by Mark Andrews
Title Page
PONY GIRL
Arabia - Volume 2
By Mark Andrews
Kinks Books is an imprint
of W&H Publishing LLP.
Publisher Informaion
This eBook edition published by Kink Books is an imprint of W&H Publishing LLP, Foresters Hall, 25-27 Westow Street, London, SE19 3RY.
Digital edition converted and published
by Andrews UK Limited 2012
www.andrewsuk.com
Previously published by The Olympia Press
PO Box 148, Ryde, Isle of Wight, PO33 9BE.
Copyright © Mark Andrews
The right of Mark Andrews to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and is purely coincidental.
This eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by the way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, electronically copied, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent.
Prologue
I was a student lawyer and my mentor, Sebastian de Veere, who became my lover and fiancée, introduced me to the sport of human pony racing. I fell for it - in a big way and pleaded with him to allow me to be one of them. I did and I did very well at it, too, winning many races for him (who became my nominal owner). I was trained at his cousin’s estate where Viscount de Veere had a number of his own ponies plus two ‘owned’ by Sebastian’s father who was the head of our law firm.
I was trained hard and displayed naked and suffered all manner of humiliations in the process but I revelled in them. But then I knew when I had had enough and after winning one final race for Sebastian, we agreed that after we returned to the estate (me still stark naked in the little dog-trailer used to transport us to the race meetings) we would be married. But I and my two companion ponies were kidnapped, crated up, drugged and shipped in the cargo hold of Prince Azeem’s private jumbo jet to Arabia.
Chapter 1
As the lid of the crate was removed and I stared up at the cruel but smiling face of Prince Azeem, my heart sank. I already knew this man to be quite uncaring of us pony slaves as humans and at first that quality had made me admire him, for it was this humiliation I felt when treated as a pony, made to whinny and neigh (and never to speak except in an emergency) that so thrilled me. But back home in England, I knew I always had the option to opt out; here - wherever here was that was no longer possible, I was sure.
It was borne out when the customs officer went over our bodies as we were extracted from the crates. There were the three of us: the handsome and magnificently built Black Beauty, the twenty-year-old boy whose ancestors were West African, and Muscles, the Thai boy who was just as beautiful even though he was much smaller in stature than Black Beauty.
For all his perfection as a physical specimen he had been born with miniscule genitals and he had pleaded with his ‘owner’, my fiancé’s cousin, Viscount de Veere, to have them removed and, after a whole lot of soul-searching he had agreed, to Muscle’s joy and so he was now a eunuch. But he hadn’t just lost his balls. No, his tiny penis had been removed as well and so now, down there, he was quite smooth except for a small, navel-like bud between his powerful thighs.
You might think he would look grotesque?
Not bit of it. With his tiny genitals, he had looked a little odd - a perfect young man’s physique - with a pre-pubescent boy’s genitals. Now, with a totally smooth lower groin, he looked fabulous. And what was even more important, he delighted in his new status.
The aircraft had parked in front of the prince’s personal hangar and while I realised the customs officer was just a formality, for the prince was a powerful man in his country, I suspected he was really there to underline to us three just how much slaves we really were. Real life slaves! Not the make-believe variety we had played at back in England!
Where were we? I still have no idea. Somewhere in the Middle East no doubt on the Arabian Peninsula but precisely where is still a mystery. It was a small country that much we gleaned but it must have been a closed one for it had no diplomatic representatives that we could discover and the institution of slavery was quite openly in evidence.
You may wonder as my story unfolds and the depths of our dreadful situation become clear, why the much-touted satellite cameras that can see into every corner of the world didn’t show up what went on in that awful place? I just can’t answer that. I wondered about it myself and I can only assume that the oil that the prince’s country produces in huge quantities must have silenced any critics to whom the satellite intelligence may have been communicated.
Anyway, we were there, stark naked and standing quite openly on the concrete apron outside the huge hangar and now, while the prince looked on, smiling cruelly at us, the customs officer began to inspect us.
“Hands behind heads. Elbows right back. Legs wide apart!” barked the prince’s man. I blushed. All right, I had been stark naked for the last six months and had relished the humiliation but not in a really public sense. Everyone who had seen me had been an aficionado of human pony racing. Here, there were workmen and airport officials all wandering around, looking at us curiously as they passed but making no attempt to interfere with what, in any other place, would have been a gross breach of the law and of basic human decency.
Not there. There, it was tacitly assumed we were slaves (and as such, cargo) and that the customs officer was quite properly inspecting us. He did. And he obviously enjoyed his work.
He started with Muscles. The boy was small as I’ve said but he packed a wallop into that diminutive body and back home in England he had had been second only to Black Beauty when it came to winning races. He really was quite perfect in body but he was also a nice person as well. Sebastian and I had been going to take him with us as our first pony to our new home where we were going to set up our own human pony stables and then, later on, to become our trainer when we acquired other ponies.
The officer now went over his body in detail but it was obvious his interest was sexual and the prince encouraged him in this. “Go on, Ali, check every muscle. Make sure his bodily orifices are not harbouring any contraband, too.” It was ridiculous, of course. If we had been hiding anything it would have been at Prince Azeem’s behest but this was a ploy; a little drama engineered by him to show us how powerful he was and that we were now nothing but his slaves - and human animal slaves at that.
The man’s hands roved all over Muscles’ fine body while the boy fidgeted in shame, his handsome, copper-coloured face now showing his misery - and remember he, among us all, had been the one who had gloried most in his pony-slavery. He had said categorically, that he wanted to remain as such all his life and only our offer of being made a trainer of other boys and girls in this capacity had persuaded him otherwise.
Ali, the customs officer, made him open his mouth so he could delve in with his fingers, then wiped them on his smooth and so well defined chest; then made him turn around and bend over with his legs still spread wide so he could probe into his anus - yes, right there on the apron of the airport! He then wiped his fingers on Muscles’ buttocks.
When it came to Black Beauty, the tall and magnificent black stallion, it was just the same but as he towered over the customs man (and could have snapped him in two with his bare hands if he had had the mind), the inspection was a little more cursory. Not that he didn’t inspect every part of the boy’s beautiful body, delve into his mouth (after ordering him to squat down), his anus
(by making him turn around, bend over and ‘spread em’) and lastly to fondle his penis to a full erection and ejaculation - and then wipe the palm full of semen all over his gleaming black belly.
Then it was my turn.
I had been a track athlete all my life and I think it was my athletic body as much as anything that had attracted Sebastian to me. Actually we were both highly athletic and his body was equally as good as mine, but over the last six months, as a pony slave in the secret human stables at his cousin’s estate, Arthur Scott, the head trainer, had refined it even more. My muscles had been strengthened, making them much cleaner and more defined and giving me an outstanding endurance on the track.
I am tall for a girl, at five-nine and my body has always been muscular rather than sensuous. My shoulders are broad, my belly flat and muscly and my thighs are definitely those of an athlete, as are my buttocks, which are narrow, high and are clearly indented at the sides. I am not boasting - many men would find my body a turn-off for I am not at all voluptuous ...
The customs officer must not have been one of them however, for I saw the sparkle that had been apparent in his eyes as he had salaciously fingered the two boys, now brighten even more as he stood before me, insolently looking up and down my nakedness before beginning his physical inspection.
Oh, there is one thing I haven’t mentioned. Every one of the human ponies who had competed back in England had been depilated. Hair, anywhere on their bodies, but particularly around their sexual organs, was considered crass and most had been treated permanently. We certainly were, by means of the ruby laser and none of us would ever have hair on our bodies again. In the boys’ case, they never had to bother shaving even. I didn’t mind. As an athlete who wore those ultra-brief shorts female athletes wear these days I had had to be sure my pubic hair was neatly trimmed and I hadn’t minded its total removal at all.
Anyway, this meant that our genitals (or at least our genital area) were all totally apparent and on show and Ali spent a lot of time ‘inspecting’ them. In my case, after fondling my breasts at length, feeling the muscles all over my body and complimenting the prince on them, he then delved first into my mouth and then my anus where he poked around with his fingers for what seemed like ages as I perched there on the open apron in front of the hangar, bent over, legs wide, my cheeks spread wide open ...
But then came the worst of all. I had to stand up on a crate while he checked out my naked sexual organs. He had masturbated Muscles and Black Beauty right up to the point of ejaculation and now he did the same to me, tickling my clit and remarking on the ring through it, but also delving further inside, pretending to seek for drugs or whatever but really delighting in this very indecent fondling of my flesh.
It was over at last however and now the prince, who had watched the ‘inspection’ with a broad but cruel smile on his face (hell, he had probably engineered it), moved over to board the huge black limousine while we were taken over to a curious vehicle attached to the back of a Land Rover.
It was a trailer of course but a low-slung one with a flat floor and no sides or front or back. It was about six feet long and four wide and standing up in the middle of the front and back edges were two sturdy steel pipes, about six inches in diameter. They were braced down to the side edges and were connected together at the top by a longitudinal pipe of the same dimensions. The two posts were about ten feet high and dangling from the top piece were four short chains, each with a set of thumb-cuffs at the end.
I shuddered as I stared up at this ominous arrangement for the implication was very clear. Black Beauty was first. They made him climb up onto the tray of the trailer, which was only about a foot up from the ground, step up onto a box they placed under the first chain and raise his arms so they could cuff his thumbs - and then, yes, you’ve got it, they pulled the box away so he was dangling with his toes about six inches up off the tray.
Muscles was next and then it was my turn. It was horrible. Not only was it going to be a very painful method of transportation but we were going to be exposed stark naked, to all and sundry on the way. I couldn’t believe that any country in the Twenty-first Century would dare to allow this but it was happening and there was nothing any one of the three of us could do about it.
I reached up at their behest and my thumbs were imprisoned in the tiny steel cuffs after which, grinning hugely, they kicked the box away and I now dangled quite freely behind Muscles and Black Beauty from the steel pipe high above us.
The Land Rover took off now while the prince’s limo followed on behind, moving out of the airport and onto the road into the city. You may wonder that I never did find out where we were. Well I didn’t. I don’t think any of the prince’s slaves knew but even if they had, they couldn’t have told us, as you will find out shortly.
We went through a sort of half desert, half outlying area of the city then moved through its suburbs. It wasn’t a big city but there were lots of people around and all stopped to stare at us as we passed by, swaying back and forth and from side to side as the vehicle pulling us accelerated and decelerated or went around corners.
I was ashamed of course at this so public exposure of my naked body but I also noted other people were in that state. Some were actually pulling gigs around the streets while others were performing labouring tasks such as street sweeping in the same state. It seemed nakedness was acceptable, even normal here, at least among slaves. I felt a little better - a little, not a lot.
Actually, though, I took my mind off my own shame by staring ahead at the bodies of my two male companions. I loved Sebastian in a way that I knew was both permanent and all-encompassing but I loved the other slaves with whom I had spent the last six months in a different way. I adored their sleek bodies and their handsome faces. Not that we were allowed sex with them - at least except when it was ordered as part of our shame - and then on a stage in the little theatrette the viscount had had built onto our stables, and before dozens of the viscount’s guests from the human pony racing fraternity.
But now, as our three totally naked bodies swayed this way and that, hanging only by our thumbs from the chains above our heads, I tried to forget the people all around us down on the streets and look only at Black Beauty and Muscles and pretend they were going to make love to me.
Actually, Black Beauty already had. If you’ve read the first part of this account, you will remember we were the first to be made to perform in the little theatrette. The show was a pretence of the almost ritualistic ‘servicing’ of racing mares by stallions, both of whose bloodlines would have been checked out with great care. With Black Beauty and me, they pretended to do this too, discussing our supposed progeny in front of us in the most clinical way, all designed to shame and humiliate us - which is what we craved so much!
The viscount had spared no expense and had set up the theatre most tastefully. In the middle was the small round stage, surrounded by the four rows of tiered seats. Set into the stage was a rotating turntable and on this a frame to secure me in. My neck and wrists were locked into a sort of pillory, set down low, very near the floor while the other part of the frame kept my ankles very wide but also short so that my buttocks were pushed up high and my knees were right up under my chest.
This was an extremely shameful pose of course, intentionally, but it exposed both my anus and vagina for the ‘stallion’s’ attention. Black Beauty performed most creditably of course and when I could put out of my mind the sea of faces around me and allow myself to sink into the orgasmic pleasure of the ‘rape’, it was a quite wonderful experience. Of course the shame, which we all thrived on, added to that pleasure - weird, isn’t it?
Our little cavalcade passed right through the city and then out to the other side where, on its outskirts, the prince had his racing stud. Human racing stud, that is. The place looked like a regular equine stud farm but it was stocked exclusively with human ponies, male and female both.
This however was a vastly different operation than that I had so recently been housed in. There, every one of the ‘slaves’ were volunteers and could opt out of their slavery at a moment’s notice. This ensured that the trainers, while aware of the need in every one of us for shame, humiliation and a rigorous training schedule, did not go too far. In this new farm, somewhere in Arabia, no such constraint existed. We were all very real slaves, either by birth - for they actually bred slaves there - or by kidnapping as in our case.
This much was underlined to us from the moment we arrived.
The prince’s limousine had peeled off as we entered the estate, to go up to the luxurious hacienda we could see on a knoll in the distance, while the Land Rover took off on a different track towards what we took to be the stables.
Being disgustingly rich from the oil revenues deriving from his ownership of a significant part of the country, he had spared no expense in setting up this quite open (as compared to the viscount’s, which was highly secret) human pony farm. Indeed, there were visitors there all the time, ranging from the country’s rulers, down to locals who simply wandered in to lean over the rails at the training track to watch us.
The prince’s head trainer, accompanied by his staff and the hanger’s on who were never shooed away from the place, now gathered around the trailer, staring up at us as we hung there.
We were, of course, in extreme pain. Hanging by the thumbs is certainly not conducive to comfort but worse was the dozens of clothed people all around us as we hung there stark naked.
At that time I couldn’t see any of the ponies. In fact, as I later discovered, they were either at training in the large gymnasium (where we kept our bodies in A1 condition, and learned the various steps and poses that would be required of us, for, as I was shortly to discover, in that part of the world, we didn’t only race as we had back in England), or were out on the track proper, training at the actual races we would perform in.
