Infidelity

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  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.

  “Then, I’ll be quite rough with her,” he tells me smiling broadly. “Especially at the start.” His black eyes are filled with undisguised charm.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I realize now what Lockhart’s been priming me for. There’s a competition of sorts between masters and their pony slaves. Because Lockhart has his indoor paddock, it’s the perfect place to hold the event, although it’s often still miserably cold outside. It’s just the middle of April and spring won’t really break out for another month.

  I discover that my master is quite fussy about the details. I’ve been practicing arduously with the cart for nearly two months, carrying heavier and heavier loads. In that time, my shoulders have become stronger and my heart beats more steadily. I work in earnest on this, since it seems the more effort I put into the task, the more I ride Willow in the afternoon.

  On the Saturday of the event, Lockhart wakes me himself. Rather than feel the sting of a lash, I’m immediately taken to be bathed, my hair shampooed and my entire body creamed with something sensuously soft and scented with the fragrance of wildflowers. My master attends me through all of this, as though he is waiting on me, not me on him. It’s amusing because he keeps tickling me, and I quickly discover that he does this on purpose.

  The best part is the warm bath of water. I soak for nearly a half-hour—this is not a matter to rush. He wants me relaxed, not agitated and fearful.

  My hair grows past my shoulders now, a thick mane of sleek mahogany. Though for this special occasion, he fixes it into a braid so it will be out of the way. After I’m soaped twice with a scented lather, he rinses me with a stream of warm water—usually it’s cold and this is quite a luxury. He pats my body dry, and wraps me in an enormous towel before he
applies cream to every inch, every nook and ticklish cranny.

  I’m surprised to find a new harness to wear. This one is identical to the one I’ve worn daily for months—except for inlays of polished silver that make it shine. My collar is new as well, a silver one, studded with a ruby colored crystal. My excitement builds as he puts me in confinement. Without the straps to bind me now, I’d feel lost and very naked. But with this new harness, I feel particularly special. Once it all fits tightly, but for the strap between my thighs, another surprise greets me when Lockhart pulls out a generous dildo attached to a bushy horsehair tail.

  The excited anxiousness in me deepens as my eyes fix on the amazing sight. I’m moved even more as he has me bend over and presses the greased rod into my ass. The enormity of its size astounds my physical sense, and this body cavity reshapes itself to allow the rod to settle pleasantly within. I relax profoundly; there is no choice to but to surrender with every atom in me. My poor cunt feels left out, now so empty and ignored.

  Bringing me upright again, the remaining buckles of the harness are closed and locked. But unlike my other harness, this one has a new twist. With the dildo tail attached directly to my collar, Lockhart pulls the strap tautly, so my entire torso is forced to jut out, and my breasts with their fettered nipples protrude nobly from my chest. This posture is remarkable, this confinement daunting.

  The bridle and bit follow—also new fancy ones, that I’ll wear as proudly as I wear the rest of my attire. My boots have been polished to a fine black gleaming shine. I wish I could see myself in a mirror—though, this stable has no such vain luxury—then too, it is not for my own pleasure, but my master’s, that I’m displayed this way.

  I know I look as haughty and arrogant as I feel.

  I’m drunk with my new power by the time I strut to the paddock on Lockhart’s leash. He whips at my calves in a reminder of strict form. There are three other pony slaves and their masters there—all as fancily attired as I am. I’d stop to look at them, but with a push from the buggy whip at my side, I take my place as ordered beside the others, and stare forward.

  From that moment on, I feel a little intoxicated and my role as pony slave takes over my brain and body. The exertion of our workout is enormous. It seems twice is demanded of me, and because I realize the importance of this spectacle, I pour all of my determination into the effort. I feel the crack of the whip often, but it only eases my frail nerves. I work in tandem with the other slaves, and work even harder to conquer them in a race of slaves and pony carts. We are inspected, prodded and punished for any flaws, and when the first several grueling hours are over, I’m put to bed to rest.

  The late afternoon session is a repeat of the morning, though there are other guests—some I recognize as Lockhart’s Thursday friends, and still other people I’ve never seen. I can’t pay attention to them, but instead must focus all my faculties on the show that I perform.

  For a time, I’m taken with the other salves to a dais where we are one by one inspected and fondled by both men and women, attired in everything from smart business suits, to elegant riding gear—jodhpurs, silk shirts and woolen coats. As we’re closely examined, our pony cunts grow hot, wet juice dripping down our legs. We feel the smack of paddles, the cut of canes, our nipples tugged until we can’t be silent, and hands prodding the dildos that impale our asses. Form is all-important, and breaches of etiquette are summarily punished. I shudder deeply at each swish of a cane or whip. Whether it strikes my skin or not, or that of another pony slave, I feel the pain in trembling waves as though it is my own body being whipped.

  Exhaustion carries me pleasantly into the night, and I sleep with the other pony slaves in the stable, waking for a second day of the exhibition, to find more grueling hours of practice and performance. We are little more than trained animals at this exhibition. Our plain food is served on platters on the floor. We eat and toilet with our hands tied behind our backs. We’re cleaned and groomed by our attentive masters in the same way we’ve attended to our master’s stallions and mares. I can’t imagine any world but this—to think of anything beyond it would be silly, and only make the task of surrendering more difficult now.

  At the end of the second day, I’m nearly delirious. I know I’ve both succeeded and failed in Lockhart’s eyes, but I have withstood my first public scene and conquered a good deal of fear. As the other pony slaves and their masters disappear, I feel strangely playful with my Lockhart, and he seems willing to accept that mood.

  “You’ve performed well,” he says placing a white chocolate in my mouth. It melts away, and like an aphrodisiac, has me suddenly so sexually hot I’m ready to rape him. The idea is ludicrous, but as he starts to remove my bridle and bit, I find my hands reaching out teasingly toward his body. He smiles. “Feeling frisky?”

  “Oh, sir, I am.”

  His fingers are glorious, in every way they move against my bare skin and over the straps of the harness. I’m moving toward him for more, feeling crazy—and very drunk. The empty portal between my legs cries for something to fill it.

  “You’re quite aroused.”

  “You make me so.”

  “This life becomes you.”

  “These days have made me hot and way too bold. I’m sorry if I’m too forward—,” I rush on almost unthinkingly, saying so much more than I’d dare to speak on any other day, “but I would die for you to hold me, sir. For your cock to press my cunt—not my ass—though I’d take anything, I swear, and never complain.” I’m clenching; spasming so hard, I know it will only take a little to have my body rocking with orgasm. “I’m so in need.”

  Before I realize what’s taking place, the harness is completely off, except for the strap that holds my tail inside me, and the silver collar that attaches to it. Lockhart throws my cape around my body, and then leads me briskly to the brown-shingle, up the stairs to his bedroom. It’s been months since I’ve been in his bed—I can’t remember back that far. He removes the tail and dildo, leaving me with a strange feeling of emptiness. It’s been a long time since I had nothing in either orifice. Am I lost? Am I dreaming? I can’t even remember being at the shop. I think it’s been three weeks, but I can’t be sure. I recall giving Ellie notice of my plans to be away, and then departing as though I was closing the door on that part of my life forever.

  When Lockhart removes the silver collar, I’m so naked, I’m nervous and frightened, and it takes his powerful arms around me to hold me still. His mouth presses mine, our lips opening wide. He feels my skin and I jump lively in each place he touches, all pleasantly sore from the physical corrections I’ve taken over the last two days. My ass has born the brunt of my punishment, and in his bathroom mirror, I’ve seen the results: lines from the cane, bruises forming beneath the flesh, and places that were roughed up with the paddle. Now, those places burn with desire, that desire climbing into my body, burrowing deeply so the arousal I feel goes much beyond just skin and tissue. It hits my veins in rivers of fire. My cunt clutches as though there’s something inside to squeeze, but it remains empty for a good long while as Lockhart’s hands caress me with a passion I’ve never experienced from him before. He clutches my ass, strokes my breasts, and kisses them with tenderness. He’s climbed into my intimate spaces as though seeking out another piece of me to own—when in fact I have nothing left to give him.

  I return his ardor diving willfully into his muscles, into his thighs, to his cock that feels so familiar in my mouth. I know it well. My nose nestles for a while in his balls, while he receives and I give with gracious abandon, losing myself again in the smell of my master, in the way he groans in reply to my touch and kisses and hums of pleasure. He runs his hand through my hair, pulling out the braid so it falls free in a willowy mass of waves. Drawing it across his skin, I see how he shivers. I scratch his sides while listening to his mirthful reply. My lips descend to his nipple and I suck just as he’s so ardently sucked mine. We float together for a time in our exploration. At first, he is the aggres
sor and then I am. We move back and forth in this simple give and take of lust. And then he’s inside me, big and bountiful, as though his cock is reaching for something and I’m his ticket for transport to an unheard of world.

  We are animal, beastly, and we are one.

  For two hours maybe three, we collide this way.

  Then he cums inside me. I feel the great pulse of it, and a swoosh of energy as though I’m nothing any more. Nothing.

  We lie together with no energy for more, and then sleep like any normal man and woman after sex—contentedly.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’m surprised to find I await Delia’s return anxiously. I’ve missed her. Her hair, her smile her exuberant body, her willing submissiveness, and even the way she fawned all over me. I miss her adoring eyes when they swim with lust for me.

  Her time with Calvin was much longer than any of us expected it would be. I heard from Bernard that she balked miserably for nearly two weeks, until Calvin was able to break her fear and the intense sorrow she felt being abandoned by me.

  After that, after accepting that this was truly what I wanted for her, she gave in to him, and consented to be trained in a new way. In spite of his rather unusual lifestyle, Calvin is still a rather traditional master—almost in an old world manner. His rules are strict, and punishment for infractions is severe. He would give her fewer choices than I would, and control her more thoroughly than I found necessary.

  To have her back after nearly two months away, I can’t wait to see her. I wonder how she’s changed—if she’s changed. And if so, will her heart still beat as strongly for me as it did before? All this makes me wonder why I sent her away, and I’m unused to such feelings.