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“I love to ride, and even more so with a naked woman at my side. You’ll have your freedom on her, but you’ll pay a price for that.” I’m astounded and excited all at once, until he finishes his announcement. “You’ll be trained for a bridle and bit of your own.”
I shudder and my knees knock. I’ve heard of pony slaves, but never imagined myself trained as one.
My education comes quickly. As each day goes by, I serve more and more in the stables. At first, I’m naked as usual, wearing just my collar. I groom all of Lockhart’s horses including Willow. Until this change in my ritual, I was only vaguely aware that the stable even existed. It is, however, quite a modern one, heated, with both inside and outside paddocks. Great pastures and woods extend miles beyond, much of which is Lockhart’s own property.
Working in the stable, I’m expected to obey as diligently as I do in the house, and am punished in the same swift and thorough manner if I fail to please either Lockhart or his stable-master, Juno. Juno has all the rights that Lockhart claims. He’s as apt to lay a cane or strap on my ass, as apt to order me to bow at his feet if I rile him. Though he may not be the masterful kind of man that Lockhart is, he is a gruff and wiry fellow whose earthy eyes can bore holes into me as easily. He appears to be Lockhart’s age, somewhere in his forties but by the look of his expression, his life has been quite hard. His face is craggy and often tired, though his chest is muscled and compact, and his hands provoke the same surge of desire I often feel when I gaze at any master’s strong hands. I’m not sure if he likes the fact that I’m serving in his domain, but I do my best to please him because that pleases Lockhart.
A week after this new training begins, I’m taken into the tack room and measured for my own harness by a professional harness maker. A tall man in leather pants fingers me at will, pinches, squeezes and pokes, all of this arousing me sexually. It’s been so long since I’ve had real sex that I think I’ll break into a climax in seconds.
But, when I feel a rod suddenly driven into my ass, I’m alarmed as he presses and presses until I squeal. Lockhart’s looking on with a grim expression of warning, suggesting that I don’t want fight this if I plan to save my ass some pain. I’m measured for a bridle and bit, finding myself almost in tears with the picture of me so tethered. This does alarming things to my cunt, something that the harness maker realizes when he puts his hand to my crotch and finds it flowing with juice. He slaps my cunt for good measure, then moves on. My vagina is measured as well. I can only assume that this harness will be a fully equipped device with plugs to impale me in both orifices.
The custom gear arrives just days later, and with it, I take another step into this stable world. The harness becomes my only clothes. Even on the few days I’m allowed to return to the shop, Lockhart instructs me to wear it under my working clothes. Thankfully, the straps are of smooth and supple leather. Though it fits snug to my body, it do
esn’t bind. It has been perfectly made. There’s a band about my waist, a piece that divides my crotch in two with places for dildos to attach front and rear. Two straps run up my back and an open-breasted halter fits in front. Chains attached to the sides of the halter thread through my nipple rings as though my master had this planned long ago. The rings from my labia are often pulled wide to open my cunt. Depending on Lockhart’s whim, I wear a dildo in my ass or pussy, sometimes in both places—that’s when he’s peeved with me. Occasionally, I wear none at all. Most days, working around the stable, I wear knee-high black boots with a hefty two-inch heel. They are comfortable and appropriate for the work I’m doing.
Once the harness arrives, I spend my nights on Lockhart’s property in the stable, in my own stall. There’s bed of straw and a bucket I use for a bathroom. I’m tethered to the stable floor each night by my collar and a length of leather. I’m afforded some measure of movement, but only what is essential. There is one measure of sanity in this: in an emergency I can easily remove the leash and free myself.
Every day, I wake to the same punishing treatment on my ass that I receive in the house. More often now, Juno administers this first flogging. I then go to work cleaning stalls, shoveling horse manure, feeding and grooming the animals. Once a day, usually when Lockhart finally appears, I bathe in a tub of warm water, using the same kind of scrub brush I’d use on the horses.
When that’s finished, usually in the afternoon, I dress in the harness again and we ride. The excursion at this hour soothes me, as does Willow and Lockhart’s more lighthearted attitude. There’s a freedom riding into the pastures—letting my eyes gaze on the sun-parched earth. I think of my fate as though this all seems reasonable—another autumn of my life and I’m being trained as a pony slave, discovering the feel of this as right as any previous moments of grateful servitude to the masters I’ve known.
I see the pony cart in the indoor paddock and almost long for the feel of being hitched to the small contraption—my bridle, my bit taking me further into this natural world. I can only assume that eventually Lockhart will train me in this too.
On the day I’m first bridled, it’s a miserable one. The night was frosty and I wake cold and crabby. There’s a blanket in my stall, but it’s not enough with the change of seasons. Even in this heated stable the chill climbs into my unclothed body—I suppose through the damp earth beneath me. My attitude is sullen when Lockhart arrives to see me. I say nothing, but he knows. I’ve been his slave for nearly a year now and he understands everything about me—every nuance of my face and body—every peculiar inflection in my voice that suggests I’m upset.
My mood won’t lift. I sense for a time that he’s hoping it will subside on its own so he won’t have to force a confrontation. But when I can’t seem to stifle my disquiet, he pulls me from shoveling shit and thrusts me over a rail.
“I will not have a petulant slave!” he announces just before a hefty strap hits by bottom. I’m still sore from where Juno delivered six rough cuts of the cane to my ass this morning, and fight the strapping, pawing crazily at the floor. I don’t even attempt to hold off my anger—which is not like me at all.
Seeing a war about the break loose, Lockhart suddenly stops with the strap and backs away. “Juno, get the bridle and bit. This one needs some new lessons.”
In short order, I find my harness of straps fitted over my head, and a heavy metal bit run tightly through my mouth. There are reins attached to the sidepieces at my jawline, and with a buggy whip in hand, Lockhart orders me to the paddock. There’s a bit of a nip in the air—though the master doesn’t seem to mind—then too, he’s completely clothed while I am almost nude. Though my boots stick in the wet mud, I’m forced to walk at a brisk and high-stepping pace circling near the paddock fence. If my step’s not high enough to please him, I feel the buggy whip at my back. If I don’t move fast enough, he strikes my calves. I’m in tears as I strut before Lockhart’s whip and Juno’s eyes. It’s intensely humiliating this first time, though the longer I’m forced to endure this, the more I find my brain and body relinquishing. I can even imagine braving this proudly, with my head held high and my chest thrust forward, nipples erect. I imagine the cart behind me, and many eyes watching me in my majestic splendor as a well-trained pony slave. I’m exhausted when this first session is over, and thankfully led back to my stall where I can rest and let my tears flow free.
As I attempt to restore myself, Lockhart is at the door of the stable. “What caused your mood, slave?” he asks, almost kindly.
I peer up at him and answer honestly, “the ground was cold last night, and I got chilled.”
“Well, then I’ll get you more blankets and a better pallet to lie on.”
I long for a more sympathetic solution. Though this is perfectly suitable, and I’m sure my need will be taken care of before I lie down again to sleep.
My training increases from this point. With the days much colder moving into October, I spend an hour every morning and an hour in the afternoon going through my paces in the indoor paddock, drilled repeatedly in proper form. I’m punished when I grow weary or frustrated. When I’ve made a particularly poor performance, Lockhart will have me bow over one end of a bale of straw, and straddling me facing my ass; he’ll lay a good dose of correction on my cheeks. Often he uses a cane, though just as often a leather strap.
When I perform well, he treats me with chocolates.
We still ride when it’s not too cool. Lockhart presented me with a grey woolen cape that keeps me cozy even on brisk days. I know I’ll miss this when the weather becomes too raw—it’s a substantial piece of freedom in a world where I have no freedom and no will. I guard these hours passionately.
I’ve become accustomed to this life, hardly wondering anymore what is happening to me—if there is anything beyond this, beyond the peace and surrender that have taken over my life. Only when I’m off the bridle at the store do any recollections of the women I used be return. I can’t exactly call this happiness, but it is contentment and a great side of me flourishes fulfilled. I have the sense that this won’t last forever but I have no idea when it will end. Lockhart gives me no clue. He seems as content as I am.
I still write and paint, though my equine life gives these activities a different feel and a different look and different words. I read little of what I write and share it with no one. The paintings seem to sit on easels for day until Ellie discovers them and insists we display them in the shop. I’ve sold several and this hardly phases me. Nothing seems to distract me from the simple slave life I live.
Lockhart’s Thursday guests join in the spirit of my training. Often, when they visit, I’m given an extra training session in the indoor paddock. Tired as I might be, I strut and prance, and take the snaps of the buggy whip to my skin with the same degree of resignation and delight that I have when it’s Lockhart wielding the whip.
I’m used sexually, just as I have been before. Though now in the stables, I’m more likely taken over rails, or lifted against walls and soundly fucked. This is all the true bodily pleasure I’m given, and I’ve learned to let the sessions bring me satiating orgasms.
Chapter Fifteen
It took some time to arrange Delia’s stay with Calvin. Longer than I anticipated. He needed to be out of the country until January, so we decided not to begin with her until the end of the month. Having spent one hour at lunch interviewing my sub, he suggests six weeks not three. He says it will take that long for him to have any influence on her at all. He plans to woo her with several short meetings, spaced a week apart, then have her move to his house by the end of February.
