her jib was hung as I believe they say in His Majesty’s navy, something confirmed by the continued attentions of the ship’s cat who continued to rub herself against the brunette’s legs. I saw her absently crouching to play with her pert little pet, parting beautifully toned thighs and giving me a view of her bottom that clearly didn’t need those overly tight trousers to be displayed perfectly.
The Hawk’s first officer had won the little Siamese I later discovered in a dice game in Hong Kong while serving as third lieutenant on an Indiaman. The pert little thing was even smaller than me and, typical of her sort, had tiny breasts and little curve to her bottom. Her hair was dark and glossy and her short tail matched. Like most of her kind she had been trained to crawl on hands and knees, her wrists and ankles each linked with a short chain that ran between golden cuffs no doubt forged shut on her body long ago. As with many such exotic specimens, her body was decorated with chains that hung from piercings through her nose and nipples and sex as well as her ears and lips; a pair of chains running from her nose ring to her nipples acted like a martingale to keep her head down while chains from her clit ring running forward too her wrists and another pair running back form the lips of her sex to her ankle cuffs served to limit her movements, ensuing her submission. She certainly would never be able to stand in them. Such chains, of course, also function like the crotch strap of a pony’s harness, they are designed to keep the pet girl in heat ensuing her need and willingness to give attention to her master or mistress.
Cat girls are quite common on ships from the orient and around the Mediterranean and I’m told that the fashion for keeping them has recently spread to the British Royal Navy. They are quite commonly seen in London and Brighton these days thanks to our prince regent’s fondness for such ostentation and, as with the current fashion for all things oriental, Siamese like this one are the most sought after. One also sees voluptuous Persians and dark skinned Abyssinians. These days they are mostly girls, of course, but it is said that Kubla Khan had five hundred cats in his palace in Xanadu, many of whom were male. Such pets were also favourites of the pharaohs, some found buried with them in their huge tombs.
Pet girls are, I think, bred a little like ponies though more for their looks and sexual prowess than their strength and agility although, in some countries they keep fighting cats. Like ponies, some are free women taken while sometimes daughters are sold to pet traders. For a family with a pretty girl, this can be a way to escape the trap of poverty.
On the continent the fashion is, I believe more for ‘dog girls’ who are kept in a similar manner but given less freedom, being kept in cages or kennels and taken for walks in the great parks often wearing ostentatious muzzles. Such pets are now being bred in Alsace, Belgian and Brittany.
When the bell rang and the night watch came on, I resigned myself to a night of licking pussy for little reward but a tweak of my nipples and a kiss to the forehead and the hope that my master would not return too bruised from another night of passion with Captain Arlott. However, when the door opened I was confronted by the first officer. She appraised me again with those icy blue eyes and I watched the curl of her full lips as she took stock of my body and my situation.
She clearly wasn’t used to handling ponies because, after freeing me from the restraining stall, she released my arms, clipped a leather leash to the collar of my harness and had me crawl across the deck on all fours. I should have protested but there was little point and, if I’m honest, I was eager to see where she might take me; I thus crawled across the deck like a common pet girl at her heel where I suffered the derision and probably the envy of the foredeck hands who would perhaps now have to seek solace from the rough tongue of the ship’s cat. It was a relief to have my arms out of the new sheath for a short while at least; I can spend from now until doomsday in a standard civilian sheath but the military one, especially this new one, with it’s ‘reverse praying hands’ arrangement was far harsher and my shoulders were aching from two days of brutal confinement.
The first officer had a small cabin to herself on the port side and, as we entered, the cat lifted her head, a flicker of annoyance in her almond eyes at being disturbed. She mewled as her mistress kicked her off her cot and then slunk away furnishing me with a vengeful look as she departed.
I guessed the brunette would expect a little fun in the Prussian style so I knelt on the wooden floor of the cabin sliding my hands behind my back and pushing out my chest.
If my master was going to spend his nights enjoying the attention of the captain, this was the next best thing.
‘Do you have a name?’ she asked, shrugging out of her coat.
‘Bryony, Mishdress.’ I said.
‘My name is Kathrine,’ she said with one of those smiles. ‘Actually, it’s Lady Kathrine de Buerre but I keep the last bit hidden.’ She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘We are at war with France, after all. Among my friends I’m Kitty.’
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Ponies aren’t usually taken into confidence and yet she was disengagingly charming.
‘Well,’ she said expectantly, ‘shall we play?’
‘Yesh Mishdress…Kitty.’
‘Just Kitty,’ she said, ‘especially for what I have in mind.’
She bent over, furnishing me with a perfect view of her perfect hind quarters and lifted the lid of her sea chest. She was a woman who certainly liked to play in the Prussian style. The chest was full of leather straps and cuffs, whips and even gags. I watched her rummage amongst the contents and then pull out what was clearly a harness. Freeing a couple of belts that had become tangled in it she held it up. It was a beautiful thing carefully tooled, its buckles shining.
‘My favourite piece,’ she said with a playful smile.
All ponies love to wear beautiful harnesses and I rather liked the idea of her strapping it onto my body.
‘So,’ she said, ‘are you going to help me put it on?’
I must have looked surprised because she laughed.
‘You’ll have to undress me first, of course,’ she looked around theatrically. ‘I seem to have put to sea without my maid.’ She gave a short giggle then dropped to her knees in front of me, facing me, back straight her own legs spread, knees inside mine, pressed against my thighs, her posture like mine, pushing out her small breasts and her hands behind her back.
‘I could undress myself. Sometimes I have to,’ she flashed me a smile, ‘but it’s so much more fun when someone else does it.’
I hesitated then tentatively reached and began to untie her stock. It’s not something ponies do and it took a few moments to understand the knot but I finally got it free and pulled the silk away to expose her slender neck. The skin here was paler than her face but, I saw, was decorated with the occasional bite mark.
‘Sin does get a little carried away sometimes.’ She said by way of explanation. I assumed Sin was the cat.
The top button of her white silk blouse was stiff and it took me two attempts to free it. Again, it was not something ponies are used to doing; that’s what maids are for. The next one was easier and I soon had it half way open exposing the pale skin of her chest and the wide valley of her cleavage. She was clearly a woman who didn’t believe in undergarments.
When I’d undone the last button, I watched her shrug out of her blouse, noticing her nipples were surprisingly dark and stiffly erect.
‘I have some bells we can put on them later,’ she said archly and I looked up, realising I had indeed been staring at her nipples.
She stood, then sat on the cot, extending her right leg for me to remove her boot. I thought about telling her I wasn’t a maid but I guessed this was what girls did when together so I pulled it free and then did the same with the other one. Then, I removed her stockings; she had lovely dainty feet and I noticed she had painted some shiny red lacquer on her toenails.
‘It’s all the rage in Japan,’ she said when I ran my finger over one.
When she stood, I unbuttoned her breeches and pulled them down, again revealing her complete lack of undergarments, though with breeches that tight a girl really couldn’t wear any. The dark, neatly trimmed hair of her sex drew my eye and I caught the scent of her body. She let me look at her for a moment, her body beautiful, skin smooth, like a marble statue but warm to the touch. Then she picked up the harness and held it out to me.
Again, this wasn’t something I was used to doing but at least it was more familiar territory so I stood and lifted it over her shoulders arranging the straps then tightening the collar around her neck.
‘I always rather enjoy that part,’ she said with a slight tremble in her voice as I buckled the second of the twin straps to hold it in place.
The straps of the harness ran diagonally across her chest and back, crossing above and below her breasts and the girdle tightened at the back with a column of buckles to allow it to be shaped to her waist. When I’d secured that I knelt to tighten the thigh straps that dangled from it.
‘Here we are,’ she said as I tightened the second thigh cuff, ‘both ponies together.’ There was a slight uncertainty in her voice that had not been there before, perhaps as she moved from her world to mine.
She made a comely pony and I guessed from the tone of her body she’d probably perform tolerably well.
‘What do you think?’ That tremor was there, that need for my approval.
I watched her turn, showing me her body then she bent and reached into the chest again, pulling out a bridle which she passed to me dropping to her knees to make it easier for me to strap it on. She took the bit with a slight sigh as if excited to have it in her mouth and knelt quietly as I stood behind her to adjust and tighten the leather straps over her nose and around her forehand, pulling her long dark hair through a ring at the back and securing it in place. Like the harness it was beautifully worked leather.
Cuffs for her wrists came next; again exquisitely decorated and felt lined, each like the collar with two straps to hold them in place.
‘In India, the poniesh hold the shaftsh of the cart in their handsh,’ she said, her words now made sibilant by the bit between her teeth. ‘You should cuv me.’
She held up chains that hung from the sides of the girdle that were clearly designed to keep her hands close to her sides.
I clipped them to her cuffs. The chains were long enough to allow a little movement, but a pony wearing the cuffs would not be able to release the clips from her wrists.
‘The boods are in the chesht.’
I pulled out a stunning pair of pony boots with very fine hooves and, while she sat on the bed, strapped them onto her feet.
‘I’fe nefer undershtood how you poniesh manage to keep your balanche.’ She said, smiling round her bit and rising unsteadily to her feet.
She stumbled slightly as the ship heeled and I caught her.
‘Shang you,’ she said.
‘Should I find the bellsh for your nibbles?’ I asked, emboldened by her restraints and my obviously superior skill to stand in pony boots.
‘I’d rather you kisshed me,’ she said with that enigmatic smile again.
‘Of courshe, Mishdressh.’
‘Nod misshdress,’ she said with a shake of her head, ‘shtablemade!'
I stood before her, holding her harness and she grasped mine, steadying herself, pulling us closer at the same time.
Kissing around a bridle is always fun, we ponies love it even if the presence of a steel bar in a girl’s mouth does detract from other more intimate pursuits later. In my case, the ring of the embarkation gag was not so limiting. Kitty’s lips were deliciously cool and firm and her tongue, straining for release behind it’s prison, hot and insistent. For a girl who spends her time without the use of her hands, I was a little startled to find mine roaming across Kitty’s small but deliciously firm breasts and her stiff, hard nipples that just made me want to pinch them.
‘Perhaps I should cuv your wrishts too,’ she said, squirming.
‘Too lade,’ I told her, lifting my arms to wrap them around her neck and pulling that firm body against me. ‘You’re my running made now.’
There is often a lead in pairs, the girl on the right usually, who gets to lead both between the shafts and in the stables.
‘I hobe you’re not going to mage me go oud on degg,’ she said deliberately rubbing those hard brown nipples against mine. ‘Much as I’d love to be strabbed to one of your gigs and exercised beshide you I don’d thing the cabtain would approve.’
‘Then we’ll jusht have to shtay here and play together.’ I pressed myself right back against her.
‘I hobed you’d shay thad.’
We nuzzled and rubbed our thighs together, my hands roaming freely over that lovely firm body, hers clutching at my waist..
‘I wish there wash room do play,’ she said, panting hard.
‘I shink we’ve played enough,’ I told her, pushing her back onto the bed and she lay there comparatively helpless. Her sex was wet, those lovely pink petals more than a little moist with dew. I dropped to my knees. We might have played stablemates but I was a pony and I knew my place.
‘There really are all kindsh of toysh in the chesht you know,’ she said.
‘Poniesh don’d ushually ged to play with toys,’ I told her.
‘Even theshe?’ She lifted her foot and tapped it against my crotch strap. ‘I bed you have one in there.’
It was true; though my master had removed my plug to use me the previous night, he had replaced it in the morning. It seemed unfair not to give her one too. I rummaged in the trunk and found something suitable; it was large and white and firm and, apparently made of ivory.
‘Another shouvenir from Japan?’
‘India actually,’ she said, smiling up at me.
It came fitted with straps which didn’t look quite right to hold it inside a girl.
‘The ball on the other end goesh in your mouth,’ She explained. ‘I expect you can guess where the other end goesh.’
I certainly could. I’d been in the business end of one fairly recently.
‘We should have pud id in your mouth before,’ she told me. ‘Bud I shink I can do id.’
She sat up and fiddled with my bridle and removed my gag then slipped the ball of the maid’s beak into my mouth before stepping behind me a little awkwardly to buckle it in place. I’ve worn quite a variety of bits and gags but this one was new and the weight of the phallus sticking out of my mouth felt very strange as did the way it seemed to bounce up and down and swing from side to side as I moved my head.
‘Oh.,’ she said, ‘thad looks good bud I’m nod quide ready. I need a liddle more draining.’ She leaned over to the trunk almost losing her balance and pulled out a light crop. ‘I’m tougher than I look,’ she added passing it to me.
I don’t often feel completely out of my depth, but then I’m a pony and my life is simple. This we definitely weird. I might have argued but the ball of the phallic gag was huge and I could barely stop myself drooling.
‘Don’t shpare the horshes.’ she said, climbing to her knees on the bunk and kneeling with her bottom in the air. ‘I’d love do be pud through my pashes bud we’ll have do seddle for thish.’
6) The Continent
My first blow was a bit tentative but when Kitty didn’t cry out and order me to stop I gained a little more confidence.
‘Bedder,’ she said as I struck that lovely firm bottom for the third time although it was clear the blow had hurt her.
She took a dozen, surprisingly hard by the end.
‘Yesh,’ she gasped as I landed the last one, ‘you can play with me again.’
Those blue eyes were alight with excitement. Based on her response to the whip alone, I knew she’d missed her vocation.
‘Now I’m ready,’ she told me, rolling over and parting her thighs.
I could see and smell it. My moment in the saddle was over and I was back to being the hired help. It wasn’t quite what I was used to but the end result was going to be the same. I bent forward over the side of the cot and rubbed the tip of the phallus against her dripping sex.
‘Mmmnnn,’ she moaned, turning her head to the side and lifting her hips. ‘Thad’s almosht as good ash being whipped.’ She reached out to grab my bridle but with her hands cuffed to her girdle she couldn’t quite reach so she slid forward trying to impale herself in the phallus.
I could have teased her but I guessed she was more than ready so I pushed the tip inside and saw her turn her head and gasp again. I pushed a little deeper.
‘You naughdy teashe,’ She said, ‘you gan devinidely play again.’
I pushed in a little further.
‘Good girl.’
And then all the way.
‘Mnnnghh.’
She was very close and I drew back before pushing the phallus in deeper then, when I saw that she was just going to lie there and let me take control again, I pulled nearly all the way out and thrust again. It took only a couple more of these before she came.
‘Oh, yeshhhhh.’ Her hands strained to reach my bridle again and I felt her fingertips brush my hair so I pushed in as deeply as I could, shoving her over the edge. ‘Fugg…’ She thrashed her head from side to side and bucked her hips, her usual calmness lost in the throes of orgasm.
‘Oh you good girl,’ she said, still breathing hard around her bit, the phallus still buried deep inside her, ’and we didn’d even ged do the nibble clampsh.’
I could envisage that sultry smile on her face as I knelt obediently, my face pressed against her pussy, her scent filling my nostrils. Seeing and hearing her pleasure had excited me; a pony enjoys the pleasure of her stablemates and the plug inside me had moved insistently as I’d rocked back and forth upon my knees driving the phallus of the beak in and out of her writhing body.
‘Your durn, I shink.’ She squirmed backwards, easing herself off the ivory phallus and sat up, smiling. Her face was flushed, that cool exterior she customarily maintained melted away.
I wondered what she had planned.
‘Id does suid you,’ she said, grinning at me. ‘Gome here.’
I leaned in and she undid the straps of the beak then eased the large ball out of my mouth. She didn’t bother to replace my bridle.
‘You’ll have do help me,’ she said, gesturing with her hands still cuffed by the wrists to her girdle.
I must have looked a little confused because she gestured again. ‘I can’d ged id in my mouth.’ The she smiled again. ‘Unless you’d prefer me do dongue you.’
‘But…’ I started to protest. I was a pony though, of course, at this moment she was bitted and cuffed and I had named her my running mate.
‘I’d prefer your tongue,’ I told her. The phallus might have been more stimulating but it’s not every day a girl gets the offer of a good tongue-lashing from an aristocrat.
‘Ash you wish.’ She smiled around her bit. ‘Bud you’d bedder dake the bid oud.’
I reached out and unclipped her bit.
‘Go on then.’ She gestured to her bunk.
‘Yes, Mistress.’ I lay on my back, lifting my hands above my head and spreading my thighs.
‘Not Mistress,’ she corrected. ‘Kitty, your stablemate.’
Then, Lady Katherine de Beurre dropped to her knees and turned slightly so she could reach the buckle of my crotch strap then pulled it. The leather was stiff and the strap brutally tight, a notch further than it had been when I’d first worn it. Using only one hand, it took her several goes to undo it.
‘My,’ She exclaimed, ‘that must go all the way in.’
It did. A good crotch strap works its way in between a girl’s legs and if it’s properly padded and worked, she doesn’t want it to come out; unless, of course, it’s for a good reason.
I raised my hips and felt her fiddling with the base of my plug, her fingers groping my sensitive pussy. Then she began to pull it out.
Like a good crotch strap, a well fitting plug just becomes an extension of the girl who wears it.
‘You are a lucky girl,’ she said, pulling it free.
When a pony’s plug is removed she feels somehow empty and I felt that now; I almost wished I’d opted for the phallus; but then I felt the brush of her tongue.
She was good, very good. They say there are books on how to extract more pleasure from sex written in the orient. I gathered Kitty had read them. A pony can rarely be made to beg; we’re so lascivious that any sort of teasing just pushes us to orgasm, sometimes that usually earns us a good whipping although it’s not really our fault. We’re bred to be horny and kept in a way that exploits that.
Lady Katherine de Beurre made me beg.
I squirmed and I pleaded and I promised to be her willing slave and her hot breath fanned the fires in my sex and her skilful tongue drove me to one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had at the hands (well, the tongue) of another woman. She left me sobbing with pleasure and, afterwards, as she lead me back to my stall, crawling on all fours beside her like the hot pet she’d made me, I couldn’t help rubbing my hot body against her boots like a pet and whimpering when she put me back in my stall.
Needless to say, I dozed off when she left me, restrained and fully harnessed once again in my stall. The lust in my body had briefly rekindled when she’d handled me as she’d strapped me in place, taking every opportunity now she was back in full control to play with my helpless body. Once I was secured, she squatted down and kissed me around the bridle, her tongue still fresh from my sex pushing itself into my mouth, then left me.
I honestly wasn’t expecting the visit from her pet. However, the door to the cabin opened, startling me awake and I saw her there, padding in on all fours, her chains clicking gently as she moved. She knelt back on her haunches facing me for a moment, regarding me with those almond shaped eyes that girls from the east all have. There was a slight smile on her lips and I was struck by the thought that I was completely helpless and, slender as she was, in a game of cat and mouse I was going to lose. Despite its blackness, her hair shone in the lamplight framing her face with its small nose and wide flat cheekbones. Her lips were full and a glossy red; pets lips are often tattooed to maintain their colour. Her chains were all golden as was the thin, almost fragile looking collar around her slender neck; rubies glinted on the studs in her nipples.
She took her time sizing me up. I certainly wasn’t going anywhere.
Her smile broadened. Then, finally, she dropped forward onto all fours and crawled towards me, lifting her head to sniff me, her eyes lifting to mine when, no doubt she caught the scent of her mistress. Then she knelt back and raised a hand to play with my nipple bells. I noticed she had fine leather gloves strapped to her hands that joined her fingers and thumb together, effectively turning them into paws. Then she lowered her head and sniffed at my crotch strap before rubbing her cheek against it. With her hands in the mittens it seemed unlikely she’d be able to undo it.
Perhaps that was for the best.
I watched her pad round me again, disappearing behind my back where I heard her sniffing at my back and felt her playing with my tail. Then she reappeared and with a single backward glance, she left me alone.
The crossing may have been an adventure for me but when we landed at Zeebrugge some of my fellow ponies were in a very sorry state. Most had been in restraining stalls for the best part of three days and, as they were led out from the hold still hooded and harnessed, a number were barely able to stand. The stink was unmissable and I tried to ignore the shrieks as troopers used buckets of seawater to rinse them down.
We were met on the quayside by the regiment's quartermaster Captain Osborne and the major’s coverman, Corporal Troy. Troy was newly promoted, a ‘Wessex’ man who’s mare was called Bristols. As with the rest of the troop, she was being run hooded and he looked at me and then my master questioningly when he saw my continental bridle.
It took several hours to unload all the regiment’s gear, chariots and supplies; there were supply wagons too, heavy like farm wagons and drawn by draft ponies or those on a charge. However, finally, we formed into a column and, with my master driving me at its head, we moved out along the road to Brussels.
It was a bright June day and, even though distant clouds foretold rain, there was a spirit of hope partly buoyed up by my fellow mares having their hooves on solid ground. I was certainly feeling the excitement of leading the column and while this was no parade, there were small crowds along the streets of the port to wave us off.
We made marching camp overnight outside Bruges and then again near Ghent, the troopers taking the opportunities to reacquaint themselves with their mares rather than tethering them near the pickets for the night. Much to my disappointment Corporal Troy rubbed me down and removed my tack before leaving me in an undress harness tethered beside my master’s tent. I lay in the darkness under the thin blanket aware that my major was just a few yards away and frustrated to no longer be tethered at his side. However, when the pickets were set, I saw him emerge from this tent and, casting a quick glance around, came and led me inside.
Then, on the third day near Brussels as we stopped to make camp next to the 7th Dragoons, ‘the Heavies’ who had arrived two days before us, my master called up Captain Osborne and handed over command before setting the whip to my hindquarters with just Corporal Troy and, of course Bristols for company. The 7th were bivouacked along the Brussels road, and I had a chance to enjoy the pride of the English cavalry, mares in heavy harness, each with the stature of Fanny, our landlady’s daughter, tethered along the perimeter. It was an impressive sight, all those strong bodies, broad shoulders and powerful thighs, many of them Saxon ponies with their blonde manes and blue eyes; drawn up in lines on the battlefield in their leather cuirasses they would be intimidating too.
It brought home to me my master’s comment that I was ‘no charger’. He had been right, of course and much as I loathed the idea of sharing him with another, I could see why he might want a more powerful mare to face the French heavy cavalry in their steel cuirasses.
Brussels had more of a carnival feel than a city rehearsing the prelude to war. Chaises and barouches filled the streets, both military and civilian; cavalry mares rubbing shoulders with local ponies, most of these latter dark eyed and slender with small neat breasts, bridled in the continental style with chains from their bits to their large brown nipples. The continental harnesses were like mine too, high collars and straps above the girl’s breasts and very tight crotch straps that disappear between a girl’s cheeks; of course, most wore classical civilian sheaths with their arms stretched out behind them, often with a ring at the tip that was linked by a chain to the gig they were pulling. Continental ponies are said to be hot tempered and highly strung, it's the reason for the style of bridle used but it doesn’t stop them prancing and tossing their manes and generally acting up in a way that would earn any self respecting English pony a dozen stripes and night in solitary. Nevertheless, they are all elegance and trot beautifully, the continental style being for the thigh to come just a little higher than for an English pony; and they trot everywhere, tails swishing and buttocks swaying to the sound of tinkling nipple bells and, in many cases, a bell hanging from a ring that pierces their nose. Such rings just seem to enhance the beauty of their faces with those wide high cheekbones and dark smouldering eyes as they flash white teeth clasped around their bits from behind full firm lips.
There were pet girls too, most of the ‘dog’ variety; bitches, I suppose; crawling on pavements and along the side of the road on leashes. These were mostly larger than Sin, the cat aboard HMS Hawk, and many blonde from the Alsace, almost reminiscent of the 7th’s ‘heavies’ with their strong bodies and full breasts. Most of these were muzzled, some with panels of leather across their faces and some with more complex masks. I later learnt that it was a fashion to ‘gag’ a pet with something in the shape of a phallus, the obvious reason being to ensure she performed well for her master, taking him easily in her mouth without gagging. The harnesses of these pets were mostly leather rather than the chains that are used on cats. Many of them, I saw, wore a kind of chest harness with two rings that were clearly designed to squeeze the bases of their breasts, the effect of which is to render them sensitive. They had mittens on their hands like the cat and, I noticed that, when a girl was left, outside a shop for instance, her wrists were typically pulled behind her and cuffed together before she was left kneeling leashed by her collar to one of the rings provided for the purpose.
Corporal Troy had found quarters and Bristols and I trotted side by side along the boulevards endeavouring to show that the cavalry mares of the British army could pass muster in both town and country. It’s fair to say, I think, that despite my new harness and flame red hair, Bristols probably drew more attention than me despite being hooded. As regulations stipulated, her harness had specifically been adjusted with restraining straps for her breasts but these seemed largely inadequate and they bounced and heaved like those of a heavy cavalry mare despite her diminutive stature as a lancer pony.
At the lodgings, the major dismissed his coverman for the night and led me into the stable, waving away the stable girl who offered to take my reins.
‘I expect you’re wondering what’s going on, Red,’ he said when we were alone in the stable.
I stood waiting for him to tell me like the obedient pony I am.
He began to remove my bridle.
‘I’m seconded to the general staff,’ he told me, 'Lord Uxbridge’s retinue. So I’m sorry to say we won’t be sleeping on the ground in a wet camp. Dry straw and good tack for you.’
‘Indeed, Sir.’ I tried to sound pleased but wondered what this meant for out sleeping arrangements. In the camp it had been easy for him to slip out and lead me into his tent when the pickets has passed.
He looked at me in that way I’d noticed he did when he disapproved and I bowed my head.
‘It strikes me that it’s a while since you’ve been disciplined, Red.’
I lifted my head and looked directly at him. There had been something playful in his tone as if he shared my thoughts. ‘Yes, Sir.’ I forced myself to suppress a smile shaking my head, it was the first time I had been properly without a bridle since before we’d embarked on the Hawk. ‘I believe I am becoming rather wayward.’
A flicker of a smile crossed his face.
‘Then I believe we have an hour to accomplish that.’
The look he gave me made me shiver with anticipation as my nipples hardened and my pussy tingled. I stood watching him remove his jacket and then his linen shirt, part of me wishing I could do it for him as I had for Kitty aboard the Hawk. I have heard that maids in close chains are sometimes made to undress their masters or mistresses using their teeth and that slave girls, where they exist, are trained to do this routinely. However, it was accomplished quickly and the sight of him bare chested in his tight white cavalry breeches and shiny leather boots made my pussy flood so suddenly I feared he would see my juices running down my thighs when he removed my plug.
‘And what do you think of your new harness?’ he asked, stepping behind me. ‘It fits well enough?’
‘Well enough, Sir.’
I felt him loosen my dress sheath.
‘Not too tight?’
‘Like I say, Sir…’ I shuddered as he pulled on my crotch strap. ‘Well…enough.’
I hadn’t meant to orgasm and wasn’t sure if he had noticed.
The slap of the whip high on my buttocks told me he had.
‘Discipline, Red.’
He struck me again and I climaxed without being able to stop myself.
‘The harness is a perfect fit, Sir.’ My voice was trembling as much as I was as he removed my plug and my tail.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’ His fingers ran over the wetness between my legs and I fought hard not to climax again.
When he had removed my harness and boots and I stood before him, naked save my undersheath and collar, he took up the whip and walked around me.
‘Not bad, Red,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Sir.’ I was excited by the way he was looking at me, his eyes roving over my body. I saw them linger on my breasts and wished, like Bristols, I qualified for specific adaptations to my harness.
‘Would it help if I reminded you that my name is Bryony?’ I asked, suddenly vulnerable in my nakedness, my exposure to his scrutiny without even my boots or my tail.
The whip came down across my breasts and I let out a gasp.
‘I thought we’d cleared that up.’
‘We have, Sir.’ My breasts throbbed where he had struck them. ‘But you were planning to discipline me anyway.’
The whip fell again, my little breasts bouncing under the impact.
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Ponies don’t thank their owners for discipline, not verbally anyway though they usually show their appreciation using their tongues in other ways. It was, however, I believed something that slave girls did and something that was part of playing in the Prussian style.
He had after all, stripped me whereas ponies are usually disciplined in harness to remind them of their place.
If he wanted me to be a slave as well as a pony, I would give him what he wanted though, perhaps, judging by the bruises that lingered on his body from his ‘dinners’ with Captain Arlott, I should have offered to take up the whip.
I dropped to my knees.
‘Do you plead for clemency?’ he asked.
I blushed that he might have thought me weak then looked up at him.
‘I thought you might enjoy punishing me like this, Master.’
I’d used the words deliberately and they weren’t lost on him.
‘Very well.’
I could tell he was pleased.
After he’d whipped me, I knelt with the whip in her mouth like some Prussian slave girl, my hide red with angry weals and tears in my eyes. I knew he’d enjoyed punishing me, not just disciplining his pony but chastising his errant slave.
‘Thank you, Mashter,’ I said, my voice unsteady. Ponies are used to the whip even if we usually take it in harness and I wondered briefly if slave girls were similarly resilient to such punishments and whether those who played in the Prussian style were excited by the kiss of the whip.
It wasn’t just the pain that excited me although that was part of it; knowing that I was enduring this as much for his sake as my own filled me with a heady pleasure. The fierce excitement he exhibited, not so much from hurting me but from having such control over me, was intense as was mine from being ‘owned’ by him. That he so needed me that left me almost dizzy with desire, it was as if I was back aboard the Hawk with the deck heaving in a storm. I wondered briefly if Chrissy had served him this way, if that was why they had such a fierce devotion to each other.
He stood looking down at me, sweat on his skin from the exertion, his breathing rapid, excitement in his eyes as he regarded me, his slave girl…his!
Brazenly, I leaned back on my bound arms, spreading my thighs, inviting him to use me, to take me, to use his property like he had used me on this hilltop some five days ago, roughly, urgently, to satisfy his desire and with no thought to mine.
His cock rammed into me as his weight pressed down on me and his teeth ripped into my shoulder beside my collar. He came almost instantly and my own climax followed a moment later as I arched my back and thrust my body against him lost in a need as great as his. How I didn’t scream, I’ll never know but as my own lust faded I found myself panting as, freed from my need, the pain of the whipping and of his teeth tearing at my flesh washed over me.
‘Thank you, Master,’ I whispered, hoarsely fighting back the tears of joy and pain that threatened to spill from behind my eyes.
He said nothing but the unsteadiness of his movements told me what I knew already, that I had fulfilled his base needs and that, the civilised part of him wondered at the animal instinct that had driven him to use me thus.
Honey had been right, ponies do have ways of controlling their masters and mistresses but I knew that, although I had to a degree lead him on, I had done it as much for my pleasure as his and, if I hadn’t before, I knew that I loved him more than I had thought possible.
He left me then and I lay in my stable, suitably chastised, bridled once again, a smile on my face and a warmth between my thighs. I understand he walked to meet Lord Uxbridge and, had he bidden me, I would have crawled beside him as a pet if he did not need me as a pony.
I know he came back late, it was after the stable girl came to check on me. She was a pert little thing, slender and dark eyed like French ponies and, were she not quite so skinny would surely have passed as one. Her eyes widened when she saw the state of my breasts and thighs and buttocks where the whip has fallen and I’m sure she took me for a slovenly English mare who deserved the sound whipping I had no doubt received.
I had learned French as a child, largely from Cassie, my friend, daughter of Sir Charles; that was before I came of age and was pressed into service on the estate as a pony. I thus understood much of her chatter though, of course, bridled and subject to her whip, I did not answer her back. I wasn’t too surprised when, after watering me, she delivered her own brand of discipline, putting me through my paces in the stall with liberal use of the crop to make me trot on the spot in the continental style. Then, naturally, I was expected to thank her for her attention, something I did willingly, spurred on by her constant chatter and clear gratitude at the service she received.
My master let her dress me in the morning too, supervising her as she tightened the straps of my harness and inserted my plugs. She clearly enjoyed his attention and he clearly enjoyed watching her handle me, her fingers deft as she sited my crotch strap and adjusted the chains of my continental bridle to ensure my nipples were under just the correct amount of tension.
Then, hitched to his chariot, he drove me out into the streets where I had the opportunity to demonstrate my new mastery of the continental trot.