by Penny Birch
Perhaps, even more ominously, her boyfriend was no more than five foot three and lightly built into the bargain, putting the finishing touches to a team that seemed very likely to be unbeatable.
‘That’s a brilliant harness. Where did you get it?’ she asked as they approached.
‘I made it,’ I admitted proudly.
‘You made it?’ she echoed. ‘It’s great. Do you do commissions?’
‘I suppose so,’ I answered, not only flattered but keen to get to know her.
‘Great,’ she continued. ‘I’m Vicky, by the way, Vicky Belstone. This is my boyfriend, Todd Garvey.’
‘Amber Oakley,’ I replied without really thinking. ‘My pony-girl is Ginny and this is Henry.’
Todd shook Henry’s hand and gave me a polite bow, but his eyes were on Ginny. Considering his face was more or less level with her naked chest I could see his point. The five of us chatted for a while, with Henry taking their names and addresses for future reference. Todd’s interest grew when he discovered that Henry was the Henry Gresham who had founded the club, which cheered Henry up considerably. My worry was that by revealing my true name to Vicky and Todd I might have dropped myself in it, a worry that was further compounded by Todd’s next remark.
‘Morris will be green with envy when he sees you,’ he addressed Ginny. ‘Not that Melody and Harmony aren’t cute, but he hates to think anyone other than him can ever get a pretty girl for themselves.’
‘Melody and Harmony?’ Henry queried.
‘His team,’ Todd replied, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘The two black girls over there. They’re good but not in Vicky’s class. Besides, Morris has four stone on me.’
I followed the direction he had indicated, noting two girls so similar that they might have been twins. They certainly looked impressive, fall figured and with bold, dark eyes in faces that looked naturally confident, almost insolent. Both had cloaks of pale-blue silk thrown over their shoulders, but I could nonetheless tell that they were powerfully built. As Todd said, though, they were clearly not in the same class as Vicky and I felt confident that Ginny could at least hold her own against them.
‘He only uses a pair to show off,’ Todd was saying. ‘I actually think he loses a little speed that way.’
‘That is generally the case,’ Henry agreed, ‘though of course in a race where stamina is of the essence a pair is an advantage – particularly cross-country.’
‘Cross-country?’ Vicky queried.
‘We sometimes used to race cross-country,’ Henry answered. ‘On lonely routes and with the girls in bikinis. If you’re genuinely competitive about pony-cart racing there’s nothing to compare with it.’
‘I’d like to try that sometime,’ Vicky responded. ‘The idea of being outside appeals to me, too. We’ve trained in isolated woods occasionally, and it always gives a special thrill.’
‘We always had meets outside,’ Henry said wistfully.
‘Morris says it makes the meet impossible to control,’ Todd put in. ‘He certainly wouldn’t make as much money. There must be well over three hundred spectators in here, never mind us lot. Here he is, actually.’
My heart skipped a beat. Todd was looking behind me, undoubtedly at Morris Rathwell.
‘Henry, Henry, you old dog,’ I heard a voice that I immediately recognised. ‘What do you think, then? Come a long way from your little efforts on the farm, haven’t we? Well, I say, is this your new pony? Smashing tits, love, why didn’t old Henry introduce you to me before?’
‘Morris Rathwell, Ginny. Ginny, Morris Rathwell,’ Henry said rather formally.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Rathwell continued, with my back still firmly presented to him. ‘I’m sure we’ll get better acquainted later. Henry’s a lucky old dog I must say. Oh, hi Todd, Vicky.’
This was it. I had to turn around and, having given my real name to Todd and Vicky, I could hardly use another one now.
‘Morris, hi,’ Todd responded, Vicky not answering at all but turning away.
‘I’m going to have a chat with Trisha,’ she informed her boyfriend. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Sure,’ Todd replied, following Vicky who evidently had no wish to talk to Mr Rathwell.
I was saved, at least for the time being, and turned to face Mr Rathwell.
‘Be a love and get some drinks in,’ Rathwell was saying as he held out a fifty-pound note to Ginny. ‘Do you still drink that brandy, Henry? Mine’s Bacardi and Coke — a double – and don’t forget the change. Oh, and who’s this?’
‘My driver, Mistress Evangeline,’ Henry said without a pause.
Well, it was a bit of a mouthful but not bad for the spur of the moment and, for an instant, I thought we’d got away with it. Unfortunately I hadn’t counted on Ginny. She was walking towards the bar, smiling at the various men who were ogling her naked body. Suddenly she turned back and looked right at us.
‘What do you want to drink, Amber?’ she called.
‘Amber?’ Rathwell echoed, looking at me more intently.
Ginny realised what she had done and put her hand to her mouth in shock, which destroyed my last chance of avoiding recognition. Rathwell looked from one of us to the other, then to Henry.
‘Not Amber Oakley, your goddaughter, surely?’
‘I …’ Henry began, but Rathwell had turned and lifted my veil without the slightest warning.
I was looking directly into his face.
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ he exclaimed. ‘Miss Amber prim-and-proper Oakley, a pony-girl driver!’
There wasn’t a lot I could say, so I just shrugged and then rather pointedly rearranged my veil. Rathwell couldn’t find anything to say either, for once, and it was left to Henry to try and rescue the situation.
‘We, ahem … we felt it perhaps unwise to advertise her new-found role too widely,’ he told Rathwell. ‘I trust that you would not be indiscreet? Were Amber’s tastes to become common knowledge it might prove awkward.’
‘Fucking right,’ Rathwell answered. ‘Old Charlie’d blow a fucking fuse!’
‘Exactly,’ Henry agreed.
‘No, no, you don’t have to worry about me,’ Rathwell continued. ‘What, rat on my old mate Henry’s goddaughter? No way, especially when it would mean she and young Ginny wouldn’t be up for a laugh after the meet. I’m giving a little party, just a few of the better girls and my closer friends, if you get my meaning.’
He could have put it more crudely, but not much. The deal was clear. Ginny and I joined in whatever after-meet party he was planning or he told my father about me. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what was going to happen at the party.
‘Sorry,’ Ginny addressed me as she returned to us.
Henry coughed, turning a look of disgust towards Rathwell.
‘Morris,’ he began carefully, ‘without wishing to use strong words such as blackmail or coercion, I must point out that you and I both know the ultimate consequences of what you appear to be suggesting.’
‘Henry, Henry,’ Rathwell answered, ‘you mistake me. All I’m suggesting is that the three of you might like to come along to my private party after the meet. If Amber and Ginny choose to unwind a little while they’re there, perhaps show their host a little gratitude, well, that’s up to them.’
Henry snorted. It was hard to judge whether or not Rathwell was bluffing. He had manoeuvred me into the position of having to make a choice of my own free will, but also of knowing that if I didn’t pleasure him in some way that he always had the option of turning nasty. It wasn’t blackmail – there was no direct or specific demand – but the ball was in my court and I had to judge how to play it. The cunning bastard had Ginny and I effectively trapped.
‘Let us put that in the form of a bet,’ Henry said thoughtfully.
‘Maybe, maybe, I’m always interested in a gamble,’ Rathwell answered.
I stayed quiet, sure that Henry had something clever in mind, something that would make Rathwell think he
was on to a good deal but snatch the prize away at the last instant. Whatever he did, it would also have to leave Rathwell sufficiently pleased with himself not to go to my father, which made for some tricky balancing.
‘We had originally intended to enter your main race,’ Henry began. ‘On seeing the competition I was becoming less certain. However, I feel that if you are willing to forgo our entry fee, we might agree to something. Perhaps our attendance at your party if your team manages to beat us? Assuming you’re competing that is?’
‘Sure I am,’ Rathwell answered, ‘but no way am I taking those odds. How about if they win they get off scot-free and keep the five grand. If they beat my team I only get to fuck Amber.’
‘You can’t do that; she’s a virgin!’ Ginny protested.
‘Ginny …’ I sighed.
‘All the better,’ Rathwell started, then seemed to think better of it. ‘No, fair’s fair. I’ll settle for a blow job if they don’t win but beat my girls. However, if we beat them I get the whole works.’
‘You expect to have sex with me?’ I demanded.
‘I’d sure like to, doll,’ he answered.
‘No way!’ I snapped back.
‘I’ll do it,’ Ginny put in, then turned to me. ‘After all, I dropped you in it.’
‘No, Ginny …’ I began, only to be cut off by Rathwell.
‘When I say the works I mean both of you,’ he said.
‘No way,’ I repeated.
The prospect of his cock in my mouth was bad enough, although it was a risk I was prepared to take. Actually letting him fuck me was out of the question. On the other hand, whatever we accepted had to leave Rathwell satisfied either with whatever he got or that he had lost fairly. At the end of the day the question was: what was the most intimate service I was prepared to risk having to perform for him?
‘How about this,’ I said, speaking slowly and choosing my words. ‘If Ginny and I win the race, we take the five grand and we’ll come along to your party, but I promise nothing. If we don’t, you can cane me at the party; as many strokes as the position we come in at. Well?’
‘On the bare?’ Rathwell demanded.
‘I suppose so,’ I replied.
I knew I could take a caning and, while it would be humiliating, there was no actual contact involved.
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘but if we beat you then I get a blow job from both of you into the bargain.’
I hesitated, glancing at Ginny, who shrugged. I considered his offer. Todd and Henry, who seemed to know what they were talking about, both felt that driving a two-in-hand would put Rathwell at a disadvantage. Rathwell was confident, but then he was always confident.
‘Fair enough,’ I answered him.
‘Nice,’ he replied, smirking broadly.
I retired to the bar with a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The chances of us winning were very slim indeed and, even though Vicky Belstone clearly detested Rathwell, she was unlikely to give up the chance of such a large prize merely to score off him. It wasn’t certain that she would win, in any case. Three of the carts that were now setting up in the enclosure were pulled by men and, athletic-looking ones at that. I hadn’t known this was acceptable, but it was pointless to complain.
It seemed likely that Ginny and I could finish among the first five or so, and probably beat Rathwell. The odds were that I’d end up taking three or four cane strokes at the party, which I knew I could take physically without difficulty. Mentally it was a very different matter. They’d pull my shorts down and discover that I had very girly flowery panties on underneath. Those would be pulled down, too, and then my bare bottom would be whacked in front of a fair-sized audience. Doubtless they’d jeer and clap and call the strokes out until I was finished with, and for the rest of the party I’d be sitting on a sore bottom. The marks would be visible where my shorts left my bottom-cheeks bare, so I wouldn’t even be able to cover my shame properly.
The thought made me shiver, and gave rise to an even more worrying concern. Whenever Henry or Ginny had beaten me the experience had put me in an excited and grovellingly submissive state. Even the thought of my near-inevitable public caning had a similar effect, and I was distinctly worried about how I’d behave once beaten.
Henry had gone to fetch the cart, leaving Ginny and I to prepare ourselves. She was profusely apologetic about revealing who I was to Rathwell, but I made light of it. It was, after all, me who had made the initial mistake and it would probably have come out anyway. Besides, Ginny was looking forward to the race immensely and it seemed a pity to sour her fun. Plenty of people had also complimented me on both my appearance, Ginny’s, and the quality of her tack – all of which made it hard to be churlish.
Resigning myself to do my best and accept whatever happened with a good grace, I swallowed the drink I was holding and went over to where Henry was bringing the cart through the service doors. Ginny followed, slipping her bit into her mouth as we reached the cart. I felt a new rush of adrenaline as I took hold of one of Ginny’s wrists and led her into position. Near us, Todd was putting Vicky in harness, a very basic affair that would leave most of the strain on her arms instead of her hips and shoulders. She was facing away from me, her rear view as impressive as the front, with her high, pert buttocks and elegant legs striking a familiar chord of excitement in me.
‘How’s the betting?’ I heard Todd call to another man nearby.
‘Vicky’s on three to one,’ he answered. ‘The favourite’s that tall black guy; he’s five to four.’
I searched for the man they were talking about, finding him at the very farthest end of the enclosure. He stood perhaps six foot four and was an obvious winner. His skin was a deep brown and appeared to have been oiled, while each muscle stood out in clear definition. He was obviously a body builder and I supposed represented pretty much the ideal masculine figure. Nevertheless, looking at his naked body produced none of the thrill that Vicky had touched off in me.
With Ginny’s wrists secured I mounted the cart and joined several others in a test lap of the track. The cart ran well on the concrete floor of the warehouse, Ginny moving with easy strides and certainly among the best of the group. The spectators were beginning to gather, pressing against the barrier and jostling for position further back. Their attention was crude, making me feel the focus of lust for perhaps three hundred men. Had it not been for the fence and the solidly built security men I might have been scared. As it was, the feeling was disconcerting but undercut by a deliciously wicked thrill. It was perhaps like flaunting oneself in front of someone who can do nothing about it; something I’d often wanted to do. Better still was the pleasure of having Ginny to show off – a different, but equally exhibitionist thrill which might similarly be compared to the game of pulling friends’ skirts up so that people saw their panties.
Ginny was certainly revelling in the attention, walking with her chin up and her breasts thrust out, showing herself off absolutely shamelessly. There was little doubt that she had the most opulent and sexual figure among all the girls present, and every head turned as we went past. After taking a couple of laps I was feeling fully in control, with the prospect of being exposed and whipped if I lost all but forgotten. The tension of being about to race was building up as well, causing a hard lump in my throat and a trembling feeling in my legs. Knowing that whatever I felt, Ginny must be feeling double, I kept her in motion until the order came to line up for the start.
The race was scheduled for ten laps and there were some fifteen carts competing. This was out of a total of over twenty, and it was clear that the competitors all regarded themselves as potential winners. With five hundred pounds being charged to enter, this was hardly surprising, yet if most of the pony-girls and pony-boys looked worryingly good, the carts and harnesses were less impressive. It was clear that many people either had no idea of basic physics or had purchased equipment designed to look good and nothing more. Several carts were drawn entirely from the pony’s wrists, and more than
one looked dangerously top heavy. Our own was among the heaviest and more robust, being designed for outdoors, but it was also lower to the ground than most and certainly stronger.
Feeling determined and hopeful I wheeled Ginny into the cluster of carts and ponies gathered behind the start line. We were to set off in a group, there being too many carts to start all abreast, which meant that being at the front carried an obvious advantage. As I was only allowed to call basic orders to Ginny during the race, we had discussed tactics before she put her bit in her mouth and officially became a pony-girl. She was supposed to do her best to pace Vicky and hope that a final sprint would allow us victory. The chance that we would succeed was slim, yet not zero by any means.
Rathwell’s team was lined up at the inside of the track, Melody and Harmony now impressively naked, their rich-brown skin reflecting highlights from the warehouse lights. Even had I been told which was which I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. Both were full breasted and muscular with powerful legs and well-fleshed bottoms. Their hair was beaded in Rathwell’s colours of gold and turquoise – a colour scheme continued on their harness and the cart. Rathwell himself was seated, apparently quite relaxed, with the reins in one hand while he used his whip to stroke the naked bottom of either Melody or Harmony.
‘One minute,’ the PA system announced, causing a stir among the carts.
Ginny nudged up to the line, positioning herself in between Vicky and one of the male ponies. I turned to glance at Todd, nodding in response to his toothy grin. The cart on the other side was driven by a tall, slim man seated much higher than me. His bony face was set in an expression of absolute seriousness. When he didn’t acknowledge my nod I turned back to the front, waiting for the off with the tension piling up inside me.
The line judge was seated in a high box of the sort used on tennis courts, his starting pistol in his lap. He raised it, calling ten seconds into the microphone, turning his attention to his watch, counting down the seconds.