Part 4
9) Alliances (13th June 1815)
After he had taken me, the major lay beside me, his head resting on my shoulder, our breaths mingling, his limbs around me. His passion for that moment seemed spent and though mine too had been sated, thoughts of the way he had used me filled me with excitement; no man had ever used me that way and now, twice he had taken me, not as a pony but as his woman.
‘Am I to be your slave too, Master?’ My passion smouldered like the embers of a fire, waiting only to be rekindled.
‘Do you wish it?’ He lifted his head.
‘Slavery is abolished.’
‘Yes.’ It came out as a regretful sigh.
Many consider the indentured state of the pony as a form of slavery and some campaign to free us but I wonder what we would do if we could not fulfil our calling. Would we too take ship to the Ottoman Empire?
‘Then I suppose I must remain your pony unless we are posted to Prussia.’
‘Yes, you must.’
‘I am sorry, Sir, that I was disobedient,’ I told him, wriggling against him as best I could, contrite now that my needs had been met and my mind no longer raced; partly contrite at least. ‘And I am sorry for the pony who’s leg I broke. But I am not sorry for the outcome.’
I felt him nod. ’You truly are a wilful mare.’
‘Yes, Master.’ I liked the idea of calling him Master, here at least in the intimacy of his room. I liked the idea of conversing with him too. Slaves, I’m told, must wait for permission to speak but many masters and mistresses enjoy conversing with their slaves.
He held my body and I felt his manhood begin to stir against my thigh. He lifted his head and kissed my nipple.
‘I think they need bloodying, Sir,’ I told him, my nipple responding to the touch of his lips. I was coming to realise that I was not fully sated that I needed his touch again. ’I’m sure that will make me more obedient.’
‘We’re not using a nipple bridle.’ His tongue flicked my piercing ring.
‘Even so, Sir,’ I told him, ‘my discipline has clearly lapsed and needs maintaining.’ I began to squirm under his touch, those smouldering embers sparking. I suddenly wanted the hood and the nipple bridle; to be utterly dominated by him.’
‘Should I send for the quartermaster then?’
‘I was hoping Master might do it himself.’
I sensed that, despite his apparent anger, he was not truly unhappy that I had disobeyed him and wondered if perhaps in doing so it had allowed him to do to me what he had done this evening although as my master he had every right to use me. Realising this gave me strength and hope and hardened my desire to please him and, when it was needed, to be stubborn and wilful.
I wondered too what he might be thinking in terms of my suitability as a charger.
The battle loomed, days away, and I had not seen or heard anything about a second mare. Perhaps his secondment to the general staff might mean he was not to go to battle. I wanted to ask but dared not. Here, in his arms, warm and in the throes of passion and even with my blood up on the streets of Brussels I might have the courage face a heavy cavalry mare but would I be able to show the same dauntless spirit against a French mare and her sabre wielding driver on a bloody field amid the thunder of guns and the screams of men and horses?
A new terror began to wash over me, not that I might show fear in the face of the enemy, not that I might die, but that I might disappoint him. Surely, I reasoned, if I was for battle, he would hood me not make me face the enemy.
‘Bloody me, Sir.’ I begged, urgently, turning to look at him.
An expression of surprise crossed his face.
‘Well, as it happens…’ He rolled away from me. ‘If you seek nipple discipline.’ He rolled back and held up a metal chain with what looked like two ornate fish-shaped designs hanging from the ends. ‘The highland regiment do not pierce their ponies but use these to ensure their mounts remain obedient.’
I watched them, shiny, one spinning in the lamplight.
‘They are made by Messrs Clover and Clamp of Argyle Street, Glasgow.’
I had seen similar things used on recalcitrant mares to control them but often they pulled off when the mare fought back.
‘I hope they were not expensive, Sir,’ I told him, ‘I fear they are more for ornament that function.’
‘Really?’ He kissed my nipple then sucked on it gently making my body pulse with pleasure. Then he took the clamp and opened it, sliding it around my nipple and gently closing it. It was firm, gently squeezing, no more than the clip bell that is fastened to a pony’s nipple at a show.
‘I am not sure…’ I began but he laid a finger to my lips and I fell silent as he knelt up, straddling me and used his thumb and finger to tease my other nipple before applying the second clamp, his touch exciting me further.
‘Sir…’
He pulled gently at the chain between the clamps and I felt them tighten.
‘Well?’ He pulled a little harder.
‘Oh!’ A mare led by these would be as obedient as one led by her piercings.
My nipples soon began to throb and when he pulled again I was forced to arch my back as my breasts were stretched and my nipples squeezed further.
‘They don’t come off,’ he said with a smile pulling harder.
‘Sir…’
He released the chain and bent to kiss my breasts just beside the nipple on each side.
‘Want me to take them off?’
‘I think they are doing me good, Master.’
He kissed me again and licked my squashed nipple.
The next morning back in harness I trotted beside Bristols as we left the city. I had been in my master’s room tied to his bed until just before dawn when he had fastened me back in my sheath and taken me to the stable where I had slept briefly before being roused by the stable girl who had fed and watered me and then, under the direction of Corporal Troy, harnessed and bridled me before fastening me between the shafts of my master’s chariot. My master had emerged then, breakfasted and bathed and clad in his dress uniform.
It was still early and the streets of Brussels were empty save for street sweepers and delivery boys. Here, it seemed, even the ponies of the delivery carts were pretty little things, regarding us with dark eyes under long lashes as we trotted past. I couldn’t help hoping that they might regard me with envy, the mare of a handsome cavalry officer. Could they see, I wondered, the marks on my shoulders and breasts where his teeth had raked my helpless body, biting my flesh with need? Bristols had clearly seen them among the bruises and welts from my punishment. The look she had given me told me she knew what I had been about in the night though she could, of course, not know where it had happened.
The memory of how he had used me was still fresh, maintained by the pulse of the plug inside me that reminded me of his hard cock ramming into me repeatedly as he had taken his pleasure with me four times. It was as if I could still feel his hands on my body and my nipples ached from the clamps he had left on them for the whole night.
As well as Corporal Troy, we had with us two troopers, both I thought, new recruits their mares presumably ponies I had been in basic training alongside; a blonde and a redhead like me.
The Prussian escort met us in some woodland, a lieutenant and two troopers, Hussars but all women as is not uncommon in the Prussian cavalry. At least women in the hussars can’t grow those ridiculous moustaches. Facial hair aside, they were typical for what I’ve heard, and not unlike our own; the officer class, upright and imperial the troopers leaner and more feral; their chariots were decorated with the two-headed eagle, the officer's in gold outline, the trooper’s less ornate. All their mounts were typical Saxon mares, blondes with blue eyes, broad shoulders and large heavy breasts, none of them hooded.
The officer spoke limited English but enough to convey us to a small stone cottage outside which was tethered what was clearly a more senior officer’s mare, taller and with an aristocratic demeanour, her mane smooth and well groomed, her skin oiled; her harness and bridle ornate. Beside her sat a highly polished chariot. She did not even turn to look at me as my master drew us up and tethered me beside her.
‘Play nice.’ He said, patting my rump and freeing me from the chariot.
I looked at him and then faced front again and then he was gone.
I heard the sound of hoof beats as the two escorts withdrew to a safe distance.
Through the window of the cottage, I saw that the Prussian colonel was also a woman; a very comely one too; blonde and blue eyed, not unlike her mount except that she wore her hair in a long thick plait. She’d have made a fine sailor judging by the tightness of her breeches as she rose from the armchair in which we sat. She was as well endowed as her mount too and I couldn’t help wondering what accident of birth might have separated these two statuesque beauties, one to be a high ranking officer in the Prussian cavalry and the other her mount tethered and harnessed and standing beside me watching, as I was, her mistress through the slightly grubby window of the cottage.
As my master entered, the colonel clicked her heels and gave a curt bow. My master responded with a formal bow, shako beneath his arm, and she gestured for him to take up a seat on the other side of the hearth, sitting down herself and crossing her thighs in what I can only describe as a very salacious way. I could see the gesture was not lost on my master who leaned forwards, his eyes sliding down her body no doubt taking in her large heavy breasts tightly restrained in her tunic, her slim waist and those thighs that could so easily have been those of her mount. I fancied he might enjoy her boots too; I know men like to see leather boots on a woman and these were shiny and to the thigh; unusually they had a heel that owed more to fashion than fighting. I judged they would make her taller than my master when she stood. I noticed too that she carried a short punishment whip tucked into the top of her boot.
It was at that moment that the slave appeared. The first I had truly seen, close up at least. She was clearly of Ottoman origin or perhaps from the levant, traded or raided no doubt depending on the year she had been enslaved and her birth. She was quite a beauty too all lustrous dark ringlets and big eyes, her skin a soft brown. She had gentle curves and full breasts and a rounded bottom and I wondered if she might be one of the dancing women I had heard of that shake their bellies for coin and to please their men. She was naked save her chains which linked the cuffs that were no doubt welded around her wrists and ankles; her steps shortened by a chain of no more than three links, her arms behind her, locked by a single link. Most slaves are, I think kept like this; although the chains can be removed and changed to suit a master’s or mistress’ needs the cuffs remain fixed. She was collared too, a similar band of steel fastened immovably around her neck marking her as property. She had been fitted with a serving tray, strapped to her chest beneath her breasts and placed to support and display them as well as to carry food and drink. In her case she had a bottle of brandy nestled between her breasts and two glasses. On the side of the tray stood two candles. These are, of course, designed to keep the glasses warm and by their position to drip wax onto the slave’s breasts; something that they say the Prussians find most erotic. She moved with an accomplished grace despite her restrictive bonds and dropped to her knees beside her mistress.
The colonel paused in her conversation and taking up a tinder, lit the candles, to warm the brandy. The girl moved her head only slightly, settling herself back, resigned no doubt to the expected drip of hot wax onto her exposed breasts. In the flickering flames, I could see her nipples huge and pouting; the application of hot wax to a slave girl’s nipples is said to make them very responsive.
I watched as my master and the Prussian colonel talked and the wax dripped onto the slave girl’s breasts, glancing occasionally at my companion but she did not turn to look at me. Eventually, with the hot wax liberally coating the slave’s nipples the colonel reached over and retrieved the brandy bottle from between the brunette’s breasts, pouring a generous measure into each of the glasses. I thought, though I could not be sure that, in pouring the liquor she deliberately disturbed the tray ensuring that wax sprayed across the kneeling girls’ breasts.
Then, she offered one glass to my master before raising hers in a surprisingly submissive gesture.
Politics was clearly under discussion as were, no doubt, tactics; an alliance of sorts was being forged; the fate of Europe potentially being thrashed out before me. If not on a grand scale of countries at least there was some discussion between officers of armies who’s mutual support would save or condemn Europe. We all knew that if Blucher did not bring his cavalry to bear Wellington was facing almost certain defeat. This was about how such support might come to pass.
I could hear none of this however, just watch as they spoke, as my master’s gaze ran over her body in the same way it had done with Lieutenant de Beurre and Captain Arlot and countless other women before I had been his. What I could discern was that she was regarding him in the same way. If this alliance was agreed, there was only one way it would be celebrated and that would not be by a handshake or toast.
I looked again at my fellow pony. I could see no reason why a similar dialogue could not occur between us even if we probably did not speak a word of each other’s language. I took a step closer to her and felt her sense it, moving slightly but still not responding to me.
‘My name ish Bryony.’ I said around my bit.
Her head moved slightly, the chains from her bridle to her nipples were very short and I saw them move but still she did not look at me.
‘Comment t’appelles tu?’ I tried.
She turned then, fixing her blue eyes on me.
‘Shpreak Deutsch?’ she asked, her nipples moving almost as much of her lips.
‘No,’ I said, though a conversation was not what I had in mind. I leaned towards her nuzzling my cheek against her breasts.
‘Ah, schpeelen,’ she said, moving her chest and rubbing it against my cheek.
‘Yesh.’ I pressed my lips against her right nipple, tasting the oil that coated her skin.
Now she turned to face me. Face on she was quite a piece and quite intimidating, at least a foot taller than me, her breasts level with my face. Despite all her finery, she had clearly seen action, there was a scar on her right breast and another on her right flank that I hadn’t seen before. I gathered that meant her mistress had seen action too.
She muttered something I didn’t catch and pushed herself against me. We were both harnessed and I was plugged but I noticed that the crotch strap of her harness hung open and, interestingly, a patch of blonde hair sat above her sex. I smiled, squatting in my boots and nuzzled it.
My liaison with the Prussian mare was brief and probably a lot more fun for her than it was for me but I felt I’d done my bit for the coalition and besides, it’s what we ponies do. A girl can’t know when her fellow pony last had the pleasure of a good tonguing and, if it’s more than a day the poor thing is probably desperate.
By the time I surfaced, the negotiations inside had moved to a new level. My master and the colonel were on their second or quite possibly third brandies and talking animatedly, their cheeks flushed and the blonde colonel was doing that thing women do with their feet where they point the toe of their boot at the man’s crotch; the hussy was leaning forwards too.
At least the one was more his own age!
The slave still knelt beside her mistress; one of the candles now burnt out and the other down to a stub; I saw that most of the candle-wax was liberally spread across her ample breasts.
It was at that moment I saw the colonel stand, a little unsteadily I thought, but I knew she couldn't have drunk that much in the time I’d been servicing her mount. My master rose too like the gentleman he is or rather the gentleman he wants everyone to believe he is. I knew his measure now. It was obvious how this scene was to play out and when the Prussian colonel of cavalry began to draw the whip from her boot and tapped it suggestively against one of her beautifully toned thighs, I wasn’t the least bit surprised.
It was two hours later when the Prussian colonel reappeared leading the slave by a light chain to her collar. The brunette was no longer encumbered by her tray; her wrists were still linked closely behind her back though her ankle chain had been removed. There was still wax spattered across her breasts which were also decorated with a series of whip marks; her ample buttocks had clearly suffered similar abuse; a series of lines punctuated by dots from the knots in the whip’s blades. The colonel was once again in full possession of her faculties, striding forcefully on those spiked heels, her uniform as perfect as before, her breeches as smooth as if newly pressed and her boots glistening in a way that suggested the slave may have been commanded to apply her tongue diligently to them. She now wore a pelisse over her shoulder. Her whip, however, was nowhere in sight and her long blonde hair was not as neatly plaited as it had been before. I watched her as she emerged from the hut and reattached her chariot to her blonde mare’s harness then clipped her slave’s chain leash to the back. Then she fitted her mare’s plug and refastened her crotch strap before untethering her, the smile on her lips showing she was clearly aware that we had not been idle. Then she set the chariot’s driving whip to the blonde’s haunches and she trotted off with the slave jogging behind.
My master emerged a few minutes later still buttoning his tunic. He was carrying the colonel’s whip.
‘I take it she’s gone, Red.’ he said gesturing with the whip.
I made a show of looking around. ‘I believe sho, Shir,’ I said finally.
‘Hmm.’ He stuffed the whip into his own boot and finished buttoning his tunic.
‘May I enquire if your intercourshe wash shatisfactory, Shir.’ I said as I waited for him to finish dressing.
'I’m not sure I like your tone, Red.’
‘I was merely ashking, Shir, if you managed to pump the colonel for any usheful information. Given the situation, I feld I should take an inderesht.’
‘Are you asking to be put on a charge, Red?’ He pulled the whip from his boot.
‘No, Shir. Though you will need to wride my real name on the charge sheet, Shir. It’sh Bryony incashe you’d forgodden.’
‘I’m not likely to forget. You remind me often enough.'
‘Indeed Shir. I’m jusht concerned thad, in his diligent work conducting affairs for king and country, my mashter may have forgotten…or simply be too exhausted.’
He brought the whip down on my breasts. I deserved it, obviously.
‘There’ll be more of that when we get back to quarters.’
‘I certainly hope sho, Shir.’ My breasts were smarting and I desperately wanted him to strike me again.
‘And you, Red,’ he said it deliberately now, ‘did you get anything from the Saxon mare? Other than a good tongue lashing, obviously.’
'Not even thad, Sir. And before you ashk, she shpoke only German.
10) Lady Richmond’s Ball (Brussels, 15th June 1815)
It was two nights after the meeting with the Prussian colonel. My master had been engaged in meetings with Lord Uxbridge and I had spent most of the intervening time tethered outside the hotel Wellington’s commander of cavalry was using as a base. When I had not been there, my master had used me for errands around the city. Napoleon was coming, of this there was no doubt.
The Prussians were coming too.
The main question on everyone’s lips was the order in which they would arrive and where we would all meet.
Faced with such a situation what else would the British aristocracy do other than hold a ball.
It was thus, groomed and with my mane plaited and my harness polished I trotted through the park once more along the track now lined with flaming torches towards the marquee that Lady Richmond had had erected, stopping to mark time like the good little pony I was while I waited for the great and the good to cross before me or some pert young thing flaunting her nubile body and her rouged nipples in a butterfly dress to regain her composure when the act of tottering on the tips of her toes in her fashionable shoes had threatened to pitch her into the nearest shrubbery.
It was a night when all the girls had eyes only for those in military uniform and my dashing master drew appreciative glances as we reached the marquee to the sound of a string quartet playing Vivaldi. I knew at that point I was to lose him, that as a pony, I would be tethered to one side, able if I was lucky to watch the action even if I could not take part in it. If I was really lucky, I might even attract the attention of a pretty young stable girl or a neighbouring pony to help me pass the time. I would, I resolved, not be jealous of seeing my master dance with one of the innumerable young ladies who would no doubt wave their dance cards in his direction and push out their freshly rouged nipples as they vied for his attention. And, if he brought one of them back to his lodgings, I would hardly be in a position to object.
It was then that I saw her.
The older woman from the opera, dressed again more like a girl of twenty than the woman of forty at least as she clearly was. I saw her more closely this time, coming towards me or, at least, towards my master; the aging harpy who thought she was good enough for my major. The sight of her vexed me considerably and, in an attempt to distract him from her I tossed my mane and pranced. This, however, earned me nothing more than a few stinging slaps of the whip across my hind quaters and, much to my chagrin, I felt the ancient harpy grab my reins to still me.
The audacity!
‘I don’t know what’s got into you lately, Red.’ My master stood beside me, reaching to take the reins from this other woman’s hand. ‘Please excuse her. Madam,’ he said bowing graciously, ‘you know what these redheaded mares can be like.’
I managed to stop myself bringing my steel shod boot down on his foot even as I blushed furiously. It was at this moment that the woman, still holding my reins pulled my face round to study me. I tried to resist but when someone pulls on a girl’s reins, particularly when they are connected to her nipples in the continental style, there is little she can do to resist. I settled for glaring at her.
She was handsome. That I could not deny. Strong features, full lips and dark eyes, not unlike the Prussian officer’s slave; there was definitely something of the Ottoman about her. However, the signs of her age showed through and, I noticed, she’s done little to cover them; no powder on her face to mask the lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes though she did wear lipstick and there was coal-black on her lashes. She had applied a little powder to her décolletage but this didn’t cover the lines or, indeed, the scars where she had clearly been whipped many times. There were other marks on her skin too as if she had been scalded on one or more occasions, drops of water perhaps splashed across her breasts perhaps by accident or as punishment.
I recalled the Prussian colonel’s slave girl.
‘She is a fine creature.’ She spoke with an odd accent that I could not place. ‘Spirited too. I see why you chose her.’
‘She has her moments,’ my master conceded. ‘Though she can be exceedingly wilful.’
The harpy relinquished her grip on my reins and my master passed them to a waiting groom who led me to the tether line a little way off. My last view of the wretched woman as she took my master’s arm was to see a flash of thigh with a brand on it confirming that the slut was indeed a freed slave.
I followed the groom miserably, she didn’t even had a pert bottom to distract me, and stood gloomily where she left me watching events unfold in the marquee including the progress of my master and his ‘companion’ as they each took a glass of punch and made of tour of the ‘room’, nodding their hellos to acquaintances. I thought that some of the ladies recoiled a little from my master’s companion and was glad of it; their partners on the other hand, particularly the older officers, seemed just as enamoured with her as my master and I wondered if this woman was in fact some eastern sorceress who had the power to bewitch men.
Eventually, I grew frustrated and began to look around me for some distraction, a pretty mare or stable girl perhaps. I’d just settled on a pert young thing with a nice trim figure when I glanced back down towards the marquee only to see my master coming up the slope towards me with that woman still clinging to his arm like briar to a girl's mane.
‘I’m offering you a chance to redeem yourself, Red,’ he said, taking my rein and leading her behind me.
I felt him climb into the chariot.
No!
Not him. A girl knows her master’s step. I could tell it was the harpy. I could also tell she entered it with confidence, placing her foot at the balance point.
I expected him to take my reins but he did not, a sharp pull made me turn just as sharply to the left and I pranced indignantly. The whip struck my bottom firmly and precisely.
‘Take good care of her,’ I heard my master say.
I wasn’t about to but then I realised he wasn’t talking to me.
The lash stung my buttock again and I leapt to the trot obediently before I could even think to disobey, another lash took me to the canter and another to the gallop in less than a dozen paces. Had I been thinking rationally, I might have tempered my responses but the strokes of the whip came precisely and insistently, the tug to the reins well practiced and sure so, like a foolish farm nag, I obeyed without question turning adroitly like the well trained mare I am in response to a tug on the rein as a startled groom leapt out of my path.
We were still by the tethering line, not the place a pony will usually be set to the gallop and I tried to slow but she was somehow fully in control checking me as I tossed my head and guiding me with merciless use of the whip and the rein. I might have wanted to buck and prance like a maid new to harness but she was having none of it. I wondered, as I strained to obey her, my highly trained body following her commands as she guided me this way and that, if somehow she knew my hatred of her, knew it and was extracting her revenge, showing me her power over me. Whatever her motives, there was no doubt she was indeed a sorceress or a skilled horsewoman. The whip fell again and again, driving me onwards; she was not just testing speed but my agility too; with the expertise of an accomplished driver, she guided me with a precision that even my master would have been hard pressed to achieve, running me at full gallop between gateways and turning me tightly around trees, slowing me briefly and then forcing an acceleration that left my thighs and calves burning.
When she drew me to a halt I was panting, my lungs on fire, my buttocks a tapestry of stinging welts and I stood trying to maintain my posture without showing my exhaustion. Then, I felt her dismount.
‘I really can understand what he sees in you.’ She patted my stinging bottom. ’You are a fine slave.’
Her accent certainly sounded Prussian but not quite. I thought she had said something else then I realised she had used the term ‘slave’.
‘My name ish Bryony,’ I told her fiercely, spitting the words past my bit.
Her whip struck me across the breasts.
‘You are feisty.’ Her tone was oddly approving.
I glared at her. She really was a handsome woman and, in her youth, must have been a true beauty.
‘I am not a shlave,’ I told her, ‘I’m a pony.’
Very handsome.
‘Oh, I beg to differ.’ She stood facing me, her hands on her hips. ‘You might have been born a pony but you are as much in thrall to my son as I was to his father.
My astonishment must have shown. Even had I not been naked and bridled and bound before her I could not have hidden my shock. I could only stand and blush crimson from my boots to the tips of my mane as those full lips curled into a smile of realisation.
‘What then? Did you think me his mistress, or his whore?’ She chided.
I couldn’t answer. I just stood glowing with an embarrassment so profound I wanted the earth to open beneath my feet or, at the very least, the entire French cavalry to crest the rise behind her so I could throw myself on a passing sabre and not have to face her or my master when he discovered my thoughts.
But I was bridled and she held my reins, I could not even turn away.
‘You did.’ She stepped closer holding my reins, making me look at her. ‘And you harboured jealousy!’ She threw back her head and laughed at my misfortune…my misery. ‘What a prideful little prancer you are.’
I stared ahead, unable to meet her gaze and trying not to cry.
‘Perhaps I will tell him to sell you.’ Her voice had a harsh edge as well it might.
‘No!’ I said it out loud so suddenly it shocked me as much as her. ‘Pleashe, no Mishdrsh. Pleashe…,’ I begged as tears spilled over. ‘Pleashe…’
‘You love him!’
‘Yesh, Mishdrsh.’ I fought not to sob. ‘Pleashe don’d tell him to shell me.’ I wished I wasn’t bridled that I could plead with less hindrance.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are quite capable but I dealt with at least a hundred as good as you in the sultan’s stable and they all thought they were better than me because I was a slave. He can always buy another.’
‘Yesh, Mishdrsh. I’m shorry, Mishdrsh.’ There was nothing else I could say.
‘We had better return,’ she said seriously, ‘my son is waiting.’
She drove me back with as much force and skill as when she had driven me out, whipping me and running me hard, forcing tight turns and not letting me put a step out of place then pulled me up short so that I pranced beside him, my head drawn back as I fought for breath, my nipple bells jingling. It was not something becoming of a military pony.
After she dismounted the chariot she slapped me hard on the hindquarters and tossed my reins to a groom who drew me away but not after I had turned my head to see my master hold out his arm and his mother take it without a backward glance.
And so, for the rest of the evening I stood in my place on the tethering line watching the evening unfold with a dread clasping at my heart that I had never before known; waiting for that moment when that woman who held my fate in her hands would draw my beloved master to her and turn briefly in my direction; I knew I would only be able to watch as she would make a dismissive or angry gesture and he would look in my direction and nod gravely and tomorrow I would be sold.
Through a mist of tears on that beautiful summer evening in mid-June in a park in Brussels, I followed their dance, not jealous now but in a state of mind that was far worse, watching every nuance as he guided her around the floor. A pony knows little of the subtleties of these things but I could tell my master was at least a capable dancer; his mother, however, moved with an elegance that transcended any discipline; were she a pony, I thought, she might well outshine me for grace and poise. I had been right, she was a sorceress because when she danced all eyes lit upon her and it was as if a glamour fell over the room.
It was late when the major returned to me. Towards the end of the evening, I’d glimpsed him dancing with a variety of young ladies, all, I assumed, beautiful; all elegantly dressed in their split front gowns, bowing and curtseying in front of him, flashing their pert breasts and virgin pink nipples for his delectation; all hoping no doubt that he might ask their fathers for their hand and the key to their chastity belts. I saw him take their hands where he could and lift them to his lips at the end of the dance; those at least that were not restrained. At the side of the dance floor, his mother stood alone although, occasionally, someone, usually a senior officer would approach and engage her in what I guessed was polite conversation or perhaps fetch her a glass of wine or an ice. She smiled indulgently at them and curtseyed politely when necessary. On one or two occasions she seemed to glance my way and I lowered my head, turning to look away quickly hoping the gathering darkness would cover my blushes and my despair.
He drove me into the stable, unhitched me and removed my harness and boots in silence. I thought he would leave me there but, after hanging my tack and boots, he led me inside again. It was late and the house dark, the servants all presumably having retired for the night.
‘There.’ He gestured to a spot at the foot of the bed and I knew he wanted me to kneel.
Before this evening I might have said something to provoke him, reminded him that this was not not a typical command for a pony, that we are customarily tethered and hobbled in our stalls not brought to our master’s chamber in nothing but their arm sheath. We certainly baulk at being made to kneel like a slave or a pet.
I did not say any of this.
I dropped to my knees, spreading them in a way that I knew showed off my body, displaying my sex to him; thrusting out my breasts. I wanted to lift my head, to stare at him, to watch him, enjoy the sight of his body as he undressed but I felt wretched for the judgment I had made regarding his devotion to this older woman when he was simply honouring his mother. I thought too that her background must have cast a stigma upon him even though his father had been a decorated cavalry officer. I was aware of him unbuttoning his tunic and shrugging it off then sitting on the bed and removing his boots. Not for the first time, I wished I could do that for him.
He stood and I cautiously raised my head. He was unbuttoning his shirt and I had a moment to see the expression on his face; it’s grimness all but driving a dagger into my heart. I wanted to speak but did not know how to begin.
I am a pony, a creature of actions, not words.
The whip that the Prussian officer had left behind lay on the floor beside my master’s bed and, though not given permission to move, I bent forward and picked it up in my teeth, turning to him and dropping it at his feet.
He still said nothing and he did not retrieve the whip.
‘I’ve wronged you, Sir,’ I blurted.
‘Yes,’ His anger was controlled. I wished he would just berate me or thrash me but he did not. ‘I knew what you were thinking.’
I blushed as furiously as I had when I had learned the truth.
‘What?’ he asked. I continued to kneel with my head down, ‘no riposte?’
I lifted my head and looked up at him, my cheeks crimson and my vision blurred with tears. ‘I love you, Sir.’
He looked a little startled, turned away. I heard him take a deep breath. My heart constricted.
‘If you’re asking to be punished then we’d better get down to it,’ he said, turning back towards me but not looking at my face as he stepped behind me.
I knelt with my head down and my heart aching as he freed my arms and lashed a leather harness strap around my wrists binding them together in front of me. Then he threw the leather cord over one of the beams above and pulled me up until I was on my tiptoes.
Then he bent and picked up the whip.
‘My Prussian contact tells me that a new slave is made to kiss her master’s whip and then, each time she is punished, she is commanded to do so again before it is used on her and after she has suffered.’ He held the whip in front of my face. ‘It is called the ‘kiss of submission’ and binds the slave to her master.’
The day before I would have reminded him that I was his pony, not his slave but not tonight and, in truth, there is little difference; we are both subject to discipline and the whip, both no more than chattel.
Besides, if he wanted me to be a slave, I would. I would do anything now to please this man.
I bent my head forward and kissed the whip and I thought I saw a slight softening of his expression.
‘Did your Prussian contact provide any practical demonstration?’ I thought of the slave on her knees with the brandy goblets nestled between her lush breasts and the candle-wax dripping on to her pale skin.
As I say, I should be kept constantly bridled.
‘Jealousy does not suit you, Bryony,’ he said with no hint of humour in his voice.
I looked at him sharply. ‘Jealousy, Sir?’ I’d said it before I could stop myself; a mix of fear and of anger directed at myself.
I longed for my bridle.
‘Don’t play the innocent with me,’ he said, ‘and in answer to your question, yes, Tabata and I did engage in some games that involved an exchange of power. Such games are common in her country.’
Tabata! He was on first name terms with the blonde Prussian slut!
‘She did seem your type, Sir.’ Again, my lack of bridle and my hot temper made me say it.
‘You presume to know my tastes?’
‘A girl knows these things, Sir.’ I stared ahead, hoping he would start to whip me.
‘Does she now?’
As I have said, I have been whipped many times before. It is something we ponies become used to. We labour under the whip every day and to suffer more in admonition is part of our lot. We do not enjoy it but, unless we have a very cruel master, we bear the suffering with reasonable ease and there is a saying amongst us that the sooner a whipping begins the sooner it ends. I might add that a pony who has been whipped is always the focus of her stablemates’ comforts and I have known more than a few girls who deliberately misbehave to obtain punishment; the trick is to ensure it is not too severe to bear but enough to engender the sympathy of one’s stablemates.
There are some, of course, who do seem to enjoy the whip. This is perhaps not too surprising, ponies have been whipped for centuries and we have been bred to serve; why then would we not to some degree accept all the aspects of our lot; we accept to be bound, to be harnessed and bridled, to toil for others and to accept their abuses. Added to this, there is, of course, the intimacy of a whipping when administered by another. This may sound strange but, in most cases, a pony will have an intimate relationship with the one wielding the whip be it a stablehand or a carriage mistress or even one’s owner. Some philosophers would even go so far as to suggest that the person administering the punishment does so as a service to the pony in contrast to the usual state of affairs. There is also little doubt that delivering a whipping gives satisfaction to a master or mistress who will almost always enjoy a sexual relationship with their pony.
It is usual, therefore, that after whipping, a pony is usually taken roughly by a master or made to service a mistress and the whipping is thus a foretaste of things to come, a game that is played between two who, while they may not be construed as lovers, will seek their satisfaction from each other’s bodies.
You may judge me but I never wanted the lash on my skin more than at that moment.
And, at this moment, I hoped that in whipping me he might vent his anger and perhaps, just perhaps, begin to forgive me.
I looked at him.
‘Hurt me, Sir.’
The first blow brought me an ecstasy of pain, the knotted leather thongs of the whip splaying across my back making my skin burn. It was as if the pain was a substitute for the love I had thought he bore me and I wanted as much as I could like a child who is naughty to draw the attention of his distant parents. The whip fell again, the pain more intense. On the third stroke I gasped, closing my eyes, willing myself to bear more.
Then, suddenly, I felt his hand on my jaw, lifting my head. His lips touched mine and I opened my eyes to see his face too shocked to return his kiss.
‘A moment ago you said you loved me,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘and now you reject my advances.’
‘No, Sir.’ I almost screamed in desperation. ‘Please Sir.’
‘Please whip you or please kiss you. I really don’t know with you sometimes, Bryony.’
‘Both, Sir.’
‘You really are a very demanding pony.’
‘I thought I was your slave, Sir.’
‘Arrogant too.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘If we’re going to do this properly…’ he said, pulling another leather cord from his tack bag. ‘Then we’d better make sure you are properly positioned.’ He squatted down and tied a loop around my right ankle then pulled on it, securing the other end to the dressing table. He did the same with my left ankle, securing it to the bed so my legs were spread and pulled back making me hang almost completely by my wrists, the tips of my toes barely touching the floor.
‘Is this what you did with the Prussian?’ I just couldn’t stop myself. I spend most of my life bridled, it is just as well.
‘I can see I’m going to have to gag you too.’ He didn’t. He simply stepped back and whipped me across the buttocks.
I didn’t care what he did to me, I just wanted anything that would make him look at me, touch me, use me. There was no doubt that doing this to me excited him and, if it pleased him, it gave me pleasure too. Swinging in my bonds I pushed my bottom out inviting him to whip it again which he did, the leather kissing my flesh again and again until I was panting with need.
‘Had enough?’ He teased as he paused.
‘Never.’
He stepped in front of me and brought the whip down on my breasts, the leather catching my nipples. It was deliciously painful.
‘Fuck me, Master.’ I begged.
He whipped me again on the breasts and I saw lines of red peppered with bruises from the knots appear on them, felt my aching nipples swell.
‘You continue to think you’re in charge.’ He was panting as he stepped to my other side and brought the whip down on my thigh.
‘No, Sir.’ I turned my head to look at him. My breath as ragged as his, my body aching with the exertion of the binding, the pain; burning with need. ‘You are my master. I have kissed your whip. I am your slave.’
‘So you have,’ he said somewhat reflectively, lifting the whip as if to examine it. Then he slid his fingers into my hair and, jerking my head back kissed me fiercely on the lips. This time I did not hesitate, I thrust myself forward pushing my mouth hard against his, trying to press my breasts against his chest as if I needed to satisfy the ache in my nipples.