by Mark Andrews
They also wore tails. Yes, really, the same as the girl who had been brought before us. Out of all of their bottoms poked long flowing tails on the end of a sort-of stalk. It looked like the tail on a donkey with a solid section and then a horse-like tail of long hairs.
They were universally bald - except for a ponytail that flowed out of a fitting at the top of their bridles and this matched the hairs on their tails. I shuddered as I realised we would soon shortly be shorn of our own head hair and wearing those horrible tails out of our rectums.
But even that wasn’t the end of it. They were also wearing hooves on their feet. Yes, real hooves. They weren’t shoes. Their feet had been pushed down into the receptacles so that their feet were pointing straight down, like a ballet dancer pirouetting on the points of her toe. This accentuated their calf muscles of course but I wondered how they had learned to walk (or prance as they now were) for it was not a natural state for the human foot at all. And yet they seemed to have learned it and it certainly made them look more graceful.
The hooves themselves looked like real pony hooves and were even shod with metal horseshoes that made a loud noise as they pranced up and down.
A few of them, additionally to the bridles and bits in their mouths, had their tongues poking out of their bitted mouths and stretched down to the rings in their nipples and on the girls, this kept their breasts up high, probably preventing them from flopping up and down too much as they raced.
I was appalled. I had delighted in the sort of pony racing we had indulged in back in England but this! This was dreadful. This was a total degradation of a human being - intentionally, of course. Prince Azeem and his friends gloried in their ponies and in the way they had absolute mastery over them. This was human slavery at its absolute worst for I thought even galley slaves weren’t got up as these boys and girls were.
I should say here they were all in their late teens or early twenties. There were no very young girls or boys that I saw but I was to discover they did breed from us. What happened to the slave babies as they grew up I never did find out - presumably they were raised in slave nurseries of some kind...
For the rest of that day we stood there in a kind of daze, staring around us as the trainers pushed the fifty-odd slaves there to the limit. This was no fetish enjoyed by both ‘owner’ and ‘pony’ as back in England. This was pure and simple slavery with every single one of the ponies here forced into the most inhuman bondage I could have dreamed up in my worst nightmares. I knew I was going to derive not a milligram of fun out of what had now befallen the three of us and I wondered what Sebastian, his father, and Lord de Veere would now be thinking ...
I had no idea of course but I thought they were probably three very worried men. I guessed they might have an inkling where we had gone and who had taken us for it could hardly be a coincidence that the prince had left England at the same time of our disappearance and the stories told by the viscount’s head trainer and his companions would bear out that our abductors were probably Arab would enforce this view. The trouble was, even if they knew the Azeem’s country, it was closed and they wouldn’t be granted entry.
No, it seemed we were there for the duration, or at least for many months and perhaps years while our former ‘owners’ figured out a way to get us out.
As I say, they left us there all day but then we were taken to our stalls and now found that even now we were not going to be permitted to sleep - at least not normally.
We were first bridled - yes, with the bits right onto our newly bared and still throbbing gums and the straps pulled really tight around our heads - but not before they clipped and then shaved our heads as bald as all the rest of the ponies there (except for the ‘ponytail’, of course). My hair was quite long and my ponytail was already a few inches long. On the two boys, it would take months before it grew to a decent length.
The straps went over our newly shaved skulls, around our necks and of course the bits I have already described. They left our tongues poking out of our mouths and attached to our still throbbing nipple rings but they spoon-fed us with a mush of oats and other, no doubt nutritious items and while it was horrible trying to swallow with my tongue poking out of my mouth, at least my belly was no longer gnawing at me.
They also fitted us for our hooves. These were really horrible things. As I said, they forced our feet into becoming an extension of our lower legs and made my calves feel really stretched but I assumed they would adjust, in time. I was to find out they would have to for from that time on, except when at certain exercises in the gym, they were permanently so shod.
Now ringed, shaved, bridled and shod, we were now pushed into our stalls and backed up to rings set up high on the back wall - again with the dreadful little thumb-cuffs. Our feet were locked (by means of padlocks and chains to lugs on our hooves) to more rings set into the paved floor and more chains dangling from the roof high above our heads, were clipped to our nipple rings.
And that is how we were expected to sleep. Prince Azeem had accompanied us to our stalls and he grinned maliciously at us. “Ponies sleep standing up. You are going to have to learn to do so for you are now ponies in everything.” He paused a moment and his grin deepened. “Tomorrow you will be tailed ...”
We were. But first we learned that the evacuation of our wastes was an even more humiliating procedure than that supervised by Arthur Scott, the viscount’s head trainer. There we had had to line up in front of a drain, bend over and grab a rail in front of us and at the command, drop first our liquid and then our solid wastes. It had been humiliating but I had thrilled to that shame. Now it was worse, as I say.
I suspect the viscount had taken a leaf out of the prince’s book for the method was very similar - at least as far as the drain behind us and the rail we had to bend down to and grasp. The difference was that we were not given an opportunity to defecate by ourselves. The trainers came along behind us and after forcibly removing the tails of each pony, pushed a large nozzle on the end of a hose into his or her anus and pressed the handle on it for three seconds. The liquid wasn’t just plain water either. It contained chemicals that mixed with our faeces and created a horrible gaseous bloating while at the same time reducing our faecal matter to a horribly stinking liquid that of course went all over our legs.
The stench was horrible but the trainers seemed to delight in making us perform in this way. Back in England, it had all been very ordered. We grasped the rail, spread our legs and at the order, urinated, emitting a healthy stream of liquid and then later, did the same with the solid wastes. Here, it all came out together, the urine mixing with the spurting, semi-liquid faeces and everything going everywhere. I hated that morning session and I could see everyone else - except our trainers - did, too, but there was no alternative.
They had the whips and canes and more of those dreadful prodders and if we weren’t instantly responsive to their orders, we suffered horribly.
There was room for twenty of us over the drain and they continued to douche our rectums until they were clean as a whistle, after which our putrid bodies were hosed down. Then the others had their tails restored - and it seemed they would wear them until the same time next morning...
We were fed more of the oat mush and I watched as the others nuzzled down into the feed box. They weren’t allowed to use their hands. For much of the day they were locked behind their backs, in some cases by the upper arms being pulled together just above the elbows (which had the effect of thrusting out their breasts or chests) and then the forearms being doubled, were connected to their upper arms, up near their shoulders. The straps used to effect this were made of clear plastic and were almost invisible ... But even if their arms were not thus bound, if they tried to aid their feeding with their hands, they were severely beaten.
They all then went off to their various training disciplines while we were taken back to the vet’s room to be tailed. Now
I saw those tails at close quarters for the first time. They were utterly horrible things.
There was first of all the dildo part. It was in the form of a cone made of smooth plastic and with the point rounded over and I saw there were various sizes of this, the smallest being a couple of inches wide at its thickest; the largest easily double that amount. I gulped as I tried to imagine my anus stretched to that extent. Beneath the widest part of the cone, the thing narrowed down to about an inch and then it turned into the solid part of the ‘tail’. As I say, this looked a bit like the tail on a donkey. The solid part was perhaps four inches long and at the end of that, it turned into a proper horse’s tail. I know a real donkey has only a tuft at the end of a much longer tail but that was the way they made our tails.
At that moment, I didn’t care what it looked like - I was worried about the dildo going into my rectum.
Muscles and I were locked to the wall rings while Black Beauty was prepared for his first tail. They bound his arms behind his back in the manner I have described then used his nipple rings to pull his upper body down and fastened to a short rail set on two three foot high standards that were about three feet apart. They then kicked his feet outwards and locked his hooves to the bases of these. His anus was now very well exposed for the vet’s attentions.
Once more Prince Azeem was present. He seemed to enjoy watching us initiated - every part of it and my hatred for him grew apace.
The vet now took up a large syringe which he gleefully informed us was filled with paraffin oil. On the end of this was another nozzle - a very large and very long one. He positioned this at Black Beauty’s anus and then pushed it in - all the way. As he slowly withdrew, he squeezed the plunger, thus squirting a liberal dose of the thick paraffin into the handsome black boy’s rectum. When he had withdrawn the syringe completely, he examined the boy’s anus and rectum, pushing one finger, then two and finally four into the pulsing hole, apparently to gauge its resilience. Black Beauty moaned in pain as his anus was so cruelly stretched but the vet only grinned and slapped his still horribly bruised buttocks.
Then, while Prince Azeem watched, that same cruel smile on his face, the vet took up a jar of petroleum jelly and pushed a large dollop of that into and around the anus. Black Beauty was ready at last for his tail.
The vet had examined his anus carefully and now chose the tail according to his summation. “I think he’s ready for a Number Two,” he said (in English) to his employer and the prince nodded
“So be it,” he said, pulling his chair up closer to watch as the vet forced the huge cone in through Black Beauty’s now resisting anus. The vet just kept pushing however and the ring of muscle slowly opened, while he screamed in pain at the outrage to his anus and struggled as much as his bonds allowed, causing his beautiful muscles to ripple and cord most erotically - and then, as the monster finally disappeared, closed over the smaller diameter behind the base of the cone. Now Black Beauty sported a very realistic looking tail poking out between his muscular buttocks and when he stood up after they had let go his nipples from the little chains, it looked to be a real part of his body, poking down behind his muscular thighs.
The prince sat back in satisfaction, the usual sadistic grin on his face. “And you will wear that all day and night, right up until it is time to clean you out tomorrow morning - and the morning after that, and so on ...”
We stared at him in horror. Black Beauty was clearly in pain for he was fidgeting constantly now, twitching his buttocks from side to side in an effort to accommodate, or perhaps dislodge the huge invader. The effect of this, of course, was to swing the tail from side to side also, a fact Prince Azeem noticed and his grin broadened. “It won’t come out, boy. Not without assistance. The cone’s base is much too big for you to expel it without your groom helping, it will just have to stay there - and since your hands will always be locked away out of harm’s way, either as they are now, or up behind your neck, you won’t be able to do anything about it, will you...?”
Muscles was next and then it was my turn. It seemed my anus was not at all resilient and so I started out with a Number One dildo but that was bad enough. It was yet another form of agony as the vet forced it into my rectum (after treating me to the same lubrication of my rectum and anus as the two boys had been) and I screamed just as they had.
When I stood up it felt really horrible and when I took a few tentative steps it felt really weird.
“Swish it from side to side some more,” the vet ordered. We did, but it hurt a lot. “They’ll need a lot of the whip or cane before they will do it naturally,’ he observed judiciously.
“And they’ll get it,” said the prince. “As you know, I like my ponies to learn hard and fast and these English Christian scum will have double the encouragement ...”
I pricked up my ears. So he didn’t like us English? I wondered why not ... (I later found out many Arabs didn’t for the English had overrun and controlled their part of the world for decades in the last century).
But now we were going to have our first training - on lunging rains around a part of the gym where new ponies were taught how to walk (and then trot and prance and later still gallop) on our new hooves and with our hands held up the same as Black Beauty’s were ...
We three ponies had of course learned to trot and prance back in England. There however, the gaits were a little different although all (except the gallop) still required our knees high. When we walked, it was with a mincing step, raising our knees so that our thighs were horizontal. Trotting was the same but at a faster pace and took a huge amount of effort. Prancing was really horrible. It might be described as a canter but with the knees brought right up to the chest!
Can you imagine it? The trotting pace was hard enough, go on try it. Stand up and walk while you bring your knees up to the horizontal. Not too difficult, is it. Now break into a trot - a slow run, with your knees still coming up to waist level. Keep that up for a few minutes and you will soon tire. Now try the prance. You have to run as fast as you can but every step must bring your knees right up to your chest, or, in my case, to my breasts.
Only the gallop allowed us to run normally and they didn’t use this one very often for with us human ponies, it was all about showing off your pony rather than speed - and the trot and prancing gaits showed off our naked bodies to a tee.
That morning in the gym, we learned those two gaits. They had us on lunging reins. Do you know what they are? We were in a small ring - as in a three-ring circus. In the middle, the three trainers stood holding the lunging rein, a long piece of leather that was attached to our bridles, while beside us, our grooms walked or trotted, each holding a whippy sapling in one hand and a cane in the other, ready to use either on us - the sapling under our thighs if we failed to raise our legs high enough for the particular gait and the cane to our rears (yes, even though they were still horribly marked from our initiation) if we didn’t hold our bodies perfectly erect and our heads up and looking straight ahead.
Our arms were still pinioned behind our backs, the elbows being drawn together by the clear plastic bindings and then the wrists attached to our upper arms by more of the same material. This kept our hands up and out of the way but we learned now that this was only to teach us to keep our shoulders right back and our chests (and my breasts) thrust out provocatively. Later (we were told) we would be trained to keep them up behind our necks and they would be locked there by more of the near-invisible plastic strips for they liked our bodies to be shown off as totally naked and exposed as they could get them.
Harness of any kind hiding a part, even a small part, of our bodies from their view was not to their liking and when it was necessary, as, for example, when we were pulling a gig or carrying them on our backs, they made every effort to keep the covering to a minimum.
But I am running off, I see. That morning, our first at actual training, the three of us ran - tr
otted or pranced, that is - round and round the small ring in a corner of the huge gymnasium while others of the fifty performing the morning work there practised gymnastics on the various pieces of equipment, lifted weights, shinnied up and down the massive ropes, tumbled on the mats set out in another part or wrestled. As I watched them out of the corner of my eye, I realised why they were all so incredible athletic. They really were. They even matched Black Beauty in the lithe athleticism of their bodies and that, coupled with their natural beauty, made them magnificent creatures all.
They were a mix of all races and religions - except Islam, that is, for the Prophet had decreed that no son of Allah was ever to be enslaved - and make no mistake about it, we were all slaves.
There were more blacks, Orientals of various origins and whites but all were beautiful if female and very handsome if male and all obviously had the required framework on which to build the perfect body. All were naked of course and had been depilated (and their heads shaved) as we had so that there wasn’t a hair anywhere on their bodies except for the pony-tails that poked up out of the fitting at the top of their bridles and then flowed down the backs of their necks. We all looked weird - but uniformly so.
All of them also sported the golden brand on their bellies - precisely placed exactly half way between the tops of their vaginal slit and their navels (or, in the case of the males, between the point where their cocks emerged from their groins and their navels). We were still to be branded of course and every time my eyes latched on to one of those quite startling marks twisting and turning on a slave’s belly, my own stomach and heart lurched as I tried to anticipate the pain of the branding.
That it would be painful I was very aware for Prince Azeem had been at pains to describe the procedure to us in minute detail and he underlined several times that the iron would really be red-hot. “Oh yes,” he said, “it will be glowing a bright red and it will be lowered on to your bellies slowly - very slowly so you can anticipate the coming agony all the more. Then, as it touches your smooth flesh, you will scream beautifully. You won’t be able to move and so blur the cleanness of the mark though for you will be securely tied down and won’t be able to move a muscle. You will scream though - as I say, quite beautifully, and the scream will go on and on, long after my brand-master withdraws the still glowing iron from your bellies ...”
