This work is copyright 2002 by Xaltatun of Acheron (A Pseudonym). It may be posted on the Internet to any free forum, provided it is not modified in any way, and provided that this notice is included in its entirety. It may not be sold, or included in any compilation that is sold, or posted on any forum that requires a fee for access, without my written permission. My permission will require payment, terms to be negotiated. For purposes of this notice, sites guarded by Adult Check or similar packages are considered pay sites. Posting on any site must include this copyright notice.
Story codes: (MF, FF, ponygirl, SF)
Adult Content Warning - this story contains adult themes, including non-consensual bondage/slavery. It could also prove highly disturbing if you think our current socio/political worldview is the only one that exists. If you are under the lawful age for such materials (18 in most jurisdictions) or if you would find such material offensive, please go elsewhere.
The name New Babylon has no relationship to any other use of the term by any other author. No connection should be assumed, either derivative or as a base for parody.
Safety Warning. This story may contain descriptions of practices that are decidedly unsafe, either in general, or if performed by someone without adequate training. There are a number of good books available on safety in the BDSM scene. Most large cities, and some not so large ones, have organized BDSM groups that will usually welcome a newcomer. I’m not going to point out which practices are safe, and which aren’t. Any practice is unsafe if performed by someone with inadequate training and experience, or if performed when not paying attention. Please think before you act. Don’t make yourself a candidate for a Darwin award.
OK - now on to the story -------
In our last exciting episode, Yvonne, down and out after being ejected from her college with amazing, even breathtaking suddenness, is offered a contract with New Babylon. She grabs it like a starving barracuda attacks a hapless swimmer. Once she arrives 24 thousand years in the past, she discovers what she’s signed up for: she’s going to be a ponygirl! People who might set a standard for abnormality have hurried her through a bizarre examination; then she just finds out what her stall looks like when she is hitched to a mowing machine! The mowing man introduces her to one of the pleasures of being a ponygirl (well, it’s not so much different from being a girl, actually…) Then she’s just getting acquainted with her stable mates when she discovers that her trainer is a fully functional hermaphrodite. And here she thought Rinda was female. At least, the discovery was quite pleasurable.
Our story continues in Part III:
Chapter 7. The Second Day Dawns
Yvonne 8 came awake slowly, the straw of her stall prickling her skin in unlikely places. She stretched as the tag ends of a bizarre dream dissolved into gossamer wisps and faded away. Then her feet hit the stall door, and she froze. It had been the most unlikely dream; she’d been in a harness, pulling a lawn mower, of all things! Then as she squirmed around, her elbow hit the partition wall, and she almost panicked as she came fully awake. It hadn’t been a dream! Her hands went to her throat, only to feel the obdurate material of the collar that had been irremovably molded around her neck.
She almost curled up into a ball as her situation sunk in. Then she told herself to relax. She needed to plan. Then she laughed at herself. Plan what? She’d do whatever the people running this place told her to do. For the next five years. Well, for the next four years and 364 days. If she managed to survive it.
She stretched again, sat up and looked around. She could see a little; the lights in the rafters were glowing softly, just enough to see by, not enough to cast any kind of shadow. She propped herself on her hands and took a sip from the water bowl on the table at the head of the stall. Then she nosed the leavings in the food bowl, and found an uneaten pear. She picked it up and hefted it, and then put it back. The lesson of the girl in the stall to her left didn’t really need to be hammered home. She bent her head, got the pear positioned properly, and took a bite. Then she took another. And another.
She knelt in front of the twin holes of the telly, and saw the menu draw itself in midair. Today it was up to six entries: Movies, Music, News, Games, Courses and Facilities. She poked News experimentally. To her surprise, it came up with a selection of headlines from around the world she had left so precipitously. She sampled a few, and found, not to her surprise, that none of them interested her very much. The world seemed to be going to hell in a handbasket, but it had been doing that for as long as she could remember, and her history classes had confirmed that it was not a recent phenomenon. Either they had mislaid the handbasket, or Helen was not accepting deliveries. She kind of thought it was the latter.
What was Facilities? She poked it experimentally, and was rewarded by a long menu; most of the entries had red lines drawn through them. The only entries she could access were Maps and Staff Information. She looked at Maps for a while, and found that New Babylon was much more extensive than she had thought, but the only information she could get on any of it was the names. She couldn’t find out what was inside any of the buildings, except for the training stable, where her stall was marked with her name. Staff Information also had a number of entries, most of which were lined out. Standard Indenture Forms was available, as was Staff Records. She tried Staff Records, and was rewarded with an entry box and a Go button. She hit the Go button, and was rewarded with another menu, headed “Yvonne 8”. Again, most of the entries were lined out. The only available entry was named Contract.
Hum. They certainly hadn’t made it easy to find. She poked at it. Up popped a screen headed with: “Five Year Renewable and Transferable Indenture of Yvonne 8 to New Babylon.” That did look like what she had signed. Had she been so stupid as to not notice Renewable and Transferable? Apparently.
She scrolled through the terms. Interestingly enough, they were in reasonably understandable English, not thick legalese or the baby speak that passed for “Plain English” in insurance documents. A few clauses stood out.
Section 1. Paragraph 1. Yvonne 8, identified by copy of hir former identity card photocopied below, indentures herself to New Babylon for the term of five years. The indenture may be renewed for additional terms of five years, or may be made permanent, by agreement of the parties. If made permanent, ownership of the indenture may be transferred to another party at the discretion of New Babylon.
Gleep. Did that mean I could be sold to someone else? It sure looked like it.
Section 1. Paragraph 2. At the end of the first term, Yvonne 8 will be paid the sum of US$100,000.00 after all applicable taxes, fees and other expenses, plus accrued interest, to be calculated as specified below.
That was more or less as I remembered it.
Section 1. Paragraph 3. At the expiration of the indenture, Yvonne 8 will be returned to the place where she signed this document, in a physical state no worse than she might reasonably expect of any other resident of that place.
And the average life expectancy in the slum where I’d been living was, what? I’ll bet it was less than 5 years.
Section 1. Paragraph 4. The indenture may be renewed for additional terms of five years at the request of Yvonne 8 and with the consent of New Babylon. Each additional term shall be compensated at the same rate as the first term.
Section 1. Paragraph 5 (Permanent Enslavement Option). New Babylon reserves the right to extend the term of the indenture at their convenience, without consent or notification.
Most of the rest seemed to be what I could expect. A couple more leaped out at me.
Section 3. Paragraph 6 (Full Time Ponygirl Option). Assuming Yvonne 8 passes the physical requirements for the position, New Babylon will train her to act as much like a horse as possible. She will be treated as, and will perform such duties as may reasonably be assigned to a horse. This assignment will begin immediately and last for the duration of the indenture.
New Babylon may assign Yvonne 8 to other duties. Those other duties may be temporary, or may result in Yvonne 8 no longer being required to perform as a horse.
Section 5. Paragraph 4. In the event that Yvonne 8 attempts to escape, NB may condition her against such escape attempts, may take other measures to insure against a repetition thereof, or otherwise utilize the escapee to the benefit of New Babylon. Conditioning may result in the inability to refuse a request to renew the indenture.
Section 6. Paragraph 1. This indenture shall be administered under the laws of New Babylon.
And I’ll bet they don’t allow judgments against themselves, either.
Yvonne sighed and broke the connection with a wave of her hand.
“Problem with your game?” Millie said over the partition between the stalls.
“No,” Yvonne stood and turned to her, “I just looked at the details of my contract.”
“And you feel like you’ve been kicked in the guts,” Millie filled in. “I know the feeling.”
“How?” Yvonne said disgustedly. “You’re not from the asshole of the city.”
“True. And I did read it carefully and negotiated what I thought were beneficial provisions. Then I got here.” She let the silence make her point. “So what part is eating you?”
“All of it. Well, the part that makes it look like the only option is to renew and stay a ponygirl forever.”
“Or until you’re too old and they put you down,” Millie filled in helpfully. “Actually, it’s both better and worse than you think.”
“Oh?”
“Well, the scuttlebutt is that saddle ponygirls always renew, and that most long timers are used as saddle ponygirls. The experience is supposed to be highly addictive.”
“On the other hand, I noticed something when I was in Housekeeping – cleaning, repairs and so forth. One of our supervisors, that was Sabrina 7, had a mane, hooves and a tail. We used to make jokes about not wanting to stand there when she put her hoof down. Then I went to personal service, and did housekeeping when I didn’t have a client. A few times they put me in as a housekeeping team leader. And I saw her pulling a chariot a few times when she wasn’t being a supervisor.”
“Huh?”
“She was definitely a long term ponygirl. They don’t give us short timers hooves or a real tail like you’re going to get.” Yvonne’s hand unconsciously went behind her, to rub the piece of plastic that joined her tail with her tailbone. “The word is that it’s simply too much effort to regrow feet once they’ve changed them to hooves.”
“You’ve got a tail,” Yvonne said; clearly not ready to deal with the curve Millie had just thrown her.
“It’s pasted on with medical glue like yours is for the moment. Yours will grow naturally. You’ll be able to swish it like a horse; the only way I can get mine to move is to sway my ass.”
“Which you do very prettily,” Yvonne 8 said. “What I don’t understand is why they’d promote?”
“I don’t really know either, but I suspect that they can’t get as many team leaders and supervisors as they’d like. I know they tried most of the slaves on my cleanup crew, and only two of us were told to be team leader a third time. And that makes sense, because the others didn’t have whatever it takes to lead.”
“So. What you’re saying is that if they drop a team leader slot in front of me, grab it and run.” She cocked her head. “What would a team leader slot look like for a ponygirl?”
“I haven’t a clue, girl. All I really know is that Sabrina seemed to have made it.”
Chapter 8. More Training
Yvonne was still picking at breakfast, supporting herself on hands and feet, when Rinda arrived. Rinda looked at the ponygirl in amusement. Trying to be four footed was certainly an innovation, and indeed, it made a certain amount of sense for eating. At least, she didn’t have to crane her head forward to eat while she was kneeling in front of the depression containing her breakfast. She also didn’t have the use of her hands, but then, ponygirls weren’t supposed to use their hands while eating, although nobody punished minor infractions of that rule.
“Well, girl, let’s get you harnessed,” Rinda said over the stall door. “Stand up and keep facing away from me.”
Yvonne swayed back on her hind feet and stood up. Rinda inspected the ponygirl closely, noticing that she hadn’t burned at all from yesterday’s outing. The mowing man’s bottle of sunscreen was notorious: it was just skin lotion with no special properties. What had protected Yvonne was a gene modification that all of the slaves and residents got as a matter of course. Their skin had been modified to produce a series of enzymes that absorbed all ultra-violet sunlight and converted it into glucose, which was excreted into the bloodstream. The enzyme absorbed slightly into the blue, which gave Yvonne’s skin a slight, almost unnoticeable reddish tinge, like a permanent blush.
There was a second set of enzymes that absorbed in the infra-red, but only if the body temperature went above normal. A third set covered the visible range, but was only active if the skin was naturally dark. The total effect was that the lighter skinned people didn’t tan, there were no problems with sunburn, and the food bill went down substantially.
“Your mane seems to be coming in, girl,” Rinda said. “Feel back there.” She guided the ’girl’s hands to the middle of her spine, and let her feel the stubble herself. Yvonne’s eyes went wide. She’d noticed that several of the ’girls harnessed to the chariots had manes, but she’d thought that it was just a hairstyle. She hadn’t realized that it was a permanent gene modification. “Well,” she consoled herself, “it ought to be easy enough to reverse when my indenture is up.”
“Arms back.”
Yvonne folded her arms so she touched the opposite elbows.
“Very good,” Rinda praised her. She attached cuffs to the girl’s arms above and below the elbow, and to the wrists, and then joined them with a short chain, making them all but immovable. She clipped the chain together with a simple spring clasp. This was a sign that she thought Yvonne wouldn’t make any attempt to unclip her arms; some ponies were supple enough to reach the clasp and unhook it. If they tried, there was an alternative: the chain loop would be closed with a small circle of steel, clamped shut with special pliers. It needed another tool to remove.
Rinda preferred not to make the extra effort; besides, she wanted to see which of her trainees were trustworthy, and which weren’t.
Now that her pony’s arms had been immobilized, she bent down and tapped the side of Yvonne’s right foot. Yvonne lifted it slightly, shifting her weight, and Rinda lifted it, inspecting it closely. It looked like the bones had shifted slightly, but she wasn’t certain after less than one day. She slid a sandal under it, lacing the footwear tightly so it would not slip. She did the same to the left foot.
Then she wrapped the corset around the ponygirl’s waist, and used the lacing machine to tighten it. Yvonne expelled her breath to help the process along. Rinda frowned in mild puzzlement. Most ponygirls took several days to understand that they had to do that to seat the waistband properly. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to punish her for cooperating!
She took a brush and smoothed out her subject’s hair, removing snarls and not a little straw in the process. Then she did it up in a ponytail, snapping a colorful band around it to hold it in place. The bridle came next. Yvonne stood still as Rinda tightened the straps around her head.
Rinda reached around the standing ponygirl and showed her the bit. Yvonne promptly opened her mouth, allowing her trainer to slip the device in and attach it to the side rings with no objection. Finally, Rinda clipped reins to the steel posts depending from the sides of the bit. She backed up a moment and looked at the ’girl. Pretty good, she nodded to herself. She already looks like a proper ponygirl.
She added three feathers to the crest of the bridle and then stood back and nodded. Even better. The other pieces could come later. She reached around her charge and gripped the reins just under the ’girl’s chin, and pulled her around. In a moment, the two of them walked down the corridor, Yvonne automatically doing her high step.
This time she led Yvonne to an area filled with circular arenas, separated by small grass borders. Rinda led her charge into one of them and walked to the center, paying out the reins. She adjusted the reins carefully in her left hand, so that Yvonne faced the outside of the circle, and small twists of her wrist would shift the ponygirl’s head one way or the other. She unlimbered her whip into her right hand, and said: “Walk.”
Yvonne started walking, pulled into a circle by the constant leftward tug the reins exerted on her bit. Rinda looked at the way she lifted her legs, and the consequent roll of her hips, and frowned in concentration. “Stop!” Yvonne stopped. Rinda clipped her whip to her belt and consulted her communicator. She nodded.
“Bring your right leg up slowly. Now roll your hips right. Back down. Roll them dammit! This time start with the hip movement. Now back down.” After a while the ponygirl seemed to get the movement down.
“Start.” Yvonne moved forward again, this time moving her hips back and forth in time to the leg lifts. As she did, her tail swayed in time with the movement. Rinda nodded. Much better. In fact, not only better, it actually showed the beginnings of a very natural flowing movement. However, better to leave that for tomorrow. Cementing this much in would be enough for today.
“Trot!” Yvonne broke into a run. “Slower, dammit. You’re not sprinting!” Yvonne slowed down a bit. Rinda started calling a cadence, and Yvonne slowed still more, falling in pace with the simple beat. “Much better. Now, roll those hips!” Yvonne almost stumbled, startled, as the attempt destroyed her long practiced running style. Eventually, the sweating ponygirl regained the cadence, rolling her hips enough that her tail described an S curve, the movement rippling down the length of the appendage.
“Walk!” Yvonne slowed down, remembering to high step. Rinda noted that she was still rolling her hips.
“Trot!” Rinda kept up with the pace shifts at random intervals until she was satisfied with her charge’s ability to switch gaits smoothly.
“Stop.” Yvonne almost stumbled as she tried to halt from a trot too swiftly. Then she recovered, standing in place and panting slightly. Rinda walked toward her, maintaining the tension on the reins until she grasped them a few inches under the ponygirl’s chin. She twitched the reins slightly and then walked between other exercising ponygirls and their trainers to a second section. This one had the same poles and crossbars as the induction station, but they were set close together, so that the crossbars would almost touch. She selected one that wasn’t occupied, and swiftly harnessed the ’girl to the two bars. However, this time the high crossbar holding Yvonne’s reins was in back, rather than in front. Instead of two staples, the crossbar had levers that could pull on each rein individually. It also had a directional speaker, aimed at Yvonne’s head. Rinda walked over to the control pole, and pushed the start button.
“Trot!” The speaker snapped the command at Yvonne, and she lunged forward against the pull of the lower crossbar. Rinda nodded, satisfied. She remembered the proper cadence, and was still rolling her hips properly, even under load. As her charge went through the outbound part of her circle, the trainer walked away. Yvonne didn’t see her go, she was just there on one pass, and not there on the other. It made absolutely no difference; the ponygirl’s pace continued smoothly on.
Some time later, the passionless computer noted that the ponygirl still grimly pulling her assigned load had reached the optimum limit for maximum conditioning. Any more exercise would start destroying muscle tissue that would have to heal; that would not be efficient. Consequently, it released the brake that provided the load, and let the ponygirl go around another ten times, at progressively slower paces, to cool off. Finally, it pulled back on the reins, and the speaker blared out the single word: “Whoa!” The sweat-soaked Yvonne stopped, standing shakily in place as a blinking light signaled the end of the session.
After a few moments, a groom walked up to check. He released the ponygirl from both crossbars, and then led her to the washing stands, holding her reins just under the bit. All of the trainers and grooms in the training stables did this; it was the easiest method of retaining control. The pony had no choice but to move immediately where the handler directed. Yvonne would not be led on a loose rein until she left the training stable, and not always then.
The groom washed her down thoroughly and led her back to her stall in the stable. She stood patiently while he removed the halter, and then practically collapsed onto the straw, and fell asleep immediately.
Chapter 9. Yvonne meets a Sulky
Two hours later, Yvonne woke refreshed, and ate a light lunch. This time, her lunch had included a banana. It had taken her a while to figure out how to peel the thing with only her teeth, but she had managed, and thoroughly enjoyed the fruit. She backed away from the food bin, staying on all fours for some reason she couldn’t define, and slowly wiggled her ass back and forth, enjoying the feel of the tail against her legs. Finally, she stood up and checked the stalls on either side. Neither Fatima nor Millie was home. She considered whether to spend some time looking at the telly when she saw Rinda walking down the corridor in her stall’s direction, so she simply stood there, watching her trainer, and idly shifting her hips so she could feel the brush of her tail against her legs.
Rinda stopped in front of the stall. “Well,” she smiled. “I see you’re all recovered and ready to go.”
Yvonne whinnied at her. Rinda stood closer, and Yvonne brought her head forward, brushing Rinda’s face with her nose. Rinda laughed and reached into her pouch for a treat. When she held it out, Yvonne bent her head to the outstretched hand and picked it up between tongue and teeth, being certain to brush Rinda’s palm with her tongue in the process. Rinda laughed again, and scratched the ponygirl behind the ear as Yvonne sucked on the candy, letting it slowly dissolve in her mouth before swallowing.
“Turn around so I can put your tack on,” Rinda commanded. Yvonne turned around and stepped forward to the middle of the stall, bringing her hands behind her without being told. Rinda put the tack on, and then led the ponygirl out to another area, one that had a number of small sulkies standing in a row. She maneuvered the ’girl between the shafts of one of the sulkies, and fastened the traces so that she was unable to move without moving the sulky.
When she entered, she set her communicator on a stand in front of her, and placed both reins in her left hand so that a simple twist of her wrist would shift the pressure from one side of the ponygirl’s mouth to the other. Then she unlimbered her carriage whip and told her pony to walk.
Yvonne jerked the sulky as she started. Rinda was expecting this, so she wasn’t thrown, although she did sway back and forth, but she managed to keep her balance without using her hands. However, Yvonne wasn’t so lucky: the jerky start caused Rinda to saw on the reins, and Yvonne whinnied in protest as the bit cut at her mouth.
In a moment, however, she had the load under control, and walked forward until Rinda tilted her hand, causing her to slew left. Then her driver shifted her to the right, and stopped her with a backward tug. Rinda nodded. The mowing man had gotten her used to the signals, all right, and she was responding well. She gave a light tug, and Yvonne stepped forward, this time starting the sulky much more smoothly. Rinda only had to flex her knees slightly to maintain her balance, and she managed to keep the tension on the reins steady. She gave another light tug, and noticed that nothing happened. Yvonne kept moving forward at the same pace, doing a high step.
“Each tug means to go up one pace,” Rinda called. Yvonne whinnied. Rinda tugged lightly, and Yvonne shifted to a trot, managing to keep the sulky stable as she did so.
Rinda nodded, satisfied with her control. She guided the ponygirl down a path to a practice field, and spent a half hour turning her, stopping and starting, getting her thoroughly used to a sulky. When she was done, she brought the sulky back to the lot, unhitched her lightly sweating ponygirl, and returned her to the stable, leaving her tack in place, although she released the ’girl’s arms.
That afternoon, Yvonne was introduced to the roller. This was mostly a large, horizontal concrete cylinder. It rotated around a shaft through its center. Other shafts went along the front and back, joined so that it looked like a sausage on a fork. Or it would have, if the fork were closed at both ends. One of the outside shafts had three shafts extending out from it, with leather straps dangling, waiting for the matching buckles on a ponygirl’s harness. The other shaft had a seat pushing up like a toadstool.
One of the grooms came for both Yvonne and Milly, and led them out, holding a pair of reins in each hand. He hitched Yvonne on the left, and Milly on the right of the roller. Then the driver got onto the seat behind the thing. The groom handed the man both sets of reins. He sorted them between his hands, both left reins in his left hand, both right reins in his right hand, and made certain he had even tension. Then he flicked them and watched the ’girls strain to move the concrete load. Once they had gotten it under way, he deftly guided his machine out of the groundskeeper’s lot onto the extensive lawn, and began going back and forth, pressing the ground and evening out various bumps and ripples.
The groundskeeper kept an eye on how his infernal device was rolling, and flicked a light whip at whichever of the hapless ponygirls was slacking at the moment. He could tell because the roller would tend to go off course if one or the other of the ’girls was not putting out the same amount of effort.
After about two hours of this, the girls had red strips all down their ass cheeks and legs, and he had rolled about an eighth of the lawn. However, most of the stripes had been earned in the first hour. When he stopped, he had not had to correct either of them for well over half an hour.
The grooms led them back from the groundskeeper’s lot, washed them down, and put them back in their stalls. Both of them collapsed, completely tired out.
Chapter 10. Changes.
Yvonne sat in her stall, massaging her feet. They still hadn’t come to measure her for the hoof boots that both of her stable neighbors sported, and she was beginning to wonder what was going on. Rinda had put her in heeled sandals this morning, replacing the flats she had worn for the previous week. She’d finally noticed that she now stood naturally with her heels in the air. Just an inch or so, but she hadn’t even noticed it happening until Rinda had put the new sandals on her.
Her toes seemed to have grown together, and even stranger, her toenails also seemed to be growing together. They formed a seriated plate, a single nail separating into the five nails that had been there originally. And the top of her feet seemed to be curving up. She had this awful suspicion. What had Milly said a week ago, when this entire mess had started? Something about her getting real hooves and a tail? She’d let it go by without thinking.
She ran a hand through her hair, and winced as more strands came out. She wished, not for the first time, that she had a mirror to see what was going on. Then she wished she didn’t, because she was afraid she knew. Unlike what she was afraid would soon be her hooves; she had noticed that several of the ponygirls had manes. Unlike Milly, who still had her full head of hair, and seemed likely to keep it.
She thought back. What did she know about horses’ hooves? Only that they had to be shod. Except that several of those oh so superior fellow students had occasionally discussed barefoot horses as opposed to shod horses. She wished she’d paid more attention to polo, but running was her sport. It might even have helped to break the ice. Not likely, she snorted.
Hooves and tail. What was that little piece of plastic hiding? She reached back and felt around the tail Rinda had plugged in a week ago. A moment’s probing found the catch, and she unsnapped it. Then she felt behind her again, and found the thin finger, covered with short fuzz that peeped from under its plastic cover. Touching it tickled!
They really were turning her into a horse! If they could do this, what else was going to happen? For just a moment, she was overwhelmed by despair. Then the black mood seemed to drain away, and she straightened with newfound optimism that she could meet whatever challenges they threw at her.
It never occurred to her that her mood shift was caused by the mechanisms that held her neck in their obdurate grasp.
The groom walked up to the stall and checked the nameplate. Yes, it was Yvonne 8. Tall brunette, hooves almost fully formed. He knocked on the stall door politely, and watched her flow to her hooves, tail streaming out momentarily from the motion.
“Well, girl,” he asked. “Do you want to learn how to take care of your own hooves?” He watched the startled expression on her face. “You can answer me in English.”
She snorted and nuzzled his face. Then she backed up a half step and looked at him strangely. “I didn’t think it was permitted. Horses don’t shoe themselves, do they?”
“And you wouldn’t either. That’s a job for a farrier. What you can do is picking and trimming if you go barefoot.”
“What difference does it make? I’m not refusing, mind. For once around this place, I’d like to know why.”
“There are more things we can do with you if you can handle most of your hoof care. And most of the ’girls seem to like them better than the rest of the tasks.”
“I suppose you’re not going to tell me,” she sighed. “Well, I’d like that. Anything to get a little more of a feeling that my life is under my control.” She didn’t understand why he chuckled.
They spent an hour as she learned the parts of her hoof, and how to manipulate the pick to remove stones. He came for an hour a day for the rest of the week, showing her more of what she had to do to keep her hooves in good condition. On the last day, he left a hoof pick hanging on the side of her stall.
Rinda led the haltered ponygirl down a path she had not been on before, hands cuffed behind her back. Yvonne felt a great deal of curiosity; this was something new. This was the first time she’d been let out of her stall with her hands cuffed. Usually, she had them shackled crosswise behind her. The grooms sometimes led her back to her stall from grooming with her hands cuffed, and sometimes with them free, but she had never come out of her stall that way before. And she’d not been this far from the stable this way, either.
They walked around a hill, and came upon a meadow that wasn’t visible from the stable. Yvonne stumbled as she almost stopped in amazement. There were several dozen ponygirls in the meadow, walking around, lying down, talking to each other in pairs and groups. Some of them had their hands free, some of them had their hands cuffed behind them. There was a water trough, and a shallower trough loaded with food. There was a mixture of short timers and long timers.
“Well, girl,” Rinda told the stunned ponygirl. “Enjoy yourself until you’re called.” She opened the gate and ran the lead loosely around the ponygirl’s neck a couple of times, tying it off so it wouldn’t snag. She watched as Yvonne trotted into the meadow and found another ’girl to talk to.
Rinda took a moment to admire her. She trotted naturally up the slight hill, light brown mane and tale flowing in the breeze. She seemed utterly unconcerned that her hands were cuffed.
Horses are herd animals, and New Babylon had included a herd instinct in the genetic changes it had imposed on its ponygirls. This was actually her final examination. How she behaved in a herd would determine what she would be assigned to do.
Chapter 11. Caddying.
Illustration by the Marquis de Panasewicz.
One morning, a groom came and harnessed her as usual, using a halter and leaving her hands cuffed instead of shackled crosswise. Instead of taking her to exercise or work, or taking her to the meadow, he left her standing in a corral with a number of other ponygirls. Yvonne 8 promptly joined in the chatter. She knew most of the ’girls from her time in the meadow.
She automatically noticed the ’girl with a fan of peacock feathers in her headdress. She was the herd mare. Yvonne had been introduced to corral and herd discipline a week earlier, when she’d be let loose in the meadow. She’d shown no tendency to stray, and had not even discovered the invisible electronic barrier that kept the ponygirls there.
Finally, the grooms seemed to be done adding ’girls to the corral. Two of them rode up on ponygirls and opened the gate. The herd mare trotted out, following the lead groom, and the remainder of the ’girl herd followed her. The other groom brought up the rear.
Yvonne maneuvered herself close enough to the front of the herd that she could see the ponygirl under the saddle. The ’girl was trotting along with a firm stride, hips and tail swaying as she moved. The saddle seemed to be nestled in the small of her back, with a lot of the weight resting on her hips. Her torso came out from between the groom’s legs at a 45 degree angle. Her head tilted back so she looked forward. Yvonne nodded as she examined the saddle girl. She had proper hooves, not the hoof boots the short timers wore. The groom sat his saddle easily, knees drawn up so that his legs didn’t foul his mount’s legs as they ate the distance. He maintained a light tension on the reins with his left hand; his mount had no opportunity to turn her head to look at the scenery.
She also noticed that his mount was a fairly big ’girl, and he was a bit smaller than average. She wondered whether they were going to train her to the saddle. The couple of saddle ’girls she knew said that there was nothing like being ridden, other than maybe an orgasm that went on and on, without either wearing you out or leaving you frustrated. They were big ’girls too, easily matching her own 6’1”.
The girl herd trotted down a path through forest and meadow for about fifteen minutes, until they came to a very large meadow. It must have contained several hundred ponygirls. Yvonne stared at it in amazement. The ’girls seemed to be milling around, talking, lying down, playing games and eating. There seemed to be more long timers than short timers, just to judge from the number of ’girls with manes as opposed to those with full heads of hair.
There were several water troughs and several food tables. On the other side, there was a covered pavilion of some type, a little to far away for Yvonne to make out clearly.
The other thing she noticed was that most of the ’girls wore halters, without any other tack. Some of these had their hands cuffed behind them, and some had their arms free. A smaller number were fully tacked out, with bridles and corsets, and with their arms shackled crosswise.
The herdsmen sent their small herd into the meadow, and then rode off, not looking behind to see what they would do. Yvonne trotted in with the rest, automatically noticing the mare toward the center with the headdress of brilliant blue and green feathers. She must be the herd mare.
Yvonne paused a moment to catch her breath, not that the trot had tired her significantly. If she remembered the map, this was the golf course. She picked a spot and sat on her heels, noting with amusement that her new tail lay along the grass. It tickled.
Shortly after they arrived, a man rode out on a stunning looking redheaded ponygirl and called for silence. Then he read off a list of all 18 holes at the golf course, with their tee and hole placements. Yvonne noticed that most of the ponygirls were paying rapt attention, so she tried to catch them as well. He repeated the entire list a second time, and then most of the ’girls clumped into groups to recite the instructions to each other. Yvonne joined one of the groups: if the ponygirls who belonged here were memorizing this stuff, it might be important. Besides which, it was something to do, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t know golf. Her parents had played all through her high school years, and their fancy country club membership had made it easy to learn. It was also one of the few things she shared with her college roommate, Sally, where she was the acknowledged superior.
Every few minutes, some grooms came out and called out between four and seven names. The ponygirls would trot over to them. Sometimes they would lead the ’girls off, and sometimes they would stop under the canopy and change one or more of the ’girl’s tack. Finally, Yvonne 8 heard her name called as part of a group of six. She joined the other five ’girls and followed the groom along another path to the clubhouse. She noted peripherally that two of the ’girls were fully tacked out. The grooms cuffed the other three ponygirls and lead all six of them to the clubhouse.
He led them to a group of four guests, two men and two women. The guests talked among themselves for a moment, agreeing on which ’girl each of them wanted. Then the grooms bitted the two fully tacked out girls and hitched them to chariots. The other four, including Yvonne, were outfitted with shoulder harnesses. They attached a golf bag to the harnesses, and then tethered the ’girls to the chariots.
The golfers got into the chariots, and drove them to a short line of other golfers waiting for their tee time. Yvonne noticed that some of the foursomes had chariots, and some of them just had bag carriers. It seemed that they preferred the exercise of walking.
The bag girls sat on their heels behind their chariots, waiting. Yvonne noticed that some of the pairs of bag girls were talking to each other in low voices; apparently it was permitted.
“Yvonne!” the other bag girl on her chariot said, voice pitched low so it didn’t carry. “Is this your first time out?”
“Yes, they just brought us over from the training stable. You’re Nancy 2?”
“Unfortunately,” the brunette replied. “Mr. Syndler is a right bastard. He’s taken a liking to me, and asks for me every time. Fortunately for you, his wife’s a doll, and she’s also the better golfer. You’ll see. Oh, and you’re allowed to talk to your client.”
“So we just act like caddies?”
“Up to a point. I’ve had some golfers that have uncuffed my hands so I can wash their balls for them, but most don’t. I’ve even had one that had me keep his scorecard. And you can’t go onto the greens.”
“Not with hooves. I take it they ask you for advice?”
“Some do, some don’t. Mr. Syndler doesn’t. I’ve seen his wife ask hers a few times.”
“Well, this is my first time on this course.” Yvonne tried to shrug, which proved difficult under the weight of the golf bag. “I golfed and caddied for five years before this happened.”
Eventually, their foursome got to the head of the line, and then drove off to the first tee. After two months of training, Yvonne no longer had to think about following a chariot. She did it as easily as breathing, maintaining the correct distance automatically.
The foursome parked their chariots by the side of the men’s tee. The bag carriers dropped to their heels behind the chariots, leaving the bags out so the golfers could get to their clubs.
The first hole was a long par 5 with a dogleg. Mr. Syndler drove first, taking a mighty swing, and unfortunately slicing it. The ball rattled off several trees before falling to earth. Yvonne nodded slightly as she tracked it. If it had been straight, it might have been in the crook, perfectly set up for the second shot. As it was, he was going to lose a stroke getting back to the fairway, possibly two. The second man drove straight, but wound up short and on the wrong side of the fairway.
The two women walked down to the women’s tee. Mrs. Syndler detached Yvonne’s tether and took her along, parking her on the side. The other woman just brought her driver, ball and tee.
Mrs. Syndler took her bag girl’s chin and pushed it up so she could read the collar. “You’re Yvonne, right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How should I play this one?”
Yvonne lifted an eyebrow at the question. “This is my first time on the course. Depends on how long you normally drive. If you can’t make the dogleg, I’d try to keep it to the left to cut the angle on the second shot.”
The woman nodded and pulled the driver out of the bag. She hit a nice, clean shot and wound up just short of the dogleg, on the left, in an ideal position to get some distance around the trees without having to take a chance on going over. The fourth golfer hit her shot into the rough on the right.
Mrs. Syndler came back, dropped her club in the bag, and then looked at her bag carrier. “Do I have to keep you on the lead?”
“Not if it pleases you, ma’am.”
“Very well.” She walked back to the chariot and slid in behind her husband. Yvonne took up her position behind the vehicle, and they were off down the fairway.
A few hours later, Yvonne reflected that it had been a very good round. Mrs. Syndler had unbent enough by the fifth hole to ask to be called Sarah. They had discussed a number of shots, and Sarah had taken her advice on a couple of them. Mr. And Mrs. Syndler had come in dead even after 18. He’d have won handily, except that he’d done the same thing on all the par 5’s that he’d done on the first hole. He’d tried to drive too far, and had wound up in the woods, the lake, sand traps, and once in the middle of a pineapple. His wife, meanwhile, played methodically, not taking chances but making most of her shots exactly where she wanted them.
Nancy 2, she reflected, had been absolutely right about Mr. Syndler. She’d had to tramp through the woods several times, looking for the ball. Mrs. Syndler, on the other hand, simply didn’t make that kind of mistake except by accident. Yvonne had the distinct impression that accidents were something that happened to someone else.
A groom led all six ponygirls from the foursome back to the meadow, where they relaxed until the last party had finished. Interestingly enough, he released the four ’girls who’s hands had been cuffed, but left the other two with their complete tack, arms still shackled crosswise. Yvonne noticed that neither of them complained about unfair treatment, however.
When the last group came back, a same man came up riding his redhead. He surveyed the field, and then called out in a loud voice. “Grounds cleanup. Assemble by crew!” Most of the ponygirls sorted themselves out into half a dozen groups, with the new ones looking on in puzzlement.
Next, he called six names, and a ’girl came running up from each crew. He put an ornate headdress on each one and sent them back to their crews. Yvonne nodded almost unconsciously. The crews now each had a herd mare. Then he pulled out a list, and assigned each of the new ponygirls to one of the crews. Yvonne 8 wound up in crew number three.
She looked at her fellow crewmembers. Tina 6 was the ’girl with the headdress, so she must be the herd mare, Yvonne decided. Once the head groundskeeper finished with the assignments and a number of special orders, the herds of ponygirls headed out to various parts of the course. As Yvonne discovered shortly, Crew 3 was responsible for the 7th, 8th and 9th holes, and the forest around it. They started at an equipment shed. The ’girls who were still in full tack positioned themselves between the shafts of the refuse wagons while Tina split the girls further into work teams, assigning each of the new team members to an experienced worker as a guide. Each team went to their wagon, finished harnessing up their ponygirl, and moved out. Yvonne’s work group was assigned to the left edge. They cleaned the rough, removing the occasional fallen branch, leaves, cigarette butts and everything else in their path that sullied the pristine beauty of the course. As Yvonne bent to her task, she barely noticed Tina 6 trotting among the crews checking on progress, or the herd mare and the groundskeeper coming by occasionally.
Finally, they were finished just in time for the sun to begin going down. The tired herd headed back toward the meadow. The ’girl’s with bridles and corsets lined up in front of grooming stations, where the grooms processed them with relentless efficiency, unlacing their corsets, removing their bridles, and unshackling the arms of the ’girls who still had them bound. Then they soaked each one, soaped her thoroughly, rinsed her off and dried her hair with a blow-drier. They finished by straightening the short hair on her head and between her legs with a currycomb, and then brushed her mane.
The rest of the ’girls headed down to the river and lined up, grooming each other to the accompaniment of many giggles. When they were done, they spread out into the meadow and fell into small groups, either talking in low voices or lying back and going to sleep. By this time, Yvonne was totally puzzled, but she went along with the herd. She picked a likely looking piece of meadow and stretched out, tail between her legs, and watched the moon slide between the stars. After a few moments, she fell asleep.
The next morning, she woke as the sky began lightening. She rolled up, being careful not to wake her neighbors, and knelt before the water trough. By the time she got to the food table, she found several other ponygirls there, each with her head in the trough, munching away. Once she had her fill, she headed for the river. She noticed the girl she’d been paired with the previous night looking around, so she joined her.
“Hi, Cassie,” she called from behind the ’girl, startling her.
She spun around. “Oh, Yvonne, I was just looking for you. I’ll bet you’re totally confused by now. Let’s groom each other and talk.”
They picked up the soap and waded into the river.
“So, what’s your impression?”
“Well, I used to golf, so that part’s ok. Being a bag girl is kinky, but this is New Babylon, I should expect normal? What’s puzzling me is cleanup last night, and sleeping in the open.”
“They’re the same thing. They wanted a world class golf course, but they don’t have the staff, so they make us do the work. There are only five groundskeepers and twenty grooms.”
“Wow,” was Yvonne’s only comment as she soaped Cassie’s torso. “Aren’t they afraid we’ll run off?”
“Fat chance,” Cassie responded. “Look at it logically. How likely are you to run off?”
“And leave the herd?” Yvonne responded automatically. Then she almost dropped the bar of soap as she realized what she’d said, and that she meant it.
“Exactly. They’ve got you wired so you can’t run off. And if, by some chance, you did, they’d simply catch you and put you in a stable with your arms cuffed all the time. Not fun.”
“Not fun at all,” Yvonne agreed. “One thing I noticed was the crew chiefs. How’s that done?”
“They’re always looking for supervisors. The groundskeeper chooses the herd mare from the crew chiefs, and the crew chiefs from the work group supervisors. He keeps rotating them to avoid favoritism. The crew chiefs select the work group supervisors from the workers that don’t make trouble or screw up. They’ll try you out as a work group supervisor once you’ve been here long enough to know how the grounds keeping works. Then they’ll keep dropping you in that slot until they figure you’ve learned it, or you’re not going to. If you’ve learned it, they’ll try you on crew chief.”
“Then what?”
“Then the good ones get poached,” Cassie said. “The scuttlebutt is they need good supervisors.”
“This is the only place to advance?”
“Pretty much. The other places they use us are too structured. Some of them have herd mares, but they are mostly for show.” She shrugged. “They rotate most of the long timers through here to see if they can find supervisory talent.”
“What about you?” Yvonne said, a bit skeptically.
“I like to stir up trouble a bit much,” Cassie said, not at all repentant. “That’s what got me shackled the last couple of times. I do get put in as crew chief every once in a while, and I like to think I’m learning what to do, but I’m going to be old and gray before they let me be herd mare.”
“And that doesn’t bother you in the slightest,” Yvonne noted as Cassie finished soaping her down.
“Nope. One of these days it might, but I like being a ponygirl. Being ridden is addictive.”
“I’ve heard that,” Yvonne said, a bit skeptically.
“Well, it’s like this. Pulling a cart and feeling your driver’s hand through the bit in your mouth is, well, it’s what being a ponygirl is about. It gives me a sense of place. However, feeling your rider keeping the reins taut so your bit forces you to keep your head back, well, it’s addictive. I can’t describe it. It just sits there in your mind, glowing. When he dismounts, it’s like you’ve lost something important. It’s like being in love.”
Yvonne looked at her strangely.
Once they finished with their grooming, the head groundskeeper rode up on his redheaded ponygirl, and started the crews on their way.
This time, the herd mare for each of the work crews told off several of her herd, who dutifully trooped up to the pavilion, where grooms put their tack on. Then they streamed out to follow the rest of their work crew at the equipment sheds. Once they got there, they positioned themselves between the shafts of the grass cutters and rollers. The work crew chiefs buckled up the traces, assigned a driver, and they went off, clipping the grass of the fairways. As they worked, the grounds crews trimmed the greens and selected the hole positions for the day.
Once they finished, the drivers unhitched their work ponies, and the herds eddied back to the meadow. When they got there, the herd mare’s called out several of the ’girls and proceeded to cuff their hands behind them. This time, Yvonne wasn’t all that surprised. She’d been pulling a grass cutter, with Cassie as her driver. Cassie had screwed up spectacularly, driving a cutter set for the fairway into the rough. She’d been mildly surprised that Cassie hadn’t been pulled off the cutter right away.
Now that things had sorted themselves out, Cassie decided to do a little exploring. She’d noticed that a number of ponygirls wandered up to the pavilion and back, apparently without either orders or censure, so she trotted up there herself. She noticed amusedly that Cassie had certainly been right; it took a definite exercise of willpower to tear herself away from the rest of crew three!
Once she got there, she figured out soon enough what was interesting. Most of the equipment walls had tack, neatly labeled by the ponygirl it was fitted to. They all had girdles, bits and bridles. Some of them had saddles; others had places where saddles could be hung. She recognized the arm shackles, and puzzled over several sets of cuffs joined by half-meter light chains. “Those must be hobbles,” she mused. “For ponygirls that like to wander off.” Another reason not to leave the herd, she thought.
One of the equipment walls had flat strips of black material, about 10 centimeters by two centimeters by one centimeter. The two little openings eye width apart showed that they were portable tellys. They were in recharging bays. The other interesting thing was the hoof picks and trimmers. She nodded to herself. It was good to know where the hoof care was. She’d had a couple of stones in her hooves, and it hadn’t been pleasant. She trotted back down again; thinking that getting to know her herd was more important than the telly.
That day, Yvonne got Mrs. Syndler again. It seemed that she liked her caddy, and had asked for her specifically. In fact, Yvonne got Mrs. Syndler for the next few days.
Our hapless ponygirl started this story with a real possibility of becoming a bag lady. Now she’s a bag girl. Is this a promotion, demotion, or merely a lateral arabesque? Whatever it is, it ain’t Safeway. Her fortunes are about to take a turn into the twilight zone – or are they. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of “Read What You Sign!” coming to a server near you.