by Penny Birch
True, I’d had to be beaten and humiliated before I could really get my full pleasure out of being a pony-girl but, now that I was there, the experience was all the better for it. Henry had certainly judged me well, but then I probably wasn’t the first strong-minded woman he’d put between the shafts.
When he decided that I was following his instructions adequately, he turned me out into the big field, aiming for the gap between the two spinneys. This was slightly uphill and harder work. By the time I reached the gap I was panting and sweating profusely. He turned me to the left, angling me around the circular spinney, then giving me a touch of the whip as we started downhill. He was very gentle, giving only light flicks to guide me, which was just as well considering the state of my bottom.
I broke into a trot, moving easily but scared that if I went too fast I’d be unable to stop the thing. Henry was more confident, flicking the reins against my back and repeatedly tapping my bottom until I was almost running. I doubt if I could have controlled my rush if he’d steered me into the yard but, as we approached, I felt a tug at my left cheek and took a long, low arc to the side, passing the end of the stables and moving back up the field towards the tip of the rectangular spinney.
I’d been surprised how easy it was when I started; now on that second uphill run I realised I’d been wrong. Beyond the spinney the ground rose more sharply, climbing to the ridge and the tall hedge that barred the view from the fields beyond. By halfway I was really straining, digging my toes into the soft grass and grunting with the effort. Henry urged me on with flicks of the whip, which quickly began to smart against my bruised and sweat-soaked buttocks. It was sheer obstinacy that drove me on, though, and I made the ridge. I thought he’d rest me but, instead, he turned me into a sort of pocket where the hedge doubled back on itself. I made the final effort, collapsing gratefully to my knees as soon as Henry gave the order. My muscles were aching with the strain and I was panting hard, too exhausted to wonder what he had in mind for me.
‘Face to the ground,’ he ordered.
I put my face in the grass, lifting my bottom, acquiescent to the whipping I expected to receive. It would be my thighs, I knew it. The idea obviously tempted him and soon they’d be as red and sore as my poor bottom. I’d behaved well, but that wasn’t important. If he wanted to beat me, he would – just for fun. He had climbed out of the cart and was tapping the riding crop against his boot. This was it.
‘At this point,’ he began, ‘it is traditional for masters to whip and then mount their pony-girls. In this case, however, I intend to forgo the pleasure of your vagina. You are wet and undoubtedly ready for entry, as I’m sure you know, while years of riding at Bridestowe have left you with no hymen to speak of.’
I’d thought that there was nothing left that he could do or say to humiliate me. That did, remarking casually on the intimate details of my anatomy and the fact that I was not obviously virgin.
‘As I’m sure you also know,’ he continued, ‘your delightful anus tempts me, but I have no wish to hurt you and so will restrict myself to giving you a brisk thrashing and then take my pleasure between your magnificent buttocks. If you have no objection?’
I shook my head, actually meaning that he could do anything to me he liked. I was ready to be fucked and, at that point, I think I’d even have let him try to put it up my bottom. If he wanted to put it between my bum-cheeks instead then that was up to him, just as long as I could play with myself.
‘You may masturbate if you wish,’ he said, as if reading my mind.
He released one of my hands from its restraining cuff at my hopeful nod. I quickly put it back between my legs and started to dab at my clit. It felt good, my tiredness making the sensation feel as if it was coming through a fog in my head. Only when I had begun to sigh and push my bottom up expectantly did he start to crop my thighs, lightly at first and then harder. It stung, and when I cried out after perhaps the eighth stroke he stopped abruptly and I heard him move behind me.
An instant later something thick and hard settled between my bum-cheeks and I knew that he had put his cock between them, using the crevice of my bottom as a slide to masturbate in. His balls started to bang against my fingers and his hands closed on my hips. It was beautifully rude, with him humping my bottom, his belly resting on me and his shirt and jodhpurs rubbing against my sore skin. I stuck my bottom further up, keen to have his shaft in contact with the most sensitive areas of my rear, especially my anus.
It worked, and I started to come with him rubbing vigorously against me, stimulating my fanny lips and bumhole just as I was stimulating my clit. I squealed with pleasure, clamping my teeth on my mouthful of leather, dizzy and faint with sensation. My vision went completely red for a moment as I climaxed. There was a wet feeling between my bum-cheeks; his cock was sliding faster and more easily. He was groaning and I realised we’d come together even as the slimy feeling touched my bumhole. I still had my hand on my fanny, and the sheer filthiness of having male come rubbed into my bottom-hole triggered a second spasm. I screamed this time, biting hard on to my bit. Only Henry’s grip on my hips kept me upright, and he held me there until he’d fully drained himself between my cheeks, only then pulling back. I collapsed on to the grass, only vaguely aware of him unfastening my other cuff.
He stripped me slowly, leaving me completely nude in the warm grass, aware only of my aching, satisfied body, the green of the beech leaves around me, and the blue of the sky above. I must have fallen asleep within minutes, but I don’t remember it.
Four
When I woke up that afternoon in the little enclave of beech hedges it was to find Henry with tea set out on a tray just as if he’d been serving it in his drawing room. We drank and talked, discussing the day. I didn’t even bother to dress, although he’d brought me my clothes, which shows how relaxed I was.
Later, I realised that something felt fundamentally different. I suppose a critic might have said that I’d soiled myself; lost my innocence. Actually I’d never been that innocent, just inexperienced. The true difference was that I’d now done what previously I’d only imagined and in consequence felt more alive and self-confident than I ever had before. One might have thought that doing such submissive things would have had the opposite effect, but it didn’t, perhaps because it had, after all, always been my choice.
We rested all Sunday, with me doing nothing more energetic than giving Henry’s cock a leisurely suck after lunch. He retired for his nap after that, leaving me to walk in the grounds. I felt myself drawn to the hedge enclave, where I lay on my front in the grass, completely secluded from the rest of the world. After a while I pulled my dress off and lay back down to sun myself. I was nude underneath, having decided to do without panties because of my tender bottom and then taken my bra off when I’d sucked Henry so that he could roll my dress down and feel my breasts.
I was soon thinking about what had happened the day before, and how it would have felt if I’d surrendered my virginity in that very place. I’d been willing and, at eighteen, felt it was about time, yet knew that if I wanted Henry to do it I would be able to choose my time and place at leisure. Feeling thoroughly happy, I began to stroke my bottom, feeling the still-smarting skin and delighting in the afterglow of a good whipping. My fingers soon went down between my cheeks, touching my anus and then slipping inside so that the tight ring closed on the top two joints. Rolling to the side I put my other hand between my legs and began to masturbate, bringing myself off very slowly as I imagined how Henry’s cock would have felt inside me.
Over the next week I masturbated more often than ever before. The bruising on my bottom made me constantly aware of my sexuality and, each time I touched myself or caught sight of my rear view in a mirror, I’d want to come. In the end I had to force myself to do it no more than twice a day because my fanny was getting sore. Keeping Henry entertained also kept my interest in sex up and, after each dinner when Brenda had gone home, I’d suck him or strip for him or put myself in a
rude pose for him to come over.
We managed a bit more pony-girl training in the evenings and, by the following Saturday, I knew most of the terminology. I was also considering making my own harness to replace the old and ill-fitting set that Henry had made for Jean nearly three decades before. We spent most of the day training and rolling the track through the woods to make it once again fit for pony-carts. I enjoyed myself and had a lovely orgasm at the end, tied to the training post, which I was discovering – the hard way – also served as a whipping post.
My heart wasn’t really in it, though. I had something else on my mind. Two hundred miles away in Devon, term was finishing at Bridestowe Ladies’ College and Ginny was coming up by the morning train on Sunday.
I collected her from the station myself, and we fell into each other’s arms and kissed so fiercely that we drew a look of disapprobation from the ticket collector. We couldn’t stop talking as we drove back to Henry’s farm, and I even stopped in a lay-by to show her my bottom. Henry had used a training whip on me, leaving long, thin red lines. There were only twelve of them, laid over the now-fading marks of the previous week’s much sterner punishment. Ginny was delighted and a little shocked, wanting to touch and offering to kiss me better. I let her, putting my hand inside her blouse as our kiss turned into a full-blown snog. I think we’d have had each other then and there if a car hadn’t come past but, as it was, we rearranged ourselves amid fits of giggles and I drove on.
I had been a bit concerned that she might be unimpressed by Henry, but she accepted him with her normal easy-going enthusiasm. Being a farmer’s daughter she in fact had considerably more in common with Henry than he and I, and were discussing unusual pig breeds within minutes of meeting.
She was also full of enthusiasm for the idea of trying our hand at Mr Rathwell’s race, especially when the sum of five thousand pounds was mentioned. Her optimism was a great deal higher than Henry’s or mine. We had intended to go to the meet, size up the competition and compete only if we thought we had a realistic chance. Ginny had no such reserve. Instead she pointed out that she was young and fit and that if Mr Rathwell had been running the club for a decade or more then most of the pony-girls would be older and were probably housewives or had sedentary jobs during normal life.
This conversation was held over lunch, with Henry making the occasional noise of uncertainty and me remembering how many times Ginny’s boundless enthusiasm had landed us in trouble while we were at school. Finally Henry pointed out that as he still had the records of all the race times from when they had been held at the farm, it should be easy to determine whether or not Ginny and I stood a chance as driver and pony-girl.
Even Ginny had to accept that a practical test was the best way to find out how good she was and so, in the mid-afternoon, we went into the yard. Henry had brought a deck chair out, which he set up and lowered himself into, producing a large and antique stopwatch and a notebook. That seemed to suggest that it was up to me to get Ginny ready, so I braced myself to try and make a good job of my first time as a pony-girl mistress and ordered Ginny to strip.
‘What about footwear?’ I asked Henry as Ginny began to peel her clothes off with a nonchalance that made me envious despite my increased acceptance of my own sexuality.
‘I imagine that anything goes,’ Henry answered. ‘Some girls always liked spike heels. They look sweet but are totally impractical for racing. Barefoot’s not a good idea in case someone’s toes get run over, so we always used to be practical about it.’
‘Keep your trainers on, then,’ I told Ginny.
‘Sure,’ she answered, kicking her jeans-shorts and panties off her leg to leave herself nude but for her socks and trainers.
She looked gorgeous, and she knew it. I couldn’t help but stare, my attention making her giggle and then put her hands on her hips and stick her tongue out at me. Ginny at eighteen outshone just about anyone. A little taller than me, and golden haired where I’m tawny, her figure was all curves: very full breasts, a soft, slim midriff, hips that would have been too wide on a shorter girl, long, well-formed legs, a wonderfully full, rounded bottom and a neat fanny hidden in a nest of dark gold hair. Her bright eyes and perpetually cheeky look added the final touch to her beauty, and having her naked in front of me had my fingers itching to take her in my arms.
Remaining cool and aloof, as I had been taught that a good mistress should, I told her to put her hands on her head and then walked slowly around her. It was less than a month since the day she and I had been caught having sex together with Susan Wren, but where Ginny’s naked body had once been a daily sight in the school showers, now it was a treat. It was also mine to play with, something that made all the difference and which she clearly accepted without reservation.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Henry.
‘Well, she’s certainly all woman,’ he answered. ‘Her legs are fine, and her muscle tone looks good.’
I reached out and squeezed Ginny’s thigh, finding it firm underneath despite the rounded, feminine shape.
‘But her breasts, while magnificent, might tend to make running awkward. They must be bare, remember. Still, we shall see.’
I cupped one of Ginny’s breasts in both hands, running my thumbs up over the nipple. She closed her eyes, purring with pleasure as I stroked her. My own breasts pretty well fill my hands, but each of Ginny’s took two hands to really get hold of. The feel of her in my hands was lovely, but I had to agree with Henry; in a long race they would become uncomfortable, which would be a disadvantage. It had been the same with long-distance running at school, and then she’d been allowed to wear a top. Indeed it had been compulsory to wear a top, I corrected myself.
‘Mr Rathwell holds his events indoors, doesn’t he?’ I queried.
‘Yes,’ Henry answered. ‘This one’s in some huge warehouse in the Lee Valley.’
‘Will that mean that the race isn’t too long?’
‘Yes, undoubtedly. Taller, stronger pony-girls might have an advantage.’
‘We might be all right then. She can’t help her boobs bouncing when she runs, but she shouldn’t get sore over a short course. At school she always used to get teased about her curves. You don’t think her bottom’s too fat, do you?’
I gave Ginny’s bum a playful smack, making one cheek bounce and wobble for Henry’s assessment.
‘Plump bottoms may be unfashionable,’ he answered after a pause, ‘but at the end of the day a ripe pair of cheeks is arousing and always will be. Besides, nobody could accuse her of not holding it well; her cheeks appear wonderfully buoyant, one might almost say pneumatic.’
‘I agree,’ I added. ‘Still, no more flattery or she’ll start giving herself airs. Let’s give her a little practice and then try some times.’
I went to fetch the cart and harness, hoping that our intimate discussion of her body had left Ginny with the tingle of humiliation that had added so much to my own experience. Knowing her, it hadn’t, but I was keen to at least try and give her the same depth of experience I had enjoyed myself.
The harness was as tight on her as it had been on me, especially the bridle, which fitted awkwardly among her mass of hair. As I struggled with the straps and buckles I determined once more to make a new one, certain that I could not only create a better fit but improve on Henry’s design. Ginny submitted to being harnessed up without a murmur, only the increasing stiffness of her nipples betraying her underlying feelings. Only when she was fully harnessed and kneeling in the dust of the yard did she look at me and give any hint of how she felt.
Her lower lip was trembling a little, while her eyes were big and slightly moist. There was a flush to her cheeks and upper chest, and I knew that for all her poise she was strongly affected by the experience. I moved forward to stroke her hair and she leant her head against my thigh, rubbing her cheek against the material of my jeans in a gesture that was at once submissive and affectionate. It was that which brought home to me the full extent of what we wer
e doing. Ginny was strapped up and otherwise quite naked and defenceless, kneeling in the dirt at my command. Far from feeling angry or degraded by the experience, she was eager to be soothed and caressed by me and, presumably, just as eager to obey my commands and taste the sting of my riding whip.
If being a pony-girl was exciting, then having one of my own was better, although I had yet to test the more intimate pleasures that my position as Ginny’s mistress would allow me. Being beaten produces a strong mental sensation as well as the obvious physical one, and I had to admit I thoroughly enjoyed it. I fully intended to beat Ginny and make her come, and hoped that the almost purely mental thrill of punishing her would make my own orgasm as good as those I’d had under Henry’s discipline. Thinking of Henry reminded me not to leave him out, a topic I’d already discussed with Ginny while we washed before coming out.
‘Be a good girl and I’ll let you lick my fanny and maybe even suck Henry’s cock,’ I addressed my pony-girl, remembering the way Henry had so successfully teased me with the prospect of punishment and sex. I determined to give Ginny the same treatment. ‘Behave badly and it’s the cane for you.’
Ginny nodded, then put her head down as I mounted the cart.
‘Rise,’ I ordered, putting my feet on the rest bar.
She rose to stand, her beautiful bottom within reach of my whip and immensely tempting. The commands had been explained to her, and all that remained was to flick the whip against her right cheek and we’d be going.
‘I’ll take her for a quick warm-up first,’ I called to Henry, flicking Ginny’s bottom.
She walked forward, towing me easily behind her. I relaxed, or at least as much as I could with the sight of her in front of me. Angling her up the big field and around the circular spinney, I took in the sensation of driving a pony-girl for the first time. The cart felt stable, although it took a minute to get used to it. Ginny had no difficulty pulling me, not even on the slope. As I weigh perhaps half what Henry does this wasn’t so surprising.