CHAPTER 16 (Preview 3)
The Countess and her maid, Sexy Pants, had taken a fast cart and Tom for a pleasant afternoon spin. Tom's arms were cruelly folded high-up in his back by a steel arm-restraint especially made for ponies, and his feet were stuck in hoofs of knee-high pony boots.
The brake below (on his cock-ring) had eased, his reins twitched, and the Countess gave him two kisses from the backseat. Not feeling refreshed at all from his short break, the threat of the long buggy whip had him pulling again in the heat, while somehow trying to ignore his own pathetic urges, and carrying both women wherever they pleased. His mood was changing with every new hoof thump on the pebbles and dirt of the hard road. His feet were heavy, and they, too. Yet, his bushy tail caressed him, massaged and teased his manliness, and, with every new clip-clop of his nailed-on horseshoes, drove its message home.
At first, the mere threat of the whip drove him along the endless road in front. Then, the whip itself made him canter through the foreignness of this countryside. Pulling their weight was a different kind of pleasure, less intense and urging, but satisfying and scratching a spot in his life (and weird brain) that had itched for a long time. If he thought he had felt like a horse before, he had been wrong. Now, some mysterious purpose filled him with its kinky happiness, pacifying him through all his sweating and suffering like nothing else in the world could.
Equally satisfying was the Countess's certain understanding of his endurance, of how far she could push him, when to slow down, and when he finally needed a break from whip and cart. Could she just tell from sitting behind, observing, and driving him, or had she already seen his early-morning performance stats?
A dust cloud, far in the distance, inched closer on the gravel-dirt road. His two brain cells informed him that it was either a car or another cart. The wafting heat was making it difficult to make out much detail. Tom had to temper his curiosity for a while as he pulled and panted in front. After what he had seen so far, he had secretly hoped to run past others like him on the road. His cock dangled uselessly between his legs, his short strip of hair on top was wet in the wind, and his hoofed and heelless feet tormented him with a warm and constant ache. But he had to push on or risk instant retributions; his buttocks were already glowing. Without requiring a wild imagination, he knew now what lay in store for him—if he failed her. His tour had done a terribly good job at clearing up any misconceptions early on. Mostly. She had still managed to surprise him.
And so Tom nibbled on his bit as he watched the other approaching dust cloud. It was a four-wheeled carriage coming towards them on a one-lane road. It kept up a good gallop and four fit ponygirls pulled, gasped, and strained in front. They came quickly closer, and their harnessed bodies were burned by the sun. Even the sides of their torsos looked terribly whipped, from shoulder to thigh! None of the Countess's ponies had looked remotely comparable; well, maybe her husband? But he hadn't actually a face to judge him by (with the horse mask).
Tom's bit tightened in his mouth. Guided by her hand, he slowed down until he found himself standing in the roadside grass. Already feeling drained by today's demand, he was terribly afraid of even looking, anything really that triggered his spiked device any further. When he saw eight slender pony hoofs shoot along the gravel, he straightened up and tried to stop drooling so brainlessly.
"Hey Irma!" the Countess shouted from behind him.
"Hallo, Frau Huntington," an older Lady in dress said in a friendly tone. Was it sarcasm? Tom couldn't understand the language.
His eyes carefully rose. The lady sitting stiffly in the open carriage had just the same friendly smile on her aged face as her gentle voice had suggested. She had the black leather bench of her lofty carriage all to herself and simply seemed to enjoy the fresh air with her pack of ponygirls. She looked like your everyday neighbor—only a good deal richer with her shiny dress and polished carriage. She had a wrinkled smile, glowing cheeks, and a large straw hat on her pretty head. And her many mares wore the biggest, longest, and bushiest black tails he had ever seen. Their horsehair proudly swished behind their thick buttocks as they came to a trot. Displaying lean and pronounced muscles, her pack of panting ponies had a glistening tan under their tack. With matched black hoofs and leather straps, they were already covered in dust—as if running for a while already.
Her four-in-hand—her team of four ponies—reminded Tom of this once popular sporting activity of the rich, back in the late 19th century; but back then, it was only practiced with four-legged animals (to spare the fragile nerves of the time of its lewd inappropriateness).
Thick, feminine lips were holding slender iron-bits, and big rings pressed on red cheeks on which long reins hung. There were too many jiggling breasts and nipple-bells to count, but Tom stared at their abused bodies for a while, and without much of a choice. As the carriage rolled past him, their eyes didn't look back. Only when they were almost out of view (and disappeared behind his blinkers) had he made sense of their leather hoods.
They all wore black leather masks. Tightly laced over the smooth, round shapes of their skulls, they only had their noses and mouths sticking out for air. On top, was a slit for their manes, but not to make them appear more human but to degrade and demean with its animalistic look. On their faces, polished bells jingled from thick nose-rings, and just a little lower, tight bits were pressed between drooling and eager lips. They sucked on their polished steel without giving off more than the usual gasps and sniffles. The four-wheeled carriage had run smoothly past him—well oiled and sprung—but it was probably no wonder when pulled by four trained ponygirls.
With tight leather covering half their faces, he couldn't tell how they were holding up underneath; nor how old they were. They simply ran as instructed. Tom clutched his small tail harder, enduring the flashbacks with difficulty. Their sight had given him a few shudders, while he stood in awe. The rein in his mouth made him hold still in the grass, and he tried not to think too hard about sweaty pony bodies, tall hoofs, and too many jiggling pairs of pony udders. They had clip-clopped past with long legs and tensed muscles. His stiff collar had stopped him from getting distracted, and sadly, they had disappeared from view just beside him. He had to breathe their dust in, close his eyes for a few painful moments, and taste the dirt on his tongue. He heard them run on behind him and take up speed again under a fierce and restless whip.
The Countess's kisses from behind made him take up his pace, too, and she steered him back in the middle of the road. The bodies of the mares had looked whipped, beaten, and burned by the sun. In fact, he couldn't believe how beaten they had looked. Following the straps of their belted waistlines, he had only seen a strap disappearing right in the middle of their shaven mounds. Like a perverse camel toe, it had been cutting into where they were most tender. With red, puffy pussy lips, he wasn't sure if the straps had actually held something in place, too? No steel had glinted from their pussies, and it might have been the better stables for him? But that must be the heat and the horniness talking in him...
Their sight had satisfied his burning curiosity for an uncomfortable long time. Tom had so many questions, yet nobody told him anything anymore—nor could he ask. Whatever his Countess had injected in his throat still worked wonders at keeping him her pony. But it was just Saturday. It will pass. Tom felt almost sorry for the whipped and beaten ponies. But who could not love this place, this little niche of pony paradise he found himself bridled in place for just a weekend. Any kinkster would give a finger and their left nut—or ovary—to be offered an empty stall here.
"Her mares always give me the jibbies," Sexy Pants said after it had been quiet for a while.
"It's always good to have someone stricter in the neighborhood, makes the other ponies think twice," the Countess said.
But Sexy Pants said no more as if she had sighed about an old topic. Without anything better to do than to sweat, pant, and pull them through the heat, Tom fantasized about the beaten mares and their brutal Mistress; shortly after, he had felt enough chaste pain on his locked cock for one day, and quickly put that thought back where it came from, and remained an obedient pony.
Not too long, and they had come to thicker vegetation near the same, endless river. How long he had pulled them he didn't know; his phone was nowhere near him (nor did he have any pockets), but it easily felt like an hour. The sun was still at an early afternoon height and burned down hot as ever. The reins led Tom away from the road, cross-country, into the high grass, and towards thicker vegetation.
Behind him, the cart shook and he had to put more muscle into pulling them while keeping a steady footing on the uneven and tall grass. First, he heard it, then saw it, the river. Fast and clear water shot along a flat, rocky river bed and it sparkled in the sun with a refreshing cold. Thick, old trees in the shade followed a gentle bent of the rushing water. On the other side, a sandy beach was washed out, just a few paces wide, but looking pristine beside the fast water. While on this side, underneath the shade of large trees, the grass was shorter. The air had changed too. For the first time since he had arrived by plane and bus, it was cool and tolerable, and the deep breaths he took had become moist and full. From having to run so long in the hot sun, it was an instant bliss under the shade. He liked it here.
His reins tightened and made him come to a soft halt close to one of the thick trees. The shade underneath was an instant blessing. Only now he realized how much he had been suffering in the sun. The brake engaged—noticeably (the cable to his cock-ring)—and he took not a single step further (or he would now pull the cart's full weight only with his cock-piercing). The cart shook around his waist; they had stepped out. The first thing he felt was a hand on his hip. His thighs had been cuffed, then his ankles too. His legs' freedom was gone. Without a single word, the Countess's hand came into view, snapped a long leash to his tender (nipple-and-nose) chain in front, and disappeared behind the big tree trunk, close to his right. When she came back around, he saw that she was barefoot in the grass. Snapping the long leather strap to itself, she had him tethered to the thick tree. It seemed she had left her short riding boots in the cart. Tom couldn't bear to look at her gorgeous feet for a second longer. He was too scared of his chastity device—of her watchful guardian—around his most-precious appendage.
His chastity left a bitter taste behind. The training wheels of this cart—which ran about an arm's length in front of both shafts—had been easily folded up by her. Even the faintest hint of escape just had been stymied and put out of his exhausted mind. He was hers, and she let him know every step of the way. Tom let go of his bladder; he couldn't hold it a second longer. Meanwhile, her maid had brought out blanket and basket and laid it all out on his left under the shade of the same big tree; close enough to keep a good eye on him, yet far enough to have intimacy if they whispered.