Helle was becoming fit. Since she had first been saddled, it had been necessary to tighten her harness, four times, as the weight had come off her. She had become lean, but was still shapely; with the sleek, well-toned look of the fit athlete. Helle found no pleasure in that. What good was it all, if she wasn’t free? The chances of that were nil, for, in all the time she had been kept as a pony-slave, she had hardly left the bowels of this awful place. And whenever she did, she was always kept under close supervision. Not that she could go anywhere, naked as she always was, even if she got off the island.
If that wasn’t bad enough, as a pony-slave, like the others, she was considered, literally, to be an animal and was expected to behave like one. They were kept in a proper stable and each of them had her own stall. Whenever they weren’t being used, they were chained to a large ring attached to the front of a feeding trough and could move only a few feet from the wall of their straw-lined stalls. The only time they were unshackled was once a day, early every morning, so they could clean out the stables, and lay fresh straw. Then, if they were lucky, they were allowed to clean each other with the hoses; freezing cold water, but at least it got them clean. But it wasn’t really enough, and Helle was becoming disgusted with the rank stink of her own body. She was forever pestered by flies, being obliged to shake her head, so her long matted hair, acted like a horse-tail, flicking away the bothersome insects. This caused continual soreness around her neck where her collar scraped against the skin.
Also, she was obliged to feed like an animal, having to lap at the slimy mess of oatmeal mash which was poured into the trough twice a day, trying to shut her ears to the grunts and moans of her fellow pony-girls, in the adjoining stalls as, they too, tried to lap up their share of the mash. Then the even more frantic wails as they tried to lap up the faster flowing water, which was thrown down the trough to clean it and provide their only liquid intake.
Only rarely were they permitted to rest for longer than a few hours, and the only time they were completely divested of their harness and tack, was when they were given to a guest for pure, sexual games. Even then, some of the guests liked to have their slaves tacked up in harness, so they could ride them into exhausted submission.
The sex came in all its forms, and in the past weeks she had been taken like an animal on all fours; she had been bound to posts, shackled to walls, roped to benches, and suspended from chains, often to be raped by two, even three men at one time. She had also been used by perverted lesbian bitches, who usually whipped her when their filthy sessions were over. Then, too, she had been tortured by pathological monsters, who never bothered with sex, but inflicted pain, just for the pleasure it gave them.
Saddened, she had to admit it was all part of the conditioning process. They treated pony-slaves as animals. They expected them to regard themselves as animals.
But it was the pure fact of being a pony-slave which was the worst part of it. All of the slavegirls on the island were treated as if they were of no account, but the pony-girls were abused more than any of them. Helle had soon learned that the status, if it could be called that, was reserved as one of many forms of punishment, for disobedient slavegirls. Mistress Sheena had told her she was lucky.
Being a pony-slave was nothing compared to being one of the field slavegirls. Neither would it last forever. If she obeyed them, that didn’t help Helle.
Having lost track of time altogether, she had no idea how long it had been since she had first been saddled, much less how long it would be before she was taken away from the stables.
Until then, she had to suffer.
Most days, she was ridden, almost to exhaustion, by sadistic people who slashed their riding crops into her buttocks; unmerciful; forcing her to carry them around the passageways of the complex. It was so bad, Helle barely noticed a normal cropping and she was beginning almost to look forward to a cruel, hard rider, because it meant, that the following day, she would be given a rest, to allow the bruises and welts on her backside and thighs to fade.
Then, as if that hadn’t been bad enough, some of the guests had made it known, they liked to see Helle, in particular, harnessed to a trotting-gig; they seemed to like the way her long hair streamed in the wind, and the way her shapely breasts and buttocks bounced and jiggled as she ran. So, she had been introduced to the trotting-gigs, to be used almost exclusively for the barbaric, so-called sport of trotting.
Three times a week, at least, she had been taken up to the grass-track at the northern end of the island, where she had been harnessed to a gig. Naked, except for her harness, complete with bits and reins, she had been forced to race against other girls, dragging the aluminium trotting-gigs, under the whip, wielded by cruel, demanding drivers.
For the winner there was always a prize of extra food and time free of harness and maybe a bath. For the losers, there was punishment, which consisted of two weeks serving as a draught-slave, harnessed, naked and sweating, into teams of four or six-in-hand, pulling heavy carts, moving stores, or behind ploughs, to till the land. Not for growing food, this was all bought-in, but merely as a punishment.
At the moment, Helle knelt, miserable and cold huddled into the corner of her straw littered stall, waiting to be taken up for yet another trap-race. A few minutes before, one of the attendants had come into the stall and after a few strokes of the whip, he had bound her arms in the regular fashion for moving slaves about the complex. Her wrists were lashed together, and tied to the back of her collar, leaving the buttocks exposed to the whip.
She groaned with her discomfort and tried to lie down in the straw, wishing they would hurry. At least when she was harnessed into the gig, her arms were not tied in this agonising way. Then a rattle of the latch on her door startled her. Her heart missed a beat and she felt herself drop into deeper depression. She sighed as a rather ugly female attendant, dressed in the now familiar red nylon overalls, stepped into her stall. ‘On your feet mare!’ she said, harshly. ‘We’ve got a treat in store for you!’
‘Yes Mistress!’ Having long since learned the futility of resistance, Helle got up and stood, submissively, just wondering what perverted things she would have to do now.
The woman cackled and, none too gently, unclipped her chain from the ring and led her out of the stall, to walk her along the passageway. She was led only as far as the mouth of the tunnel, where a thick-set, blonde man was waiting. He took hold of Helle’s neck-chain and led her onwards through the tunnel to the tack room.
In the tack room, he pulled Helle close to him and caressed her rump, smiling at her, almost fondly, she thought. Then he gave her a light kiss on the lips and unfastened her arms, unclipping the chain from her collar. ‘Let’s get you ready little Helle.’ He grinned at her. ‘Raceday today sweetie!’ He slid his arm around her waist and led her over to a shower in the corner, switching on the water.
Then, quickly, he stripped himself and picked up a bottle of shower gel. Smiling, he held the bottle up. ‘Bath time little Helle!’ He flipped the top of the bottle, and poured the liquid soap over Helle’s head, working up lather in her hair. Then he began to soap both their bodies.
Helle could hardly believe what was happening. So she stood mute, squeezing her thighs together, trying to deny the tingling thrill that his closeness; his sudden tenderness, induced in her. He wasn’t fooled, she could see that. But he didn’t stop. He just smiled his eyes shining with genuine pleasure as he massaged the soap into her skin.
He lifted her chin. ‘You’re too classy for this place. You know that?’
‘M.M.Master?’ She was puzzled.
Then he scowled, as if angry with himself and pushed away from her. He turned on the hot water, rinsing her down, then handed her a towel. ‘Dry yourself!’ He nodded towards the corner where there was a stool, on which lay a large toilet bag. ‘There’s a portable hair-dryer and brushes there. Make sure you get yourself looking good!’
As Helle stepped out of the shower, still frowning, he grabbed her arm and stopped her, to gaze into her face. ‘There’s fresh fruit and bread in the toilet bag.’
She blinked, surprised. ‘Master? I don’t under....’
He placed a finger across her lips. ‘Just shush and eat the stuff!’ He held her shoulders and looked her up and down. ‘A body like yours needs looking after. That mash they give you is crap. You’re getting thin.’ He smiled, softly almost. ‘I’ll give you fruit whenever I can sweetheart!’
Helle felt a sudden blush come to her cheeks and a lump swelled in her throat. God! A kindness? Then she felt fear. Was this just another way of torturing her? Teasing her? Would someone say she had stolen the fruit. Then would she be whipped? Again? She sighed to herself. What did it matter? She would be whipped anyway shortly, as she struggled to pull some overweight, howling beast of a man, behind her in the trotting-gig.
She lowered her head. ‘Thank you Master!’ She allowed him to turn her round and propel her towards the stool.
As he towelled himself dry, she picked up the bag and opened it. There were two apples, an orange and a couple of bananas, together with some new, crusty bread. She turned to him, but he silenced her. ‘Just eat it and then get yourself ready.’ He was dressing himself now. ‘And you tell no one!’
She nodded. ‘No Master!’ She bit into one of the apples.
He sat down and watched, half amused as she ate the food and dried her hair. Then he watched her brush her glorious mane into its usual shining state.
Finally, she stood up. ‘I’m ready Master!’
He nodded and got up, to come over to her. He tilted her head again, and ran his hands through her soft hair. ‘You look gorgeous little Helle.’ He smiled and kissed her; lips again. ‘Nice?’
She frowned at him, puzzled. ‘Master?’
He gave her rump a playful slap. ‘Never mind little Helle.’ His arm went about her waist, and he pulled her close, kissing her lips again. ‘Now come on. The hard bit is due to start!’
Minutes later, Helle was herded out of the main building, onto a large grassed area outside. The bitch, Sheena was waiting for her, whip in hand. ‘Come on slut!’ She snarled, grabbing Helle’s arm. ‘Party time’s over!’ She picked up the leather racing collar, a three inch wide, brass-studded affair, and fastened it around Helle’s neck. Then she clipped an aluminium bar to each side of the collar. At the end of each bar, there was a shackle for securing the bars to the shafts of the trotting-gig and just clear of the ends there were wide metal bands, into which Helle’s wrists would be shackled.
Sheena slapped Helle’s stomach. ‘Arms out sideways mare!’
Helle lifted her arms and stretched them outwards. The aluminium bars had been made to fit for Helle and when her arms were stretched sideways, they were held out taught by the wrist-bands. Sheena clipped the bands around Helle’s wrists, and then added a leather strap around each of Helle’s biceps, to ensure her arms remained stretched taught. Sheena then began the process of harnessing Helle’s body.
Helle remained still, as Sheena clipped the centre of a thick leather strap to the front of the collar, and then brought the ends downwards, to cross them between Helle’s shapely, jutting breasts. Where the straps crossed, there was a series of horizontal loops, worked into the leather, and Sheena fixed a large, steel ring into one of the loops, so the ring lay directly over the point of Helle’s sternum. The ends of the strap were then taken behind her back, and secured with another large ring, in the small of her back.
Sheena then attached a chain to Helle’s belly ring and pulled it towards her breasts, stretching her shaven sex upwards. The chain was clipped to the ring on the straps between Helle’s breasts, causing her posture to become more upright, holding her head high and pushing her fine breasts even further outwards and upwards. Helle grimaced with the pain as her sex-mound was dragged upwards, fully displaying her vulva and clitoris.
Sheena grinned at her. ‘Have to give the spectators something nice to see.’ She grabbed a handful of Helle’s stretched vulva and squeezed, grinning, as Helle yelped in pain. Then, a thin chain was led from her belly-ring, downwards, between her sex-lips, and pulled tight, into her cleft, to be clipped to the ring at her back. Finally, a bridle and blinkers were fitted over her head and a chrome-plated bit was forced between her back teeth.
Ramming the bit home, Sheena ignored Helle’s gasps of pain, clipping reins to the ends of the bit, draping the long leathers backwards over the gig. Then, she tapped Helle’s right thigh. ‘Lift your fore-leg mare!
Helle stifled a sob of shame, as she realised, again, Sheena really did consider her to be a beast, rather than human. But, she obeyed, her stomach flipping as Sheena put a running-shoe onto her foot. She pushed Helle’s left foot into the other shoe. Sheena slapped Helle’s stomach. ‘Back mare!’ She said. Then she guided Helle backwards, between the aluminium tube shafts of a two-wheeled trotting-gig.
Shivering in the cool evening air, trembling with shame and degradation, Helle stood mute, as Sheena clipped the ends of the aluminium arm-stretchers to the ends of the shafts. Then Sheena stood back, nodding with satisfaction, as she looked at Helle, now a servile harnessed pony-slave.
Helle was shaking now, knowing what was soon to come. She was going to be whipped into a trot, to run as fast as she could, get the gig moving across the uneven track, lying to the right of the harnessing area. She also knew, if the gig turned over, harnessed as she was, she would go with it, and could suffer serious injury. The prospect frightened her and it was not only the cold which was making her tremble.
Then she groaned to herself and her heart sank even lower, as she saw the menacing, dark skinned man who walked towards the gig. She recognised the Head Pony-trainer immediately. Miller! He was dressed in a black track-suit, and he had a wicked horse-whip in his right hand. Helle knew this race was going to be murder.
Miller came up to her and sneered into her bridled face. ‘Stop splathering from the bit mare!’ He said. ‘I don’t want the thing slipping out half-way through the race.’ He slashed the whip into her body, making her squeal with shock and pain. ‘And you had better win or I’ll shred your arse.’
Sheena stepped up. ‘She won’t win Zach.’ She smiled. ‘But I’m sure you’ll make her try hard enough!’
‘We’ll see.’ Miller said, as he climbed into the gig. He cracked the whip alongside Helle’s face. ‘Trot on mare!’
Helle felt her insides curl with shame, as she began to pull the heavy load behind her, answering to each tug of the reins as Miller guided her around the parade ring that served as a paddock. Every few seconds, he snapped the whip beside her ears, or flicked her exposed buttocks, to keep her at it and to remind her of her position.
Helle wasn’t alone in her misery, for there were four other girls ahead of and behind her, harnessed in the same way, all trying to keep in step, their breasts and buttocks jiggling, erotically, as they trotted around the paddock, displaying their abilities, or otherwise to the watching men and women, in the warmth of the hospitality cabins, beside the grassy area. Helle realised, she too would look just as erotic a sight, as she trotted up, feeling her own breasts and buttocks, bouncing about, in time with her enforced, exaggerated gait, wincing each time Miller’s whip cracked beside her ears.
Whilst trying to concentrate on her step, she tried to assess the other pony-slaves. These other girls, she would be racing against. And she knew she had to win, or a severe beating would be the result. Sadly, as she looked at the ease with which most of the girls pulled their gigs; noted their sleek, fitness, Helle knew Sheena had been right. She didn’t stand a chance. The others were all experienced in trotting a gig and, even with her weight advantage, Helle knew she didn’t have the experience to beat them. There would be money wagered on her running, but again, she admitted to herself, she didn’t stand a chance. She never had been able to run very well and to be expected to haul a pony-trap, and a sixteen stone man, was asking too much of her.
She would lose again.
Then she would be whipped, blindfolded and given a forced run, around the heathland, in front of the crowd, her arms strapped up to the back of her neck. Every time she lost her balance, or tripped over unseen obstacles, there would be another excuse to whip her as she struggled to keep going. She would be whipped on, until she dropped. Then she would be beaten, until she got up and started again.
She pushed the horrific prospect from her mind and risked a glance to the side, hoping Miller wouldn’t notice. Closer to the hospitality cabin now, she could just make out the people behind the steamed up windows, relaxing, drinking and eating their fill. It only made Helle more aware of her enslavement, of how helpless she was, and of how uncaring these monsters were.
She glanced sideways, to get a better look, but this time there came a growl from Miller. A stinging blow from the whip across her freezing buttocks brought her to her task, once more and she faced her front, straining at the bar, struggling to pull her load.
Eventually, after about four circuits of the lawn, the whip cracked again and she was urged into a run, Miller twitching on her left rein, guiding her towards the gate and the muddy track. A few minutes later, the girls were all lined up abreast, across the track, all trembling, waiting for the start.
A starting gun cracked and the whip smashed into Helle’s back, causing her to scream out, as she started to run, the muddy turf, slippery beneath her feet, the spikes in the shoes, ineffective, as she struggled to get the pony-trap moving. She dug her feet in, heaved and hauled, grunted and groaned her efforts. But the trap barely moved and she groaned as the other girls began to pull away from her.
Then her mind was shattered as, the fine, sharp end of the leather whip slashed her naked buttocks again; Miller roaring at her, slapping the reins, slashing at vulnerable hide with the whip, urging her on. ‘Run Mare! Run!’ Savagely, Miller hauled on the reins, causing the bit to be rammed back into her mouth and she screamed as the metal ground on her teeth, her saliva spraying about as she tried to adjust the metal rod in her mouth. Finally, the trap began to roll a little easier and she realised it wasn’t quite so hard. Even so, the whip still lashed into her back and buttocks, cutting into her thoughts. ‘Feet up mare! Knees bent! Trot properly!’ Miller yelled at her. ‘Move your arse!’
Again, the whip cracked into Helle’s flesh, this time across her bare shoulders, and she screamed out, but obeyed, lifting her knees high, wincing as the chain cut deep into the cleft of her sex, sobbing as the whip landed, repeatedly, on her naked buttocks and thighs. She was panting with the effort and her head roared, as she began to accelerate, shutting her ears to the maniacal yelling of the onlookers, shouting on their particular wagers, their pony-slaves, willing them to win.
Soon, Helle’s body was slicked with a slimy mixture of mud and her own saliva, as her breathing began to labour, the bit grinding on her teeth, ramming her tongue to the back of her throat, so she splattered even more. Miller continued to lay the whip across her naked shoulders and buttocks, and her feet were constantly slipping and skidding about in the wet grass. She was slowing down now, well behind the other slavegirls, with the finish line in clear sight. Then there was the sudden, delighted roar of the crowd, as the leading gig passed the winning line. Helle’s heart missed a beat and she felt her bladder contract with fear and her urine ran, freely, down her legs.
She had lost. She was last! She would be punished.
Miller cursed. ‘Useless mare!’
The whip slashed down across her buttocks and Helle sagged in the shafts, sobbing as she fell to her knees in the mud. But the whipping continued. ‘On your feet you mare!’ Miller roared at her. ‘You might be last, but you’ll damn well finish!’
Sobbing, Helle raised herself, and began to pull once more. She was screaming, her saliva foamed and flooded over the bit; her thighs and buttocks quivered with the effort, and her naked body was steaming with the sweat of her exertions. Finally, she got the gig over the line and collapsed between the shafts, prostrate before A man , who was waiting, just beyond the finish.
Miller climbed down from the gig, walked towards the naked, exhausted Helle and gave her one more slash with the whip, before turning to a man . ‘She’s useless! Needs more training!’ He handed over the whip. ‘I’ll leave her to you! Put her in a cage for the night. Do her good.’
The man nodded and, as Miller walked away, stepped up to the kneeling Helle, He shoved the butt of the whip beneath her chin, pushing her head upwards. ‘On your feet slave!’
Helle gagged, as the bit dug even deeper into her mouth, gasped as the pressure forced her jaws wide apart. She gurgled and more saliva ran down her naked front, as she struggled to her feet.
He held the whip steady beneath her chin. ‘Seems you’re not as fit as we thought!’ He shrugged. ‘No to worry. We’ll soon alter that!’ He released her arms from the aluminium stretcher and took off her collar. Then he took the bit from between her teeth, before guiding her clear of the shafts, still in her body-harness. He took hold of the bridle and pulled her along towards the path leading from the track. ‘Might as well get on with it!’ The sooner you’re fit, the better.’
Helle had no option, but to follow him as he led her towards the open heathland, in front of the Pleasure Palace. Her soul cringed as she felt her feet sinking into the soggy grass, and she groaned, as he pulled her towards the small building at the foot of the hill.