Old McDonald had a Farm...

Chapter six

“Not a bad way to travel, is it?” Bessie chuckled casually, flicking that whip again and curling it around young Damson’s upper torso.

“Depends on whether you're sitting up here or down there,” I quipped, nodding forward. Given that the cart was swaying about some, the bench seat felt a little flimsy, and the track was heavily rutted. I’d had far more comfortable rides, but I wasn’t about to tell Bessie that. The woman was almost bursting with pride and enthusiasm as she shook the reins vigorously, encouraging her unusual draught team to make a greater effort. Besides, those reins seemed merely an ancillary tool for motivating her captive two-legged beasts.

“Strip and stripe if you want to experiment; feel free, " Bessie replied, applying a similar blow to Plumb's frontage this time. I couldn’t see where the tip of the whip had landed, but if I’d had three guesses, two would be surplus.

“You’re very good with that whip”, I noted, listening to that shrill, if muted squeal.

“Practice”, she chuckled, and this time, Cream’s rump earned another livid stripe.

I shuddered at the casual way she said that and its implications. “What do you mean, strip and stripe?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bessie suddenly hauled savagely on the reins. “Whoa, slow ponies. No, don’t stop, you silly animals.” The whip flicked out again several times, producing more muted agonised squeals. None of which bothered my companion in the slightest.

“Coming up to a tricky bit” " she muttered, pointing ahead with her whip. “For some reason, the track does a sort of S bend here by these fields and gets pretty narrow between the dry-stone walls. Lord knows how they ever got a tractor up here in the past. It must have come up field by field that aways. I expect there used to be wide gates in those openings between them, but they’ve long since gone. Removed or just rotted away through neglect.

We’ve had a few skinned knees and thighs taking this narrow bit too fast. The problem is that I use the same command for stop and slow. Confuses their dumb animal brains!” she finished with a chuckle, shaking the reins again.

Skinned knees and thighs! Certainly not hers, I thought as we entered the narrow, twisty part of the track she’d pointed out, and a question occurred to me, looking at how close the rough stones of the old wall were to the side of the cart.

“Wouldn’t they slow down naturally rather than risk hurting themselves?

Cue another loud snort from Bessie. “Huh, you have to ask that after all those nasty pony stories you’ve written! These animals do what I want, when I want and how I want or else. That’s one simple lesson they’ve learnt! Obedience to this useful device.” The whip flicked out again, but this time, with more force than I’d seen. Cream was again the unfortunate recipient, and the vivid wheal immediately started weeping tendrils of bright red blood. Her bit-muted squeal was equally more forceful on the decibel scale.

“The whip being mightier in practice than the pen”, I observed, or the qwerty keyboard in our case.

“In my hand, yes”, Bessie chuckled. “Reality, not fantasy! But you, of all people, should know that these animals no longer have wills of their own. They obey, they don’t think. Look at their fucking bodies that should tell you something. I don’t just whip the hell out of them for my own amusement, you know, nor to exercise my right arm!”

I gave her a questioning look, “Not for amusement! You do realise that your nose just grew a couple of inches.

Bessie had been on the point of flicking her whip out again but paused and returned my look with a very mischievous grin and a slow wink. “Well, maybe forget the exercise bit, and yes, I’d be lying if I said I’d never flogged one simply for fun!” she shrugged. “But they belong to me, and I was never very kind to my toys when I was little. I was always in trouble for breaking my dolls”.

“Well, they’ve still got their head, arms and legs”, I noted with a grim chuckle. “Plus, It looks like you’ve got them well-trained.” I shook my head partly in admiration but mostly still in disbelief.

Bessie shook her head as she leaned forward slightly, this time to snap the whip on the air over her pony team as we emerged from the bend onto a long stretch of uphill straight. “Hup, hup, my fine ponies, hup! Not really, she added, lowering her voice. “There is still a lot of work to do, so bottoms will continue to be blistered, bellies blighted, udders seared for a long time to come!”

There wasn’t a hint of disappointment discernible in her voice as she spoke, more the opposite if anything, a certain anticipatory relish backed up by the expression on her face. How the hell could someone look like a soft, cuddly Mama Bear and the Big Bad Wolf at the same time? Split personality, schizophrenia and was I already going the same way? I cast another sideways glance.

Nope, it was still the same old Bessie I’d known for several years. That devil had always been resident, and I was probably no different. A change of circumstances and opportunity too good to be ignored and…I paused, remembering that my friends had bought this remote property with an aim beyond that of quiet countryside retirement, hadn’t they? Peaches yelped into her bit, disturbing my train of thought as that crack sounded in my ears. If it hadn’t been for Peaches and the rest, then I might be here viewing some other unfortunate at the end of Bessie’s whip.

“Why so gloomy looking? A penny for your thoughts?” Bessie was smiling at me. “Or maybe a pound these days, allowing for inflation”.

“Five pounds!” I grumbled, thinking of my last electricity bill, then shook my head, clearing my thoughts. “Forget it. Inflation or not, I doubt you’d be getting your money’s worth out of me.” Unlike them, I didn’t add glancing ahead. Sheesh and a dozen other exclamations, but what a sight it was. Four gorgeous shapely female forms reduced to captive pony girl status. Thighs pumping, buttocks bouncing, a glimpse of breasts bouncing and all so terrified of that whip in my friend's right hand. Four, for real, pony girls! I shook my head and grinned at her. “Gloomy, moi?”

She laughed. “Fun, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “What was that you were saying about strip or stripe?”

“What? Oh, yes. You said something about a viewpoint or where you sat. I meant you could always strip off and join them if you wanted and get a few stripes.” She laughed and shook her whip in my face.

“No, thank you.” I firmly declined the offer. I like my bottom the colour as is, and it doesn’t need that sort of embossed pattern upon it that those four have!”

“Haha, very funny. Now hup…whoops, I mean Whoas, whoa, who my fine ponies, whoa!” she hauled back on the reins again so hard I thought she was almost trying to drag the leading pair backwards as the ensemble came to an untidy stop rear pair banging into the front two. Bessie frowned, pursing her lips, and I was surprised when the whip didn’t immediately lash out.

“My fault” she muttered. “Almost overshot the entrance. But you see what I mean about training. They are not the most graceful and cohesive team, are they? But that will come. Knees will be raised, legs will work in unison, and the ride will be a damn site smoother. Now be a good boy, hop on down, and open that gate for me. Be careful; it’s a bit wonky, especially that bottom hinge. We need to replace all the hinges and most of the gates, but there is so much we still have to do overall. Plus, we have these animals to train and look after now. Life can get very complicated even when you’re retired. So much for enjoying the peaceful, simple life, eh!”

For some, I thought, glancing at the four ponies as I jumped down. For others, life was simple but not very peaceful and certainly not enjoyable!” They were all panting quite hard but were not too distressed by their outing. At least not physically bar the fresh whip marks, but had I the ability to look inside their minds, that might have been an interesting exercise. Then I remembered the objects in the back of the cart and realised that their working day hadn’t even started, nor had mine come to that.

The old wooden five-bar gate wasn’t keen to move until I lifted it slightly, and then it creaked open, with me taking most of its weight. Bessie was right about that bottom hinge; it barely supported anything other than half a century of rust, nor was the gate itself in much better condition. Bessie acknowledged my efforts with a salute from her whip and then, with a couple more barked commands and hauling in on her left-handed rein, wheeled the carriage, well cart, I suppose, past me and into the weed-strewn stony field. I knew what she had in mind, and I don’t know about the poor ponies, but my heart sank a little. Earning my keep? I was no gardener and far less a farmer!

“It’s a bit overgrown”, I grumbled, thinking that something of an understatement as I looked around, numerous patches of bright green nettles catching my eye. Bloody, horrible green things I’d hated since my childhood!

“Not too bad. What did you expect from a Welsh hill farm that’s not been worked in donkey’s years? Now go close the gate and then help me with the ponies. Let's keep the place looking tidy. Besides, we don’t want the valuable livestock to stray, do we!” she seemed to find that last remark hilarious.

“I thought you called it a smallholding”, I muttered sourly, doing as she requested. Tidy, I glanced around at the jungle, knee-high with assorted vegetation in places. Tidy!

“Silly me!” Bessie exclaimed from behind me. “I wasn’t thinking, was I, when I put that plank back against the wall. Too busy talking to you, I expect. Now how am I going to get you down, eh, Bozo? Now come here, here I said. Here, you silly pup, unless you want your doggie bottom to look like a ripe tomato! Now come on, now jump, jump!”

I looped the old, frayed bit of rope over the gate post that served to secure it, turning in time to see Bozo’s ungainly descent from the cart with a certain amount of help from his Mistress’s hand on his collar. Bessie stood ruefully, wiping the front of her sweater where his stumpy, flailing legs had caught her. 

“My fault. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll need your help to get the fucker back in, or maybe we’ll just walk them back slowly, and he can run along beside the wheels. She looped Bozo’s leash over a cleat at the rear and went back to the driving position, retrieving a bottle of water, wetting her handkerchief and then dabbing at the muck on her front. “Only making it worse”, she sighed. “I should have expected his legs to start kicking out like that, and boy, is he heavy. I won’t be doing that again in a hurry,” she finished stretching up on her toes and putting one hand to her back with a grimace.

“Run!” I queried, looking at the woeful human animal cringing at her feet.

“Ruddlling” she chuckled. “That's what I call it. He can manage quite an impressive pace when he ruddles. Well, kind of, considering his limitations! A sort of cross between that normal cute waddle of his and something a wee bit faster!”

“Faster”, I murmured, still looking down. “The poor creature could barely move at an acceptable normal pace, let alone anything faster. Bozo wasn’t likely to win any silver cups for sprinting, nor any marathons come to that. I grinned, wondering what the record for the slowest London Marathon was and what the city crowds would make of such an entrant.

“What’s amusing you then?” Bessie asked, casting a suspicious look at me.

“Nothing.” I gave her an innocent grin in return. “So, what's next on the grand plan? I take it we, or rather they, haven’t hauled those rather grubby agricultural-looking things in the back without some good reason for doing so?”

“My, what a smart boy we are! A regular Sherlock Holmes with your astounding deductions, but don’t expect me to play Doctor Watson. I always thought him a bit of a clown, at least in the old black-and-white movies, and these grubby things are called ploughs, the old-fashioned sort. Now, given we are standing in a field, you can deduce what we will be doing with them while you help me haul them out of this contrivance. Hint: think pony girls and making themselves useful!”

I thought of those stories I’d written about glamorous, high-class ponygirl racing meetings and similar situations, then looked around the small stone wall-enclosed field again and the sticky dirt beneath my feet. I allowed myself a wry grin as I reached out to pull the nearest one towards the rear of the cart, staggering back a little, for it was lighter than I’d expected. Bessie took hold, and we swung it down to the ground and then did the same with the second, chunks of dried mud and bits of dead, dry vegetation falling off as we did so.

“He wasn’t like that in the books, clownish I mean”.

Bessie merely grunted in reply, busing herself with the device we’d just lowered, fiddling and twiddling a couple of glossy red knobs and opening out a set of handles and locking them in place. I took a pace back, my brain saying, ‘She can’t be serious’. Then I looked at the harnessed, well-whipped pony team, the overgrown field, and even her clownish black and white Dr Watson caricature from the popular films of the thirties and forties could have deduced that one without the great detective's assistance.

“Where the hell did you get that…those antiques?”

Bessie looked up in surprise. “It's not an antique”, she snapped back indignantly. “It’s virtually brand new, both of them. Just a bit mucky, that’s all. Robbie forgot to hose them down last time we had them out. Or more likely too lazy or too keen to get his cock rammed up some pony orifice, I expect!”

I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s a horse-drawn plough, for Christ's sake. I’ll bet no one has used them since…. since 1066, battle of Hastings or, well, maybe a bit later than that, I conceded, remembering that agriculture had still been pretty primitive up to the nineteen thirties. I recalled seeing photos of horse-drawn hay wains, ploughmen, and steam traction engines in that era just before World War II. 

Betty stood up briskly, dusting off her hands. “Well, if I were to take that bet, you’d lose your money, so there, yah boo sucks to you!” she poked her tongue out at me. There are such things as ploughing competitions at agricultural events and shows, and horse ploughing is quite popular. Real horses, I mean not this sort. We bought these new from a company in Belgium. Then all it needed was a bit of creativity from Robbie at his workbench, and now we can have our own competition, can’t we? Me against you. I’ll even let you have the first choice as you’re the guest she giggled, nodding towards the four ponies. “Any two from four”.

She was serious, wasn’t she? I don’t know why I should have thought otherwise, but then I was still trying to adapt my mind to everything, was I not? Without even thinking about it, my eyes briefly roamed around the field again as my brain considered the unkempt state of it and the sort of effort that would be needed. How many times had I thoughtlessly driven past big open fields with those endless neat brown furrows side by side stretching into the distance in mathematical precision? I glanced at the four two-legged ponies. Sheesh!

“Tch.” Bessie clicked her tongue and grasped me firmly by the arm. “Oh, do come on”, she nodded upwards. “It’s holding off for now, but I doubt we’ve got more than a few hours. Not enough to do much but at least we can make a start. As they say, all journeys start with that first step, so look sharp and stop daydreaming!”

“I wasn’t daydreaming”, I protested as she pushed me forward. “I was pondering!”

“Well, ponder away whenever you want but on your own time. Now, have you made your decision yet? You haven’t, have you?” she reproved, pointing at the harnessed team.

I shook my head and her hand off my arm. “Hey, hold on, be fair. I thought I was the guest, remember? You’ve had four, four and a bit months to get up to speed, whereas I’ve barely had half a day!”

“Tch”, she repeated. “How long does it take? We’re going to do a simple bit of ploughing using those stupid animals, not trying to put a man on the moon, for heaven's sake!

“Better make sure we get the shadows and flags right then”, I retorted with a short laugh, my wit immediately falling short, I perceived by the bewildered expression on her face along with the muttered “Eh!”

“Conspiracy theo.…oh, never mind.” This time, I caught her hand to pull her forward a few more paces till I could see all four ponies front on. I’d been right; Bessie was good with her whip, and those strokes I hadn’t seen land because of how she’d curled the whip around her ponies hadn’t missed. Breasts and bellies carried the latest painful additions to the foursome's miserable existence.

Three captive two-legged equines promptly looked away, avoiding my eye as I surveyed the quartet. One, Cream, I noted, met my gaze full on as best she could despite the handicap of hoof boots and posture collar, and I made up my mind. There was a challenge in those hostile eyes, the same one I’d noted the previous evening when Robbie had done the ‘introductions’, if I can put it that way.

“I’ll take that one, Cream.” I pointed straight at the truculent-looking woman or pony; I ought to say, making a note to adjust my mental terminology. Betty raised her eyebrows and chuckled quietly but made no comment, leaving me to wonder if I was making the proverbial rod for my own back. But, talking of rods and backs or breasts and bellies, the woman, the animal in question, wouldn’t be the one wielding the rod, would she?

I saw the understanding in the woman's eyes as I made my decision, and the look she threw at me confirmed my choice. Under other circumstances, that look would have been…well, imagine sitting quietly on the London Underground heading for work, maybe reading a book, and you glance up towards the woman opposite you and see, wow! Enough to make you want to change seats or even carriage. Talk about scary!

But not for long after the initial shock at the absolute look of, well, I couldn’t have expressed the frightening look in those eyes in a single word. Rage, hate, revenge, and the promise of a very violent, prolonged and unpleasant death if she got loose under the right circumstances. It was all there and more, but it was an empty threat. No more than wishful thinking of the moment. How could it be anything else when harnessed, helpless and impotent like a castrate vowing to rape the women who’d emasculated him. All promise and yet no chance of ever performing!

“And?”

It was a question; Bessie was growing impatient. “What, oh, yes!” I realised I was only at the halfway stage. What was wrong with the woman? Did she not realise how I was feeling right now? That delicious feeling of omnipotence as I surveyed that miserable captive foursome. They’d had them four damn months plus, whereas this was my first day, and I’d hardly as yet digested and absorbed the situation, let alone come to terms with it. I’d never had nor expected ever to have to make that sort of decision. It wasn’t the sort of thing that cropped up in everyday life. Sheesh, show a bit of patience, woman!

My thoughts failed that telepathic exercise. “Well, go on, pick another before we both die of old age. You won’t win any prizes for trying to do it with a singleton, especially that one. Besides, the harness isn’t designed for pulling unicorn, three up. I’ve done it more than once with a quartet, but never one up front and two behind. Or would you rather sit on the cart and twiddle your fingers for a couple of hours while I put these critters to work? Two or four makes no difference to me nor my whip!”

She was glaring at me, one of those looks that, while nowhere near as hostile or frightening as what I’d read in Cream’s eyes, still brooked no comeback. I switched back to the pony team, my head swivelling quickly back and forth. That last bit galvanised me, especially that single word, whip! I mean, I’d never nor even expected ever to do so, had I? I mean, yes, in my fantasies and then on paper or rather monitor screen via keyboard, but never in reality and on such unwilling but luscious helpless flesh!

“Damson”, I said quickly, heading off what was probably going to be a verbal explosion from Bessie. Apart from the fact that the young filly had a pair of tits, sorry, udders that made my fingers twitch just looking at them. I’d had a girlfriend once whose breasts had that same effect on me, and like Damson’s, they weren’t overly big, just firm, shapely and prominent. I used to get the hots merely looking at Sandy’s assets under a tight sweater or clingy top. Strange because other tits I’d seen and handled while bigger never had quite the same effect.

It was Sandy who’d introduced me to my first bedroom bdsm experience. A light spanking turned her on far more than any form of intimate foreplay. A strange girl who’d rather feel my palm on her bottom than my hands or tongue anywhere else. Only Cream and Damson would soon feel more than my palm, wouldn’t they? My cock stiffened even more at the thought, making me wonder how long I’d be able to contain myself if it started rubbing against my pants. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d soiled my pants while out walking and thinking about the plot for one of my stories, and this promised to be far more stimulating than anything my perverted mind could produce.

I’d broken up with Sandy a couple of months after my only experience of being on the wrong end of a spanking. Well, to be precise, a spanking and considerably more! Somewhat, against my better judgment, I’d agreed to a role reversal. Big mistake! It was late, no, probably early, for we’d been out to dinner at the local Indian restaurant, downed a little too much wine there and sneaked a two-thirds full bottle home and consumed it on the sofa before heading to the bedroom. Is there such a thing as a ‘doggie bottle’, I wonder? Doggie bags, yes, but bottles!

Too much wine and somewhat drained both physically and mentally from a prolonged and energetic bout of fucking her silly. Two such bouts, in fact, and then I’d rather foolishly agreed to allow her to spank me for a change. I’m still not sure why I agreed because it turned out I was the silly one! Not only had my dulled brain said okay to a ‘mild, I promise it won’t hurt too much and it’ll be a super turn-on, darling, and then you’ll be ready to have me again’. Yeah, maybe, but idiot that I was, I’d rolled over and allowed her to tie my hands to the bedpost.

I didn’t start to cotton on until she started giggling like a maniac while grabbing my right ankle and tying it to the bed end. That was when the proverbial penny dropped, and a touch of sanity returned. Unfortunately, I was soon to discover I was to be the only recipient, for it shot straight past the naked giggling girl who’d proceeded to subdue my desperately kicking left leg with another Barbie pink rope to the ankle.

Why and where the hell had she got those short lengths of nylon ropes from? I noted Pink nylon ropes, and while neither thick nor particularly robust looking, a few panic-induced tugs quickly convinced me that I was in trouble. There was no give whatsoever in those around my wrists; they were already starting to hurt. Bessie and Robbie were the only ones I’d recounted that unfortunate experience to, and predictably, they’d roared with laughter. Bessie wept tears but not ones of sympathy when I confessed to that embarrassing incident.

 It was embarrassing, too, for I’d still been tied to that blasted bed the following day when Mrs Arnold, my cleaning lady, let herself into my flat to do the first of her two-hour twice-weekly stints. It was something of a shock to my seventy-six-year-old upstairs neighbour, who supplemented her pension by cleaning several of the building’s flats. She wasn’t the best nor the most efficient of cleaners. Still, I’d inherited her services from the previous tenant and, not being particularly fond of domestic chores, found her service useful, nor was she very expensive.

Nor was she the brightest or the most dynamic of people either. It must have taken or at least felt like a good five minutes before I’d persuaded the old woman to grab a knife from the kitchen and cut me free. Lord knows what would have happened if I’d been tied face up, displaying all I had to the world rather than my abused backside! I’d probably still be there, a mummified corpse, the chapel-going old spinster having had a heart attack on the spot.

As it was, I lost two ladies from my life that morning. Sandy merely giggled and called me a ‘boring grouch puss’ when I phoned her to demand an explanation and vent my anger. The girl didn’t seem the least bothered nor at all apologetic for the trauma she’d put me through and told me, ‘that if I didn’t want to play her way, then I could go away and play with someone else’. I told the crazy bitch I damn well would and only regretted one thing, the fact that modern cell phones deprived you of the opportunity to slam the handset down upon the receiver in a satisfying way. Anyway, it was Sandy who hit the off button first on her end after blowing a loud raspberry at me!”

Of course, my flat wasn’t cleaned that day, and I lost my cleaning lady. Four months later, Mrs Arnold collapsed from a stroke while vacuuming another flat and died three days after being admitted to hospital. I’ve always wondered if her discovering me that morning, naked, bound and with a heavily bruised bottom, hastened her end. Probably not, but for an elderly church-going spinster, it had undoubtedly been a major shock, and I was doubtlessly deemed a pervert of the most depraved sort in her eyes.

I gathered she’d heard me making a ‘bit of a racket’ and even been on the point of coming down once or twice to bang on my door or ring the bell, but her legs hadn’t been up to it. No doubt she’d have had to retrieve her dentures from the bedside glass first, I decided, thinking about the incident later. Mrs Arnold never lost an opportunity to talk about her problems with dentists and her teeth, or lack of them, by far her favourite subject of conversation.

 I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t kept her on as my cleaner. Would Sandy have reappeared at some point to free me, and if so, how? She didn’t have a key to my flat after dropping the latch, nor had she taken one of my spares; they were all still on my key rack when I checked later. Would she really have left me like that? Who knows? And I still remember with a cold chill her deranged giggling!

My underneath neighbour and occasional drinking buddy never mentioned a thing, which wasn’t surprising. Major or ex-major Bartlett worked for a well-known insurance company in the city and was virtually deaf. He's a nice chap and not much older than me, but hearing problems were hereditary in his family. His military career was already borderline due to that when a close encounter with a roadside IED in Afghanistan speeded up the process. Damned lucky, he said, considering what happened to a lot of other chaps out there. He still had everything else in working order and two of most things. Arms, legs, hands, eyes, wedding tackle, and he’d learned to sign as a child to talk with his stone-deaf grandfather.

My ordeal had been short compared to, well, say,  four and a bit months, but it had been bad enough and not a memory I recalled very often, especially the second part. That bottom-searing spanking had been bad enough, and I’d soon abandoned any pretensions of manly pride, much to Sandy’s amusement. It had hurt, bloody well hurt, to the point that I’d been almost unaware of the constant derogatory comments that had accompanied that endless stream of hand slaps.

I’d thought it was over when the spanking ceased, kiss and make up time, maybe along with something else, for despite the pain in my butt, I also had a massive hard-on. I was sobbing into the pillow while she continued to giggle and run her palms over my scalded bottom, thus adding to my painful discomfort, and then, as she stopped, I’d assumed she’d set me free.

Never assume anything! That was the first thing I learned on one of those tedious staff training courses complete with flip charts, multi-colour marker pens, and stupid group exercises. ASS-U-ME! That’s what the energetic young guy had written on the flip chart with his red marker pen, and he’d been damn right, spot on, bloody bull's eye accurate, hadn’t he?

Only in this case, I was both the Ass and the Me. I’d realised immediately when the U part lamented aloud that ‘now I was nicely warmed up and ready for some serious cooking; all her toys were at home!’ Sandy had looked down at me for a moment and then smiled sweetly, adding, ‘So mummy will have to improvise for her bad boy, won’t she?’.

So she had, and quite successfully, judging by the way I screamed for the next thirty minutes. She’d armed herself with a long-handled wooded clothes brush, a couple of leather belts folded double and an oval breadboard with a handle that made a very effective paddle. Given all the noise I made as Sandy ‘cooked my bottom’, I suspect old Mrs or rather Miss Arnold must also have had hearing problems. A bit of a racket didn’t come anywhere near describing the amount of noise I’d made, and my throat was sore for a week afterwards.

Of course, all that flashed through my mind instantly as I looked at the pony team. Apart from my injured pride, the sore throat had lingered longer than most of the marks Sandy had inflicted, nor had I shed a single drop of blood. Tears, yes, but my lifeblood, no! Something that didn’t apply to any of those two-legger equines scarred and bruised bodies. Nor was there anybody to bang on the floor or come along later and release them!

I’d only suffered my bondage for less than a dozen or so hours, and while the urge to lay hands upon my poor buttock cheeks had been impossible to achieve, at least I’d been laying full length on a comfortable bed and even slept away a good part of that ordeal, unlike…why couldn’t I shake that four and a bit months from my head!

“Here, two by two, front ones first.” Somehow, without noticing, I’d joined Bessie by the leading pair. “Come along now, chop, chop. Watch me and do as I do. I’ll go slow. Just unbuckle the same stuff as me to free them. It’s not complicated.” She paused to correct herself. “Well, it did take us a few goes to get everything sorted out nicely, but that’s behind us now. Gone with the wind, as they say. Now I’ll do Cream as she’s feisty, but she knows better than to give me any of her nonsense. You do Peaches, and then you can have Damson when we do the fillies, okay?”

I nodded. I was in her hands. I daresay I could have figured things out at least as far as freeing the pony went, but as for… my eyes strayed towards the two not-so-old, antique-looking green-painted hand ploughs? Why is that particular shade of dark glossy green always used for stuff like that, wheelbarrows and lawnmowers, etc?

“Well?” Bessie demanded.

“Okay,” I nodded again.

“Good”, Bessie beamed and clapped her hands together. “Now let's be about it before the rain moves in, and” her voice, although still speaking normally, rose a couple of decibels. “if a certain stupid mare decides to play up like it did last time out…well, it knows damn well what will happen to it and this time I won’t hold back!”

I sensed more than saw the top-to-toe shudder that ran through Cream and could only imagine what had caused it. Then again, was it my imagination or a trick of the light, but even a cursory glance showed which animal hide had received the most attention out of the quartet. I wondered why that hadn’t registered with me before. Troublesome, that was how Robbie had described her last night. An odd word, relatively mild under these bizarre circumstances, but from what I could see, that attitude had earned numerous savage and painful responses from those she’d troubled!

“Was it worth it?” That was the question I asked myself, keeping one eye on Bessie’s chubby fingers as I followed suit, unbuckling straps and releasing roller buckles. I was finding it difficult to concentrate and once had to halt when Bessie interrupted with an irritated “Not that one, pay attention!”  I grinned inwardly at the testy admonition. Unlike poor Cream, at least I was spared the physical aspects of my host's irritation!

Bessie was no doubt used to such a situation by now, whereas I was not, so she might at least extend a little tolerance. Did she not realise how distracted I was by the very nearness of that warm, soft, trembling, gorgeous body? I was hands-on, touching, feeling, working on a real ponygirl for the first time and not a willing one either. That erotic scent of leather harness, feminine body essence mingling with rank body odour and, well, let's face it, the stench of fresh human shit and piss was a heady mix.

Somehow, my arrival and last night in the stable had kind of faded into a dreamy blur that didn’t seem all that real. I’d had that odd feeling since breakfasting alone and even talking to Bressie outside the stable and watching her with the wretched Bowzer hadn’t unduly shifted it. Kind of remote and detached, like watching a movie on TV, no, not that. More like when you gawp at something happening that does not involve you. A street altercation on the other side of the road, a road accident that’s held you up, yet you invariably do the same as everyone else, slow down to eyeball the scene on the other carriageway as you pass. You are a part of it and yet detached, remote.

But now, standing hands-on with a shivering, naked and recently whipped ponygirl, reality was kicking in big time. Wowzer with brass knobs on and whatever else times a hundred! I raised a finger and lightly traced the latest whip raised wheal on the nearest buttock cheek, felt the pony shudder at my touch even gentle as it was. I pulled my finger back and wiped away those sweaty traces of blood on my trousers. That must have hurt like hell, I surmised, and still did, judging by how she’d reacted.

I looked again at that livid, bleeding whip mark, and this time, I was the one experiencing a little involuntary shiver, but not one of pain and fear. Mine was one of pleasure and anticipation as my mind began to grasp the mind-blowing level of control and authority Bessie had over these poor women, these helpless creatures, these….these captive animals!