Her morning motion passed, the humiliation was renewed when the sponge was again applied to her anus to make all clean.
He fitted her with a bridle and secured her arms behind her, wrist to elbow, in a leather ‘muff’, fitted with elbow straps at each end. Leaving her tethered to a ring outside her box, he mucked out and laid fresh straw.
In the covered area at the end of the row of boxes, stood one of the light buggies she’d met on her previous visit, and she was soon fitted with waist strap and harnessed to the shafts, her head pulled back by the inevitable thong woven into her hair. Bob took his seat and they moved off, through the yard and onto the track. Remembering her previous appearance there, she moved with a lively, high stepping gait, and circled the track a couple of times at a moderate pace. Bob did not force her, and seemed content to let her set her own pace, while he sized up her possibilities. At length he gave what sounded like a satisfied “Humpff” and shook the reins at her, touching her lightly with his switch, not enough to hurt, just a sting to get her attention.
“Geddup there, gal. Let’s see what sort of a goer you are.”
She responded willingly, though her soft feet were beginning to feel the effects of the abrasive track, and struck out at her best trotting pace, throwing her weight against the buggy with its passenger, making a fast circuit, then another, and another. By the fourth she was beginning to ‘blow’, but her driver kept her at it with more compelling cuts of the whip than the touches he’d used to start her and between pride and pain she kept up the pace. Two more laps, and he pulled her up, panting and sweating, her back and buttocks crossed by a score of bright red lines that throbbed and stung.
“Not bad for a first outing,” her driver commented. “You’ve a long way to go, and I’ll see that you do, but you’ve got the right idea, and good meat to go with it. We’ll make a racer of you yet.”
“Mind you,” he added, “don’t think its all going to be as easy as this morning. This afternoon we’ll go out on the road and start to build up some mileage to harden you up, as well as the sprint work you’ll be getting.”
Back in the stables she was rubbed down and given her mid-day feed. Before putting out her bowls, Bob took care of her feet, lifting them in turn to inspect them minutely and then, when he had washed then carefully, applying a strong caustic. At first it only tingled, warmly but then, as it penetrated into the myriad tiny cuts and abrasions left by the track, it burnt like liquid fire. She hissed and writhed, she would have stamped her feet on the straw if he hadn’t growled at her to stand still. As it was, she shifted her weight from foot to foot and stood, her chin still tied back at this stage, her arms behind her back, and fretted her bent knees together until the burn in her feet began to ease.
She was to get to know this treatment well over the coming days and weeks. It was designed to harden her feet to withstand the rigours of the track, and Madeleine suspected that the strapping blonde ‘mare’, who’d defeated her twice that week-end, had the benefit of the toughening process, and could keep up her stride better as a result. Every time she completed an exercise session, the powerful caustic was applied and, after the first few days the results began apparent.
That first afternoon she began to realise something of the extent of the enclosed estate around the house and stables. Bob drove her for what seemed like miles, on tarmac roads, along grassy rides through the woods and, excruciatingly, back up a long, long, gravel drive which seemed to cut her feet to ribbons, and reduced her to a hobble interspersed with bursts of trotting as Bob slashed at her unprotected haunches with his wicked little whip. It was a very distressed mare that was finally unharnessed and allowed to stand for a moment, head down, breathing still laboured, feet on fire with soreness and body stiff and aching.
Though he had driven her hard, indeed almost to collapse, it had been to test her mettle, not out of any disregard for her well-being, and she found that the care and attention she received afterwards almost made up for the harshness on the road. Besides, that was what she was seeking when she had inveigled her way into this training.
Though day by day she was driven harder and longer, further and faster, she basked in a feeling of contentment at what she was achieving, at being cared for, however roughly, but above all, at being controlled. She was pleased with her body, which was growing fitter and stronger every day. The only worm in this apple of content, she didn’t count the pain and humiliations she suffered - they were part of the package, was the rising sexual tension which her mounting fitness nourished to unbearable heights. Her strict regime, and the cuffs she wore, made it impossible for her to assuage.
Bob was not unaware of this seething pressure in her belly, the evidence was plain to see every time he groomed her, the turgid nipples, the erect little stub of her clitoris peeping from between her labia, and on those same labia, and sometimes extending well down the inside of her thighs, the sticky secretions of her hungry vagina.
He pointed out the vital signs to Morgan on one of the latter’s regular visits to inspect her progress.
“What do you think then, Bob? Healthy sign I would have thought.”
“Yes, Sir. She’s in fine fettle, and it shows in her juices. I’d advise we don’t let her waste her energy by masturbation, or any other sexual release. Keep her keyed up and she be even sharper.”
“Reckon you’re right, Bob. OK, then. Make sure she can’t get her hands on her clit, and keep her keen.”
Madeleine groaned, although she’d had small hope that they would let her relieve her frustrations. What she feared was that her restraints might be tightened even further.
“Very well, Sir. She’s cuffed already, of course, but just to be sure, I’ll strap her knees as well, in case she gets ideas of rubbing herself off on a post, or her bedding.”
Madeleine groaned even more deeply. With her knees strapped she’d not only suffer considerable discomfort, but it would be impossible to avoid soiling herself when, as was inevitable, she voided her bowels and her bladder on the straw. Another increment notched up in her humiliation and helplessness.
As her training progressed, she did less road work, and more laps of the track. Morgan now came regularly to watch her progress, stop-watch in hand, or took the reins and whip himself while Bob measured her progress against the clock. Her times were still improving, but she’d broken the two minute barrier, which they seemed to think significant and very satisfactory, and now they were putting her through two, four and even six lap bursts.
With the increasing length, she still sweated and blew, but her feet didn’t trouble her anything like as much as when she started. The daily applications of caustic seemed to have done their work; she had grown leathery soles to the underside of her toes, and the balls of her feet. During her second week of training they had ‘livened her up’ in the same way as her imperious female driver had prepared her for the second heat. She had to bend while they forced burning caustic mixture between her rear cheeks and past her sphincter, making her dance and writhe. As she stood, legs splayed, bent uncomfortably from the waist, with her wrists cuffed behind her, and her head pulled painfully back by the thong in her hair, she hoped fervently that the caustic they were so enthusiastically thumbing into her recoiling anus hadn’t the same properties as that they applied to toughen her feet, or her little crinkled dimple would become more like the wrinkled shell of a walnut than a folded rosebud. That could prove awkward when she returned to her former life. Most of the men that bought her seemed, inevitably, to think only of buggery once they had her bare, bent, beaten buttocks before them.
But for now her concern was her performance on the track, and her demanding trainers kept her at it twice, sometimes three times a day, extending her number of laps, occasionally interspersing her longer runs with fierce sprints over one lap only, and all the while checking her times as she pounded, sweating and panting round the course, the whip urging her on, the burning suppository making her prance in the required fashion, whi
le her neck ached, her scalp got sorer, and her legs felt as if they would drop off.
By the end of the second week they seemed satisfied that her performance was approaching a plateau, beyond which improvement could be only slow and very limited. One morning, after Bob had put her through the usual routine of feeding, evacuation, cleansing and grooming, she found herself standing in her harness, without being taken out to be hitched to the buggy in the usual way.
“Stand quiet there, girl,” Bob commanded, “the Master will be here in a minute, and he’s got something to say to you.”
She stood submissively enough, but felt a certain apprehension as to what the unusual departure from routine might mean. She was not kept waiting long.
“Well, girl,” said Morgan, a few minutes later, “you’ve made a good start. Your times are well up to what I had hoped for when I sized you up on arrival, and you seem to have developed the right attitude, but you’ve only just begun. You’ve shown what you’re capable of in simple harness, but now you’re going to do it the hard way. You’re going to pull the buggy with your cunt.” The part referred to, already overwrought by over stimulation and enforced abstinence, twitched, as he went on.
“There’s two kinds of pony-girl racing, the straight stuff you’ve met already, and the elite version. There’s not many go in for it, it’s hard to find mares good enough, but there’s a few of us think it’s the only real sport, and the other’s just a game for girls.
We call it riding the Devil’s Horn, which is a pretty fair description, as you will have a hook up your vagina with which you’ll pull the carriage, instead of the traces from your belt. The pressure on your vaginal wall, and your guts behind, is bound to bruise. I don’t suppose you’ll welcome a prick up there soon, even if you have become randy as hell, and I expect it will cost you a few groans to shit. I’ll make no bones about it, it’s going to hurt, hurt like hell, but you’re going to do it. You’ll be made to do it. We’ve established now exactly what you are capable of, and should you fall short of the times we know you can achieve, we’ll know it’s because you’re shying from the pain in your cunt, and we’ll make sure you keep up to the mark. Now come and meet the Horn.”
They led her out to where she was normally hitched up. The buggy was there still, but the shafts had been replaced by a single pole, which was held horizontal by a strut hinged to the front end, and turned down at the moment to support the single shaft. A few inches back from the tip a polished metal stem, about eight inches long, curved up and back in a graceful arc, carrying on its tip an equally polished ball, nearly two inches in diameter, not unlike a bizarre caravan tow ball.
“Swing your leg over the bar,” Morgan ordered, “and lower your cunt over the ball. If I know you, you’re probably pretty wet already, but you can rub yourself up and down on it a little first, if you like, and lubricate it with your juice.”
Trembling slightly with the fear induced by his description of what lay in store for her, she swung one long bare leg over the pole, and positioned herself against the ball. With her head held back by the customary thong, she could not see the ball once she was astride the bar, but she eased herself forward until she felt the cold metal nudging at her labia, then flexed her knees, and worked her now dripping slit against the polished ball. Almost instantly her long neglected clitoris began to respond until she was panting through gaping mouth, her belly twitching, and her knees working frenziedly.
“That’s quite enough of that,” Morgan growled, “you’re not here to wank yourself off. Get the ball inside you.”
Wrenching herself away from the imminent and desperately desired orgasm, she rose onto her toes, and got the ball to lodge between her labia, then wriggled her body down until the cold metal sank easily into the well wetted sheath. Its girth took her aback, distending her vagina as it sank deeper, until at last she felt the pole touch home between her thighs, and her feet sank back to earth. How was it to be retained? She had seen no other attachments to the bar, other than the strut that supported it horizontally, so she could mount it. She didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
Bob reached down and took hold of the bottom of the strut, swinging it up in front of her, until it ran up her belly to her breasts. Though her enforced head high pose prevented her from seeing it at the time, the end of the strut opened out into a fork, on the tips of which were mounted spring loaded steel jaws. She became aware of their presence, though, when he fastened each to one of her nipples, her breath coming in with a prolonged hissing sound as the full bite took effect. They were serrated, with very strong springs and further, they were constructed in such a way that the harder the pull on them the harder they gripped, as she found out when he released the pole, its weight depended from her breasts, and in particular her stretched and pinched nipples. They’d already promised her pain to be overcome, in her pussy, but this was something she hadn’t bargained for.
Bob was the first to mount up, the shifting balance alternately dragging on her already sore nipples, and thrusting the ball painfully up against her cervix.
“Now, girl,” he said, “don’t rush it. Nice and easy now, until you get the feel of it.” He flicked the reins gently on her bare back, clicking his tongue to encourage her to take her first apprehensive stride in this new, and devastating, rig.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘The Devil's Horn’
From the first stride she knew that Morgan hadn’t lied to her. It hurt like hell. Apart from the existing pain in her breasts and nipples, exacerbated by the motion of the loaded carriage, the ball in her vagina pressed into the tender rear wall, and onto her lower intestines as she leaned her weight forward cautiously to get the buggy moving. Gritting her teeth, she kept up the pressure and unlike her usual lively start to the day’s exercise, moved slowly and deliberately towards the exit from the yard.
“Giddup, girl,” came the command, “you’ve taken the measure of it now, and know what’s in it for you. Time to put your courage to the test,” and he laid a searing cut of the switch across her bare buttocks.
As usual, the shock of the cut drove her forward, involuntarily, and she felt the full effect of the ‘horn’. It seemed to claw her entrails like a crab, and she gasped at the pain in her belly. Resolved not to be judged lacking in courage, she struck up something nearer to a racing pace, though she moaned and gasped at every stride, and the perspiration which flowed down her flanks was the sweat of agony rather than the result of honest exercise.
At the end of the lap, Morgan met them with his watch in his hand.
“That’s the slowest she’s done since we started timing her, Bob. It’ll be uphill work to get her back to her best form, but we know, and she knows, what she’s capable of, and it’s up to you to see she bites the bullet and stretches her cunt on that horn until she’s got her times back to what they should be.”
“Yes, Sir, Mr Morgan,” Bob agreed, “she’s going to have to show she can take the pain in her guts if she’s going to make the grade. I’d hate to think she couldn’t take it, she started off full of promise and I thought she was going to be a top performer. I hope we don’t have to put her down as an ‘also ran’ and take her out of training.”
“Well, it’s all up to her,” Morgan replied, “either she fights the pain in her guts and pushes herself back into form, or I’ll have to consider sending her back. Take her out again, and let’s see if she’s got what it takes.”
Back onto the circuit, grim faced behind the bridle and bit which framed her face and drew back the corners of her mouth, Madeleine launched herself at the unyielding steel that pressed her body and bowels, determined not to end her training prematurely, and in disgrace. The violence of the thrust drew a scream past the bit, and her body jerked momentarily, but she did not flinch despite the agony it induced, setting off at something more nearly approaching the kind of pace she had built up to over the long days of training that had gone already. Her nipples had gone numb, only responding dully to the j
olting rhythm of her gait, but the bruising blows in her gut hurt just as much, even though she had mustered the will to overcome them, rather than admit defeat. She still moaned at every step, and at the finish stood with her shoulders heaving and tears running down her face.
But it had been a much better time, not as good as her best, but clear evidence of her purpose and her determination to bear the pain it cost her to drive the buggy so briskly.
Her training continued, relentlessly. Gradually they stepped up the distances again; two laps, then four, though at times she screamed when an ill-judged step caught her on a rough part of the track, and seemed to tear her guts, and she was often in tears at the end of the course. Bob treated her with almost loving consideration off the course, washing and anointing her sore nipples, douching her bruised and aching vagina and rectum with an analgesic mixture, and even dressing with a soothing cream the stripes he had earlier laid on her back and sides with his slicing whip, but on the track he was merciless. Though she screamed at the effect of pot-holes on the training circuit, and moaned as the ‘horn’ gored deeper and harder into her, he never let up, driving her with his whip and tongue, letting her know she would only hold her place if her times continued to improve, taunting her with cowardice if she flinched from the ‘horn’.
The first morning she went the full six laps she felt as if she had been disembowelled. Her guts ached, she screamed as the nipple clamps came off and the blood rushed back into the pinched and tortured nubs. She was still sobbing when he led her to her mid-day feed. When he came to tie the thong back in her hair, preparatory to hitching her up for the afternoon’s work, he told her that Morgan had not been satisfied that she’d tried her best on the six lap purgatory, and had given orders that she was to go through it again. It was too much. Her body rebelled, and she cringed from the pole towards which he was leading her, and refused to lift her leg over it to mount the horn. He cut her twice, sharply, with the switch, but she continued to shy away. Even in her extremity she refused to speak, that would have been the ultimate, and irrevocable, admission of defeat, but she whined behind the bit, the agonised ‘nnnnngh’ sound of a woman in extremis.
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