From the book ‘The Last Pony Girl’ by Chris Bellows, the noted author of over twenty D/s stories. This entire book is available through http://www.Lulu.com and http://www.pinkflamingo.com.
Lady Laura
“Oh, Reggie, I really don’t think I am ready for this!”
“Come dear. Every family has its peccadillos. I think you’ll soon be enjoying ours.”
My husband of six months slides back a large door and flips a switch. The barn-like space illuminates and there in suspension harness hangs a girl. Her developed torso is really that of a woman. She is naked except for a full hood along with ankle and wrist cuffs.
I close my eyes in disbelief. Reggie briefly described the facility and its uses on the drive from London. But I still am not mentally prepared.
“Well, you didn’t think our marriage would be mundane, did you?
“Surely you had some inkling concerning the odd penchants of the Winthrops of Bellingham.”
Yes, I did. But I thought, hoped actually, that it was a penchant for abundant sex. Instead, months after our marriage and a wonderful world cruise honeymoon, I find myself visiting my husband’s family farm for the first time, and discovering that a large barn is not used to harbor animals but instead to conceal human beasts of burden.
Sir Reginald Winthrop is the sole remaining heir of the incredibly wealthy Winthrop family. Since the family was prolific in making money but not children, the vast wealth all came to Reggie when his aunt died a year ago.
Now there was a woman with ‘odd penchants’..., at least such were rumored. She was rarely seen. But on occasion a person of high social standing would be visiting Bellingham and later report over cocktails at a prestigious London club that Reggie’s aunt was spotted dressed in masculine riding attire, donning a crop and ordering about a page dressed in frilly silk.
None of the stories or rumors ever stuck to Reggie. He was thought of as a typical wealthy English boy who found the major challenge in life to be selecting the preferred sport upon which to spend his vast monthly income..., golf, yachting or polo.
I open my eyes to find that Reggie has left me at the door. He has entered and is standing before the languishing naked form hanging by way of formidable steel chains. When the woman moves, causing the chains to sway and highlight the thoroughness of her bondage, I find myself strangely relieved. She is alive. At least the ‘peccadillo’ does not include the macabre.
“Come dear. She can’t hurt you.”
Reggie completely misinterprets my concern, speaking in a condescending tone as if he was introducing a timid child to a man-eating beast at a zoo.
I approach with trepidation and am amazed to see hanging from parallel overhead beams dozens of pairs of chains similar to those holding the woman. At one time the large structure evidently provided the hanging woman with much company. Yet, the building is quite clean and though cool is much more accommodative then a regular barn.
As I near, I begin to realize that the woman is huge. Since her ankles are cuffed and drawn up behind her, her size is deceptive. But I judge that if she was standing she would be very close to my husband’s height at just over six feet.
“This is ‘Honor Girl’, Laura. She can’t hear us. When Theresa puts her up for the night, her ears are plugged and she listens to soothing music. She is worked hard during the day. It’s best that she not be distracted from her rest.”
Theresa? Worked hard? My mind races with the amazing scene and the unfamiliar references and people.
“Honor Girl is the only one left. After Aunt Grace died, I auctioned away the rest. Since I grew up with Honor Girl, I just couldn’t let her go. I thought you’d understand and hope you’ll indulge me. Over the weekend you may even come to enjoy her as I do.”
While Reggie speaks I cannot help but stare at this ‘Honor Girl’. Normally, modesty would force me to look away from the naked form, but since only my husband is present and the hooded woman can neither hear nor see, I find myself staring intently.
Her weight is supported by two soft but strong cloth slings encircling her thighs and leading upwards to the chains. It appears that they most comfortably support her weight and also serve to force apart her massive well muscled thighs. Her pudendum has been carefully shaven and I am shocked to see a huge clitoris thrust forward like a small penis. It is the size of a cigar tip. Equally shocking are bright pink inner labia which loosely dangle outside and below meaty outer lips.
Reggie notices the direction of my stare.
“Hormones and my aunt’s curious proclivity. Auntie had all the clitoral hoods trimmed back. In the pony world, a Winthrop Farm girl was immediately recognizable. She considered it better than a brand or tattoo.”
The pony world?
“I don’t think Theresa would mind if I say hello.”
My husband supinates his right arm and extends his hand. The palm presses against the woman’s mons and the index and pinky finger dextrously splay her outer labia, opening her most feminine passage. With a single uninterrupted motion, his middle and fore fingers slide between the prominently displayed pink inner lips into a woman’s most intimate grotto. It is apparent that my husband has explored there many times. I am stunned into silence.
“Don’t be alarmed, Laura. It’s like petting a cat or dog. A symbol of affection.”
I watch in amazement as my new husband pushes with his hand causing the massive woman to slowly swing to and fro in her bonds and ensuring that his fingers have deeply penetrated. ‘Honor Girl’ stirs from her somnolence. Obviously my husband’s unseen but alacritous fingers are diddling within her vagina. It seems to be a most pleasant way to awake.
“You’ll soon be learning this. It’s customary after a good performance. ‘Honor Girl’ likes the attention, yes don’t you girl?”
He knows she can’t hear and speaks as one would talk to a beloved animal, fully aware of the limited cognition on the part of the listening beast.
My eyes divert to the woman’s hooded head. Two small cords run from the top of the hood to the large chains bearing her weight. Such evidently assure that the woman is held upright and limit the movement of her head. A wire also is strung from above, apparently delivering the aforementioned soothing music. Her mouth and nose are uncovered to provide air, and beneath a sizable ring penetrating her septum, her lips slowly open widely in an exaggerated expression of ecstasy.
“This is the only way she experiences pleasure and with my absence I am sure Theresa has been parsimonious in dispensing it. She tends to work a girl hard and reward lightly.”
The woman’s wrists are cuffed behind her back causing her chest to be thrust forth. For the first time I notice her breasts. The nipples have crinkled and stand in salute to my husband’s skilled fingers. But the body of each mammary gland is surprisingly limited. They appear firm and round but without softness. One would expect to see similar sleekly shaped glands on the chest of a male body builder or professional wrestler, not on a woman. But then Reggie did say the woman was worked hard...,
One cannot choose one’s family. The Winthrop penchant for pony girls has been a bit of a social cross to bear for generations. But after University, I comforted myself over the ensuing years by staying in London and managing to thriftily live on my inherited annuity of some 100,000 pounds per month.
Thus, my only remaining relative, Aunt Grace, could continue indulging herself without reflection on me. And I, in turn, developed a facade of normality. Lady Laura’s reaction is an attest to my accomplishment in that endeavor.
But I must confess that during my bachelorhood I visited the Farm from time to time and joined my Aunt in pursuing her hobby. And I found it was Honor Girl whose buttocks I preferred to crop and whose amazingly prominent nipples seemed to beg for an occasional corrective stroke. The feel of the pony cart shuddering from Honor Girl’s reaction to a biting nip can be intoxicating. Power has that affect.
And observing on a hot afternoon a well muscled pony girl being worked into a lather while the wind of the cart’s motion cools the bearer of both reins and an implement of pain, has its own narcotic effect.
So as much as I wanted to lead a normal life, I could not stay away from my life long companion. Aunt Grace acquired Honor Girl when I was an adolescent and I had watched each step of her training and indoctrination with fascination. A year ago after Aunt Grace’s funeral, when it came time to cleanse the Winthrop name and estate of the potentially scandalous collection of naked, restrained women, human dog carts, chariots, pony carts, and assorted gear, I could not part with my long time partner in recreation.
But as addictive as the power was and continues to be, I did dispose of all else, with the exception of a small cart to exercise Honor Girl. And curiously dear reader, it is the Winthrop curse that the lot of ponies and equipment brought hundreds of thousands of pounds to the estate coffers. Who knew that the family’s odd past time would prove to be such a lucrative investment?
It’s Sir Reginald! Despite the months of neglect, I know the touch. Though the manipulation is standard, tantalizingly pressuring my mons just above my clitoris and inserting fingers into my vagina, he seems able to find that magical feminine spot within so much more quickly than others. And I find myself dripping in reaction. If only my trainer Theresa were so magnanimous with such a simple gesture.
To show my appreciation I squeeze my Kegel muscles. Though I cannot hear or see him, I know he likes that. His enjoyment of power is immense and I know I will be rewarded for ceding to it. Like a puppet reacting to tugs on strings, it is best that I accede to his pleasure and humbly accept what little pleasure he offers in return, for tomorrow I will most likely bear the sting of whip and crop.
I heard Miss Theresa mention that he got married. I wonder if the new wife will indulge or that the Winthrop proclivity will die with me, the last pony girl...,
“Reggie, you’re masturbating her!”
The words just pour out. I cannot help vocalizing the obvious, particularly as Honor Girl’s feminine fragrance begins to permeate the barn.
“I’m just saying hello, darling. When we intend to masturbate the girls we also feather their little buds..., only with most of Aunt Grace’s girls they were never so little.”
Reggie chortles in a manner which I have not before heard.
Wet fingers slide out. I feel a sense of guilt with the timing of my reproach, rebuking my husband and leaving the poor woman on the brink of orgasm. And sure enough, Honor Girl’s restrained hips spasmodically plunge forward propelled by abdominal muscles which have obviously been sculpted through hours and hours of exercise. She desperately seeks to resume receiving attention from the withdrawn digits.
“We’ve had a long drive, Laura. Tomorrow when you’re fresh, I’ll have Honor Girl harnessed to a cart and we’ll take her for a ride. You know the farm is large and secluded. The Winthrop family has trained and exercised our pony girls here for generations in complete anonymity. When you fully understand the enjoyment, I think you’ll grant me this one small affectation.”
Reggie is correct about the drive. And my ability to ‘grant’ him anything is irrelevant. Though my family is well connected socially, I am practically impoverished. I love Reggie, but his wealth has indeed been a convenient and timely financial life preserver for me. I was weeks away from seeking stature-diminishing employment when I met him. If I subsequently find we are incompatible, seeking a reasonable monetary settlement from the powerful solicitors of the Winthrop dynasty will be not only be difficult but time consuming. My pile of unpaid bills suggests that Reggie will be ‘granted’ whatever best suits my creditors. But meanwhile I can express my distaste.
“And before coming to a conclusion, let me show you something.”
Reggie guides me to the rear of the hanging female form. There her cuffed ankles have been drawn up and clipped to the chains holding the cloth slings. With a simple pinch of a small clasp Honor Girl’s right cuff is freed and her foot slowly descends. While the very tips of her toes find the floor, Reggie releases the left cuff as well. The pony girl knows to balance herself. She is indeed taller than my husband, particularly when forced to her toes.
“This is as prime a backside as you will encounter,” Reggie gushes.
Yes, although I have no appetite for the female form, Reggie is correct. Honor Girl’s protruding buttocks are large, perfectly proportioned and have muscling the size of which seems to invade the abundant open space of the large barn. I have no desire to touch or caress, but with the bright lights displaying a half dozen faint red lines, I do envision a leather implement of correction cracking against perspiring flesh. My fertile imagination runs. Is it my hand brandishing it?
What is happening to me?
Reggie notices that my attention has been completely diverted.
“Incredible, is it not? Aunt Grace had a program and quite the aptitude for executing it. Honor Girl is just one of dozens of potent but subservient girls who were nurtured, exercised and trained here for no other purpose than to labor in front of Aunt Grace’s cart and anguish under the sting of the whip. She knows no other life and has no other skills.”
It is hard to conceive that in the twenty-first century there is a woman who serves as nothing more than a beast of burden. And Reggie is so sanguine about it!
My husband’s hands reach to the rounded globes. I am reminded of horse auctions as thumb and forefinger gather a fold of flesh from each cheek to inspect and exhibit. Honor Girl’s buttocks are pure muscle covered by a layer of firm epidermis for which every girl pines but never seems to achieve. She appears to have spent a lifetime working thigh, calve and gluteus maximus muscles in some expensive gymnasium.
No one has ever suggested my own form to be less than attractive, yet I find myself admiring the puissance of the naked captive female.
“Diet and heavy exercise, Laura. That’s all Honor Girl knows and that is all she will ever have. Of course Aunt Grace’s hormone treatments helped, but I’d rather not get into that aspect.”
Reggie lifts the ankle cuffs and quickly resecures them. The dexterity by which Honor Girl finds herself once again dangling from chains evidences my husband’s many years of handling naked and bound pony girls.
I am concerned.
Laura is pensive as we retreat to the house. I assume that to be a good sign. If she were completely repulsed by Honor Girl and the barn scenario, I reason that silence would not be her response.
Perhaps we will have an entertaining weekend after all, I think. But I change the subject so as not to completely overwhelm. She needs time away from me.
“I have instructed Chin to have Champagne in your room along with a hot bath drawn. You’ll discover him to be quite resourceful, obedient and physically unable to raise a woman’s concerns. For many years Aunt Grace found delight in his loyal service. He has skills and attributes that are difficult to replace and although I do not care to indulge, you should not be concerned about my reaction if you were to do so.”
Laura remains silent and I join her in reticence. She will find out for herself about Chin. Meanwhile, memories of visiting the farm as a boy begin to cascade. I will miss all the activity but modern society can frustratingly be both enlightened yet prudish. Though well cared for, dozens of naked girls being exercised, pulling dog and pony carts and receiving corrective strokes of whip and cane can no longer be tolerated. Aunt Grace had a system for ensuring that local authorities were favorably compensated for their intentional oversight, but I cannot dedicate my life to the eccentric endeavors as she did. Honor Girl will have a home and remain exercised and fed. She has come to accept her fate and expresses resistance only when a caressing hand fails to bring her to full climax, such as a moment ago when we left the barn to the sound of thrashing chains. Overall, her continued incarceration is easily effectuated.
But when I recall my first summer, when the newly arrived girls were being stripped, bathed, shaved and restrained I will never understand how the resulting cacophony ever escaped question. Aunt Grace was a model administrator. Many girls were trained. None ever escaped. The farm was most profitable to her dying day. For Aunt Grace, making money from the striped and perspiring buttocks of girls was the real fun. Yet since the sums pale in comparison to the yield on family investments, I can live well without the commotion and rest with reasonable assurance that a surreptitiously taken photo of a naked Winthrop Farm pony girl will not appear on the front page of the Daily Mirror.
Such is the fate of a pony girl. Though my bonds are most comfortable, being brought so near climax only to have the manipulating fingers abruptly withdrawn sends my hormones to incredible levels of arousal. I am frustrated and futilely struggle against my chains.
After some time I calm myself with the realization that tomorrow I will be run by Master Reginald. I will work hard, diligently follow every tug on the reins and he will show me off to his new wife, should she be in attendance. Then, as opposed to a session with Miss Theresa, I know he will smile while I am hosed down and lathered with soap. After which he will give instructions to have a tantalizing feather placed near my sling. As I humbly dangle, he will have my neglected organs played like musical instruments and I will sing for him a song of ecstasy.
It is only the conjuring of pleasing fantasies which allows me to resume sleeping.