Melanie cried out in pain and began tearing desperately at her lacy garments. “Don’t hurt me,” she begged. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Of course you will,” laughed the colonel. “Sluts like you always do.”
“Down,” said a new voice the moment she’d succeeded in rendering herself naked.
Melanie felt the sole of a boot against her back, forcing her forward onto her belly. The boot pressed hard, making it difficult to breathe.
“Rule number one,” snarled the boot’s owner. “You keep your head down at all times from now on. On your hands and knees or on your belly; that’s where you belong. The only time you lift your head or get off your knees is to be fucked or beaten, is that clear?”
“Yes,” Melanie sputtered, spitting dirt from her mouth.
Another boot descended, this one directly across the back of her neck. “You don’t talk here, bitch. Ever,” said a different man.
Melanie clamped her eyes shut. She had two men on top of her, grinding her into the dust. She’d been stripped, thrown to the ground in the middle of the desert in pitch darkness and now she was not even permitted to speak. Could there be a nightmare more terrifying than this new reality?
“Get her up,” ordered one of the men. “Fit her with a bit and harness while I administer a little rectal introduction to life on the ranch.”
Melanie stiffened. The ranch! So that’s what this was all about. She’d been taken to the colonel’s infamous torture farm, the place where Lyla had received her dehumanizing tattoo.
Hands pulled at her like a rag doll. Opening her mouth by force, they inserted a metal bit attached to a tight leather head harness. The whole thing was applied with no thought of her comfort, or the sanctity of her fair personage. If she thought to complain, however, the urge was quickly dissipated by a far greater discomfort.
“She’s too tight, colonel,” said the man as he forced himself into her puckered opening.
“Loosen her up then,” Beauregard snapped. “What else do I pay you for?”
The man grunted as he expended himself deep inside the hapless girl. “No problem, colonel.”
“Better get used to calling me general, boys. My promotion is all but in the bag, just as soon as Red Wolf is out of the way and that pesky marshal, too.” Beauregard leaned down close to Melanie. “That’s right, sweetheart, I have a little trap in mind for your boyfriend. As for that stinking savage, he’ll hang from a rope at dawn.”
Melanie squealed into the bit as a second man mounted her. This one took her frontally, though he was so large he threatened to split her wide fore and aft.
“You’ll like the ranch,” the colonel crooned, his hand stroking her damp hair. “We have lots of fillies just like you. It’ll be just like being a little girl again, only this time you won’t just pretend to be a horse, you’ll really live the part. Complete with a brand, a stable to sleep in and saddle lessons. Don’t worry, we’ll break you nice and slow.”
The second man ejaculated, yielding Melanie’s sex to a third. They held a torch close to her face with each new man so they could watch her expressions. Mostly she felt numb. Shocked, vaguely excited and terrified. She’d imagined this place, quite often, in fact. The look in Lyla’s eyes, the mix of dread and desire when she’d spoken of it had intrigued Melanie from the start. Like a moth, she’d felt drawn to it; her own personal flame. And now it was real.
There were seven men in all and they used her in rapid succession. Melanie suspected their purpose was a kind of brute initiation. Though they could easily have made her come against her will, they made no effort other then to expend themselves as rapidly as possible. When the last man was done, a fist was inserted in her hair, lifting her head towards the light.
“Pucker up, baby,” grinned a yellow toothed man. “The colonel wants to say bye bye.”
“This is it, Melanie,” Beauregard pronounced, his body planted imperiously in front of her. “The last stop. You won’t find your way out of here, believe me. Nor will any potential rescuers find their way in to save you. You will die here. Sooner rather later, in fact, unless you learn to cooperate. You may kiss my boots before they take you to the stable.”
Her head was thrust to the ground. She could do little more than drool on the patent leather, given the bit in her mouth. After holding her this way for several seconds, she was thrown backwards. By the time they righted her again to fix the leash on her the colonel was gone, having climbed back into the coach. Tears stained Melanie’s eyes, though no one saw or cared. Prodded by a whip, she was walked now, on all fours towards one of the ominously dark stables.
“Welcome to your new home,” said the man holding her new leash as he led her to the very first one. “We hope it meets with your satisfaction.”
They were laughing, three or four men around her. Ignoring her moans of protest, they hauled her into one of the stables, securing her to the wall by a hanging chain. She half hoped they would leave her like this, painful as it was, but it seemed her tortures were only beginning.
“Get me more light,” called the man with the leash. “And the branding iron. Let’s get her marked before dawn.”
It was at this point that Melanie passed out.
***
The colonel came back to see her two days later. The mark on Melanie’s buttocks, an ‘S’ closed in a simple circle, was beginning to heal by then. She’d been allowed to see it by means of a mirror. The grooves in her skin were deep and permanent, smooth to the touch, indelible. Overall, it left no doubt as to her status on the ranch.
The pain had been incredible, and yet she’d found herself surprisingly aroused. The red of her blushing cheeks had exceeded the heat of the fire as they’d felt between her naked legs, confirming the fact as she lay stretched and bound on the rack, awaiting the kiss of the iron. The jokes had been lewd and there was no defending herself, no responding through the leather gag. On and on went the coursing through her veins, the smell of her own flesh filling her nostrils.
“Fuck her first,” had said the lead man when they’d taken down her swooning body. “Show her her place then take her back to the stalls. It’ll be the last she gets for awhile, so make it a long one.”
“You’ve come a long way,” declared Beauregard approvingly now as he regarded the creature before him. “A long way, indeed.”
Melanie lowered her head and scratched at the earth with the fingers of her left hand. To be precise, it was her left hoof and the gesture was one she’d been taught to make. Its meaning was thank you, and it was to be used whenever the men interacted with her, whether to feed her or take sex from her. The initial bit she’d been given had been replaced with a form fitting one, complete with bridle. She was still naked, of course, though there was a harness on her chest now and a leather cinch between her legs.
“Ass up,” the colonel snapped his fingers as one would to a pet animal. “Let’s have a look at that new tail of yours.”
She shifted uneasily now to better display the ‘tail,’ a thick anal plug with a large weave of horsehair hanging from the back end. It filled her deeper than she’d ever thought possible and with her motions, as she pranced or galloped, it frequently induced sexual spasms.
“She’s looking healthy,” the colonel remarked to one of the groomsman, a burly bearded man whose feet she had learned how to lick well. Later, when her special training period was done, she would be licking other parts of him, too.
The man nodded. “Coming along, sir.”
Melanie’s skin was especially shiny, having been greased down earlier in the day. A fine coating of sweat covered her as well. One of the trainers had ridden her hard, rigging her in an upright position to a small sulky that he drove round the ring dozens of times. Melanie wanted very badly to look up and see the colonel, but it was forbidden to make eye contact. Besides, from her low vantage point on all fours, there would be little to see anyway.
“You make a lovely horse, Melanie.”
Melanie scratched at the soil once more, with more enthusiasm. No one liked an unhappy horse, and a surly attitude was a sure way to earn a beating.
“Should I give you a piece of sugar?”
Again, she pawed the dirt. In truth, she was starving, having had no chance yet to dip her head into the grain bag. Her trainers had told her in time she would even learn to graze for grass, but that was a week or two away.
“I do so regret the training bit, my dear,” Beauregard lamented. “As it prevents my spilling my seed in your mouth right now.” Melanie was unsure as to how to react. To be on the safe, side, she scratched her appreciativeness. “No” was not a word taught to the slave horses anyway.
“Alas, your cunt and arse are also on restrictions. Which means I am left with nothing to do but ride and whip you.” He chuckled at her obsequious response. “You’re welcome, my pretty little pony. You must find it strange, given your treatment the first night that you are now sexually off limits.”
Melanie made no response. The fact that they’d done nothing sexual to her except insert the anal plug was something she hadn’t questioned. Probably it was to torture her, to make her burn for sex she couldn’t have. Not that she cared any longer. Her heart was the part of her that was really being abused. Two days had gone by and no word of the fate of Red Wolf. Was he really dead, hung by the neck as the colonel had threatened? And what of the residents of Big Rock? Did anyone care where she was? Gretchen, Zechariah, or at least the selfish and lewd sheriff?
“We abstain from using you during training because we need to develop the animal side of your nature first,” he explained, retrieving one of the slim, specially made saddles from the rack on the wall. “Once your will is fully broken and you accept your status as a beast of burden, then you will be reopened as a vessel for sperm. If we do this prematurely, you are liable to harbor airs of superiority over actual, four legged horses on account of your desirability to your masters.”
Melanie winced as he tossed down the heavy leather onto her shiny back and moved to strap it beneath her belly. If the colonel thought she entertained illusions about her status as a slave animal, he was fooling himself. How could any woman treated so, imagine herself to be more than she was?
“It’s ironic, really,” he mused, climbing on her back and settling his feet into the stirrups, “how many men find animalized women even more attractive than free ones. As you’ll discover when you are allowed to join our special pony brothel.”
The man’s weight was torturous. She could hardly move. When he dug his spurs into her naked rid cage, however, she found the incentive she needed. The colonel was only the second man to ride her this way, and the first had been more slender. Plus there was her hunger to consider. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up with an unconscious mount. She could only pray they would use the sulky in the future exclusively.
“Giddyap, little pony!”
Melanie chomped on the bit. He’d used his whip on her, lashing her hindquarters. Desperately, she scrambled over the hay-strewn ground. It was silly, in her opinion, to have the hay, as there were no real horses. Part of the effect, she supposed.
“Ah,” breathed the colonel, sucking a mouthful of air as they left the barn. “A perfect day. Don’t you think, pony?”
Unable to answer, Melanie stumbled on. Her pace was so slow, she wanted to cry. The man could have gotten off and walked faster. But this wasn’t about speed or efficiency. This was about humiliating her. The leather harness bit hard beneath her breasts. The rectal plug, which was attached by various straps, did its own nasty work as she crawled. Each step filled and emptied her, causing her sex lips to throb helplessly against the crotch line. She needed to be fucked so badly. Had she a mouth to speak, she would be begging the colonel to use her.
“Only fifty more laps to go,” he chimed as she reached the halfway point round the walking ring.
Melanie choked on a fresh round of tears. The colonel was laughing, though she wasn’t sure if the men were joking or not. His voice carrying high into the air. She thought it would go on and on forever, and then, quite abruptly, it was cut off by the sound of a single gunshot. Another followed, and with it the sound of shouting men.
Beauregard sought to leap from her back, but his spur got caught in the stirrup. Toppling forward, he sent them both crashing onto the dirt. “What in blazes?” he roared. “Who the hell is shooting on my ranch!”
“Colonel, we gotta get outta here!” cried one of the trainers. “It’s the—”
The man’s warning ended in a painful grunt as yet another bullet was fired. Melanie squirmed beneath Beauregard’s sprawled body. Was it the Indians attacking, or outlaws?
“Hold still,” the colonel growled, pulling his pistol from the holster. “Whoever’s here, they won’t get you alive.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Colonel Beauregard.”
Melanie’s heart leapt with joy. She’d know that voice anywhere!
The colonel rose to his feet, attempting to recover his dignity. “Marshal Cole, would you mind explaining the meaning of this intrusion?”
“It’s called a court martial, Beauregard, and you are cordially invited to be the guest of honor,” came the voice of General Winslow, galloping up beside the mounted marshal. “If you would kindly surrender yourself.”
For once in his life, the colonel had no response. Dropping his pistol, he raised his hands in the air.
“Release that poor girl,” the general shouted to a group of rapidly approaching soldiers.
“No,” countered the marshal, a bit harshly. “See to the others. I will attend to this one myself.”
Melanie wept for joy. He’d come for her! He’d saved her.
“Marshal,” she gasped as he knelt to remove the bit from her mouth. “Trent you’ve no idea how long I’ve waited…suffered.”
Cole’s eyes were cold and harsh. “Save your breath. You’re going to need it to face justice.”
The blood drained from her face. Justice. Was he going to turn her into the authorities back east, after she’d made it this far, after all she’d been through.
“But…but…Trent.”
“Silence,” he growled hauling her to her feet. “I won’t hear it. Not now, not ever.”
Stunned, numb all over, feeling more despair now than in the whole time since she left New York, she stood there, letting him strip off the pony gear, item by item. When he was done he replaced it not with clothes but with a pair of handcuffs, silver and steel, glimmering in the sunlight.
“You’re under arrest,” the marshal pronounced. “For the murder of Patricia Wallace.”
***
Melanie’s world was darkness and confusion. She was lying on her side, in the back of a wagon, hands tied behind her back, a blindfold blocking her view of her rapidly changing world. After being arrested, she’d been put into the stockade at Fort Collins, the only one of the freed female ponies to be put back into bondage. The marshal had left her there under military guard, riding off hard to the east. No word was left as to her fate. The next two days passed quietly. She was treated well, given hot meals, a clean cot and a decent dress to wear, complete with undergarments.
She was even allowed a small lot of writing paper and ink, to correspond as she desired. A letter was drafted to her uncle along with an account of her journey, a sort of memoir, which perhaps, following her hanging, might be published by one of her uncle’s contacts in the publishing business.
In truth, Melanie wanted for nothing in her captivity save information. When would she be taken back to New York and under whose guard? She hoped it would be the enigmatic marshal, though she rather doubted the man would ever look upon her again much less deign to spend any sort of time in her company. There’d been a good deal of tears the first day, and after that, she reached a place of strange peace. Emptiness, really, as if there was no more suffering to be had either by her body or her tortured spirit.
Imagine her surprise whe
n they came to her the following morning announcing that she was to be transported. The blindfold was applied, along with a silk rope round her hands. She thought it strange there were no handcuffs. As for being laid in a wagon, she’d rather expected a coach, or at least a seat to which she could be shackled.
After several hours in the wagon, they arrived at their destination. Whatever that might be. The train station, perhaps? Or some local jail where she’d be transferred over to representatives of the New York City police department?
“Bring her to the saloon,” said a voice that sounded strangely like that of Deputy Homer.
Melanie inhaled. She’d know that man’s smell anywhere—cheap cologne over lanolin and even cheaper tobacco!
“Homer?”
No answer, but the smells, the livery stable, the cherry pies from the hotel kitchen. She was sure of it. She’d been brought back to Big Rock! Melanie wanted to cry when she felt the familiar floorboards, the creaking beneath her feet as they brought her straight to her old room.
A moment later the door closed. Was she alone?
“Take your blindfold off, slave,” said a warm, rich female voice. “Greet your sister.”
“Gretchen!” she cried out yanking off the covering that had rendered her world so black.
“Hush,” chastised her friend, accepting the warm embrace. “My master has commanded your silence until a certain person arrives. I’m breaking the rules, so we better not get caught.”
“Oh, Gretchen,” she ignored, holding her friend at arm’s length, “let me look at you…goodness, you look wonderful!”
Gretchen frowned, a vision of green in a long silk dress and matching feathers in her elegantly arrayed hair. “I wish I could say the same of you. Lord, we have work to do to get you ready for your master.”
Melanie stopped short. “Did…did…you say…my…master?”
Gretchen, arms folded over her well revealed chest, nodded slowly in amusement. “Uh huh.”
Melanie gulped, forgetting for the moment her own legal troubles. “But…but at the fort we’d been told Sheriff Harkin was arrested, along with Colonel Beauregard. Who else would be my master? Is it Doc Lassiter? Or Zech?”
Mastering Melanie Page 24
