A Taste Of Amber

by Penny Birch

  Ginny had arrived on the Friday night but was still asleep after a fairly riotous evening with Henry and myself. Everyone else was due in the morning. There would be six pony-girls in all, plus Rathwell, Henry and myself, Francis, Susan, Todd and little Carrie. That made thirteen in all, and it would be the biggest meet on Henry’s land for a long time. The weather was cloudy and cool, but dry. Not perfect pony-carting weather, but good enough.

  Henry and I breakfasted and then got Ginny up by the simple method of tipping her out of bed. Ellen and Carrie arrived shortly afterwards, with Vicky and Todd joining us a few minutes later. I was unable to resist looking out of the window every few minutes, constantly expecting the appearance of Rathwell’s gold Rolls Royce. Instead a seven-ton truck arrived, bumping to a stop in the middle of Henry’s carriageway. The driver was a swarthy young man, which made me think that somebody had chosen a singularly inappropriate moment to make a delivery until I saw Melody sitting beside him.

  It was a typical Rathwell gesture, undoubtedly meant to shake me as much as show off. All of us went outside, lining up by the truck as Melody and the man jumped down and came around to the tailgate.

  ‘Hi,’ she called cheerfully. ‘Hi, Amber, little one. This is Stefan, who’ll be racing with us today.’

  The man nodded to us, smiling as Henry completed the round of introduction. He was tall, muscular and quite obviously no genuine pony-boy. I heard the sound of another car and turned to see Rathwell arriving. Next to him was Harmony and, in the seat behind, another man – this one blond, fair-skinned and, if anything, more physically impressive than Stefan.

  Rathwell favoured me with a confident leer and introduced their companion as Sven. I smiled back, refusing to show my emotions. I’d suspected he’d bring paid athletes in, choose one as his lead if he won the toss, and hope I didn’t risk picking the other in the corral. He had, but thanks to Susan’s brain I was ready for him, the only problem being that if things went Rathwell’s way we would now be racing four-in-hands, which made a complete mockery of my perfect three-in-hand tack system.

  Stefan and Sven shot the bolts on the truck doors, lowering the ramp to reveal the interior. I looked inside and received another jolt to my confidence. Set up in the interior, gleaming in turquoise paint and golden anodised aluminium, was a brand new and obviously well-designed pony-cart. The seat was low and elegant, slung between high mountain-bike wheels of some twice the diameter of those on Henry’s cart. The frame looked light yet strong, the shafts curving forward to meet a bar designed for a four-in-hand. Gold leather harness hung from this, my sole consolation being that it looked skimpier than my own harness design.

  They rolled the magnificent cart out and Melody and Harmony trotted it round to the stable yard. I followed, feeling increasingly nervous as I watched how easily and smoothly it ran. I was paying so little attention to anything else that I squeaked and jumped when somebody pinched my bottom. I turned to find Rathwell himself behind me, smirking confidently.

  ‘Well, Amber darling,’ he said, ‘I suppose we’d better make a race of it, for form’s sake, but you know you’re going to lose, don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ I said obstinately.

  ‘Proud and wilful, that’s my girl,’ he continued. ‘I’ll enjoy your complete submission, Amber, I really will. I’m afraid I don’t think much of your competition plan, though. The corral idea’s silly. How can we trust each other’s ponies? Todd’s riding for me by the way, so you can forget tiring my team on Windbreak Hill. I imagine he’s a good stone lighter than you, maybe more.’

  ‘Susan’s driving for me,’ I answered. ‘She weighs seven stone two.’

  ‘Ho, ho, playing me at my own game, eh?’ he laughed. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  Henry joined us and Rathwell stopped tormenting me. I had set the corral up to one side of the yard, a square area marked off with old show-jumping fences. People were milling around Rathwell’s new cart, pretty well ignoring Henry’s despite the gleaming new red-and-black paintwork. I had to admit ours looked pretty crude next to his, yet I knew ours balanced well and could only hope that its greater solidity might help.

  The sound of another car announced the arrival of Trisha, leaving only Susan and Francis to come. Half-an-hour later there was still no sign of them, so I decided to get things started and fill them in later. Henry had positioned a stump by the scullery door, and I climbed on to it to make myself higher than the others.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ I called, then waited for the talk to subside. ‘There are still two people to come but I think we’d better get on with things. Let me run over the course and the rules and then the ponies can get ready and we’ll choose teams. As you all know, I am racing against Mr Morris Rathwell for a not insubstantial bet. We will be running a cross country with checkpoints. The first checkpoint is in Kerry Woods, the second at the edge of Henry’s land. Both points are marked on the map. Teams may reach the checkpoints by any route they like, although I have marked an obvious and relatively lonely route on the map. At each checkpoint teams must collect a signature, one pony-girl must be punished in a specific way and clothing must be reduced. At the first checkpoint one pony-girl will have her bottom nettled and all will remove their bikini tops. At the second checkpoint one will be birched and they must all strip. I have marked a route that stays on Henry’s land all the way back. There is a steam traction fair in the village, so the countryside should be pretty empty. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Clear enough,’ Rathwell spoke up, ‘if unnecessarily complicated.’

  ‘Good,’ I answered him. ‘If the ponies could get into role, then. I take it you’ve all got bikinis? The tails are in the scullery when you’re ready.’

  The eight ponies went into the house, dispersing to various rooms under Henry’s guidance. I went to the scullery. Ten tails were laid out on the table, six in the colours of the various girls’ hair, two black and two blonde. Rathwell followed me inside.

  ‘What’s with the tails then?’ he asked. ‘They look nice, sure, but they’re only really good for show. We find they drop off too easily for racing.’

  ‘These won’t,’ I assured him, holding up the nearest, a honey-gold one designed for Ginny.

  He studied it, puzzled for an instant and then understood. This was my masterpiece. The design consisted of a small conical plug on the end of a curving shaft of black rubber around a metal core. The plug was designed to fit into the pony-girl’s anus, which would hold it in place and also produce an extra thrill. The actual tail – a hank of artificial hair two feet long – came from the other end, the length of the shaft meaning that it would appear to protrude from the base of the pony-girl’s spine.

  ‘The plug goes up the girl’s arse, right?’ he said. ‘Neat, I’ll give you that. You can make one for yourself when I’ve won.’

  ‘I already have,’ I answered.

  ‘Can I have mine in, then?’ Ginny called, appearing in the doorway stark naked.

  ‘Coming right up,’ I said, kissing her and then dipping my finger in the tub of grease I had prepared earlier.

  Rathwell watched in fascination as Ginny stuck her bottom out. I pulled her bikini pants aside and inserted a greasy finger into her anus. The tail followed, Ginny giving no more than a little squeak of surprise as her bumhole stretched to let the plug in. I attached the single strand of fishing line that held the tail around her waist, smiling as she admired her tail in the mirror and then ran outside in absolute delight at how she looked. Rathwell was impressed, too, and appeared not to realise that there was a possibe catch in what I was doing. To enjoy having a plug up your bottom you need to be pretty dirty minded. To accept one at all you at least had to feel that it was not utterly unreasonable to have your anus penetrated. As Vicky had explained to me, a lot of men get hung up about that because they feel it makes them somehow gay. I don’t pretend to understand why that is, but I was counting on it.

  Vicky and Trisha came down next, holding their bikinis and
gloriously naked and wet from the shower. Vicky was delighted by her tail – a glossy black one that went perfectly with her hair. I greased her bottom and popped the tail in, sending her out into the yard with a firm smack on her rump. Trisha was a little shyer, and insisted on fingering her own bottom, but was every bit as proud of the striking ginger tail I had made for her as the others had been of theirs. By the time I had got hers in, the others were queuing up. I had crafted Melody and Harmony’s as sprays of the beaded plaits they sometimes favoured, in blue and yellow, which delighted them both. Neither objected to my greasy fingers in their bottoms, a process that was beginning to seriously turn me on. Ellen followed them, demurely inserting her own plug but giving me a cheeky wiggle of her bottom as she left. That left Stefan and Sven, who had watched the last three tail insertions with considerable pleasure. Both wore only brief bathing trunks, which now showed impressive bulges at the front.

  ‘Come on then, boys,’ I said, holding up one blonde and one dark tail.

  ‘What, us?’ Stefan asked.

  ‘Yes, you’re running, aren’t you?’ I demanded. ‘Pony-boys have tails too, you know.’

  ‘We’re not pony-boys,’ Sven answered.

  ‘You are if you’re racing,’ I said. ‘Look, you can grease each other if you don’t want my finger up your bottoms.’

  ‘We’re not gay,’ Stefan interrupted crossly.

  ‘Hang on, hang on,’ Rathwell interrupted. ‘Where does it say the tails have to hold in up the ponies’ arses?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I admitted, ‘but it says tails must be worn and these are the tails.’

  ‘Hold them between your cheeks or something,’ Rathwell suggested, meeting immediate opposition from both men.

  ‘Oh, and remember it’s bikinis too,’ I put in after a while. ‘I’ve got a couple that might fit you. Sort of, anyway.’

  I walked out into the yard, leaving them to argue. It was impossible not to grin. I had seriously disturbed Rathwell’s plans, maybe terminally. The sight of the six pony-girls in the corral was also something to grin about. They were all in bikinis, while I would have preferred them naked, yet there was plenty of beautiful bare girl on display and each of them had matching tails hanging down over their bottoms. Henry was lining them up for a group photo, bottoms pushed out and tails sticking up cheekily. The effect was remarkably natural, or at least convincing, if not exactly natural.

  It was perhaps a little cold, but the sun was breaking through the clouds and nobody seemed to mind, presumably because of the air of excitement that was already building strongly among us. Todd and Carrie were chatting together by the side of the corral, she pouting a bit because she wasn’t a pony-girl. I crossed to them and joined in the conversation, promising Carrie a red tail but suggesting that she could happily get kitted up even if she wasn’t racing and that she could use a blonde tail for the moment. She scampered happily into the house, entering the scullery door just as Rathwell emerged from it.

  His face was red and he looked furious, but no more so than the two men coming behind him. I smiled sweetly as he made straight for me, Henry stepping to my side as Rathwell reached us.

  ‘Is something troubling you, Morris?’ Henry asked calmly.

  ‘These rules …’ Rathwell began, then stopped, seeing the expression of bland politeness on Henry’s face.

  ‘I believe you said you could beat me over any course and under any rules I chose?’ I reminded him.

  ‘And I can,’ he snapped. ‘With or without these two prudes.’

  ‘I’m no prude,’ Stefan declared. ‘I said I’d pull the cart, didn’t I? I will, too, but not in a girl’s bikini and not with one of those things up my arse! You can keep your money!’

  Sven nodded agreement behind him.

  ‘The rules are the rules,’ I said. ‘Still …’

  ‘Well, if you’re not going to be any help, you can get out of here,’ Rathwell snarled at them, interrupting me.

  ‘Gentlemen, please,’ Henry put in, raising his palms. ‘There is no need for unpleasantness. ‘Sven and Stefan may help man the checkpoints, acting as neutral observers. Now I think we should choose teams.’

  Both men were keen to stay, which was hardly surprising given how many half-naked girls there were around. Rathwell backed down, regaining his temper and presumably aware that it was unwise to insist on them leaving when they might easily complain about the race. I felt I was winning, especially as we would now be racing three-in-hands and it was his tack structure and not mine that needed adapting.

  ‘We’ll toss for first choice, then,’ Henry announced. ‘The challenged party calls. Morris?’

  ‘Heads,’ Morris called as Henry flipped the coin up.

  Henry caught the coin and flipped it on to the back of his hand, revealing the Queen’s head. Rathwell gave a satisfied chuckle while I drew my breath in. I had been hoping to win, yet the drawback was not as bad as it might have been.

  We walked over to the corral, both inspecting the ponies who were lined up and facing us. We both knew Vicky was the best, and I was sure he’d pick her, which was annoying. Trisha and Ellen both looked good, although the red-haired girl had the advantage of experience. Ginny, Melody and Harmony were all good enough and of roughly equal standard.

  ‘Trisha to lead,’ Rathwell announced, surprising me until I remembered that he still thought Vicky had twisted her ankle badly the week before.

  ‘Vicky leads my team, then,’ I said, catching an amused glance from Rathwell.

  He, of course, had no idea that Vicky’s injury was phoney, nor that I had pretty well subverted her. He paused before making his next choice, looking at Ellen’s sleek, runner’s build but then shaking his head doubtfully.

  ‘Melody,’ he finally decided.

  ‘Ginny,’ I said without hesitation.

  Rathwell looked at me in surprise. Ginny had put on a little weight over the summer, and her body was more opulent than ever. She was still trim waisted and lithe, but lacked the muscle of either Harmony or Ellen. He shook his head ruefully and turned back to look at the pony-girls. I could see how his mind was working. Ellen was obviously the better runner, yet he had never met her and knew only that she was a friend of mine. Still, he had a whip and could make sure she ran her best.

  ‘Ellen,’ he finally said, his confidence overcoming his caution.

  ‘I’ll take Harmony, then,’ I said.

  We took our teams out of the corral, tied ribbons in our colours to their tails and started to hitch them up. He had fractionally the better team, given that the pace would be dictated by a team’s slowest member. He also had the better cart, but was soon struggling to put his pony-girls into an even three-in-hand formation. I had all three girls fully harnessed by the time he had decided how to arrange them, and had the pleasure of being able to drink a cup of tea while he pulled and swore at the straps and traces of his system.

  When he had nearly finished I heard a car coming up the drive and stopping at the front of the house. A moment later Francis appeared in the archway, followed by Susan. My jaw dropped as I saw her. She was the same as ever, tiny, impish, but grinning apologetically and holding up her right arm, which was in plaster.

  ‘Sorry, Amber,’ she said as she approached. ‘I was cycling down the Cowley Road and a lorry clipped my elbow. That was yesterday evening, and we’ve been in the hospital all night.’

  ‘Thanks for making it anyway,’ I replied, my spirits dropping sharply despite my efforts to put a brave face on things.

  Not having Susan to drive for me meant that my efforts to give the advantage to the lighter rider had blown up in my face. Todd weighed less than me, not to mention the extra weight of Henry’s cart. I was now firmly at a disadvantage.

  ‘Would you care to throw in the towel, Amber my darling?’ Rathwell said unctuously. ‘I’ll take you on as house-slave anyway.’

  ‘No, I’ll drive myself,’ I retorted.

  Actually I had little choice, short of putting
Carrie in the hot seat. She was certainly as light as Todd, being slimmer if a little taller, but had no experience at all. My only chance was to do it myself and hope that my tactics prevailed.

  ‘Well, if everyone’s ready I think we should get underway,’ Henry announced. ‘Who’s on the checkpoints?’

  After a little discussion we sent Francis and Susan out to run the far checkpoint and Stefan, Sven and Carrie to the near one. Carrie was now in full pony-girl gear and looked delightful, especially with the tail hanging down over her trim bottom. Both Sven and Stefan evidently felt the same and the little flirt was teasing them outrageously as they walked away together.

  ‘Is she a virgin?’ I heard a voice at my elbow – Rathwell’s.

  ‘No,’ I said emphatically, although I had no idea if she was or not. ‘At school she used to take the boys from the village on three at a time. Anyway, you’re not having her.’

  Rathwell merely laughed and went back to his team. I watched him go and then told my girls to kneel. They sank down as one, bottoms presented to me as I climbed over the shafts and took my seat. Directly in front of me was Vicky, the look of her svelte, muscular haunches renewing my confidence a little. I had put Harmony on the right, in the best position to taste my whip should she prove reluctant to pull her weight. Ginny was on the left, her magnificent bottom spilling out of her impracticably small bikini pants.

  ‘Rise,’ I ordered.

  They rose smoothly. I took the reins and gave the command to walk, tapping Vicky’s bottom gently with my whip. I was in full riding gear, which I had chosen on the assumption that I would be waiting in the yard with Henry and Rathwell. The pink jacket felt warm, which reminded me that there was a hip flask in the pocket. I took a pull at it, the Armagnac gilding down my throat to put new resolve into me on the spot.