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Chapter 4 – Rosamund
Dawn had dawned not too while ago.
Rosamund Kelly was sixteen.
Rosamund was about to bathe, but there were necessary preliminaries.
Some distance from the bank of the lake, among some bushes, between bushes, Rosamund found a patch of loose soil, and swept a hollow in it using sensitive hands with long slim fingers that, to judge by their dirty broken nails, had never ever been manicured, let alone seen a professional manicurist.
Unselfconsciously and unconcernedly, having made her hollow, Rosamund lifted the hem of her ankle-length dress clear, as she squatted, thunderous thighs parted, on her delightful girl-confirmatory curved haunches and, preceding it with a copious torrent of freshest whitest wine from her bladder, proceeded to deposit two healthy turds, and then, after a momentary pause, a third turd of her excreta in the cesspit she had just made.
Rosamund knew nothing of panties. Rosamund knew nothing of brassieres. Rosamund had known nothing of clothing save that her mummy had lately and latterly insisted she must now wear a dress because Rosamund's maturing body had begun to excite the other women and girls in the camp far too much.
Rosamund was one-third Irish, one-third Spanish, and one-hundred-percent Gypsy, in the sense that she had also one-third of Gypsy blood, but this last third was steeped deep in her heart and soul.
Brown as the proverbial nut from the tinting of nature and from her having gone almost always nude and always barefoot since she had been a child, until last week and the insistence on the inhibiting ankle-length dress her gorgeous bare unsupported uncontrolled and uncontrollable bosom was now excitingly teasingly roaming around within.
Rosamund's black curls-within-curls-within-curls-curled-hair was tangled and wild as she: coiled springs intertwining down her back to her waist. Rosamund's eyes were browner than her exceptionally pretty face, but only just. Her lips were a natural full-bodied full-blooded passionate explosive red, and yet, yet to be kissed. She wore no makeup. Her beauty could not possibly be enhanced.
Always moist lipped, Rosamund had the whitest strongest teeth sparkling in bright contrast from her tanned face when she smiled, and she smiled constantly: shyly constantly, not only with her teeth but with her lips and, above all, with her sparkling startling eyes.
Rosamund Kelly knew nothing of education but spoke both English and Spanish fluently.
Rosamund knew nothing of education, but was acutely intelligent, and had also long since discovered the power of her face and body. She knew she entranced other women and girls and that that was why she was now the girl used the most, from among all the girls in the camp, to sell the wooden clothes pegs and artificial flowers her nimble fingers assisted with manufacturing, around the towns her caravan visited through the year. Sales trips such as these were the only other times at which Rosamund had ever before worn clothing.
Now she was no longer a child, Rosamund had also had to learn to walk rather than run everywhere, and she hated it.
Her long dress rolled up and tied above her thus bared bottom, around her near non-existent-slim waist, to free her legs, she had just run the four miles from her encampment to the lake and was still as fresh and without breathlessness as she would be when she had run the four miles back again and even, had she chosen, four more beyond.
It was five-thirty in the morning and Rosamund had run through the early mist of the day like a wild wraith, her bare feet, she never wore shoes, seeming hardly to touch ground. She had run-leaped leaving ground over fallen trees and rocks as if no obstacle could stay her wilful way, as indeed had always been so, as metaphorically as literally, and as literally as metaphorically, all her sixteen sweet years.
Still squatting huge-thighed, shuffling forward from having deposited her cognac and droppings in her self-scooped hollow, Rosamund swept the soft soil she had pushed to the side to make her latrine, over her natural expellations, leaving them to the steps nature would take with them, beginning, as these already had, with the flies that hummed, homing precisely to settle on her fresh faeces, faeces still not yet entirely covered by the soil she was hand-shovelling.
Up she now leapt, and off now came the hated long dress. Thrown carelessly over a tree stump. Rosamund cared not the slightest if it were torn or blew away. She was now au naturelle, as she was used to being, and as had turned her the all-over unblemished blameless brown that covered all bar the soles of her hands and the palms of her feet.
Naked as nature and as wild and beautiful, Rosamund knew nothing of hesitation as she skipped with her supremely shapely legs and boundlessly bouncing breasts, down to the banks of the stream, and began to coat herself, even by rolling in it, in the clay that would act as the soap to wash her peerless body, when she eventually waded out and then began to swim, as she did, and as she did next after: as she did indeed every day when her family were camped in this part of Spain.
She coated herself with the soft grey-to-white clay as she did each day. Rosamund filled her dainty hands and slowly completely unconsciously sensuously sexily, coated her beautiful young body.
Oh how any onlooking girl would have gasped with desire as she coated her breasts, as if their astonishing soft firm boldness was of no consequence. And oh how she would giggle, like the highest gurgle of the tripping skipping brooklet, as she coated her face and caught her reflection in a pool next a pond next the lake in which she was about to slake beauty's need for cleanliness to restore its completeness.
Rosamund's now grey-coated brown legs long down to dainty feet kicked up a splash as she into the water dashed, squealing with innocent delight as its coolness her breath took, as its depth grew so that her body could slide writhe glide through it, the water that flowed over her curved contours caressing the curvaceous curvature of a mermaid-maiden made more maiden than mermaid by lovely legs, not fishes tail, and thus more, by millennia of miracle more beautiful than mere mermaid. This was girl with lower limbs god had given to end the tale of the mermaids tail and thus stand tall, rather than unable to stand at all, her loveliest creation of all.
The sun was slowly rising higher, and Rosamund would later dry in its loving warmth after she had bathed and swum to her hearts content, before she put back on, did she really have to, she hated it so much, before she put back on her dress, her only clothing: her clothing, the clothing she had, even at age sixteen, only just begun to regularly wear.
………….
It had happened the week before and Rosamund had escaped them.
She could run faster than the wind, not as fast as they, but still quickly enough to defeat them by taking a path down which, despite their amazing speed, the two-wheeled chariots could not follow.
She had been astounded when they had appeared. There had been three, each pulled by one pony, if pony it was.
And the ponies that pulled the chariots! They were beautiful! They were astonishing! They were astounding! What legs they had: oh god what legs!!
They were girls. There was no doubt they were girls. They were girls being used as horses. And oh god how they beat them! The charioteers thrashed them. The charioteers thrashed the poor girls who, bound, and bitted and blinkered and reined as horses, ponies more accurately perhaps, pulled and ran with the two-wheeled chariots to which they were tethered, with all their lovely might, on supremely beautiful legs wearing what must be hooves, as Rosamund had seen the hoof-marks left, between the obvious runs and ruts made by the chariots wheels when they had passed, where they had passed.
It was savage and cruel, but oh hell's heavens how exotically exciting, yes even erotically exciting, it was to see them!
Rosamund had been lucky to escape. The ponies had had formidable speed in short bursts. Rosamund could not outrun them, but she had staying-power in her favour and could leap where no wheels could go.
She had giggled full-god-given-girlishly at the charioteers when she had leapt logs and they had had to rein their poor girl-ponies to a halt, chariot wheels scurrying up the dust as they slewed sideways under braking.
Did they, did the charioteers, care for the poor girls who were being made to pull them along? Did they care after all?
Rosamund had been staggered by the degree of obedience the girls enslaved as ponies had shown. Not for one second had they flinched from the path their mistresses had instructed them through reins and their whips to take.
Did they, did the charioteers care for the poor girls who were being made to pull them? Did they care after all?
They had, in the end, pulled on the girls' reins. The girls hauling the chariots had obediently continued running such that they would smash themselves into the logs, the trunks of the toppled trees on which Rosamund daintily stood, naked as nature, mocking her would be captors and ready to run furthermore further more. The ponygirls would have smashed into these if not stopped, if they had not been pulled up mercifully short by the hauling on their reins just short of the certainty of broken limbs. Such discipline!
………….
I was being nuzzled. It was by no means an unpleasant sensation. I was being nuzzled awake by some strange creature that my mind, absented for a long while since by the injection in my bottom, was shocked to see.
I had been dreaming I was at my desk in college being lectured by 'Prof' Alena naked. Alena was naked in my dream and discussing calculus with her students, myself among them, as if it were normalcy personified that a professor teach class nude. Then we were nude. The class was nude and Alena clothed and wielding a cane: such is the strangeness of dreams it seems.
She, for she was undoubtedly female, the creature nuzzling me awake was definitely female: She was wearing nothing bar the hooves I also wore, with her wrists tied as mine still were to her upper arms, a rubber gag in place of a bit in her mouth, her waist squeezed extremely to extremity down to perhaps only thirteen-or-fourteen-inches, and a band across her forehead with red letters on a white flash announcing her, to my fluttering eyelids as I blinked myself back to consciousness, as 'Flamenco-Firefly'
Flamenco-Firefly, a tamed and trained ponygirl, as I was to find out later, had been put in my stall in trust to give me company and so that she could whiny for help if I needed any.
I too was now rubber gagged, as was Flamenco-Firefly. She was kneeling and putting her gorgeous face on mine and, as I realise it now, 'kissing' me by rubbing noses: thereby willingly going beyond the strictest interpretation of her duties. Her duties being only to watch over my coming around from my being drugged for the crate they had put me in to fly me cargo, as cattle, from England to, where I assumed I now was: Spain.
………….
They had been better prepared during their second visitation: the charioteers.
They had tethered their ponygirl pulled chariots some distance away from the lake, and on foot weaved their way to it, hiding from tree to tree, and now behind trees three, had spy-eyed from tree trio, as Rosamund had swum and idled in the lake, floating on her back, kicking her superbly shapely legs the while, watching the sky and innocently dreaming, as she occasionally turned over, diving dolphinly in the water, the soft swell savouring superbly supremely streamlined she.
By the simple act of dismounting, they had got her. By surprise they had won their prize.
Rosamund had been betrayed by her ankle-length dress, the dress she abhorred wearing.
They had sneak-snatched it whilst she swam, and crudely fastened closed the neck of the dress.
They had had to be quick. They had put bent pins galore in the neck of the dress so as to close it off, and then scattered the dress back over the tree trunk Rosamund had first cast it over, ensuring it looked as discarded as when Rosamund had thrown it, but also so that the sealed up neck did not show.
Rosamund was in no hurry that morning; she was loving her swim and the sweetness the washing off of the clay mud, nature's soap, brought to her pores.
Eventually though, she had glided to a rock onto which she had climbed and sat her divine body, the body of a girl in her early spring, glistening with the droplets sparkling on and trickling down her achingly astonishing soft skin, as she worked her fingers through her tousled hopelessly tangled kinks using the only apology for a comb she had ever yet used in her sweet young life, her fingers, as her heavy firm breasts floated and swung unrestrainedly, never ever restrained, free as eternity, even whilst her gentle breathing of the air she sweetened by taking it into and breathing it out of her, also heaved her handsome bosom.
In a moment, in a movement, alive lissom and catlike as she: she, Rosamund, had next leaped from the rock to the dry ground that banked that part of the lake, and lithed her luscious legs-long along to where she had left her dress.
For seconds then, she had stopped still naked nude and looked around her.
Rosamund was a girl close to nature and her seventh and eighth senses, let alone her sixth, seemed to be telling her, 'beware!'.
Had she spotted a careless telltale footprint from when the huntresses' had grasped the dress to pin up its neck? The hidden and hiding charioteers looked silently concernedly at each other.
They were indeed huntresses and Rosamund their quarry. Gaynor and Fabrina would have them whipped if they failed to catch her this time; that much was for certain. They would probably also be broken back to the ranks as mere stable-girls too.
At long lingering last, Rosamund picked up her dress, and rolled up its hem ready to put it over her incredible dark curls, the curls on her head: the tight dark curls tumbling every which way on and from her head, dark curls only outmatched by the shorter tighter darker curls surrounding her maiden minx.
Then she had stopped again and looked around, sniffing the air for danger it almost seemed.
Now, just before putting her arms through the dress' sleeves and lifting it to pull it over her head, she had smiled irresistibly sweetly: and then next? And then next staggered and reeled almost drunkenly, as peels of her innocent laughter rang out appealingly musically, because her dress covered her face and chest and down to her knees, but she could not pull it over herself any further.
As she fought to pull her dress fully over her head, with no suspicion it had been spiked so as to prevent her so doing, Rosamund had danced and swayed, twisted, staggered, and spun like a top on the tips of her toes, all but rolling with bubbling gurgling giggles, her soprano squeals and squeaks of delight echoing sweet song on the summer breeze among the trees, pealing in waves as she stopped only to gasp for helpless breath, pausing to gulp air between her paralysing paroxysms, tears running down her cheeks from her unstoppable unstaunchable lovely loving laughter, the birds momentarily silenced by her music, the sound of godsent girly giggles that no mere birdsong could match for their deeply significant innocent invoking provoking profound confounding confiding consoling solely soulful sexiness.
In a trice, two lassos were around her and a third had missed its target.
A lasso loop hoop silently dropped over Rosamund's dress encumbered head, and down to her naked ankles. Whipped tight in a millisecond, it dumped her on her divine derriere in the dust, winding and suddenly silencing her.
In a trice, two lassos were around her and a third had missed its target.
A second lasso found home over Rosamund's head and around her lovely arms at the elbow as she sat, clamping her arms to her side where she sat on her bum, stunned when the ankle encompassing lasso had been pulled tight to rope her in.
In a trice, two lassos were around her, and in sudden shock, after a long moment of astounded stillness: As the loose rope ends of the lassos were wrapped tightly around to cocoon and helpless-bundle her, Rosamund had began to try and kick, and to scream for real, and to fight for her freedom against inevitability: against the inevitability, did she but know it then, of being forced to become 'Flamenco-Firefly'.
…………..
They were gentle and brutal with me.
A bevy of pretty girls came into the stables where I lay curled in the dusty sneezey straw. I was in a stall; my new home but that I did not know that yet. I was in one of a half-dozen or maybe eight or ten stalls, each with a girl bound as I was in it: bound to obey and thus bound to obey.
There must have been two pretty girls for every stall: I mean from the bevy of beauties that wiggled and giggled in to greet the dawn. They ranged in age from around fourteen, upwards to no more than seventeen.
They were all naked, save that they walked in brown leather knee boots, riding boots, but with ballet-shoe-style squared toes on the tips of which they stood, soles reinforced and rigid to hold them en pointe permanently: no heels, on the tiptops of their toes, with no heels, as if it were as natural to them as they had walked entirely on tiptop tiptoe with no heels on their boots and shoes since they were babies.
There were at least sixteen or more of them, two for each of eight, or, as I later confirmed, ten stalls in my stable block: or thirty-two to a gross of them if we are talking extremely pretty legs, and very pert very firm many mostly newly budded breasts.
They were shaven. Their pretty pod's had been completely depilated though they were clearly post puberty.
Any number of them appeared to be of Chinese extraction and the word 'doll' does not even begin to define their delicate prettiness.
Their hair in twin pigtails ended with ribbons, these little girls, many with big brown innocent sigh eyes, were pony obsessives, and our stable-girls.
I was lying on the straw in a stall, the stall of a stable somewhere in Spain I assumed: as I was yet to confirm.
Two of the pretty little fourteen-year-olds drove Flamenco-Firefly away from me and back to her own stall, calling her "naughty girl" when they found her nuzzling me, nose-to-nose.
Initially I was allowed to continue to stretch in the straw, but opted of my own choice, after a while, to stand, on luscious legs still wibble-wobbly from my having been heavily drugged and my being still unused to standing forced onto the very top tips of my big toes within my hoof-clogs.
In a moment, a lovely little Chinese angel had slipped off my rubber gag bit, to allow me to drink and eat if I desired, though I did not as yet appreciate that that was what she had removed my head harness for.
She was, as I noted later, one of Flamenco-Firefly's two stable-girls, my own being yet to arrive with me.
I looked around the stall, still staggering with my dozy dizziness, swaying and staggering like a newborn foal, from my having been knocked out for the air trip.
There, in the stall, I saw a manger full of a liquid mix of what looked very like grass, and some sweet smelling fibrous material I thought could be oats or maybe bran. Next to the food manger, was a trough of water. And the realisation why Alena had trained me to eat and drink with just my lips and tongue was already beyond dawning in my mind as treasonous treachery.
The extreme tightness of my saddle-band, the brutal belt forcing my waist down to just fifteen-inches from its extremely slim natural twenty-three, was, as yet, controlling my appetite and I had no desire to eat. Nonetheless, I surrendered my dignity, as I must, to bend over the trough and lap up water, copiously sucking with my adorable kiss-constant-proffer-offer proud negress' lips, to slake a thirst that raged, perhaps from my being drugged and so long in an unnatural sleep in consequence.
In dizzy daze I then turned and looked with only half-seeing eyes at the ponygirls, for I accepted now that that was what the bound-up girls I was among were and, indeed, what I was to be made to be too. I stared with half-awake eyes particularly at the ponygirl in the stall opposite mine. It was: no: she was, Flamenco-Firefly.
How naturally lovely this girl was. She moved with such grace as would disgrace a goddess to compare if she dare. Her legs were leagues long, and equally as strong as they were beautifully curve-muscled and sensuously sinewed. Her boastfully bold bouncy breasts had obviously never been borne by a bra. Her flawless flesh was as brown as gravy from nature and the smiling sun's constant kiss.
She was nature incarnate, her fiery brown eyes, equalled by her pink-brown nipples in compelling attention to her complicated simple completeness. And the black of her hair and her fur, her head hair and her minx fur, both curled tight as might, kissing curls aswirl whirring winding and whirling to her neck's nape and between thighs that did not hide her magnificent mound………..
………..But then something really horrible happened right before my very eyes: something really really dirty and sick-making.
Even as I looked, Flamenco-Firefly, walking around in her tiptoe hoof-clogs, openly peed on the straw in her stall. She just walked around peeing. She just peed on the straw as she walked around her stall, completely openly and unselfconsciously, even whilst she seemed to be moving to her manger to eat, for goodness sake!
And then after she had peed, she parted with a secretion of her faeces which flopped at her feet, and which her hoofed right foot soon after trod on, as if she were incapable of thinking and minding her step. How could she be so filthy?
I was nauseated and dismayed at this disgusting animalistic display. How could such a beautiful girl as Flamenco-Firefly behave in such a degrading and demeaning way?
And yet, as I looked further along, in the stall next to Flamenco-Firefly's, two stable-girls, of Asian-Indian origin and light-brown skin that almost shone with its transparent soft smoothness, were using a pitchfork to scatter fresh straw over the evidently overnight-ejected, still steaming turds of a brilliantly-bright-light-blue-eyed, perhaps Swedish or Norwegian, blonde, whose stall bore the name 'Laser-Dream'.
These astonishingly astounding outstandingly beautiful girls were or had been urinating and defecating on the ground like animals!
Even as I looked further along still, at another white girl, was she English or American, 'Liberty-Belle' was the name on her stall, Liberty-Belle was bending over her manger, licking up food, even though the solid proceeds of her recent animal duties were caking and drying on the back of her handsome calves. And Liberty-Belle's piss was pouring to ground even whilst she ate! I watched in total nightmare horror and rising nausea!
Nobody batted an eyelid as Laser-Dream nextly pissed again whilst she drank from her water trough. Her pretty stable-girls merely leant on their respective broom and pitchfork, whilst Laser-Dream pissed openly copiously, and then paused a while to see if she was going to drop her faeces, before they simply got on with tumble overturning her straw.
Just exactly what hell was I in?! These girls, these lovely creatures, these, the finest examples of nature's finest creation, were walking around urinating and even defecating as unconcernedly as animals! It was horrible! It was really and truly nauseatingly horrid!!
Just exactly what hell was I in?!
So much was going on among the lovely giggles and chatter of the bevy of stable-girls, naked as nature and chirpily cheeky and cheery as they busied themselves, admirably efficiently, with the duties they loved, among the ponygirls they adored to serve, that my mind could not focus on any one activity, let alone decide whether what I was witnessing was reality or a dream of the darkest sharpest sharkest horror: when I discovered that I was crying.
I had trodden in some faeces left perhaps by a previous occupant of my stall. It had made me realise, my gall rising, that I could have been lying in it when still unconscious from the knockout injection I had been given.
At the misadventure of my clog-hoofed foot and the thought that spun off from it, I felt the soft soulful sweetness of the tiny twin trickle of tired tears curving to contour my cheeks and then dew on my luscious proud ever-a-kiss-proffering pert negress' upper lip in pearly diamonds. Without sob or sound I was crying with heartbroken helpless hopelessness.
Squeezing my long-lashed eyelids closed to make this horror go away as I wished it would, only caused my tears to drip and puddle at the bottom of my dark-as-sin brown orbs, and then to waterfall onto my soft cheeks, making my lower lashes rainbow consequently, with light spectrummed by their saturation.
In reflex, I flinched away in surprise as I opened my weeping eyes after my closing eyelids had wrung more tears to drip down my soft cheeks, to find the gentlest of gentle hands caressing my tear soaked face.
"We no cwy" said a sweet voice so melodic in its soprano soothingness that I sobbed and cried the more for its loving gentleness.
"We no cwy" said the little Chinese angel stroking my face and touching my full naturally permanently-pouting lips so gently that, in pure reflex, I lip-brushed the palm of her balming hand.
"We no cwy. We bwave!" she sweetly coaxed as I saw her, a shimmering vision of doll-pretty loveliness through the globes of tears that soaked my gorgeous eyes.
"Twum on now! We bwave wickle gwirl. We proud we 'Midnight-Pwerl'!"
Her equally exquisitely pretty companion had joined us, and was strapping a rubber bit between my teeth as the first little maid: 'Kim Kai' continued to comfort me with all the sweet gentleness of a fourteen-year-old girl's love for the suffering animal she saw in me and saw me as.
Kim Kai and Hai Moon, my allotted stable-girls, attached a lead rein to my bit, and gently tugged to instruct me to go with them. And so I wiggled with my bottom swinging like the devil's pendulum from the tightest of tightness of my fifteen-inch waist, enticing exciting and inviting as I swing-swung my bold brown bare buttocks without the tail that had been cruelly inserted hitherto and I must wear again where it was worn when its turn came.
I 'clomp', 'clomp', 'clomp', 'clomped' on tiptoes within my wooden clog-hooves, divine leggy legged, obediently behind the young girls, who guided me gently.
I had dried my tears, but was fighting the pins and needles in my arms, still bound up as they were, with my leather strapped wrists chained tightly, arms thus bent double at the elbow, hands dangling helplessly, to a strap around their respective top of upper arms, at top of biceps.
My udders swung silently slowly side-to-side, or nodded sagaciously wise one would assume from the pretty plunges they freely dived and divinely sprung up from in their firm brown soft turns, or together, or individually, or as one wisely nodded or swung to out-nod or out-swing its twin, and its twin then nodded and swung more to catch up, my huge areoles like pink-brown headlights with tiny peaked central bulbs to beam and dance their light before the sight of the site I filled and fuelled with my perfect delight.
We stopped momentarily in the cold dawning air of morning Spain to greet two other stable-girls who hosed the faeces off my hooves with soft cold water.
Hai Moon and Kim Kai led me to a ring in the wall, the stable wall, where they tied the short lead rein that led to my mouth bit, and began to foam my legs in readiness for shaving them as I gently chomped on my rubber bit.
As I gently chewed on my rubber bit, my mind goodness knows where, in its longing to escape, Kim Kai stropped a cutthroat razor whilst Hai Moon meticulously flowed its dangerously sharp twin along the endless curvature of my right thigh the while, biting down lightly on her tongue which she stuck out from her mouth and flickered at its pointed end to increase her concentration on shaving my wonderful legs, tensioning each patch of thigh as her razor grew nigh and sweeping it over me more gently than a sigh.
With swapping razors and stropping without stopping, I received the closest shave from these pretty girls in the highest speed with the most brilliant skill, even down to the down at my bikini-line, which was now boldly delineated as an instant step from flesh to dark-brown fuzzy fur. They also shaved my neck and tidied my short-cropped curly head hair.
Why did I not even try to run?
I can answer that only with another question: where would or could I have run to?
I knew only that I was in Spain; or rather, I assumed I was in Spain as that had been the offer that Alena had made to me when she had had me in very preliminary ponygirl training at Fabrina's mansion.
As I was being shaved, all I could brave, was a look at the stone stable wall, so tightly was I tethered to the ring in it. But in the background I could hear a hubbub of girls' voices and laughter and shouts of: "whoa!!" and "steady, steady, steady now!" and "giddup there!" and "good gal! There's a good gal!!" among the constant clatter and clomp of hooves on the cobbles in which I stood in my tiptoe hoof-clogs myself.
And in between those, clattering the air with a constant harsh hard rhythm, with silent intervals between, I heard: 'tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang-clang; tang-tang clang: tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang-clang; tang-tang clang'' and then 'hssssssssssss'.
The spare soap and shavings washed of me with a douche sloshed, ice-coldly and goose-pimply from buckets down my derriere and confronting my private pod, untethered, I was turned and watched the throbbing bobbing breasts of the sweat-shiny farrier, as she beat out her relentless rhythm with two taps of her hammer on her anvil to weigh its poise, before each one or two taps on the pony-shoe she was preparing, and then the hiss of once red hot metal being cooled to zero when she thrust a satisfactory shoe swiftly into her trough, and took the next iron, heating in her fire, or pumped her bellows to heap the flames higher, before bending skilfully to shape the next initially red hot iron shoe with heavy hammer tread, her leather apron tied around her waist and not covering her chest, spotted where sparks must have flown and her nipples surely threatened by sparks as she was otherwise nude, apron and eight-inch heeled black leather booties aside.
I was clomping on my tiptoed legs, my bottom swerving swiftly from side to side as my wasped waist snaked me, toward another stone building, where I immediately upon entering, recognised Alena and Fabrina.
And would you believe that despite that they had coerced me into the horrible fate I was enduring, I wanted to trot up and greet them as friends?!
"… Girl-cart", I thought I heard Fabrina say.
They seemed to be the last words on an instruction sheet headed 'Midnight-Pearl' that Fabrina had had in her hands, fixed on a clipboard she was now casting to one side as I was clomped in on the end of my lead rein.
What strange words, and how did it fit into the jigsaw of horror that was being pieced together with me at its centre?
'Girl-cart'? Was what Fabrina had just cast aside part of some kind of announcement that would be made to me as I stood before them all, my two lovely stable-girls who had been so gentle and loving with me, and Fabrina and Alena who had so callously betrayed me?
I watched Alena's eyes as she surveyed my naked bound body from head to toe and toe to head and back again. I could see in her pupils widening how much she desired what she could see. But she never offered to speak, let alone acknowledge me as her student and fellow human-being, friend, and would be lover: her fellow girl. She just ogled me as if I were girl-meat, and showed in her eyes that she lusted for what she could see of me.
I lifted my eyes to look her straight in hers, and she just looked right past me and then turned away: she purposely turned away and ignored me.
Oh how that hurt! Oh how it hurt to know I was being seen now only as if I were an inferior!
I tied to talk despite my bit gag.
Hai Moon pulled gently on my rein, whispering: "No be nwarty gwirl. Midnight-Pwerl gwood ickle gwirl!"
I wanted to scream that I was a girl: I was as human as they: as much a girl as they: "Oh god I am a human being just as human as you are! Don't do this to me. Oh please heaven don't do this to me!!!"
I was beginning to get fretful, and the echo of my hooves as I shifted on my tiptoed feet clattered around the huge barn I was now in. Hai Moon pulled on my rein to control me, and Kim Kai attached another lead rein to my bit to try to keep me steady.
"Whoa! Whoa! Gwood gwirl, be gwood gwirl. Steady now! Steady! Easy gwirl. Easy now ickle gwirl!"
"Watch she doesn't kick" Fabrina warned as I pulled on my lead reins to fight my capture, hurting my mouth in inevitable consequence.
"Just watch she doesn't kick!" Fabrina repeated.
I would never have kicked the lovely little stable-girls: they were adorable; but to kick Alena or Fabrina if I could get near with my hooves……..if only I could near with my hooves………!
Each call to me to relax from my rising fear and the consequent clattering of my echoing hooves as my beautiful legs beat a dervish's dance on the cobbles, only added to my skitter-scatter nervousness, until that is, until Kim Kai began to stroke my nose with her bent forefinger.
She, Kim Kai, knew her ponygirls. She was only fourteen, and only just fourteen at that, but she had been among ponygirls all her short life, and knew, though never officially taught, she knew how to calm a skittish ponygirl, and she gently stroked my nose as she cooed: "Dwers a gwood ickle Midnight-Pwerly whirly" as she pushed something between my gag-parted lips, and I tasted the sweetness of a rewarding sugar-lump melting on my bit gagged tongue as I obediently settled down once more.
I settled slowly. I could not and would not do anything to hurt the gorgeous gentle kind and loving stable-girls. I calmed myself in that thought, as well as the realisation I was in the wrong location and the wrong situation as of present, to try to escape.
What immediately followed seeing me settle to comparative calmness, was a mistressclass in denouncement from Fabrina to my two adorable-doll Chinese stable-girls.
Fabrina's voice never rose above a whisper, but lacked nothing of piercing clarity and unchallengeable condemnation as it posed question after rhetorical question, her tone hissing like poison snakes off the echoing walls of the high-roofed barn we were in.
"Where is her tail?"
"Have you cleaned her teeth?"
"Why has she not been smoothed with sunscreen?"
"Is she not an initiate?"
"Is she not, as you were told, still technically a foal?"
"As she is an initiate / a technical-foal, why is she not shaven?"
Hai Moon and Kim Kai's heads sank lower and lower as they were dressed down by Fabrina's inexorable cold condemnation.
"Do you wish to continue the privilege of being educated at the 'Equine School De Española'?" Fabrina continued.
"You are both doing so brilliantly in the classroom: so why do you let yourselves down so badly out of lesson hours, by being so completely incompetent?"
"You did so well with Flamenco-Firefly. Flamenco-Firefly was given you, as what we said at the time was a last chance, because you had done so appallingly with Liberty-Belle. And now? And now, are we back to another and very much the absolute last chance for you?"
"We took your whip and spur tassels away because of Liberty-Belle. I was minded to return the spur award, to say that you had earned your spur tassel at least, when I saw the work you had done with Flamenco-Firefly."
"You can forget the award tassels now: you will have to find something else to dangle from your lovely little nipples; though there are no rewards this school gives that can be worn with such pride.
As for real whips as such ……..well, you will be whipped, both of you will be whipped, if you do not pull your act together now: right now: not in the next hour, not in the next minute, not in the next second, but right now!"
Fabrina's demolition of Kim Kai and Hai Moon was total, and I saw their sweet tears drip to terra firma, as they dare not even sob for fear it would displease. My heart cried out for them in their sweet innocence.
"Carry on with your duties. Put right your wrongs before you start classes, and I will let this go. But you will be out of this school faster than Liberty-Belle can run, if you break, even just fractionally break, even one more code", Fabrina concluded.
For these lovely little girls, the prospect of expulsion from the equine school did not threaten any diminution in the standard of their classroom education, but would break their poor hearts, as they would never again be able to brush or wash or shave or exercise or stroke or pet or perform the menial offices of 'mucking-out' the faeces and urine saturated straw in the stalls of the gorgeous 'Liberty-Belle' an American girl as I was to learn, the fascinating highly strung 'Koala-Bare', a willowy Australian catwalk model, or 'Ice-Queen', the supremely blonde Finnish girl, or 'Laser-Dance' the Swedish lovely with the fascinating penetrating eyes, or 'Calypso-Canter' a mixed-race Chinese-negress from Trinidad, or 'Noblesse-Oblige' a gorgeous tall serenely queenly black girl from Sudan, or 'Made-Maid' a former highly-paid and oft head-hunted businessgirl from London England, or 'Fuego-Fury' from Chile, or, above all, the surely unsurpassable natural beauty of the fiery and headstrong Flamenco-Firefly, the Irish Spanish Gypsy girl.
Kim Kai lovely naked bottom juddered as she tiptoe tore out of the barn I graced with my tip-top-tiptoed allure, running to fetch my tail to where Hai Moon once more, once more now led me to tether me: to where I had been tethered to be shaved: to where my totally tantalising legs had been shaved.
Towed by fourteen-year-old Chinese doll Hai Moon pulling gently on my lead tether, my comparatively grown-up girl's tight-saddled waist above my grinding hips, whipped my want-nothing wanton wicked bottom wildly, wide to side, side to wide in Satan's rhythm, as I simply walked: my posterior so powerfully potent with motion-potion that one would have to be posthumous not to enjoy, whatever one's predisposition or predilection, being positively pole-axed by it.
I could have escaped at this juncture. My mind was full of the sorrowful pain of being ignored, completely snubbed by Alena. But equally, I felt softhearted loving care for the hurt the charming little Chinese stable-girls had just had in the withering assessment by Fabrina of their total lack of performance.
I could have escaped at this juncture. I was only being controlled by one little schoolgirl: her companion was just now wiggle-trotting around the corner to rejoin us with my tail: my tormenting torture trail tale, my telltale tail. I could have escaped; but that I should become thereby the probable consequent cause of these lovely little angels being whipped, was more that I could bear to think of.
The powerful fear Hai Moon felt was palpable as she panicked over tethering me to shaving-foam my luxuriant between-legs curls, the curls that swirled around that which pronounced me pre-eminently girl. And my fear as she neared with the cutthroat razor to raze my curls to stubble, and my stubble to soft brown bare skin, to mark out, as if by flashing neon signs, so obviously pronounced and shoutingly announced would it be by my resultant nudity, that I was, despite my eighteen-years, a completely intact virgin: a 'foal' in girl-farm parlance, was making me nervously skitter once more.
Then came an inhuman human scream of the most agonising pain imaginably unimaginable, from, I was sure, Noblesse-Oblige, her deep distinctive contralto distinguishable despite, no doubt, the bit between the teeth of the nubile Nubian Sudanese, the tall girl so black she shone, the tall girl with the regal majesty so natural to her, during whatever had been done to her: and oh the dreadful smell of something scorching, and her sobs and cries and the clearly agonised gasps, that rang around the courtyard smell and yells both, as I once more began to become skittish and my shaving had to be postponed till I could be calmed.
Oh god what kind of hell was I in?!
Kim Kai took the razor as Hai Moon settled me, and its supreme fully stropped shimmering sharpness stripped me of my pubic posies to pose me publicly as pre-pubic positioned in my love-life: a girl exposed as untouched and untaken: a girl who was having removed from her pubis and pod petals the medals awarded to reward experience undertaken; a girl whom love had so far forsaken: a girl with hymen hymned unaltered in her altar: a novice, a know-not, a had-not, a virgin unvisited, unviolated: a girl whose magical beauty had still the mystery of her pristine citadel to be ripped ripe from nun none, even to won one.
And oh the dreadful shame as my pubis and pod lips were shaven and I stood with my nude minx shouting to the world that I was a virgin, an eighteen-year old girl who knew nothing of love or sex.
Tears started in the corners of my eyes as I realised that I was being purposely shamed by the show between my legs, that all was new between my legs, that all I knew between my legs was that there had been nothing between my legs, that I was all virtue and virgin and vulnerable and as inexperienced as the disappearance of my pubic curls confirmed: that indeed I might just as well be, as I virtually was through my vain virginity, a pre-pubescent girl: an eighteen-year-old girl yet to earn her curls.
And the dreadful scream from Noblesse-Oblige and the smell of whatever was burned and the shame of my shaving, oh god why, was, why oh why, was, oh no please, was, oh please no why, let me know why, why oh why, why, why, why, oh please why, oh heaven, please in heaven why, why, why, why, the scream the dreadful scream of inexplicable incredible unendurable pain and my nude shame was wetting my pod, oh god I was wetting, my minx was whetted and wetted and keened and keening and I was as moist as a melon, warm wanting and wanton, and bowed and shamed at my maiden minx's arrival at arousal.
My nipples danced and were entranced and enhanced as Hai Moon began to moisturise my skin with a tinted tincture to protect my soft girlness from the sun's beat on flesh with its heat. And my moistness, not just the moistness of my brown flesh caressed by my gentle adorably pretty fourteen-year-old stable-girls, but the moistness within my maiden's minx, grew and flowed as I glowed with the protective ointment, and the little girls were near to my breasts.
Oh god please help me, Kim Kai and Hai Moon were near my breasts with the cream for my breastal dreams. And they girlhandled my chest's medallions, my melons my mounds, my profound girl-confirmatory monumental mammaries. And I closed my eyes and rolled them to heaven behind my eyelids as I fought what I did not want to fight, as these fourteen-year-old schoolgirls made virtual love to my sensitive body, though seemingly insensible of the lust they were causing me, and my mouth bit on my gag bit as I gagged to fight with all my might the girl-arousal that was paramount and mounting still with the skill of the little maid's hands glossing my glorious brown skin by gliding over my huge breasts and their impertinent insolently mid-pointed nipples.
I took the re-insertion of my tale resignedly. The plugging by the bent dildo of my anus with the resulting insulting swinging confirmation of my transference from humanity to animality in the eyes of my tormentors, was filmed by a returned crew of cameragirls, who would be in trouble soon for lazing abed when they were to have risen before dawn, had they not ignored their alarms for one more kiss of each others damned-devil-desirable lips: a kiss that had led, lain still but not still in bed, to two pods desperate to be fed and feed need; and greed only satiated by an hour of leisured pleasure, in divided-treasure-eager-beaver-soixante-nerf.
And my eyes were aglaze and my slink was lubriciously lubricated as with long lissom legs and with my minx ablaze, Fabrina taking over, overtaking the little schoolgirls who to their school desks now skitter scatter scadaddled, I was led by my tether to the blacksmith's forge, my tail swinging long and wide, side-to-side, lifting from my anus up to dangle down and tangle brushingly with my tiptoe tension torsioned calves.
Can anybody, just anybody please just explain my body? As I swung my wasped-waist-enforced-devil-may-care-rear like a sidesman's censer, my tail swishing aswing, a pendulumed announcement of my pronounced girlity, the smell of the searing became clearer, as we neared the blacksmith, and yet my surrender increased as did the slick at the lips of my nude shaven minx.
I knew fear and fear was foremost; but I knew no choice and no voice, and obedience had penetrated my timbre as I wiggle-walked without daring, indeed without thinking I had a dare within me, to challenge the right to treat me this way, as my bare bottom swung and swayed both and each way.
I knew that the sear and the scorch were one and the same as Noblesse-Oblige's pain. And yet I was being led nearer to the epicentre of that clearly horrendous happening, without resistance.
I realise now that my path was lubricated: that my minx was my mind. Sure I felt terrified, but my terror caused my minx to flow at what I did not know. But when I did know, oh hell and heaven, how quickly did my slithering slot slaver?!
Fabrina led me into a shelter at the blacksmith's forge. The farrier, busy with her constant fire, did not even turn her black-haired head to look to see who had been brought in as Fabrina tethered me to a rail facing a wall.
"Fuckin' burnt mesen on the 'andle of that brandin' iron!" the blacksmith cursed to nobody and anybody.
"All the fuckin' years, I've bin in the fuckin' trade, and I goes and burns me fuckin 'and on a brandin' iron 'andle. Would yer fuckin' believe it? Shud a worn me fuckin' gluv eh?"
"Still, there'll never be no doubt now: no doubt as that there black beauty belongs to the Circle-C."
"Fancy wastin' an incredible 'oney like that'n on pulling a fuckin' plough for gord's sake!"
"Circle-C Farm?! They must be rollin' in fuckin' poneygirls to waste a 'orny 'oney like that there whatwer 'er fuckin' name: 'Knobble –Thingy'. There's bin some lovely ponies through 'ere; but talk abart a fuckin' beauty…..'Grace' does yer call it? Fuckin' disgrace to put 'er to plough that much I does know………"
…….Her monotonous mono-conversation stopped as she heard a trickling noise.
"Oh fuckin' 'ell" she cursed, with a hint of gentle understanding despite her crudity.
She had cursed because she had turned at the sound of a trickle. She had cursed because she had turned to see the cause of the sound. She had cursed because she had turned to see my shimmering shiny droplet wet legs, and that I stood in a puddle of my pee, as in my fear at the sight of the branding iron just used to mark a 'C'-within-a-circle on poor Noblesse-Oblige, I had let go my bladder, and my urine had snaked around my wonderful legs to smack on the ground at my feet.
That was the state of my unslaked fear!
Oh god what kind of hell was I in?!
And the deep humiliation of this? Oh no, and oh why oh why, I was slippery in my slot once more, not from the last drops of my cognac, but from a soulful slick that my sundered pee-pod was producing in wonder abunder. I was being girl in such a strange context, yet my head-mind could not unsex me. And my eyes implored that I be explored and exploited and used and abused, for no reason my reason could reason.
I wanted to be, but not really be, hurt. I wanted to be, but not really be, sullied. I wanted to be, but not really be, bullied. I wanted to be, but not really be, frightened. I wanted to be, but not really be, taken. I wanted to be, but not really be, forsaken. I wanted to be, but not really be, beaten. I wanted to be, but not really be, despoiled. I wanted to be and really be girl. I wanted to experience the extremity of the extreme of girl, to be forced into orbit beyond the end of the girl-system outlawed and rocketed into deepest girlspace by my mistress, all-other-girls, and made to suffer the dismal distant dismissal till I could please as she pleased to be pleased, and as I could, only as yet, plead to be taught to ply, till I could apply for her clemency.
"Oh fuckin' 'ell" cursed the blacksmith gently and understandingly as she looked at my divine legs wrapped around with the slow pouring of pee from my pod in fear, shaking-quaking piss-making fear, that she was going to brand me.
"Ain't you a lovely one too" she coaxed as she poured warm water on my legs to wash the urine of fear off me, and off the cobbled paving I graced with my gorgeousness.
"You must be that there student girly wot they flew out from England like. Day said you was pretty and day wont wrong nyver! You is a fuckin' bootee, you is: a fuckin' bootee"
"Two black bootees, one arter de uvver! Must be me fuckin' lucky day eh?! She comforted.
Her gentle demeanour belied the fact she had just, not long since, just matter-of-factly, as part of her daily work, as if it were done every day, as if it were the norm, branded poor "Noblesse-Oblige" on her bare body with a red-hot iron.
She walked around admiring me, resting from her work as something heated in her fire readying.
"Your prettier than 'er too: that there 'Nobble-Whatsit'! Ain't you just fuckin' gorgeous eh?!"
Then, moments later in her movements around me admiring me, she exclaimed: "Coo and gord 'elp……just fuckin' look at yer!! Yer a fuckin' foal!!"
She had spotted my completely shaven minx and was pointing astonished.
"Cor, bloody 'ell, yer a fuckin' foal!" she questioned her unbelieved questioning eyes by her intonation here.
"Ow did de uvver girls ever keep dare 'ands off yer?! I can't niver believe it! Yer a fuckin' cracker. Yer just so fuckin' gorgeous! Ow did dey ever leave off on yer, for fuck's sake eh?! Was dey all fuckin' blind where you kem from, or wot?!"
Then she saw the tears welling in my gorgeous brown eyes, and her instinctive gentleness came to the fore.
"Yer a shy gel ain't yer luv? Dat's not nice when dey mek yer inter a pony when yer shy like." She sympathised, as I blushed in my naked shame, lowering my lids over my glowing dark-chocolate eyes.
But she had business in hand: work to do: she had a job to do on me.
"Nagh den, lets 'ave a look at yer 'ooves shall us?"
At that the cameragirls sidled crabwise away from pointing their ever-seeing eye at my shame: at the depilated vee between my powerful thighs: to where the farrier, with all the experience of positioning, born of years of experience telling her the best way to avoid a startled ponygirl's kick, was readying herself to lift one of my legs.
I nearly tumbled forward from where I was tight tethered by my bit as, in a flash, my right ankle was grasped as I was, in the same instant, expertly nudged over to put my weight all on my left leg, and thus prevented from kicking, being but a two-legged pony and now balanced only on my one remaining grounded leg.
The farrier drew my right leg up between her thighs and clasped it there to expertly cast her eyes over my clog-hoofed foot.
"Pretty little foot yer got ain't yer?" she muttered as she studied with the experienced eye of years, seeming to measure with a hidden calliper or mental rule within her mind: to measure my hoof in mental-millimetres.
"Forgot me fuckin' specs dis mornin' ain't I. Oo ever 'eard of a blacksmiff wiv specs anyow? She coaxed me with her gentle humour, comforting me in my continuing high distress that, to my clearly clouded fearfully frightened mind, whatever she was doing in carefully inspecting my clog-hoofed foot, squinting in substitution for her eye-glasses, was but a preliminary to my getting what Noblesse-Oblige had just horribly had.
"Well den: specs or no specs, I reckon as 'ow I can do fer you my pretty black bootee, an' no trubble eh" she uttered in further gentle understanding comfort conveying mutter to me.
My foot was lowered and her voice rose in 'tune', if such it could be called if honesty were to prevail, as, behind me and unseen, unseeable by me because my rubber bit gagged mouth was tethered to the rail, she used her steel tongues to pull the first red-hot strip of iron out of her fire, watch its colour change to that her long-experience told her was perfect, and began to hammer it 'U' curved around the horn of her anvil, after having first beaten it flat and forced seven square-profile holes at equally spaced intervals through it.
A long hiss of heat in water bubbling, told of iron making cold as water warmed, and another hiss, the farrier could not hear, told of more piss from my pod in my continuing terrible fear at what she must be at, hidden behind, blind to my rear, behind my back.
My second shame was eagerly easily caught on camera, as the sound boom was distanced from the 'tang-tang clang' the expert blacksmith beat out with her hammer as her voice rose above the noise of her forge whilst she bellowed, before bellowing her fire higher, and belting her iron strip curved, the only musical sound she knew: the one called, she prided, the 'anvil chorus':
"Da, da, dar-de-dar, de-dar, de-dar, de-dar-dar",
'Tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang-clang',
"Da, da, dar-de-dar, de-dar, de-dar, de-dar-dar",
'Tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang-clang',
"Da, da, dar-de-dar, de-dar, de-dar, de-dar-dar",
'Tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang; tang-tang clang'
It would be amusing to be able to say here that this highly unmusical offering, was proffering pleasure; but in fact, as testified by my terrified trembling, it taunted and haunted as, daunted, another hiss of my piss from fear, flowed down my flaunted legs.
I had never ever been so frightened in my young life as now, trembling and tremulous I awaited the unknowable agony of, what I was sure was in store, the branding iron on my bare body.
"Oh fuckin' 'ell! Not agen!" The farrier had spotted I stood in a pool of my piss once more and that my lovely legs were shining with the yellow tint of my minx's tincture.
More warm water followed from a bucket flowed and throwed over my calves and my pod by the ever-patient blacksmith, who now seemed to see, for the first time, as if it had not been so ever since I had been tethered in her workshop, that my legs were trembling and my body St Vitasing uncontrollably, with shudders that juddered my free-swinging breasts down to their tips, which were consequently correspondingly reverberating like the ends of just-struck tuning-forks.
"Dare dare darlin'! I knows wot yer finkin'! No wonder yer is scared an' all, pissin yersen like that. We ain't gonna brand yer nor nuffin' yer silly little darlin'!" the blacksmith cooed.
"Wot kinda fuckin' bitch am I den, makin' a bootiful gal like you is, fink she was gonna get branded eh?"
"No wunder you is tremblin' and pissin yersen an' that: yer poor little darlin'"
Oh please, please, please, let this be true! Let it not be a lie to lure me to relax so as to take me and burn my skin with the red-hot iron. She seemed, the blacksmith seemed so genuine. I could believe her! Surely I could believe her?!
Now I heard her coaxing voice in a muffled mumble that tumbled from her lips strangely to my unsighted eyes, as I unsighted could not see that she had aligned square-profile-tapering-to-tip nails in her mouth, so as to have then ready to take out and use in turn, and meanwhile free her hands for the duty she had with me that first morn's post dawn.
My left leg was no longer trembling as the farrier lifted it between her very handsome and erotically warm thighs, thighs smooth with the pride she took in her strong mature fit and very feminine body. And was it in reflex reaction to her removing my fear that I felt my pod take interest in her sweet sweat lubricated limbs: the limbs between the evidently enormous strength of which she clenched my extremely pretty lower left leg, as she swept her leather apron to one side?
As the brutal-gentle farrier swept her leather apron to one side so as not to hide my clog shod foot. She was humming, since she could no longer 'sing', her lips and teeth being a quiver for her store of nails, as I felt, insofar as I could through wood, her align what I now realised was an iron shoe, a pony-shoe fresh made by her for this maid, and squarely hammered in the top nail, the nail at the mid of the bend in the 'U' of the shoe, the first and seventh nail, to be followed by three at equidistant intervals down each tail of the 'U' till I was shod: till my hoof was shod with an iron pony-shoe secured by seven nails.
My hitherto 'clomp' was now a 'clip' as my left leg was lowered, and the onomatopoeic overtones of my dainty footfalls would henceforth beat out a different tune.
And my 'clip' was to joined by a 'clop' as my blacksmith raised my right leg, with seven nails anew for her lips to chew as she drew the 'U' of my shoe in place, and speedily unerringly skilfully nailed it to my right wooden clog-hoof.
Is it strange to relate that the 'clip-clop' of my metallic shod hooves, as I tried my feet on the cobbles of the farrier's workshop filled me with pride inside?
A mental picture, a daydream, was relaxing me momentarily now. I was in my study: no, in my dormitory at school. There I slouched in the microist of micro-miniskirts, with my lovely brown legs, one folded under me and the other draped over the arm of the lounge settee, on which my delectable all-girl poundage snuggle-nestled. Off my loosely trailed foot dangled the very latest and finest fashion Italian leather shoe, of horrendous expense, half-shed in my dream of careless wealth and the best that money could afford me being mine. I was browsing a magazine with headlined article labelled 'Paris Shoeshine', and with pictures galore of all the shoes in store for the millionairess I was deemed to be in my dream, fee free.
The mental picture was momentary, and its dousing came as the pleasure of having my pretty calves held between the crude-rude-sensitive, hard-gentle blacksmith's enormously strong and shapely fit thighs, an action to which I, being in so complete-a-contrast-supremely-feminine, had willingly surrendered. 'Out of strength shall come forth sweetness' it has been said, and sweetness was what my pod, from the grip of my lovely legs in turn in the strength of the blacksmith's thighs, sugarly willingly surrenderingly secreted inside.
That action, an attraction that had heavily moistened my minx, had had to be supplanted when my newly pony-shoe shod feet were both on ground planted, and the sudden shocking and surprising pride I now found was in the new sound I could echo in place of the 'clomp clomp' my pretty feet emitted before the 'clip clop' they now transmitted.
My young body was betraying me to secrets my foremind had no knowledge were below the metaphorical stones my cruel and demeaning imprisonment as a novitiate ponygirl was revealing as they were overturned.
It was Alena who collected me to take me next to goodness only would know where and what.
What Alena and I, neither of us expected, as she unhitched me from the rail in the blacksmith's forge, and tugged gently on my lead rein, the rein fixed to one side of the rubber bit across my tongue in my mouth, was the sight and fright of what was to nearly throw us off our feet as she led me clip, clop, clip, clop, newly, clip, clop, clip, clop, iron shoe shod away to face whatever was planned for my day.
Alena must have met with the phenomenon before, but my lovely devilment-deep-dark brown eyes, shot enormously wide as we stepped aside from a sight of unbelievable horror and fascinating fright.
It was Hai Moon.
It was Hai Moon the tiny Chinese doll of a fourteen-year-old stable-girl and she was riding.
It was Hai Moon having a riding lesson.
Hai Moon was riding, and oh god how she was using poor Koala-Bare. It was savage and wicked. Koala-Bare had her head pulled hard back by the tight reins from a steel bit that opened the flame-red lips of the Australian honeychild's mouth. Her nostrils were flared and her eyes stared wildly wide, as the near child on her back drove the long-legged lovely with whip and spur to run faster than the fastest she was able, and faster still.
Koala-Bare's waist was saddled like mine down to a wasped wisp of its natural size. Around her wasped-waist now though, and resting on hips enhanced by her wasping, was another tight-as-hell-tight broad black leather belt holding a penis-pommel saddle on which Hai Moon rode.
The belt around the supremely slim waist of the enforcedly-wasped six-foot-one lanky Australian catwalk model had, in its middle at the back, a curved steel rod, curved to match the supreme arch of the Koala-Bare's back, atop which, at bottom-of-ribcage level and rising up and out, was a ten-inch-long leather-coated dildo pommel, which now disappeared into the minx of the mischievous jockey, who thereby, at sacrifice of any chance of having retained intact her virginity, saddled the miraculous maid made to carry her on her back.
Koala-Bare's saddle was secured for certain by the crupper. Poor tortured Koala-Bare had a tight slim belt running from the front base of the second belt around her waist, the belt holding aloft the penis-saddle with Hai Moon astraddle, pulled agonisingly between the lips of her minx, whereafter it divided in twain to leave her long tail, the tail obscenely lifting before lowering and swinging from the dildo forced hard up her anus, and fixing, the crupper fixing its two ends, the 'V' of its 'Y', to the bottom-side-back of the saddle belt, having first surrounded the lovely hemispheres of her bottom.
Her seating sensuously sexually taken care of, Hai Moon had need of stirrups and stirrups, will she or not she, poor Koala-Bare's pretty hands were forced to be, her wrists being cuffed and strapped one-and-a-half-feet-apart at her front, and her hands, at the end of her arms otherwise dangling free, made to hold steel stirrups fixed to her index fingers by rings therein and thereon, and their tops chained to her imprisoning wrists' bands. Hai Moon had her tiptoe-booted toes thrust through these stirrups, and her lovely lively little legs, hugged Koala-Bare as she rode her like a horse, like the ponygirl Koala-Bare was forced.
Hai Moon fisted Koala-Bare's reins horribly shortly and terribly tightly in her left hand and wielded a welting whip crop with fury on Koala-Bare's gorgeous bottom as she dug wheeled needle spurs into Koala-Bare's bare thighs.
With the savagely cruel wheeled spurs at the heels of her riding boots, all she wore, being otherwise completely nude naked, Hai Moon slashed poor Koala-Bare's naked thighs till bloody trickles rivuletted down to her knees, as she drove her, totally without mercy, bouncing on her back, being heavenly heavily cunt-fucked by the penis-pommel sliding in and out of her sopping minx as she bobbed up-and-down with Koala-Bare's trotting motion, as the brutally abused panting Koala-Bare; Koala-Bare glowing and trickling with aromatically erotic girl-sweat and foaming at her mouth, jogged by us with her titties bouncing in incredibly flowing floating erotic unison.
And I quietly came. I looked wide-eyed innocently at this vision of hell and heaven from hell's hell, and felt an infinitesimal instant of un-Richter-scaled minor rictus, epicentred in my minx. It was so tiny I was hardly aware it had happened. The cameras saw only my eyes wide in horror and amazement. Only the seismometer my clitoris formed, found echo of the telltale eruption disruption of my equilibrium, as I saw the tortured Koala-Bare ridden like a demon with a fury on her back, flee by us, her swinging bottom, with cruel crude tail forced into her anus swishing, being wildly crop-swatted and her thighs spur-tip-rip-bloodied as she ran faster than light, driven by her only hope that she could gain ease of her pain by doing as she was made, as Hai Moon boundlessly brutalised her beauty ……….
Then fear and fright hit me once more. That Koala-Bare could have been me, that Koala-Bare's plight could be mine, was clear; as clear as the pee that trickled from my pod to the floor once more as I shook uncontrollably, trembling with horror: complete and undiluted, absolute and undoubted horror, until I was petrified.
I was petrified.
Oh god what kind of hell was I in?!
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