by Sean O'Kane
It was getting late on the third and final day of the council’s meeting and the arguments were still going on. The Prince marshalled his thoughts once more and stood up to reply.
“My own opinion is that we should not compensate at all. A chipped pony will not garner any real advantage. If anything the harder she’s whipped the more distracted she’ll become. An unchipped pony will perform to her limits under the whip just like a chipped one. Let us remember the chips are there to inculcate obedience and pleasure through pain quickly, and to override the natural personality. With time and trouble a suitable pony can be trained to orgasm just as passionately as a chipped pony and can be whipped just as hard. We in the arena world just needed the job doing quickly.”
The baron’s hand went up and the Prince happily ceded the floor. He had been surprised that his scheme had been so controversial. He had mooted the idea of a series of pony races to be held around the world independent of the races in the arenas. The sport was becoming more and more popular and the Prince could see a time coming when – if they weren’t quick on their feet – a totally independent body would be set up to monitor races and govern the sport.
The baron was driving that particular point home as the Prince drew his attention back.
“The revenues and sponsorship that could be gathered from betting on course and worldwide are potentially enormous, and that’s quite apart from revenues that could be generated on the ground. We all know that the market for the games is still growing so there’s almost no risk involved. And it’s not as if we need to weaken our arena squads either! We’ve all got – or can easily acquire – a small number of girls to be trained up specially for the events…”
By the time a vote was called for, the noise from the dairy herd was making it hard to hear the speakers, but on a show of hands the proposal went through and a programme of ‘Open Classics’ was to be developed. Bakhtar city was to be the first venue. The Classics would be held entirely separately from arena fixtures and would be open to any owners; from outside or inside the world of the arenas. A measure of quality control would be set up by using the arenas to certify a pony’s ability to run an officially measured mile in full harness and pulling her owner, within a time that was to be set as a standard by a Turkish stable who volunteered to formulate classes of ponies, having regard to height, weight and experience. The runs would have to be certified – and a payment made to a body to be set up and called the WPRA (World Pony Racing Authority) at least three weeks prior to a race and the certificate renewed annually. Any owner wishing to field an arena slave would have to abide by the same procedure.
The poor milkers were howling into their gags by the time the meeting broke up and they received especially harsh treatment as a result before the grooms were allowed to milk them. The Prince himself spent a happy half an hour on a blonde whose breasts had clearly been hormonally enhanced even before she had been trained to lactate. Her huge tits wobbled and swung from side to side as she was whipped and she danced in pain, sometimes the Prince even managed to make them collide with each other. And even though it was against house rules to touch a milk slave below the waist, the Prince could see the chain that ran between her labia was dripping with juice despite her muffled screams.
This one had obviously been part of a different set in the baron’s taste experiment and the Prince thought he got apple and a hint of blackcurrant from her.
He flew out later that evening and as he settled into his seat, he reflected that it had been a good meeting. Pretty well all issues had been resolved except one. His own squad was not strong in the pony events. He didn’t own one slave he thought he could enter against a field fully open to private and corporate owners as well as arena owners. He was going to have to start looking for fresh blood.
Chapter Three
The sun struck down through the trees in blinding shafts of light and the ponygirl almost seemed to flicker in and out of existence as she passed from brilliant light to deep shade every few paces. Even though it was only mid morning Orlando Dismukes felt he could nod off, so peaceful were the surroundings and so quietly did the sulky run. The track was surfaced with densely compressed bark set in rubber and the wheels hardly rumbled on it at all. The pony’s wedge heeled shoes made no noise either and the only sounds were the soft tinkling of the small bells at her nipples and birdsong from the woods on either side of the track. Lazily he focussed his eyes on the quivering hemispheres of her buttocks and swept the driving whip across them, watching the brief tremor in the flesh as the cord zipped across the skin. There was no alteration in the girl’s pace, she was trotting on easily enough and if she was required to speed up he would apply several more lashes – she was an experienced enough pony to know the difference between a lash applied for pleasure and a command to alter her pace.
Orlando looked beyond the girl’s shoulder and saw that the track was about to emerge from the woods and bend to the left. Straight ahead of them a smooth turf bank rose gently, the grass immaculately cut as all the grass was at the Pretty Pony ranch. There was no rule about having to stay on the tracks and the turf looked appealing on this brilliant morning. He sat up suddenly and took a firmer grip on the whip while at the same time shortening his grip on the reins. The pony’s head came up as she felt him tighten them, then the rhythm of her trotting disintegrated as he slashed the whip diagonally from her upper right shoulder down across her middle back. He wielded it hard, two, three times and then paused as he watched the full effect. The pony’s head had reared at the first lash and even as she had twisted her torso away from the whip her pace had increased to a flat out run. But, true to her training it was a high-stepping, prancing run; a gait that was for showing off her long thighs as much as it was for moving her sulky along at top speed. Orlando had been late making his booking and had had to settle for a dressage pony rather than a proper hacking one. She was diminutive but the groom at the stable had been adamant that she would be more than capable of a morning’s trot around the estate.
As the track came out from under the trees he wrenched at her right rein to veer her towards the sloping turf and then flicked in three more lashes across her buttocks. Her head dipped down as she saw the slope and dug in. Suddenly even the soft rumbling of the wheels was silenced as the sulky went off the track and onto the grass. The slope was not extreme but even so after a few yards the pony needed whipping again.
Orlando sat forwards so he could throw the lash farther round her and make it bite at her stomach, delta and breasts. She threw her head back as one or two lashes did torment her breasts but she kept her pace up and soon the ground began to level out. Orlando was able to settle back once more and just keep the whip at her back which was gleaming with sweat by then and gently he eased her back to a trot and then finally to a walk as they reached the top of the slope. Despite it not having been a particularly steep or long climb the Pretty Pony ranch occupied mainly flat land and he was able to see all the way back to the ranch house in one direction and the wooded hills that bounded the estate in the other. But he wasn’t the only one enjoying the view.
None other than the proprietor of the ranch himself; Wilbur Beckington-Floyd sat in a sulky almost identical to the one he was driving, clearly enjoying the clear morning air and the view. Orlando pulled his pony round to the right again and drew up beside him.
The two men reached across and shook hands as Orlando’s pony came to a halt beside the tall blonde pony Mr Floyd was driving.
“Did Peaches get you up here ok?” he asked Orlando, nodding in the direction of the pony whose ribs were still heaving as she fought for breath.
“Sure, thank you, Sir. She did real good for a dressage pony. Took the whip well.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t do you a proper hacker, but we’re booked out this weekend. It’s the races tomorrow. Always a big draw.”
“I heard the arenas have set up some kind of international pony racing board. Going to make it all official and regulated,
” Orlando said.
Mr Floyd frowned briefly. “The sons of bitches beat me to it, son! It’s high time though and it’ll be good for the sport.”
Mr Floyd climbed down and Orlando joined him standing by the ponies’ heads. His pony was typical of the dressage specialist, petite; no more than five foot three, and pleasingly curvaceous, some hormonal treatment of breasts and buttocks was permitted but was limited by the requirements of the dressage competition itself. Ponies ideally had to move gracefully and smoothly under the guidance of their drivers’ whips and having huge wobbling mounds of titflesh swinging wildly at their chests did not make for good scores. That treatment was usually reserved for milkers. Peaches was a pretty brunette whose large bright eyes stared out anxiously from between her blinkers and she only relaxed when Orlando gave her a slap on the rump and patted one plump breast. To keep them steady both breasts were tied at their roots by plastic cable ties, not tightly enough to discolour them but just enough to stop them swinging as she ran. Orlando knew that Mr Floyd did not hold with hormonal treatments and that what had got Peaches her stable name were entirely natural, and that made them all the more impressive. Had they been any bigger she would have looked top heavy, but as it was her graceful, five foot two frame and charmingly pert buttocks made for a very pretty package.
“She’s a credit to your stable, Sir,” Orlando told Mr Floyd as he stroked the achingly hard nipples that quivered eagerly at the peaks of the big breasts, almost making the bells that hung from the bars that pierced them ring, even though she wasn’t running.
“Thank you,” the older man said. “We got a shed load of stables coming for the races tomorrow. And Peaches here’ll be in the dressage so don’t go too heavy on the whip please.” He turned to the stately and impassive blonde pony who overtopped Peaches by almost a foot. “But this one I’m putting my faith in for the cross country and the one mile,” he added.
Orlando looked closely at the tall blonde and whistled softly. She was a magnificent creature –as tall as Floyd himself – and with a truly noble pair of breasts, full, proud and heavy but with hardly any crease at their undersides. Her chest was deep, her stomach flat and her mons was unusually prominent, at the join of the long, smooth columns of her thighs. Orlando felt his cock twitch into life as he contemplated the warm mystery that undoubtedly lay between the neat lips of her sex. From between her blinkers grey-blue eyes stared at the ground and waited patiently for her master to whip her up again. Like Peaches the blonde’s nipples had been pierced and her breasts had been steadied by being joined by a fine gold chain that had been fed through the holes and then clipped to itself at the mid way point between the nipples.
Floyd chuckled as he saw his young guest eyeing the blonde up lasciviously.
“Stall doors’ll be open till seven tonight. After that I want ‘em bedded down. But I reckon a bit of good ole’ cock action won’t do them any harm and I reckon the Pretty Pony’s got as good lookin’ a bunch of girls as any damn whorehouse,” he said.
The stall doors being open was the usual term for the girls being available to anyone who wanted them and Orlando was suddenly determined to ensure he was first in the queue to sample the big blonde.
He reached out and patted her flank, then stroked it. “What’s her name, Sir? I’d like to keep an eye on her when it comes to betting tomorrow.”
“We call her White Lightning and you could do a lot worse than bet on her. Well, best be getting back, got a lot of guests arriving!”
He swung himself back into his seat and took up the reins, making the blonde pony tramp her feet and champ at her bit as she felt the reins taken up.
“Peaches is a willing little thing so you’ll oblige me by going easy on the whip,” he added, and Orlando assured him he would. However there was one thing he wasn’t going to hold back with and it was perfectly acceptable under ranch rules. The blonde had really set his cock pounding and it was a long time till the evening. He went round to Peaches’ face and unclipped her bit from the reins at one end and pulled it free from what looked like a full-lipped and pretty mouth.
“Good girl,” he whispered as he hooked a finger into a cheek strap on her bridle and drew her face down until she was bent forwards enough to bring her mouth down to the level of his trousers. He unzipped his flies and manoeuvred a little closer, then pressed the ponygirl’s head down until he felt the soft warmth of her lips engulf the sensitive skin of his helm, slowly and respectfully.
“Go on, there’s a good girl,” he whispered again as he thrust his hips forward and peered down to watch the thick brown hair, bisected by the straps of the bridle, begin to move closer to him as she sucked him in.
The high protein content of sperm meant it was a constituent part of the ponygirls’ diet in any case so Mr Floyd had no objection to them getting healthy doses of the stuff. In fact he stipulated that any which was ejaculated into rectums or vaginas should be collected as it drained out and administered orally.
“God made that stuff to be good for women, so who am I to deprive them?” was one of his favourite sayings.
Orlando caught his breath suddenly as he felt an especially sharp spear of pleasure flood through him and he grabbed the pony’s head in both hands. As he felt the surges begin to flow through him he gave a cry of abandoned ecstasy and pumped his hips at her face as he felt himself swell into the small space of her mouth and every centimetre of him was stimulated as he came. She kept sucking and licking as he trembled and jerked in the aftermath and he patted her breasts once he had re-fastened her bit.
“Good girl!” he said as he took his place and picked up the whip once more. Lazily he flicked her bottom and then sat back with a huge grin on his face as Peaches walked on down the far slope of the hill and back onto the track.
Sophie had no idea how long she had been a pony. Each day was a simple round of food, whip, running in harness, sex and sleep. Time had no meaning for her. Her hands were forbidden her, she couldn’t perform the simplest act for herself. The grooms did everything. Her humiliation at having to perform on the toilet in front of them had long ago evaporated, but along with it had gone some of what had made her Sophie. Now she was more and more becoming White Lightning.
It was as if the loss of the use of her hands and inability to touch her body to do anything for herself had removed her from the human world. She found that conversations which went on around her among the grooms were irrelevant and boring. She wanted to be out and running. She wanted to be White Lightning.
Back in the early days of her captivity she had been shocked at how much she had taken to running naked before the whip. She had known she was a capable runner but to run naked and to feel the warm breeze caress her whole body had been a revelation. And then had come the discovery that she could run faster than any of the other girls. Then she had been taken to a race and had won it. Mr Floyd’s roughened hands on her body afterwards, petting and stroking had been more satisfying than she could have imagined. But the moment she treasured was when she had looked down and seen the winner’s rosette being pinned on her right breast by passing a pin through the hole they had bored in her nipple.
The nipple piercing was something she hadn’t enjoyed at the time, but when she saw the rosette sitting proudly on her breast, it was well worth the discomfort.
And then there was the whip. At first the routine thirty lashes administered every morning to each and every pony had been a torment but after a few days she found that it provided no more than an unpleasant stinging. But as she had found pleasure in running in harness, the whip had become just a normal part of her life. And now it made her think longingly of running before a driving whip. And it also made her think of sex.
If Sophie had really been capable of real thought any more, she might have reflected that that was the oddest thing of all. But she was too busy wanting it and enjoying the copious amounts of it that she was getting to bother thinking about it. The simple truth was that she liked the idea of men
getting hard at the sight of her body. And she knew that whipping her made them hard. She didn’t like upsetting the men – especially Mr Floyd - by being a ‘bad pony’ and getting the whip that way, but she made it clear that she knew what whipping was often a prelude to and that she was very happy with the idea. Frequently the men found out for themselves just by feeling her cunt immediately after a beating.
“Good ole’ Lightning,” they would say as they took her down from the whipping gibbet, or wherever she had been restrained and then with any luck she would be bent over and taken by several of the men.
And today looked promising on that front. Mr Floyd himself had driven her and she hadn’t been run hard and she hadn’t been whipped much beyond the daily ration and that usually meant a race. And a race usually meant the stalls were opened for guests and staff alike to use the girls.
Sophie’s attention was attracted by the sound of next door’s stall door closing – the breeze block walls were none too sound proof – and then one of the women from the house was opening the half door to her own stall. She carried a large make-up bag and Sophie knew that lots of sex was on the menu for tonight. The woman, who was one of the ones that Sophie occasionally saw about the place and who she assumed were ordinary whores, set about applying blusher and eye liner and lip gloss and then used lipstick on her areolas before brushing her labia with some perfume that stung horribly for a few minutes. Then she moved on to the next stall and Sophie had to prowl at the end of her hobble chain until finally as evening was drawing in, one of the grooms passed along the stalls opening the doors again and the men began to file in.
Possibly in the early days she might have wondered why she enjoyed what they did to her so much, and perhaps it occurred to her that Martha had begun to unlock the sluice gates of her sexuality that she had locked fast when she had found out about her parents. Being a pony and having all choices removed from her had made it easier to go with the flow. But now all she knew was that she loved the sheer physicality of sex. She loved having a man enter her body and she didn’t care which way he went in. She loved the feel of the hard cocks driving into her. She loved the taste of them and she loved the stuffed-to-bursting feeling of having a big one in her rectum. She didn’t want to know the men involved, that was a distraction from the pure, uncomplicated pleasure of anonymous sex.