Prologue
The rain
cascaded down, pouring from a leaden English sky to puddle in between the
cobblestones of the stableyard of The Lodge - England's most discreet, expensive
and exclusive SM club. It plastered the ponygirl's hair to her head and made
her skin shine in the weak light. Carlo Suarez swung the driving whip across
her back one last time, sending a fine spray arcing out from the lash and
raising another as it impacted on the wet flesh. Her steel shod sandals
clattered and splashed and she slipped a little on the wet stone as she trotted
into the yard. Carlo hauled back gently on the reins and brought her to a stop
outside one of the stable doors. He climbed down and flicked her across her
buttocks with the reins for shaking her head to clear her eyes of rain-soaked
hair. Her only duty was to stand motionless as her driver alighted. One of the
grooms came running out of the tack room and hurriedly began unhitching the
pony. She squealed as he slid his cold, wet hand up the back of her short skirt
and helped himself to a handful of warm, soft buttock. But she didn't stop her
work and was able to lead the pony into the comparative warmth of a stall and
tether her, clipping her wrists together tidily behind her back, before rushing
back out and dragging the trap over to a shelter. Then she scuttled back to the
stall where Carlo was busily drying his hair while the pony dripped rain into
the growing pool around her feet.
The only good
thing you could say about the English climate was that it was nice to get out
of it, he thought sourly. A pleasant training run with a new girl in The
Lodge's magnificent parklands had turned into a wet dash for home with no
warning at all.
The groom
began to towel the pony briskly, making her delightful breasts jiggle as they
were dried.
"Make sure you
put a blanket on her before you put her away," he told the groom.
"Of course,
Sir. How did she run?"
Carlo realised
that the pony's weren't the only breasts that the activity was showing off to
good effect. The grooms at The Lodge all wore thin blouses knotted below the
breasts and very short skirts. It was a uniform designed by the head groom
herself to give maximum freedom of movement for the girl in order for her to
perform her duties, coupled with maximum availability, should any of the guests
or male staff require it.
"Not bad for a
new girl. She needs more wind though, had to use a lot of whip coming back up
from the lake." The groom was drying the striped buttocks as he talked.
Suddenly he felt he needed warming up too.
"Bend her
forwards," he ordered. The groom smiled at him, unhitched the reins and pulled
them down, forcing the bridled pony to bend forwards. Her shoes clattered again
as she spread her legs. Carlo glanced down at the soft purse of the revealed
sex which promised much needed relief and warmth. New girl she might be, but it
wasn't rain causing the dampness there. He unzipped his trousers, freed his
erect cock and positioned himself before sinking smoothly into the pony's hot
and viscid depths, her vaginal walls stroking him softly along his full length.
The groom went back to drying her, kneeling down to rub at the legs and thighs,
she glanced up at Carlo and he nodded. She reached between the pony's legs,
delved into Carlo's trousers and began to cup and fondle his scrotum. The pony
began to swing and swivel her hips and Carlo sighed in pleasure as he made no
attempt to fight the pressure which built at the base of his cock. He pumped
hard while the groom milked him skilfully. The pony gave a soft whimper of
disappointment as she felt him spend long before her own pleasure had built.
Carlo frowned as he pulled out of her and tucked himself away.
"Put her down
for a beating tomorrow morning," he told the groom, jerking his head at the
blackboard mounted on the end wall, it was a grid with the names of the ponies currently
stabled down one side and, running across the board notes on diet, exercise and
punishment. The girl might be newly purchased but she had to learn that any
pleasure she might take from the use made of her was entirely beside the point.
The pleasure of the Master was paramount.
Hurried
footsteps sounded outside in the yard and another groom appeared, Carlo noticed
the rain had slackened off to a half-hearted drizzle as he approached the door.
"There's
someone at the gatehouse for you, Sir," the girl told him.
He glanced at
his watch; ten a.m. right on the nose. Good, the lad was punctual.
He shrugged
off his shirt as he headed for his office and a change of clothes. "Get Jet
harnessed up for me," he called back.
Chapter 1
Brian Holden
waited nervously, pacing from one side of the drive to the other. He was aware
of the gatekeeper giving him amused glances from the living room of the small
gatehouse but he couldn't have cared less. Today was probably the most
important day of his life. In the year since he had discovered the delights of
SM it had come to dominate his every moment and the culmination had come when
he had resigned from his job, spent nearly his last penny on a trip to the tiny
principality of Bakhtar to witness a show at the arena there and try to meet
the legendary trainer Carlo Suarez to ask for a post as his apprentice. Today
was his chance to secure the position.
He had been
told to wait a little way up the drive after his cab had dropped him outside
the imposing gates, just where it took a sharp left hand bend and became hidden
from the road. Tall lime trees, dripping from the recent downpour, marched
along on either side of the tarmac which took a sharp right hand bend about a
hundred yards further on. Beyond, on one side were open fields, on the other a
golf course. He wheeled around from his contemplation of the view when he heard
a soft 'clip clop' noise and a gentle rumbling coming from somewhere along the
drive. He smiled in delight as he saw, rounding the next bend a ponygirl
pulling a trap and heading towards him. Carlo Suarez himself was at the reins.
The pony was a tall and athletic looking black girl, running with an easy trot,
her legs lifting gracefully, her full breasts trembling and swaying.
Brian picked
up his overnight bag as the rig approached, watching as occasionally the cord
of the driving whip almost lazily curved in the air over her back and hissed
across her. Nothing more than a gentle reminder. Carlo hauled back on the reins
and the girl clattered to a halt beside him. Her driver climbed down and Brian
got a chance to examine the ponyslave at really close quarters.
She was a tall
girl, about five foot eight or nine, he guessed, although her sandals did have
heels a little higher than kitten ones. She was naked apart from those and her
bridle, collar and restraints at ankle and wrist; these last being clipped to
the shafts of the trap. The flesh and blood reality of the harnessed femininity
hit Brian like a sledgehammer. Her bridle was fascinating, a complex web of
buckles and straps encircling her head and supporting the bit which ran through
her heavy tongue ring and provided the mountings for the reins. At the arena he
had seen the legendary Blondie, amongst other slaves, run in full dressage
harness but there was something about the workaday harness rather than the
decorative dressage outfit and the sheer casual 'everydayness' of standing in
the English countryside at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning, fondling an
exquisitely naked and harnessed girl which he found profoundly erotic. He
reached out and cupped a breast, the day was by no means warm and whether for
that reason or for others, the nipple was rubbery and firm under his fingers.
Between her blinkers he could see the girl's eyes remained fixed on the tarmac.
He ran his hand down across the stomach towards the shaved crotch where the top
of her slit crested the prominent pubic mound at the junction of the long,
shapely thighs. The girl could quite easily have been a model in some previous
life, her eyes were wide-set, large and a rich chestnut colour; her mouth,
slightly open around her bit and tongue ring was also wide and the lips were
invitingly soft and pronounced. Brian's hand rested for a moment at the gateway
to her sex and with a soft scraping noise she shuffled her feet a few inches
apart to allow him access.
Carlo made a
sudden noise of disgust and flicked the pony hard across her buttocks twice
using the length of rein he had in his hand. She hurriedly drew her feet
together again and there was a rattle as she champed on her bit and swallowed,
making the ring click against her teeth.
"It's because
I've been away," Carlo explained. "She's horny. She knows a pony doesn't move
unless her driver tells her. I'll see to her later on." He reached out and
patted her flank affectionately. "She's not normally badly behaved. Her name's
Jet by the way."
"Hi there,
Jet," Brian said softly, dropping unconsciously into the soft tones one might
use with a horse where the tone is more important than any particular words. He
ran his hand back up the satin-smooth, chocolate flesh of the stomach and then
he too patted the flank.
The two men
shook hands, Brian stowed his bag on the footboard and they climbed in. At once
Brian could see the pony's shoulders work as the trap shifted under their
combined weight but once they were settled, she quickly adjusted to the slight
extra downward pressure on the shafts.
"You drive,
might as well get started," Carlo said and handed him the reins before passing
across the whip. Brian took a second to study it, a long whippy shaft topped by
a foot long, stiff length of whipcord, tasselled at its end.
"Hold back on
the reins hard, so she knows not to move," Carlo said. Brian did so and saw
Jet's head come up. "Now, give her a few strokes, just so you get the feel of
it."
Keeping a firm
hold on the reins, Brian lifted them a little and flicked the whip across the
firm and prominent buttocks. The whip hissed softly as he swung it back and
forth, the cord hardly seemed to make contact but the pony lifted each leg in
turn and stamped.
"That's about
the right strength to get from 'walk' to 'trot'. Give her two more a bit
harder."
Brian did as
he was told, this time the buttocks rippled and a strained gasp escaped from
behind the bit.
"There's a
slight rise on the way back to the house and you'll need to whip her up it. Now
tap her between the shoulder blades and keep the right rein tight."
Jet
immediately leaned into her work and turned the trap to face back up the drive.
She literally had to lean and it took a couple of firm flicks from Brian once
she was pulling in a straight line to have her moving the rig smoothly forwards
at a walk, although it still wagged from side to side slightly as she strained
with one leg then the other. At a nod from Carlo, Brian worked the whip
backwards and forwards across the delectable buttocks in a rapid tattoo of six
lashes. It had the desired effect. Tossing her head and grunting with effort,
Jet began to pump her legs and lift her knees into a trot. The motion of the
trap smoothed out and settled into a comfortable, leather-creaking,
harness-jangling progress beneath the damp trees, the pony's shod feet clopping
rhythmically.
"Bring her
more onto the left, Brian. There's cars come down here too," Carlo told him. He
steered her over as they approached the bend he had first seen them come round
and sure enough a BMW four by four was cruising slowly towards them as they
swung round. The driver waved in salute and Brian returned the gesture before
he realised that it was a chat show host whose programme he had watched on TV
only the previous evening.
Carlo laughed
at his surprise. "Get used to it. There's more millionaires and celebrities at
The Lodge than fleas on a dog... Steer Brian!"
His attention
distracted, Brian had left the pony to her own devices. The drive made a gentle
right and then left swerve at this point and Jet, having received no signal
from the reins was keeping straight on and was about to trot onto the wet grass
pulling the trap after her.
Brian reacted
fast, he pulled hard on the right rein and Jet, grimacing and rearing as her
head was wrenched, just managed to spin the trap, her steel shod sandals
slipping and rasping on the tarmac, without the left wheel slipping off and
becoming bogged down on the wet grass. A couple of adjustments had them back on
the right line and a repeat of the back and forth sweeps with the whip had them
back up to a smooth trot before Brian relaxed again.
"Couldn't the
stupid bitch see where we were going?" he asked, his voice shrill with angry
embarrassment.
"Never forget
what I told you at the arena!" Carlo responded sharply. "With that little sub
you showed me back there, you have negotiated 'scenes', yes? She has a
safeword, no?" Brian nodded.
"These don't
have none of that! They depend on us for everything and they give us
everything. They even give up thinking! If you don't steer right or left; she
assumes you want her to go straight on. If there had been a tree or a thorn
bush there, she would have trotted straight into it because you wanted her to.
Maybe you wanted to have fun seeing how bad she got scratched. It's none of her
business what you do with her. She just has it done. That is a true slave. That
is our responsibility."
Carlo sat back
and Brian absorbed his words while he watched the pony's back flex and her
delightful buttocks wobble at each high-stepping stride. He tried to comprehend
someone so submissive that they would abandon themselves absolutely.
"I'm sorry,"
he said at last, shaking his head. "I've got a lot more to learn than I
thought."
The tanned,
burly little slave trainer gave him a brilliant smile. "Then you have already
learned a lot," he said.
The mood
lightened again as Jet settled back to a steady trot. The sun came out and
Brian, careful not to let his attention wander too far looked around at the
acres of parkland. Real horses grazed over on their right; on their left a
foursome teeing off on the golf course, waved. They seemed to be accompanied by
some females in oddly long dresses. But then Carlo was speaking again.
"For an arena
slave, her trainer and any other men put in authority over her are gods," he
said softly. "They see only what we want them to see. They feel only what we
allow them to feel. They touch, taste, hear... ...all what we want them to. Nothing
more. And you know what reward they want for giving us their bodies?"
Brian shook
his head.
"We don't
stop. All they want is that we will never stop controlling them."
Brian looked
at Carlo in surprise and then back at the straining pony. He might be in England
on a cold spring morning but he felt a long way from home. He sat up suddenly,
ahead of them the tarmac rose and at the top the avenue of trees came to an
end.
"Now you will
need to apply some whip," Carlo told him.
Brian was
amazed at how quickly the trap slowed down as the gradient kicked in. He
increased the force of his lashes and was rewarded by renewed effort from the
pony. He saw her fingers clench tighter round the shafts and the sinews at the
backs of her thighs stand out. He gave her some verbal encouragement and tried
snapping the whip round her hips, hoping the whipcord biting at her belly might
spur her on. She did indeed pick up speed and crested the hill sweating but
still keeping a respectable pace.
Carlo told him
to rein in once they were back on the level. Jet stood before them, her ribs
heaving under her gleaming skin, rivulets of sweat running down her back, her
breath clouding a little in the cool air.
"Well done,
Brian. That hill was your first test, if you had failed it, I would drive you
back to the gates now. But you didn't. I watched you lashing Jet up there and
okay, I know having a pretty girl in harness and a whip in your hand is about
as good as it gets, but you weren't being vicious. I could see you were trying
to work out how far there was to go, how hard you were lashing her, how much
she had left in reserve. That's why I picked Jet; so you couldn't judge by any
marks what you were doing to her. You just had to get a feel for whipping up a
ponyslave."
Carlo smiled
again and extended his hand. Brian shook it again, then joyfully flicked Jet
back to 'walk on' and the trap came out from under the trees, onto the main
frontage of The Lodge.