The Lost Prince--A Ponygirl Epic

CHAPTER NINE-NEW DIRECTIONS

S'Leah stroked herself idly, eyes closed, head resting on the back of the tub. The bar of soap that she'd found had been third rate at best, hardly lathering up at all, but at least the water was hot. It helped ease the ache in her neck, and hot water was the only thing that stopped the pain in her nipples completely.

The bar downstairs was quiet, finally. Mom had shooed the last miners out just before four a.m., at least all those who hadn't found a whore willing to let them overnight. S'Leah had stayed busy right til the end, and now her innards were gurgling and churning from all the semen she'd ingested. None of the miners had been the One. She was starting to believe He didn't exist, no matter what her benefactor said. A figure of myth, not that she'd say that to her face.

Her breasts bobbed against the soapy film coating the water as she gently stroked her penis. The tub was too small for real comfort. She had to either bend her legs to fit, knees rising out of the water, or hang her feet over the edge of the tub.

The water began to cool and S'Leah reluctantly pulled the stopper. She ran the hot water to rinse the soap film from her skin and then stood up in the tub. The one towel she had was still damp from mopping up blood, although she'd managed to rinse it more or less back to its mottled grey hue. She stood in the tub for a few minutes, letting the water drip off, then stepped out. S'Leah spread the towel on the wood floor in the center of the room, then went to the bed and dug through her bag.

She returned to the center of the room and sat crosslegged on the small towel, still nude. Water dripped slowly from her nipples as she laid the grey rectangle, not much bigger than her palm, on the floor in front of her. S'Leah took a deep breath, breathed it out slowly, and touched the square.

Vaporous arcs of color swirled up from the square to coalesce into a ball in front of her face. The colors slowly churned, finally dissolving into the face of her benefactor in her ubiquitous hooded purple robe.

"Yes, my child? How goes the struggle in…JoTown, is it?" There was only a slight electronic warbling to her voice. It should have been worse, given the distance.

"I work hard for the sisterhood, soulmother," S'Leah said, bowing her head briefly. "But the work…I don't know how much I'm accomplishing."

"Tell me what you have learned, child."

"A royal passed this way less than a day ago, mother. She was alone, and left at dawn heading west. White, black, and grey robe, and two mounts of exceptionally good breeding. One of the locals here sports a hoof-boot shaped bruise on his chest and a cracked rib from trying to mount one of these ponies. I'm sorry that I don't have more information. No one really saw her face or caught her name, and I'll draw attention to myself if I ask too many questions."

"Nonsense. You've performed excellently, as usual."

"Should I continue west? I could acquire my own mounts and carriage."

The image pursed its lips. "No, I know where this one is going. It would serve no purpose for you to follow. No, instead I want you to head north."

"North?"

"Find transportation to IronHeart, a small town three days travel by pony north. There, on the fourth day, a person will be boarding a stagecoach north to Greenwood. This person is of the bloodline, and will behave as such, so you will have no problems with identification. There may be attendants. You are to make this person's acquaintance, and make your company so desirable they ask you to accompany them beyond Greenwood. An estate is within a few days travel from Greenwood, I know not where. This is your destination. How you get there is up to you. However, I will add that by reputation this person is very accessible, and has a taste for the unusual. The more unusual the better, they say. From the Clan Infibula. Can you do this?"

"If it can be done, I will do it, soulmother," S'Leah said, bending her head.

"You seem tense, child. Are you still searching for the One?"

"Everywhere I go." There was a hint of discouragement in her voice.

"You have a gift, even though you do not appreciate it as such. With your gift you serve the sisterhood. Revel in that when you are gathering seed, and the weight will be lifted from your heart. Now go. You have three days to think and plan. Empty yourself of petty concerns. Lose your fears in the vastness of the western deserts. Rejoice in your life, in your freedom, in your being ."

S'Leah bent her head and clasped her hands together. "My love, my heart, my loins burn for you," she said in parting.

"The fire keeps us pure," the figure acknowledged, and then the image fuzzed and dissolved.

Duster was up before sunrise, wanting to be on the road while the air was still cool and moist. He slept with his team in the stables, as was his practice. No one had yet successfully stolen or mounted one of his ponies, and although they were both branded and barren, he wanted to keep it that way. Besides, usually at least one of the team was frisky after a hard run, so it was almost his duty to make himself available to them. It kept them from trying to stray.

The JoTown stables had a nice oversize stall where he could bed down all eight of his ponies. Very convenient. He'd just lock himself in with them, and their security was assured. They slept in just their armbinders, hooked to their tall collars. The frisky ones either approached him or a teammate, spread their legs, and simulated thrusting motions to indicate their desires, then laid down on their backs (for a teammate) or got on their knees (for him). Even with their bits out they didn't talk, although they often licked one another to sleep. They usually climaxed before he did, so it always worked out better for him when more than one of them wanted his attentions.

The night before none of the team had been interested in anything other than sleeping after their long day in the heat. He'd barely wrestled his lead pony onto her knees before she'd fallen asleep, knees to chest, forehead against the stable floor, and no amount of vigorous thrusting was enough to wake her up. Her skin was black as night, and still hot from the sun baking it all day. Duster liked it better when they were awake, but either way it still felt good. He stared at her stubbly head as he worked his tool in her moist folds and made a mental note to shave their heads again soon.

In the morning he'd awakened with a piercing headache for no apparent reason, and was a little rough putting their leathyrs on. With their high pain threshold none of them appeared to notice. They each got a handful of ponymix and free access to the water hose while he worked them into their bits, boots, and corsets. The only bad thing about overwatered mounts was that they tended to cramp up, but he deliberately took it slow first thing in the morning so that was never a problem. Better minor cramping from a full belly than major cramping from dehydration. He had no passengers booked for the trip north, but he made it a habit after hitching his team up to pull the coach around to the front of Mom's in case somebody decided they needed to leave town quickly.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he snapped the reins. With a chorus of creaking leathyr the team leaned into their harnesses and pulled the stagecoach around the corner of the stables and into the street. The air was still cool, almost brisk for that time of year, but without a cloud in the sky he knew it would be a scorcher by midday.

One lone figure was standing in front of Mom's, watching the team approach. At first he thought it was a fresh-faced teenage boy, but as Duster reined his team to a stop he realized it was just a short-haired woman. She wore black leathyr pants over square-toed boots and a charcoal grey shortwaisted jacket of rough cotton. She peered into the coach, saw nobody, then looked around to see if there was anyone else waiting.

"No passengers?" S'Leah asked.

Duster jerked his thumb behind him at the boxes strapped to the top of the coach. "Just supplies for Gravestown," he said. The ponies shifted restlessly in the cool air—they got anxious whenever they were in harness and not running. A few squatted and relieved themselves in the dusty street, and he climbed down from the coach with a grunt.

Something about the woman seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember ever seeing her before. He grabbed the pony shovel from where it was leaning against the porch post. "You lookin' for passage?"

"How long to Ironheart?" The front of her jacket was undone and he caught a glimpse of tight black rubber beneath it. He didn't know how these people did it, wore rubber in a desert climate, but they did. Leathyr and rubber. He knew that was all most of them could afford, and the clothes sported brass eyelets in strategic places for ventilation, but still . His hemp outfit was hot enough, but at least it breathed, and he'd been willing to pay the extra money for that.

"Three and a half days." He scooped up the dark stools from between his ponies shuffling hoofboots and dumped them in the nearby barrel. The pungent puddles would be dry before most of the town was awake.

"Three and a half?"

"Day and a half to Gravestown. I stop there and overnight, then it's another day and a half to Ironheart." Her leathyr pants were tight around her muscular thighs but baggy everywhere else. After a decade driving ponies he appreciated a woman with strong thighs. She also showed the promise of healthy breasts under that jacket, but whether he'd ever get to taste her wares….There was no way to tell if she was one of the sockets-for-hire that worked Mom's, and he wasn't about to ask. She looked like there was a lot of mean in her just waiting for a chance to leak out.

She squinted in thought and scuffed a toe in the dirt. The square toed boots had three and a half inch heels, the closest she could come to standing flatfooted after twenty years in hoofboots on the balls of her feet.

"I need to be in Ironheart, and no later than that. You pick up many passengers in Gravestown?"

"None. Purely a supply stop, pick up and drop off. Sometimes one of 'em'll come south, but they don't go up to Ironheart." She'd obviously never been to Gravestown, or she wouldn't have asked the question. "I'll get you to Ironheart on time, that I guarantee."

"How much?"

"Seventy."

There was a brief pause, then she dug into her bag for the cash, which she handed him. S'Leah looked around once, saw no one else heading for the coach, and then opened the door and climbed aboard.

The bag had triggered Duster's memory. Same kind as the robed woman he'd dropped off the day before had carried. Could it be the same person? She was the right size, had the right build.

Oh well. He shrugged, climbed back into his seat, flicked the reins, and they moved away from Mom's. The team knew the route, and even with the explosive growth JoTown was still a small town. There was only one road heading north, and even at a slow trot they were away from the last buildings in just a few minutes.

The coach had decent springs, and bounced only slightly as the ponies pulled it over the hardpacked road. S'Leah locked the doors and peered out the windows to both sides. Nothing visible in either direction other than rolling scrubland, and the driver couldn't see inside, unless he climbed onto the roof and hung his head over the edge. She took off her jacket and folded it, placing it on the bench seat as a pillow. The black rubber top she wore was highnecked and sleeveless. Her breasts spilled out of the horizontal oval opening in the rubber sheath. The opening across her chest was just barely big enough to accommodate her fleshy globes, which were pushed together by the tight rubber. Miners, ever the poetic types, called it a titshirt. They were quite popular among whores and their customers, as well as those women who couldn't afford brassieres or were too busty to comfortably wear standard rubber sheath tops. S'Leah's nipples were two reasons she was wearing one.

Though she wouldn't admit it to herself, the two decades spent as a mount had left certain indelible marks on her psyche that she was powerless to erase. It was almost impossible for her to fall asleep unless she folded her arms up behind her back, as if she was still in an armbinder, and most mornings she'd find she'd wedged something between her jaws during the night to act as a bit. The tight clothing she favored mirrored, in some ways, the corset she'd worn. But S'Leah refused to even acknowledge that she could never fully escape her past. She lay on her side on the bench, and rested her head on her folded cotton jacket. The wooden seat was cold against the side of her breast, but soon warmed.

Between not having slept all night and the coach's gentle bouncing, she was fast asleep inside two minutes, shifting restlessly for a while. Finally, she folded her arms up between her shoulder blades, fingertips up near the nape of her neck, and passed into deep, dreamless sleep.