Tribute to VB: A ponyboy story.

Tribute to VB: A ponyboy story.

It was already hot and would soon get a lot hotter. Mary Beth thought that was the main drawback to the remote area as she left the air-conditioned palace behind her and walked through the rose garden on her way to the stables. Too hot at times, but at least it rarely rained. It had never rained, not once in all the times she and her parents had visited Prince Hassan’s private pleasure park. 

She felt it a bit of a silly name but apt for those who partook of the pleasure rather than those who provided it for them! It did have a name in Arabic that the Prince said translated far better, but he always seemed amused at the simple English translation. He was a lovely man with a booming laugh. A great big cuddly papa bear with a huge beard that had always tickled when he’d grabbed and hugged her when she was younger than she was now. He reminded her a bit of that Arab guy in a couple of the Indiana Jones movies, only a lot bigger!

She decided the heat wasn’t too bad; at least you could go out in it so long as you took precautions, whereas rain, ugh! She hated the rain, hated getting wet other than in a shower or swimming pool where water belonged and not soaking you to the skin. The sports field was acceptable as well, she decided. Somehow she never minded the rain when running around playing hockey, and there was always a hot shower waiting. The disadvantage was that it produced mud, which was as bad as rain if you ended up face down in it!

She thought not a problem over here, absently decapitating a pink rose with her riding crop. Out here, it was mostly sand or a variety of sand that somehow supported the green vegetation. Were Arabs like Eskimos, she wondered, recalling something she’d once read in a magazine. Did they have a heap of words for sand as the Eskimos had for types of snow? Probably not, she decided. Sand was just sand, wasn’t it, or was it? Maybe there were differences in desert sand, beach sand, builders sand, and bunker sand for golf courses! Funny how they could still get it to grow stuff.

There was greenery and lots of it in this vast walled enclosure out in the desert. There was a small town nearby and an oasis, quite a large lake, and so strange a feature considering what the monotonous arid terrain was like when you flew into the private airstrip. The little town was fun to visit; browse the quaint shops and marketplace and drink coffee at one of the cafes. Teasing the local boys with a glimpse of youthful decadent western woman flesh was another amusement she’d discovered as she grew older.

Her swinging crop neatly removed a yellow rose head from its stalk, and then the flap at the tip knocked half the petals off another. Mary Beth, or MaryB as she preferred, wasn’t even aware of the casual devastation she was causing, her mind being on other things. Anyway, it wasn’t her problem; they had gardeners, their problem, not hers, and they would take any consequences, not her.

Today was her only opportunity on this brief visit which partly explained why she’d got out of bed so early, not her customary practice at home, but she wanted to make doubly sure even though she’d reserved. Plus, they’d avoid the worst of the heat as the sun rose. She swung her crop again, grinning at the thought. Her mother had said she was being thoughtful last night at dinner, silly woman. Then again, she’d never once taken advantage of the delights the stable offered had she being far too enamoured at playing with ‘her girls’ in air-conditioned luxury along with daddy! 

Thoughtful? Hardly. Only an idiot would take a pony out in the heat of the day rather than early morning, late afternoon, and evening. Indoors yes, in the vast air-cooled arena but out in the open, no! It was all about mileage, and you got twice or even three times the distance out of them if you timed it right. That was one of the first lessons Princess Hassan had taught her during a carriage ride when she’d first discovered the delights of the stable.

Her crop sent another large rose head, a white one this time bouncing over the final section of the big lush lawn towards the path that led down through the trees to the arena, paddock and stables. That was one of the advantages she had over most of the guests. MaryB had hardly grown much in the last couple of years, a shade under four feet ten and looked like staying that way plus weighing less than a feather. At least, that’s what Prince Hassan said. He could still pick her up like she was half a dozen years younger. 

Her mother worried about anorexia and similar, but that was silly. She ate what she wanted, junk food included, exercised and was quite happy with her weight. Anyway, her mother wasn’t much different, standing about five feet one in her bare feet and only weighing significantly more because she was getting too plump! People tended not to note their similarity in height because her mother loved to power dress and was always in heels. The higher, the better. 

MaryB giggled at the thought of her elegant mother in one of her made-to-measure business suits and gleaming stilettos, power dressed to impress her subordinates at whatever meeting she was holding sway over. Unlike her father, who’d do the same in the massive company he owned and ran in a rumpled-off-the-peg business suit and a comfortable pair of well-worn casual shoes. Her mother had long since abandoned the idea of improving his ‘image’. She hadn’t even gotten him to match his shoes to the suits. He wore what he felt comfortable in, and if they didn’t go with the suit, he’d chosen so what. Ties and shirts, likewise!

MaryB took after her father, not that she objected to getting glammed up when the occasion called for it. That was fun, the heels, the dress, the full-on war paint and feeling like a fairy princess but only when needed and certainly not on a daily basis. It took up too much time, for one thing, was uncomfortable, and an awful hassle! Her grin grew broader as the roof of the stable building came into view, but that wasn’t what caused her humour.

She glanced down. She might be on the short side, but her legs were decent enough, long despite her height. Perfectly proportioned, her father always said, top to toe. He never mentioned the boots that contained those perfect toes, but her mother did every time she wore them. Dear Mama had a bee buzzing around in her bonnet about them silly woman! They’d been staying with a business partner of her father's who’d also been hosting an equine event for a few days. Interesting, and she’d learned a few things, picked up a few tips but not quite the sort of equine activity that ‘floated her particular boat’, so to speak.

Various stalls and booths were selling horse tack, supplies and riding apparel accompanying the event. MaryB had bought herself a couple of meaty riding crops off one stall, the sales guy puzzled by how she’d giggled when he’d warned her to take it easy when she felt the need to use them on her mount. Maybe he hated people being cruel to animals? Well, so did she in that respect, but then she’d no intention of being cruel had she, not to a four-legged animal, and the other sort didn’t count!

The riding boots she’d spotted on another stall. Everything on that stall had been used or virtually everything. Most of it had been horse harness stuff, but the woman had some clothes, good stuff, even if second-hand but expensive. Top quality, hand-made, the woman had said when she fingered the boots and done so without the hint of a blush given the scuffed state of the boots and the price label she’d got on them. 

They’d fitted like a dream, still did as MaryB looked down again, god, but they were comfy and even more worn and scuffed now but so divinely comfy. The maker was still around, and she’d got two other gleaming brand new pairs from the same guy made to measure. Even her father had done a double take at the bill, but they were so worth it, but to her mother’s horror, she still wore the original pair most of the time. Of course, she could have easily paid the woman’s exorbitant price, but she was proud of herself for haggling the price down to almost half the amount. Strange that when she thought about it. Like any tourist, she’d meekly pay the asking price for a tacky cheap souvenir at a local market stall, yet she’d been so stubborn over the boots. 

Her mother had been horrified. “Second hand’ she’d almost screamed. ‘But darling, you don’t know whose feet have been in them. Your feet might catch something awful!” the outburst amused her father and both amused and annoyed MaryB. She hadn’t caught whatever it was, nor had her mother ever been very specific on that subject! The one thing she did know was that the scruffy boots were both well made and more comfortable on her feet than anything she’d ever worn, and when it came to footwear comfort, her dad was firmly on her side! 

The dirt track leading down to the stables was only a short one, the trees having been planted by Prince Hassan’s father years back as a simple break between the lower and higher levels. Or, to be more accurate, they had been grown because that’s where the French guy who’d designed and overseen the vast project had placed them. Pretty cool though MaryB always thought emerging from the shade and into the open again. The way you left the immaculate gardens and the luxury palace behind and out of sight like they weren’t even there. 

The neat white walled stable buildings with their glossy red tiles and surrounding greenery reminded her of the farms in Southern Spain she’d visited on a school trip a couple of years ago. They’d even stayed in one, a bit primitive compared to the five-star luxury hotels her parents favoured, but it had been fun and different. When you have stayed in one five-star hotel, you’ve stayed in them all. The buildings might be different, but there was a certain bland sameness about the rooms, and the bathrooms were all cloned with identical marble surfaces and fittings!

Good, MaryB thought as she scrunched along the neat white pebble path. It looks like Patrick has him ready for me. The last time she’d walked along here, two naked and heavily shackled men had crawled about licking the small white stones. Horrible emaciated-looking creatures, all hairy and bearded, looking like they hadn’t seen a barber or a razor in years, nor a bath from the stink emanating from the disgusting pair. A young Arab girl wearing nothing but trainers and a rather daring bikini stood watching them with a dogwhip in one hand and a bottle of water in the other which she’d raised in greeting.

Mary B stopped, looked back, then along the path to the stable, and ran her eyes over several places where it branched off. Too early today, and anyway, Dalia would be over in the states, wouldn’t she? The girl had laughed and told her she’d merely been amusing herself that day, hadn’t she? Getting a better tan and earning her keep while doing her bit to keep everything trim and tidy, as she’d laughingly put it. 

MaryB liked Dalia, and the two girls got on well even though the Arab girl was a couple of years older. Her mother was the prince’s third wife, but MaryB had never met her. The woman was a doctor, a surgeon and spent almost all her time at a private clinic in the capital. The only one of the five, meaning his wives, the prince had once told her who didn’t cost him a fortune in jewellery, designer clothes, exotic holidays and whatever else his other wives demanded. At least she kept busy and covered her own costs. 

The guy had numerous sons and daughters. How many MaryB didn’t know? The one time she’d asked him, the Prince had laughed and then pretended to count on the fingers of both hands and then grinning broadly told her he was giving up, too much of a headache! Not enough fingers and it would be impolite to remove his sandals and use his toes too! Dalia appeared to be one of his favourites and was studying full-time at a private American college to follow her mother into medicine. He had another son over there who was on a two-year exchange flying F something or other number fighter planes with the air force who kept a brotherly eye on her.

A strange combination, MaryB thought. An ambition to heal the sick and yet give stick. The two men, well, hardly that were they? Those beast-like creatures Dalia had been cruelly supervising that day hadn’t been licking the stones clean, which had been her first crazy impression. However, the reality wasn’t that different when Dalia laughingly explained. ‘No, silly, that would take them forever. Watch’ then she’d shouted something in Arabic and pointed with her foot, and the nearest man had scurried straight over on his hand and knees, immediately lowering his head. It hadn’t saved him from a savage stroke from the girl's whip as she snarled Something else in Arabic at him. ‘Faster’ Dalia had translated and added ‘look’.

MaryB had but saw nothing of interest, so she bent down and saw what the hideous creature was doing with his mouth. Weeding! He was grasping blades of grass or similar with his black and yellow teeth and pulling them out of the earth. Not only that, as she watched, he was actually eating and swallowing the vegetation.

‘Interesting, but doesn’t it make them sick’ had been her comment when she straightened up. Dalia had shrugged her shoulders, absently adjusted one of her bikini top straps and then lashed out again with her short whip repeating what she’d said previously before answering. ‘Who cares about these animals? That’s all they’ll get to eat today, so unless they want to go to bed with an empty belly, their choice!”

She wondered what had happened to the two, well hardly men where were they now? Presumably still around somewhere unless they’d been worked or starved to death, perhaps a combination of both! Not her problem, though, and they’d hardly been human in the first place, had they from what she’d seen of them, unlike big Ashwa, who was wholly hirsute and visibly still all human male despite his harness and present status.

Patrick waved to her as she approached, but MaryB hardly noticed, only looking at the hulking black figure of Ashwa on the end of the reins he was holding. Princess Fatima had told her that Ashwa was an Arabic word meaning ‘strength like a horse’ in the masculine sense. The Prince had quite a collection of two-legged equines of both sexes in his stable, but only a few were suitable to be ridden like the genuine article. Most pulled carriages and carts as singletons or doubles, even as a foursome. Her first carriage ride had been with the Prince taking the reins of a mixed foursome. 

MaryB had tried that, and although it was fun, especially driving a singleton racing cart against someone else, nothing compared to the feeling of having one of the animals between her strong young thighs. That comparison always amused her. Wow, maybe that big fucker would have loved to get between her thighs but in a vastly different context. Some chance!

Fatima had explained the workings of the stable to her during her first visit, clearly enjoying her young guest's fascination and delight in all she saw. The riding ponies had to be a minimum height, broad-backed, big buttocked and very muscular in thighs and calves. Those attributes are further enhanced and strengthened by diet, exercise and vigorous training twenty-four seven!

There is no going back for those chosen, and I don’t mean obtaining their freedom Fatima had emphasised, gesturing around the various stalls. Once they have been selected for the stable, they are kept permanently like animals and have to behave like the animals they now are. Stabled, harnessed, fed and watered just as real livestock would be. As I expect, you can imagine their resentment and hostility to such treatment, so inevitably, it's not just their bodies that we have to train! 

As she explained, Fatima had walked her wide-eyed young companion from stall to stall. Pony life is hard, but the most demanding time will be those first few months of initial training. That can last anything from six weeks to a year, depending on the animal being trained. Of course, that transformation from human to animal is very traumatic, be the creature male or female. Fatima had pointed to a tall, heavily built female pony.

Take Big Bertha, a handsome German filly of some twenty-eight summers in human terms and five in pony terms. That’s five years since she was first stabled and harnessed. It takes time for them to get used to that harness, and it rarely comes off. The bridle, bit, straps and all the other bits of tack, plus her hoof boots, are there both for practical and phycological purposes. They all rebel against their unnatural new existence, to be haltered in a stall, to sleep on straw and eat from a manger and, of course, relieving themselves in public. That one always hits the female ones far harder than the males. 

However, no exceptions are ever made for them. They will live and behave forever just as an animal would, an equine, no matter how much they might rebel. This big Bavarian filly certainly put up a fight, but plentiful use of crop, cane and whip in the early stages soon tames the most rebellious pony. We will always win; sooner or later, the animal will be straining every sinew to give us its best.

MaryB had been entranced. She might have been young, but she was no prude nor the least bit naive. She knew very well what her father was doing with those ‘pretty boys’ back at the palace, likewise her mother with the girls she’d chosen. She’d watched them at play from an early age playing with her Barbie dolls just as they played with their dolls. Sometimes they swapped or played with both, and as she grew older, she even helped, delighting in making those living dollies squeal under her punishing ‘stick’. 

The stable was something completely different, as in so fantastic as to be the coolest of cool, ice cool in capital letters. Like wow in hundred-foot-high letters. Her eyes must have been like saucers as she watched the big, harnessed woman suddenly defecate all over her legs and the floor of her stall, just like a real animal. Incredible, but then as she wrinkled her nose at the smell, that’s exactly what she was now, wasn’t she?

Excuse the smell Fatima had laughed. You should try coming in here first thing in the morning, almost gasmask time some mornings. They can’t help themselves, partly the diet and partly those tails. They all have hollow butt plug up their asses that they can’t expel partially to support those tails but mainly to remove control of their bowels. When their body needs to take a shit out, it comes just like a real animal, no matter where they are or what they are doing. Fatima had laughed at that point and said. Think of it as an additional loss of dignity due to our total control over the beasts.

Fatima had gone on to explain that they weren’t just kept as unusual cute pets for fun. They were working animals used in two main ways. They could be saddled and ridden; at least a few of them could be. Otherwise, all of them could be put between the shafts of various light carriages and driven around the palace's extensive grounds. The former, riding was very popular but only practical for women and girls due to the weight limit imposed. We have to be very strict on that, she’d emphasised pointing to a large set of scales in one corner. You will be fine, like me, but there is a maximum for the big female ponies and another slightly higher for the males. Those are enough for any pony to support for half an hour or even longer, especially if the animal has been moving briskly. You get a feel for how much they have left in the tank after a while.

Fatima had laughed and patted her stomach. One reason I keep myself trim and a meticulous eye on my weight. Some visitors find the prospect of pony riding a far better incentive than trying to squeeze into that ten-year-old summer dress when it comes to keeping the pounds and kilos off! Most guests, though, are happy to take the reins while seated in a cart.

Comfy, she had asked a few moments later when MaryB climbed onto a small, lightweight cart seat beside her. MaryB had nodded, looking about her and bouncing lightly on the seat, then  Fatima had smiled and pointed to the shafts. I’d love to take you for a spin, but it’ll have to wait till later. Now imagine a powerful set of hindquarters blatantly exposed before you, a deep cleft between jiggling buttock cheeks just a  few feet away from you. That holder beside you is for your leather corded riding whip with a malacca handle. The cord carries half a dozen knots near the tip. Imagine that biting hard into that big bouncing bottom, and you can see why carriage driving is so popular. The whip is designed to hurt like hell and encourage the pony to greater effort but not severe enough to do any lasting damage. Even a well-whipped pony can be back between the shafts in a day or so.

Fatima had tapped one of the big bicycle-like wheels adding that the good thing about carts and carriages was that the rider or driver, in this case, could take the pony out for far longer than a mere hour or two. A careful guest could enjoy a pony all morning or afternoon, providing they used some common sense. You can't keep a pony going full trot. You need to walk them, even take a halt every so often if necessary. Keep them watered as well. 

Guests are always instructed in this, and most are quite understanding. An exhausted pony is no use to anyone, and walking back to the stable in the sort of heat we get is no fun because you’ve caused your pony to collapse. Also embarrassing! We find that most guests, especially the men are quite content to let the pony walk and enjoy the view. The fact that the animal is there, straining and hauling, helpless and degraded, produces its own unique sense of pleasure. Doing that between more intense spurts of speed is regarded as intelligent pony control. Being over brutal to one of our ponies is not a good idea, and doing so may mean it’s the only chance a person will ever have to enjoy the pony experience. Fatima had laughed, adding that, sadly, such cases were not unusual, and far more women had been warned off than men!

They were usually warned off for another offence. Bestiality is not something we encourage, Fatima had told her after they’d climbed down from the cart. I know that pony carting can be highly arousing, but there is a plethora of holes back at the palace, both sex’s and all ages, shapes and sizes, to take care of those urges! In any case, those tails can only be removed with a special key, and the female ponies have a tailored strap between their legs to prevent frontal entry. They can run but not fuck, Fatima had laughed. Celibacy is strictly enforced down here at all times. 

MaryB stopped just short of the patently waiting pair and looked about. The stable complex was a mini operation in itself. The big main stable, the secondary one housing the newer and less trained animals. The long open building containing the various carriages and the neat accommodation block behind it complete with a gorgeous turquoise-hued swimming pool for the stable staff. She noted the lush green paddock, the automatic walkers with their long arms, two already occupied. The jumping area and dressage arena and beyond those the Princess's racing circuit, with the big indoor arena looming up in the background. It was a fascinating place, and such a pity that this trip was so short. A mere stopover!

Fatima wasn’t here either. She was Prince Hassan's firstborn daughter, a rather fearsome-looking hawk-faced young woman who resembled her mother. The product of politically arranged marriage and, as MaryB’s father had said, probably why the Prince had added several other more attractive ‘Offical’ bedmates. MaryB liked Fatima and her mother, for both seemed unfazed by the polyamorous household situation and shared the same sense of humour as the Prince. Having dinner with the three of them was such a gas!

Fatima was responsible for the stable, or rather two stables. The one containing two-legged equines at his remote desert ‘pleasure park’ palace and the one that housed the real four-legged racing variety near Newmarket in England. The town was designated as the home of horse racing. With his jolly laugh and grey top hat, the Prince was a familiar figure at most race meetings in England and one or two of the more prestigious ones in Europe.

This morning, eighteen-year-old Mary B had reserved Ashwa, her favourite beast. A great strapping stallion, six feet five in height, massive broad shoulders with muscles that bulged uselessly at the top of his armbinder and immense buttocks covered in myriad crisscrossing scars. MaryB was no heavyweight and could get plenty of speed out of her big mount and invariably did.

While she had been vacantly musing and thinking back to her first visit, Patrick, she noted, had walked the big stallion over to the paddock and hitched him to a nearby post and was now helping a stable young lad to put a nervous big breasted young filly between the shafts of a small cart. The boy cropped the skittish animal several times to quieten her, giving MaryB a hesitant smile as she walked up to them.

“New is she? MaryB enquired, studying the pony’s figure. Long-limbed with big udders. Too lightweight for a riding pony, but those long legs ought to be able to cover the ground at a decent pace once fully trained. Those big udders would provide a useful target for the driver's whip and her generous rump. Looking at the unhappy beast, those parts of her anatomy had already received such encouragement on numerous occasions. Well, she shrugged, reaching into her breeches pocket for a lump of sugar. They had to learn, didn’t they? “Easy there, girl,” she said, patting the animal’s flank. “Easy, nothing to worry about as long as you obey whip and rein. You’ll soon get used to it! Lifes not so bad here!” then she giggled as she caught the amused look on Patrick's face.”

The stable lad grinned at her as he loosened the pony’s bit, and after a moment, the fearful animal snapped the sugar lump off her proffered palm, crunching it up even as its bit was retightened. The boy chuckled, swung himself onto the seat, and picked up the carriage whip.

Patrick chuckled. “My young Miss MaryB, you don’t half spoil 'em. No wonder our vet is always pulling rotten teeth!” he slapped the pony's rump, and the boy snapped the whip across the filly’s udders, causing her to rear and squeal, but she set off at a fast pace.

“Booked in for her first outing with one of the guests,” Patrick remarked. “She chose that one especially. A good friend of Miss Fatima’s, so I didn’t like to say no, she wasn’t ready yet. I want young Hassan to run some of the friskiness out of her afore she arrives. Bit of a fuss pot that one and way too keen with her whip! “

MaryB giggled. “So, as bad as me then?”

Patrick grinned at her and shook his head. “Nope, not that bad! Come on; he’s all ready for you. Now I suppose it’s no use whatsoever my telling you to take it easy on the poor animal, I don’t suppose!”

MaryB Laughed. “Now you know better than that, Patrick. Pure waste of good old Irish blarney, so it is!”

Patrick grunted good-naturedly and pointed to the mounting steps near the stable doors. “Bugger off over then, and I’ll go fetch him!”

Ashwa was led over to where his rider waited patiently, tapping her riding crop against her right boot. Not exactly meek but unresisting. He was simply resigned. He was also wearing boots, steel-shod pony hoof boots and not a great deal else other than his harness and armbinder. A small padded saddle on his back, his bridle, and a bit with short reins attached. All the ponies housed in the stable were kept in marvellous condition, and Ashwa was no exception. Massaged, exercised well fed, even if the content was boring and bland, their training and work kept them as fit as Olympic competitors.

MaryB jumped down from the steps and circled the stallion several times, the better to appreciate the animal's glossy oiled hide. She noted they’d changed his boots and harness since her last ride. The old utilitarian black leather had been replaced by pristine snow white leather, which looked adorable, contrasting with his handsome jet-black hide.

“Excellent, simply excellent”, MaryB complimented, taking the reins.

“We do our best” Patrick grinned, giving her a mock bow although he appreciated the compliment. He worked hard on his charges and was very proud of their condition. “Enjoy your ride, and no, I’m not going through the rules and safety stuff again. You’ve been here enough times now to know what’s what, and it’s not your first time atop this big bad critter!” He winked at the small girl. “Not as if you’d even listen anyways, is it?”

MaryB chuckled and blew a kiss in his direction as he walked back into the stable. She liked Patrick and how he didn’t bow and grovel all the time like the palace servants and slaves. Some of the ponies in the stable weren’t much different or wouldn’t have been, she suspected, if they were utilised in a more human capacity. That was one of the reasons Ashwa was her favourite The massive black stallion might appear so docile and meek but like an iceberg that was only on the surface. Underneath, he was still an angry, raging feral beast only held in check by the bindings upon him and the harsh routine Fatima and her father imposed. That and his fear of the whip, of course!

“Well, Ashwa,” she said, pulling on the reins a little and looking up into those resigned eyes. Sad, but that hint of something else lurking was delightful. Heck, if he got loose even for a second, but then, looking at that tack, not a chance! That partly gave her the kick, the high she was already experiencing. This huge beast smouldering with a dormant anger she could barely begin to comprehend and yet utterly helpless at the other end of the slender reins she held in her small hand. So God Damn Delicious!

“Well, Ashwa”, she repeated, forgetting that she was repeating herself. “It’s a gorgeous morning, so we’ll have a good workout, eh?” Both Ashwa and MaryB knew the rules and what happened to ponies foolish enough to attempt some sort of verbal communication Ponies are not allowed to speak. The bit partly prevents that but not entirely, so the big stallion tossed its head up and down to indicate that it did understand the young girl who was to ride him that morning. A minimum of understanding was allowed, as Fatima had once pointed out. They were intelligent beasts, after all!

Not a prospect to look forward to, for although MaryB was lighter than most, he’d carried she was one of the most demanding. A fact he was well aware of, and she’d given him some hard times in the past. Ashwa hated her. He hared them all, but if he were ever to have the opportunity to stomp some of them into little pieces, this bitch would top the list after he’d dealt with Fatima and Patrick! 

MaryB ran a hand over his quivering flank a couple of times, admiring the big beast, her beast for the next couple of hours and then hopped up the mounting steps and lightly vaulted into the saddle as her captive mount automatically braced to accept her weight.

Not too great an effort at this stage, he waits, slightly bent forward, arms pinioned below the small saddle as she shuffles about, her boots kicking and searching for the stirrups. Then a light tap on his flank from her crop. “Giddy up”

Ashwa moves off, walking from the stable yard with a rhythmic stride. Smoothness is an essential quality of a ‘pony’s gait, whether walking or trotting. It had taken a lot of training to get it right, and he carried the scars to prove it. The worst crime of all was to stumble and throw a rider. Not only would that earn him a savage thrashing on the spot but an even worse and more proficient one from Patrick or Fatima or one of the other stable staff when he was returned. He would carry more scars after one of those sessions!

Out onto the sculptured parkland, they went along a wide sandy track. MaryB kept him on a tight rein while she walked him. The bit was already cutting painfully into the big stallion's mouth, but he was used to it. Indeed he is used to pain and cruelty of all kinds. Unfortunately not immune to it but certainly used to it!

As they came to a junction, MaryB pulled on the reins, twisting him to the right. Going straight on, the path remained level, but it started upwards on a slight gradient to the right. “Move”, MaryB calls, and her crop flashes downwards to strike his right thigh with a meaty thwack as he immediately accelerates into a smooth running stride. MaryB raises the crop but restrains herself. She is satisfied with the transition from walking to trotting and settles down to enjoy herself and savour the rhythmic sensation imparted by the motion of the unwilling beast between her legs. 

The girl gives no thought that it's typical of her to put the animal beneath her at a faster pace just as it reached an upward gradient rather than a downward one. Then again, MaryB could be a sadistic little bitch even subconsciously, although she did loosen the reins a little. 

Ashwa moves off at a good clip for a couple of minutes, breasting the rise and coming to a level area so square and flat it resembles a parade ground or car park. In the distance, another ridden pony trotting slowly encircling the square's perimeter can be seen.

“Giddy hup, hup, hup, faster”, MaryB orders and uses her crop again, once, twice. She wants the stallion to know she means business and transfers the crop to her left hand. This time his other flank feels the punishing leather flap at its tip. “Hup, hup!”

Ashwa takes the painful hints and buckles down to work. His sizeable cock bounces wildly in its heavy steel cage as he increases to maximum virtual pace. His breathing is coming faster, though he still has himself fairly well under control. The day is yet young! Behind and above, he can hear the little bitch humming to herself and singing brief snatches of a song. Oh, yes. MaryB is enjoying the gallop.

A light tug on the rein, and MaryB heads Ashwa towards that other rider, now closing fast. She can see a little sheen of sweat forming upon her big stallion's muscled shoulders. Yes, it is getting hotter-even if you are not exerting yourself.

“Whoa”, MaryB cries, reining in her mount with deliberate cruelty forcing the animal to a skidding stop. The stallion can’t help squealing with pain as the bit cuts into his mouth.

“Hi there” 

“Hola, hi!” The other rider also pulled her sweating mount to a halt and raised her crop in greeting, smiling broadly. The woman was not much bigger than MaryB but looked at least ten years older. MaryB thought not bad, knowing the woman was at least double that, nor was she wearing any makeup. She’d recognised her the previous evening when they shared a smile in passing while taking the cooler night air in the big central palace courtyard. She’d also seen and enjoyed the beautiful dark Hispanic woman's last movie and had a couple of her songs in one of the playlists on her cell phone. 

MaryB hadn’t said anything, though. One didn’t. What went on with and by who behind the ‘pleasure palace ‘ walls stayed behind those walls, and all respected anonymity. The sensual-looking slender woman was mounted astride a big, blonde filly whose generous breasts were heaving convulsively, breath rasping, mouth slavering. 

“How’s it going, hot? MaryB smiled, nodding at the woman's mount.

The woman laughed and lifted her stylish wide-brimmed hat a little. “A little, but I’m shaded.” When she spoke, her soft accent was identical to her screen one. “Not so this miserable creature. Just about finished. I’ve given the animal a good exercise, and now I think perhaps we go home.” She paused and laughed again. “A slow walk, I think, unless I also wish to walk! Perhaps you have some water I may borrow; my bottle is empty, alas?”

MaryB somewhat guiltily realised that she hadn’t checked, not even for herself, which wasn't very smart in this climate! The small saddle had a flap at the back over a small storage space. Reaching around, her fingers found what she’d hoped to find, the shapes of two bottles. A standard branded plastic one and one of the pony ones with its unique feeder tube. Well done, Patrick or whoever, but no doubt he’d tease her when she returned to the stable.

The woman gracefully exited her saddle and gratefully accepted both bottles. MaryB noted that she watered her pony before twisting the top of the plastic one and refreshing herself. She received the same bottle and took a long swig but shook her head when the woman indicated Ashwa with the other.

“Not yet; we’ve only started. He does not need it yet,” she said, tucking both bottles back into their storage space. “Yours certainly did, though”, she added. “Is she fit? She’s blowing a lot. Looks a bit overweight and in need of some tuning up. I’d let the head lad know. I’m surprised Patrick let her out like that, if I’m honest!”

The dark woman laughed and slapped her mount’s midriff. “Yes, she’s got a bit of a belly on her, hasn’t she, but then she’s big all over, eh!”

MaryB sniffed disapprovingly. “She can be big but still be lean and fit. I should report her condition if I were you.”

The woman giggled, lifting one dainty boot into a dangling stirrup and gracefully swung herself upwards and into the small but ornately carved leather saddle with practised ease. Her move prompted a sobbing groan from her sweaty mount that immediately earned it a couple of vicious strokes from a long thin riding crop.

The woman smiled over at MaryB, her pristine white teeth gleaming against her olive skin, and she stroked her pony’s blonde hair. “My own fault. Nothing to do with the stable or even Sparkle here. The animal belongs to me. I had her stabled elsewhere after I sold my big place in California, but I think they misunderstood the instructions I’d given them. I’m the one who broke this animal, and I won’t allow it to be punished by anyone else, but they seemed to take that to mean just feeding and keeping her the fools. I was busy filming, and the damage was done when I visited her. She’s a pony, not a cat in a cattery and needs plenty of healthy exercises, and they don’t need to whip her to do that. I had her moved here the other week, and Mr Patrick told me it might be better to take one of the others out this morning because they needed more time to get Sparkle into shape, but I said no” She shrugged he shoulders in a rueful gesture. “So, I am, what is the saying, the worst enemy of myself?”

MaryB chuckled. “Something like that, but don’t worry. Fatima and Patrick will do an excellent job. I expect you’ll think you’ve got yourself a completely new animal next time you visit.”

The woman nodded and leaned across, holding out her hand. “I think so too. You know me, I think, by sight,” She whispered as they shook hands. MaryB nodded and introduced herself, and the woman nodded. “Ah, yes. I think I have met your father once and your mother at a premier. They invested, I think, in the movie. Will I see you tonight?”

 “They probably did. They have more pies than fingers!” She shook her head apologetically and added, “Sorry, just butchering an old English saying about involvement in things. Please don’t worry about it! No, this is a flying visit. A stop off from Singapore, we fly back to the UK later today. More pies they want to stick fingers in, I expect!”.

“Well, bon voyage in that case. I think a final little trot over there, then a walk home. Come pony…” she paused and laughed. “It’s silly that I speak to it. My beautiful animal came from Russia and speaks no words other than that Barbarian tongue. Pretty and strong but a classic example of that country's uneducated unlimited peasant population. No Spanish, no English, but that makes it more as an animal, does it not!” she laughed again and then raised her crop as high as her arm would go, then brought it down in a vicious strike against the big blonde ponies flank. It leapt and squealed, bouncing its laughing rider about while she used her crop, again and again. The woman leaned forward to slash those big bouncing udders to quiet it before waving her crop in a final goodbye and steering the poor pony back toward where MaryB had just come from.

MaryB watched them for a moment. “How cool to have your own pony. The Prince’s stable housed an impressive collection; she’d always assumed they all belonged to him. Interesting. Her parents had a house in West London, Knightsbridge, not far from Harrods. A prime property area but hardly suitable for keeping a pony stabled. They’d talked for years about buying a big place in the country, but so far, it was no more than speculative talk. She wondered how many of the ponies back there belonged to other people. Patrick might not want to tell her or even be allowed to if she asked, but Fatima wouldn’t be too fazed next time she saw her.

The other rider disappeared from view as her flagging pony took that downward track towards some much-needed respite. “Walk on, giddy up”, MaryB commanded, emphasing her order with a light flick from her crop. Ashwa walked forward, knowing that the worst of his ordeal lay ahead, and despite what the little bitch on his back had said, he’d soon be in that very same state despite his fitness. All riders were the same; they loved to drive a helpless pony to the brink of total exhaustion. His fears were confirmed as his young rider leant forward and whispered. 

“A little trot…no wait, wait”, her crop swung up and down twice hard. “Silly animal, you move to my orders and only my orders, you know that. Now, I think we’ll take that right fork up to the Brown Hills. That should work you into a nice lather, eh!” the crop cracked downwards again hard against his flank. “Giddy hup, hup, faster, trot, boy, trot” The crop swung three more times, adding its bite to her last three words.

Ashwa moved obediently into the trot; his eyes focused on the upward path ahead, his mind trying to process that impossible equation. His sadistic young riders demands when set against his stamina, strength, and that damn slope. Her crop was now hurting and would hurt more with every blow before they were back at the stable.

MaryB was happily bouncing above him, comfortably balanced on his back, thighs squeezing his torso boots in the stirrups on the end of their long leathers. She was humming quietly to herself again, half thinking about what the woman had said about her pony's limited understanding. Did that make it more of an animal, she wondered? Possibly, it lived in a world where it would hardly understand a word being spoken, responding precisely like an animal to simple repetitive orders it learned via rein and whip. Interesting. Ashwa, on the other hand, might not understand Arabic, or did he? Something else she’d have to ask Patrick for that question had never occurred to her. 

“Steady boy”, she cautioned as her mount stumbled and staggered for a couple of paces before catching himself. “Careful boy”, she warned, emphasising her command with another casual downward stroke from her crop.

Ashwa certainly understood English, or rather she chuckled a colonial version. After all, he’d been an American serviceman stationed in the country who’d been working with their military and various civilian contractors. An officer, a captain no less with an interest in wildlife and bird watching who’d taken one solo trip too many into the desert.  

Grabbed by mistake, Patrick had told her. One of those acquired-to-order jobs! He’d been in civilian clothes and been mistaken for an oil worker. Plenty of them in the country! Bit of a fuss at the time, but it soon died down. Oil, dollars and influence in the region being far more important than one missing air force captain. Officially he got his stupid self-lost out in the desert, those responsible for not doing their homework better, quietly but severely punished permanently!

Well, that was none of her business, was it? The country, indeed, the entire region, depended on slavery just as it always had done. Her father had told her that the other day. Only now, they called it ‘immigrant labour’. It was a region of ‘haves and have nots’ where almost every natural resident was a ‘have’, and every imported worker a ‘have not!” They had their passport confiscated on arrival, frequently worked a seven-day week and lived in atrocious conditions, sending most of their meagre wages home on the sporadic occasions when they got paid. For every ‘official’ death, their respective embassies noted there were probably a dozen unrecorded ones. No one asked questions because, taken en-masse, those meagre wages sent home were of immense value to the impoverished Asian countries the embassies represented.

None of that bothered MaryB in the least. The girl was no different to Prince Hassan and all the others in that respect. She hadn’t been born with the proverbial silver spoon in her mouth but, like the Prince, a diamond-crusted gold one. A select few in the world were rich while the rest existed at the appropriate level on the poverty scale, with the vast majority near the bottom where they belonged by natural selection, in her opinion!

The Brown Hills were coming nearer, a series of soft, sanded tracks, steeply undulating, running between stubby olive and similar trees that taxed ponies to the limits of their resources. Ashwa was beginning to flag a little despite his superb physical condition, his breath becoming a little laboured and ragged. The very softness of the sand makes progress harder without adding the steep switchback slopes. He knows the kind of effort he will have to make and how the bitch will use her crop to drive him on and on, even when he feels he cannot manage another step.

“Hup, hup, boy”, MaryB cries as they approach the first steep rise. “Hup, move your fat rump, boy!” 

The crop rose and fell twice, leaving livid imprints on one powerful thigh, driving it into more strenuous action. Increasing speed up the fifty-yard rise was impossible, as both rider and mount knew but maintaining the same pace was achievable…with the right encouragement when needed!

Ashwa made that effort; his whip-scarred buttocks swinging violently from side, making a remarkable spectacle. Unfortunately, no one was around to witness it except MaryB and mounted as she was in the wrong position. She was, however, in a prime position to enjoy the additional swaying and movement as her gasping mount came up over the top of the rise and swept down the slope beyond. The big stallion's limbs were feeling leaden, but it was most important not to stumble and possibly even fall. Not at any time, and especially not with this one on his back!

“Easy, boy, easy”, MaryB called, giving a sharp tug on the reins. “Fall, and I’ll flog your rump raw, and that’ll only be a taste of what will happen back at the stable!”

Both pony and rider knew that was no idle threat, and Ashwa forced himself to concentrate hard on the stretch of ground ahead, and they approached another rise. A slightly steeper one, and the big stallion braced himself as he felt a couple of warning taps against the sorest spot on his bleeding flank.

“Up, hup, hup! Go, go pony, go!” the crop swung up and then down hard, very hard. “Go, we can do it, go, go, go” The crop continued to swing with every word.

Ashwa whinnied in agony and frustration, the only permissible sound he was allowed to make and that had taken a long and painful time to become automatic. That meaty leather tab of the riding crop kept falling far too often in the same place. Precisely the same place as MaryB intended it should, and it hurt. It hurt a lot. MaryB smiled as she heard her big steed gasping and groaning with effort as it mounted the slope till she sensed a slight flagging. Her ready crop cracked downwards again, exactly where she intended.

“Giddy hup, hup, move it, animal, gallop!” MaryB cried aloud, delighting as the big captive beast responded to her demands despite its flagging condition. Oh, the feeling of absolute power and control and nothing the wretched creature beneath her could do but obey and respond to his diminutive rider!

With a supreme effort, Ashwa reached the top of the slope and flew down the other side, MaryB screaming in delight as she clung onto the reins and gripped even tighter with her thighs. For Ashwa, the feeling was not one of exultation but very much the reverse. Before he is finished, he will have to struggle back up that awful slope while above him, MaryB has stopped screaming, her teeth now bared in an expression of pure delight.

Mount and rider were moving as one in perfect bonded harmony as her thighs gripped even tighter. Two minds as one, well, one mind as two. Just like wiggling her toes in the bath. The brain said, wiggle, and her toes instantly obeyed. She commanded him to gallop, and he immediately galloped, although in this case, there was a helpful middleman in the form of her riding crop!

The broad black shoulders and visible back area before her no longer had a sheen of sweat on them. It looks more like a bucket of water had been poured over them. Leaning forward over her steeds shoulder, his chest looks much the same, but he’s not done for yet. The next slope is not quite as steep as the previous two. Six are just about the limit; indeed, this beautiful, strong beast is the only one she’d ridden who could manage three up and three down at the gallop, although she’d have to husband his reserve after that unless she wanted to walk back!

The crop passed back and forth between her hands as she flogged alternate flanks as she mercilessly drove her mount up the third and final rise. Ashwa is staggering, breath rasping hoarsely, half blinded by sweat. It dribbles down his face mixing it with his own saliva and mouth foam on his chin. A veritable delight for the small accompanying insects already feasting upon his bleeding welts.  

“Come on, move, move it!” the crop is now swinging up and down in a ceaseless rhythm, and Ashwa knows there will be no respite until he reaches the top. Somehow he makes it and manages to resist the overwhelming impulse to drop down to his knees. Instead, without even a pause, lumbering unsteadily down the other side towards that welcome white gravel path at the bottom. His legs, thighs and calves feel as though filled with lead. He’d been trained, mercilessly trained to carry first one and then two, and then more heavy sacks of sand upon his back, but sacks of sand did not wriggle and kick and certainly didn’t carry and use vicious riding crops! Crop or no crop, he can’t possibly go on much further!

At the bottom, he is reined in. He stands, dizzy, head reeling, chest heaving like an overworked pump, limbs quivering with weariness. His rump and flank are bleeding and raw in places, but that agony is the least of his worries for the moment. MaryB vaults down from the saddle and leads him towards some trees and a bench just off the track. There is also a long rusty iron trough with a warped wooden covering that she pulls to one side.

“Drink, pony, drink” she pats her mount’s reddened flank and pulls his head down with the reins, but he needs no assistance. His head drops gratefully into the unpleasant, murky-looking water without a second thought, shaking from side to side, enjoying the cooling sensation. Then he takes great gulps, greedily drinking down the heavenly nectar.

MaryB watches him with a degree of amusement, that feeling of absolute total control rising strongly to the fore in near orgasmic strength once more as the animal greedily drinks down that dubious rust-tainted fly-strewn liquid. It even sounds like an animal at a trough. 

The girl gives him ten minutes, watching as he stands shuddering and occasionally taking another drink. The wooden bench is not particularly comfortable, but at least it is stable after all the swaying about and the subconscious effort of staying in the saddle. MaryB uses her plastic water bottle. She wouldn’t even drink that gross stuff in the trough, even if filtered and boiled, let alone raw. Those dead floating insects. Yuk! She also smokes an illicit cigarette noting with amusement how her mounts nostrils twitch as the blue smoke reaches him. An ex-smoker, perhaps? Well, no doubt stable life is a good cure for all sorts of similar little human weaknesses. She grins as a thought occurs to her. Well, at least he’s in no position to inform her mother she’s been smoking again! He’s not looking too bad now, though, is he? Good, perhaps for another slope before heading back to the stable. Why not? She gets up, tossing her butt into the water trough without thinking.

*****

When sometime later, Ashwa staggers back to the stable, he is right at the end of his endurance. Supremely fit as he is, he is a lather of sweat, foam flecks are around the bit in his mouth, and both flanks are a mass of ugly red and purpling bleeding welts, as well as a good few to both rump cheeks added on the way home. MaryB, as usual, has overdone it, but she knows Patrick will not report her to Fatima or the Prince. Besides, she’s a favourite of both of them, and the latter rarely visits his stable and has probably long forgotten all about his unwilling American guest. Besides, she has Something else in mind to placate the cheeky Irish guy.

“Everything alright, Miss?” A stable lad asks in good English, looking over the nearly exhausted pony. MaryB grins at him; his innocent face is an open book. ‘The girl has put the animal through it, hasn’t she, and he’s one of the strongest and fittest in the entire stable.’.

“Fine, all fine, thank you” MaryB pulls her cell phone from her back pocket and, opening the leather case, extracts a fifty-dollar bill, pushing it into the breast pocket of the boy’s long white robe, being rewarded by a lovely white-toothed grin in return. He was cute!

“I thought he needed a good workout!” MaryB giggled, patting Ashwa on his bruised flank and giggling again as he flinched away so amusingly. Visibly a very tender spot!

“Certainly looks like he’s had that! I see you’ve been your usual enthusiastic self, Miss MB,” Patrick observed, joining the trio sounding half amused and half serious. He said Something in Arabic to the boy, who nodded, still smiling and turned as though to lead the animal over to the area where they usually hosed returning animals off before attending to their other needs.

“No, wait a moment! MaryB said. It seemed strange to hear that language spoken in such a strong Irish accent, but that was only a passing thought. She needed to talk to Patrick, and it wouldn’t hurt the stallion to hear. It might not be permitted to speak, but it had ears and a brain.

Patrick raised his eyebrows and motioned the lad to wait. He took hold of the stallion's reins himself, looking the animal over. The girl was his boss's favourite, and her father plus her family paid good money like everyone else. Ashwa would be out of action for several days at least, and it was his job to ensure there were always ponies available to guests who wanted one, but there were still plenty of other animals weren’t there.

Mary B grinned at him, knowing exactly how he felt and why although he spoke politely, there was that slight edge in his tone. She ran her eye over Ashwa being fair-minded enough to recognise the man probably had a valid point. She reached into her pocket not without difficulty and extracted the flat square-shaped bulge from her ultra-tight leggings.

Patrick blinked in surprise at the folded bundle of notes in his hand and the denomination. He’d had tips before, even from Miss MaryB, but this was on another scale, almost way off the scale. Prince Hassan was a generous employer, he had no complaints, but Patrick was the second oldest of a family of fourteen back in Cork and still sent a generous allowance home. He’d lost count of many nieces and nephews the ‘clan’ as he called it had now, but money was always welcome.

“Have they told you yet? Probably not, we only discussed it last night, and of course, I came down so early.”

“Told me what, Miss?”

Her face split into a big smile, partly directed at Patrick and partly at Ashwa, who she knew was listening. “We’re coming back in about five weeks, once the second half of Summer term finishes at school. Mummy and Daddy just for a week, but I’m staying on for the entire summer. Prince Hassan and Princess Fatima said I could work for my keep here at the stable and learn all about keeping ponies. Of course, it won’t be full-time; we agreed on twenty-four hours over six days. At least mummy and daddy did”,  she laughed, “but I don’t mind doing ‘overtime’ if required. Princess Fatima even said I could choose one of the ponies for my very own sole use while I’m here.”

“Whoa boy, whoa, stay!” Ashwa suddenly jumped and almost pulled the reins out of Patrick's hand. He continued to drag and pull even though it was hopeless. “Whoa, I say, stand, calm boy, calm”, Patrick snarled, hauling the skittish animal back to where MaryB stood smiling. The girl pointed to the wad of dollars Patrick was still clutching.

“Of course, it's nothing to do with me, you’re the boss when Fatima isn’t here, but I would so appreciate it if a certain stallion was in absolute tip-top pristine condition when I arrived.” MaryB giggled. “Mentioning no names, of course! But if he was kind of spared anything for a while until it was time to get reacquainted with my crop. Oh, and I also asked about using spurs! I know they’re generally frowned upon, but as I’d be the only one riding the pony for a couple of months, Prince Hassan just laughed and said so long as I didn’t try using them on him, it was okay!”

Patrick grinned. “Well, normally, I’d say no to both. Wouldn't it be fair on the other guests if the full selection weren’t available and as for spurs, well…. Whoa boy, whoa,” he snarled, then winked at MaryB. “Course, there’s always the unexpected. Maybe one animal will strain a fetlock or something and be out of action for a period. Princess Fatima never questions my judgment when it comes to the fitness of the livestock. When do you fly out, Miss, after lunch, isn’t it?”

“Four o’clock. I still need to pack, but that won’t take two minutes, why?”

Patrick grinned and offered her the reins jerking his head towards Ashwa. “Plenty of time then. Why don’t you start early and get a little practice in? It looks like this fine stallion is getting way too frisky for his own good. Five weeks till you gets back? What say you take him over to the paddock yonder, walk him off a bit to cool down afore we hose him down, maybe loosen his bit and take your crop with you as well,” he winked suggestively.

MaryB giggled and accepted the reins. Ashwa turned his head and looked appealing at the groom whimpering in protest around his bit as the girl led him away, but Patrick just grinned and winked at him, then began to count the notes in his hand. He was still counting when the first agonised squeal reached his deaf ears a moment later. 

Authors epilogue.

Okay, so what do you think? I am reasonably happy that I achieved my first aim but as for the second? Of course, I failed miserably, and I’ve no intention of saying what my original word count target was!