Through the tattered wisps of morning fog trotted a young ponygirl and rider, advancing down a cobblestone road through the picturesque meadows of the Stark estate. They had been traveling for an hour, since just before sunup, and the little pony was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Her rider, Mistress Stark herself, had shown more concern for the speed of her transit than for the comfort of her mount.

"Lift those feet, Whimper!" snapped Mistress Stark impatiently. "I'll not have you shuffling and shambling up Madame Carenot's driveway!"

Whimper, bent under the weight of her Mistress, lifted her hoofbooted feet higher as she maintained the queer bounding stride of a full gallop. Her thighs had been strapped together by a pair of tightly buckled belts, her ankles hobbled by a cord only eighteen inches long.

The pony's nostrils flared as she struggled to fill her lungs; the enormous bit between her jaws prevented her from breathing through her mouth. She could not contain the copious strands of saliva which spilled incessantly over her lips and chin. They dangled there, cavorting grotesquely, slowly lengthening.

"Not much farther now," said Mistress Stark. Her voice carried no hint of sympathy or concern for her pony's distress. "Just over the next rise."

Whimper cringed as she saw the road ahead climb the gentle slope of a broad hillock. But she knew that Madame Carenot's mansion lay only a few hundred yards ahead; she had visited the Madame's home on several occasions in the past, though never as a mounted beast.

She trudged doggedly up the incline, panting heavily. Mistress Stark leaned forward in her little riding saddle, as if to urge her pony up the hill. She bent her knees, sweeping her stirruped boots backward.

Whimper groaned piteously. The stirrups were suspended from heavy clamps piercing her aerioles, and her Mistress's movement pulled harshly at her sensitive breasts; indeed, the clamps might have been ripped from her breasts altogether if not for the stirrup bar which Whimper held in her hands. This bar was attached to the straps of the stirrups, just below the clamps on Whimper's breasts. She gripped this bar in her hands at all times, supporting most of the weight in the stirrups with her arms.

Mistress Stark's tawny legs were much stronger than Whimper's arms, however; as the Mistress bent her knees and pulled her feet back, the pony's breasts were inexorably stretched. The pain finally wrenched a cry of misery from Whimper's throat, and the first tears of the journey welled in her eyes, streamed down her cheeks.

"That's a good girl," purred the Mistress, and through the haze of pain, Whimper could feel her rider squirm in the saddle.

They finally reached the crest of the hill, and before them lay the expansive Carenot estate. The little cobblestone road continued two hundred yards, down the hill and over a tiny stone bridge spanning a burbling brook. Beyond this lay the Carenot mansion, squat and imposing behind a ten-foot brick wall.

Mistress Stark uncoiled her long legs, stretching them out before her so that Whimper's breasts were now pulled taut in the direction of the Carenot home.

"With grace and aplomb," advised the Mistress tartly as they descended the hill. She held her whip absently behind her, so that the leather rubbed against Whimper's vulva.

The ponygirl concentrated on maintaining her stride as she came down the hill, so that she would not lose her footing and throw her rider. She shuddered to think of the consequences of such a mistake.

They reached the foot of the hill and crossed the little bridge, the dainty clop-clop of Whimper's hoofboots sure and steady. The little ponygirl felt a sudden exhiliration, knowing she was near the end of her arduous journey; already she could almost feel herself stretching out in the luxurious straw of Madame Carenot's stable, feeding on thick slop from a trough. Mistress Stark would doubtless spend the entire day with her friend, and Whimper could face the long agonizing journey home on well-rested legs and a full belly.

Mistress Stark directed her pony between the open ironwork gates of the brick wall, to the footpath which led to the pillared porch. She reined Whimper to a halt there, slipped her feet from the stirrups and dismounted.

"Wait here while I make arrangements for our visit," she told Whimper, then turned on one high heel and strolled up the front walk.

The little pony, watching her Mistress advance up the path, felt a sudden overwhelming surge of pride. Mistress Stark was magnificent -- statuesque, imperious, beautiful. Whimper, of course, was none of these things. Half a foot shorter than her Mistress, thirty pounds lighter, deferential and obedient.

Mistress Stark stopped at the huge oak door and lifted the brass door knocker. It was fashioned in the image of a grimacing female face, the rapper itself formed from her heavy breasts -- a bit of maudlin humor on the part of the artisan, no doubt.

The Mistress's knock was answered in a matter of moments by a lovely young blonde girl with a lean figure but ample bosom. She was very simply attired -- or, rather, scarcely attired at all. Frilly pink cuffs adorned her wrists and ankles, and a small silver bell dangled from each large nipple. Snug about her slender throat was buckled a pink leather collar, studded with silver.

Seeing Mistress Stark on the doorstep, the girl bowed her head and carefully averted her eyes from the visitor's illustrious visage.

The Mistress studied her with rapt attention, the corners of her lips curling upward. "Why, you are new one," she observed silkily. "What are you called?"

"Mistress Carenot uses the name 'Morsel' to designate this one, Mistress," the girl replied softly, her sweet voice quavering minutely.

"Ah, such a succulent sobriquet!" said Mistress Stark. She reached forth and pinched one of Morsel's rosy nipples, as if plucking a ripe berry from a bush. The girl responded with an exhalation, somewhere between a sigh and a moan; her nipple swelled and hardened on the instant, her bell tinkled merrily.

Mistress Stark released the nipple and placed her fingertips beneath the plump breast, lifting it experimentally. "I am Madame Carenot's neighbor, Madam Stark," she said, putting her hand now on Morsel's tiny waist, just above the exquisite flaring of her hips. "I have come for a day-visit."

"Mistress Carenot has left for the day, Mistress," Morsel replied huskily. "She went shopping in town, and will not return until after nightfall."

Mistress Stark pondered this news a moment, then slowly shook her head. "Yes, of course! How could I have forgotten? I spoke with her only three days ago. So silly of me."

Morsel swallowed audibly, staring resolutely at Mistress Stark's feet. "Morsel is available for your amusement, Mistress," she murmured. "If you care to use her." She leaned forward ever so slightly, took a deep breath to expand her chest.

Mistress Stark, smiling, pinched the girl under her narrow chin. "I'm sure that would be delightful," she said. "But it will have to wait. Inform your Mistress that I will return tomorrow at this same time."

"As you command, Mistress," said Morsel, pouting.

As Mistress Stark turned away, Morsel's pale blue eyes happened upon the ponygirl waiting at the foot of the path. Sweat was dripping like rain from Whimper's body, the strands of saliva still swaying from her lips and chin. The pony was still struggling for breath, her lungs working like bellows beneath the confines of her leather corset. Her face, obscured by the many straps of her bit and bridle, essayed the pain and fatigue induced by her Mistress's lengthy morning jaunt.

Morsel stared at her in horrified fascination, eyes wide. A strange sound escaped her throat -- anxiety and arousal comingled, evincing a simultaneous longing for and shrinking from the fate of the pitiable ponygirl.

Whimper's eyes met those of the girl Morsel, and she read there the conflicting welter of emotions -- revulsion, sympathy, excitement, lust. Morsel could not tear her gaze from the ponygirl; her hand moved slowly toward the shaven mound of her pubis, one slim finger sliding into the cleft there. Whimper felt her own cunt suddenly aching with desire, and she longed to finger herself.

Mistress Stark halted beside her pony. "Madame Carenot is away for the day, Whimper," she announced heartily. "We will therefore make our way home and return again tomorrow."

Whimper, hearing this news, felt the remaining strength seep out of her legs. She groaned aloud, head drooping, shoulders sagging.

Mistress Stark lifted her right boot, slipped it into the pony's right stirrup. Whimper, with a cry of alarm partially muffled by her bit, frantically grasped the stirrup bar with her hands and attempted to steel herself for her Mistress's mounting.

Mistress Stark stepped up into the stirrup and Whimper sobbed, the biceps of her little arms bulging as she pulled up on the stirrup shaft with all her strength. Nevertheless, her poor breast was extruded excruciatingly. The Mistress swung her long shapely leg over Whimper's body and the pony staggered forward two steps. She kept her feet, however, and Mistress Stark settled herself on the riding saddle, slipping her left foot into the free stirrup.

"Let us go, Whimper," Mistress Stark said stridently. "Shoulders back, head held high! Show that delectable Morsel what a fine little beastie you are!"

Whimper had a last glimpse of Morsel energetically stroking her clitoris, blue eyes smouldering with fervent emotion. Then she felt the tug of the left rein and she turned obediently; the leather whip slapped her bare thigh and she quickened her pace.

"Do not shuffle your feet, girl," admonished Mistress Stark sternly. "That's better. Now, with speed!"

The whip struck a stinging blow against Whimper's thigh, the crack of the impact ringing in her ears. With a sob she accelerated to a gallop.

She carried her Mistress over the bridge and back up the hill, refusing to allow herself to think about the hourlong journey which lay ahead of her. Instead she recalled her shame and degradation before the beautiful young Morsel, reliving it in exquisite detail. It had been so fleeting, yet so overwhelmingly arousing!

A sudden stitch flared in her side and she grunted in pain, but did not falter in her stride. She tried to keep her mind on Morsel, but found her thoughts flying into tatters as her body's complaints intruded more and more relentlessly.

The muscles of her thighs, which had ached dully for most of the journey to the Carenot estate, were now burning acutely. With every stride she took, sharp lances of pain seemed to pierce her lower back and hips. Her arms were sorely fatigued from the effort of holding up the stirrup bar against the weight of the Mistress's legs; but she could not bear to put any more pressure on her dangerously overtaut breasts.

The discomforts mounted, and Whimper's thoughts became disjointed. The thoughts of Morsel faded in a bright haze of searing pains. Her entire body protested its outrageous abuse, but Whimper bore her Mistress resolutely down the road. She sobbed and groaned ceaselessly, every footfall jarred a piteous noise from her throat.

Mistress Stark clearly took enormous satisfaction from each gasp and moan she wrung from her little pony. "There, there, now," she said with exaggerated solicitude. "We're already halfway home."

Only halfway! Whimper cried out in despair, discharging a copious spray of spittle which blew back into her face. Her body began trembling violently, and both her calves flared simultaneously with sharp cramps.

Astride her, Mistress Stark squeezed her thighs against the pony's shuddering flanks. "Such a good girl!" she sighed, just loudly enough to penetrate Whimper's pain-addled brain. "You can make it, my sweet. Bring your loving Mistress home."

Whimper, sobbing in anguish, willed herself forward. Mistress Stark's obvious pleasure sparked some resevoir of pride and desire deep within the pony. She was determined not to let her body, soft and weak as it was, prevent her from satisfying her Mistress.

She plodded down the path, her aches and pains growing more acute, blazing like the sun which had risen above the trees. Mistress Stark was writhing in saddle; she wore no breeches under her open-crotched jodhpurs, and so could grind her bare groin against the hard leather on which she sat.

Whimper galloped on, and her scattered thoughts seemed to slow, congealing like cold porridge in her head. Finally, mercifully, the mind-numbing exhaustion freed her from conscious engagement in her toil.

She continued on for half an hour, mindless as any beast, the perfect ponygirl. She felt the pull of the left rein on her bit and turned automatically, as her rider willed, onto the path which led to the Stark estate. Another hundred yards she loped, her face rigid and expressionless, eyes glazed and unseeing. A hundred times she had seen ponygirls with precisely the same look, and had contemptuously dismissed them as unthinking animals; indeed, she had been correct in that assessment, and now she took no notice of the laborers who regarded her with similar disdain as she passed on the way to the stables.

The doors of the stable were open and Mistress Stark rode inside, directing her ponygirl past a dozen stalls where other ponies slept or ate or waited dully to be put to work. At the very last stall she halted and hopped down from the saddle. She guided Whimper into the stall by the reins.

"Here you are," she said. "Your performance today was exemplary. It is not often I experience a climax during a simple pony ride." She unbuckled the bridle and removed the bit from Whimper's mouth. The ponygirl moaned softly, her eyes fluttered momentarily.

"M-mother? Are we home?"

"We are," replied Mistress Stark. "Your first day of training is complete. Rest today. On the morrow we will return once more to Madame Carenot's estate."

Whimper sank to her knees, her thoughts slowly returning. The myriad agonies of her body quickly obtruded and she began to weep softly, trembling.

"Tut-tut!" snapped Mistress Stark. "This is most unseemly conduct. You would shame me in the presence of my laborers?"

Whimper shook her head, miserable. "Why must I remain in this state?" she sobbed, her voice faint behind the burning lump in her throat.

"Because this is the way it is done," Mistress Stark said shortly. "You have reached maturity, and so you must undergo the necessary training."

Whimper's body shook with her silent sobbing. She tried to speak, but no words would come.

Mistress Stark regarded her evenly, face pinched with displeasure. "You are weak, as I once was. But weakness is intolerable in a Mistress of the Stark estate. Things would very quickly fall apart without a strong, stern hand in control. Therefore you will learn how to properly handle the bitches in your care. And the most effective means of doing this is for you to live as one of those bitches."

Whimper found her voice, plaintive and small. "But...for how long?"

"Oh, not long. A few years, perhaps. A decade at most. In the meantime, I would advise you to make the best of your condition. I sense that you took some considerable pleasure in your abasement, did you not?"

Whimper thought of Morsel, and blushed deeply. She could not hide the hardening of her nipples.

Mistress Stark nodded once. "As I thought. I recall a similar experience myself...." She paused, staring into the distance almost wistfully for a second or more. She turned abruptly to the gate of the stall, where a nubile young stablegirl had trotted up and was now kneeling with head bowed.

"Good morning, Sparrow," she said.

"Morning, Mistress Stark," Sparrow replied softly. She was a pretty girl, naked but for a black leather collar, her slender arms and wiry frame hardened with gracile muscle.

"Rub down my ponygirl and give her a bite to eat. Then she may rest."

"Yes, Mistress."

Mistress Stark looked again at Whimper, and scowled to see that the ponygirl had thrust one slim hand deep between her thighs, which were still tightly bound together. Recalling her degradation in front of the pretty Morsel, Whimper was attempting to pleasure herself without regard for the presence of her Mistress.

"But first, Sparrow," said Mistress Stark stridently, "help me bind the pony's arms securely behind her back. I would not have her expending her precious energy inconsequentially."

"At once, Mistress," replied the stablegirl. She rose and proceeded to Whimper, took her arms and pulled them behind her back, ignoring the pony's cry of alarm and pain. Sparrow clearly thought no more of Whimper than she did of the other ponygirls.

She held Whimper's arms as Mistress Stark bound them in a leather restraint, until they were entirely immobile.

"Stand!" commanded Mistress Stark peremptorily. Whimper rose from her knees and stood, trembling with frustration and fatigue.

"Straighten up," demanded the Mistress. "Now, throw back your shoulders. You inherited a fine pair of teats from me, show some pride in them!"

Whimper obeyed, cringing at the weight of the stirrups which still hung suspended from them. She stared at her Mistress's boots, her face creased with misery.

"That's much better," said Mistress Stark, smiling faintly. "Until tomorrow then, my dear."