“What’s going on, Bob? Having trouble with the filly?”
“‘Fraid so, Mr. Morgan, Sir. Can’t get her to mount up again. Seems she doesn’t want to do those six laps again.”
“Doesn’t she just? We’ll have to see about that. Give her a last chance, Bob. Let her go back to her stall and think it over. If she comes back by the time I’ve had my lunch, and gets her cunt over the knob ready to trot, we’ll say no more about it, but unless she got that horn right up, and puts in a good time after, she can forget it. She’s out.”
Morgan turned away towards the house, then, with an after thought, turned back.
“And to teach her not to balk at an aching gut, make her do an extra lap.”
Well, she’d invited him to take her to the limit of her endurance, and then beyond, and he seemed to have taken her at her word. Standing in her stall, her pussy and belly still hurting from the morning’s punishment, she thought about her position, what had been done to her, what she had achieved. Could she take more? Could she achieve more? There was only one way to find out. Half an hour after she had balked at being sent round again, she was lifting her leg over the pole and pressing her labia against the now cold knob. When he came back from lunch, Morgan found her sitting as required, the ‘horn’ fully home in her bruised vagina, waiting patiently for what might befall. He watched as she winced while Bob hitched up the breast clamps, then took his stop-watch in hand to check their progress.
Once she had committed herself, there was no going back. This was to be the point beyond endurance, and yet she had to endure it. Bob with his whip did not drive her as hard as she drove herself, though he left her back bleeding in a dozen places, and her will would not be moved, though her body was in torment. She ran with her head back, her agony leaving her throat in a strange intermittent honking in time with her steps. When at last her pain soaked body came to a halt, her knees collapsed under her and she foundered, lying on the pole with the terrible steel horn still embedded deep in her abdomen. But she had completed her seven laps, and when Morgan announced that the time at the six lap mark was little slower than she had recorded without the Devil’s Horn, the wave of pride and satisfaction which swept over her almost drowned the pain in her breasts and belly and the aching fatigue in her legs and neck.
Though they were pleased with her performance under stress, her trainers gave her only minimal time to recover. The next day she was out on the track again, light work it is true, but work nevertheless, and her training continued without interruption. One evening, at ‘stables’ Morgan came in to make his last inspection of the day, looking more than usually pleased.
“Great news, Bob,” he said, “Folkstein has agreed to take us on. He’s bringing that Polish mare of his over at the weekend. We’re wagering a hundred grand a head on them, but what I’m really after is to beat the son of a bitch. He thinks that big yellow mare of his can’t be bested, now she’s gone unbeaten for a year, but our chestnut filly’s going well enough to take her, I reckon.”
“True enough, Sir, and she’s got the determination to do it. Do you think the Polack has the same incentive, after being in training so long?”
“Oh, she’s got incentive enough. Folkstein reckons she’s slipped a little lately, and he puts it down to too much sexual tension building up. With some, like our filly here, it can be a livener, if one keeps them from discharging it, but he reckons she’s got too much, and that she’d be better off with her clit out, so if she doesn’t win this one, she’s to be gelded.”
Madeleine shuddered where she stood. Poor woman, to lose her sexual centre at an owner’s whim. She’d certainly not be an easy one to beat.
The next few days were given over to last minute race training. No more long distance running, nothing over a lap, but endless starts and sprints where she was made to lunge against the ‘horn’ until she was impacting so hard she couldn’t resist crying out loud at the pain. Bob tended her with infinite care, examining every part of her body twice a day for cuts and abrasions, which he treated with astringent lotions to heal and harden her, washing and conditioning her hair, brushing it out until it gleamed, watching her diet and her droppings, massaging every part until she squirmed beneath his hard hands.
By the fourth day she was sparklingly alive, and ready to go. That evening her opponent arrived, an immensely powerful blonde not above her own height but broader in every part, great thighs and shoulders, her belly a little rounded it was true, but no sign of any real fat on her, just solid purposeful meat all over.
The match was set for the next day. A small knot of visitors had come for the event, and walked round the stables, inspecting the runners. Madeleine recognised several of them from her previous stay in the establishment, including the mannish looking woman who had driven her in the race. An older, military looking, man was accompanied by an attractive and athletic young woman of about twenty or so. Madeleine couldn’t decide if she was auditioning to be a driver or a mount, either way she took a keen interest in the proceedings, examining the runners in that day’s race, and questioning her escort minutely about their training, diet and equipment.
The two mares were fitted with their belts and bridles, the bits set firmly into their mouths. Bob had plaited the thong into her hair, as usual, but had decorated his work with added scarlet ribbons, Now it hung down her back, waiting to be fastened to the waist band. He’d also included a light rubbing of oil on her breasts and body, an extra smear on the soles of her feet; her pubic hair shone and curled glossily, and he’d even thrown in a pedicure, complete with colourless varnish on her toes. He obviously intended that her turn out should be immaculate to impress this crowd of seasoned judges of female flesh.
She’d made good droppings that morning, thanks to the high fibre diet she was on, and despite the curious stares of the bystanders, but Bob insisted on a further flushing to follow.
“There’s some as says a gut full of dung will cushion the ball, but I don’t hold with that. In the first place you don’t want the ball pushing at a swollen bowel, and in the second, you’re not here to have it easy,” and he thumbed home two horse-sized suppositories. Five minutes later she was entertaining the watchers with her riven face and writhing belly as she squatted on the floor making humiliating squirts of brown slime onto the straw.
“That’s good, lass,” Bob observed, as she bent while he sponged her anus, “t’were best you were clean right through, now let’s be having you outside for the Scrutineers.”
Both contestants were led out of their stalls, their hair thongs hanging loose, their arms not yet secured behind them, and taken to the end of the stable where two men, obviously appointed for the purpose, waited by a solid looking bench equipped with stirrups.
First, each woman in turn had to bend while a Scrutineer pulled a rubber glove onto his hand and thrust two fingers into her anus, feeling around as high as he could reach in the rectum beyond. Then the Polish woman was ushered to the bench and made to lie on it, somewhat reluctantly, Madeleine thought, and put her feet into the stirrups, spreading her great thighs wide, offering unrestricted access to her body, where the watchers could see an engorged stub of clitoris protruding from between her labia, between which the Scrutineer thrust a polished plated speculum, which he then extended, bringing a grimace to the reclining woman’s face, and enabling him to see the interior of the vagina, right up to the cervix.
The young woman accompanying her military escort, touched his arm. “What’s going on, and what is that probe for, the one the man’s holding?”
“The man, as you call him, is one of the Scrutineers, agreed by the two owners, to see that there’s no funny business. The probe is actually a pencil point soldering iron.”
“And why have they put that black cloth over her face?”
“If you give me a chance, I’ll tell you. Seems to me you could do with a little discipline yourself.”
The girl looked abashed. “I’m sorry, Major. I’ll try not to in
terrupt again, but it’s all so exciting.”
The Major seemed mollified by her submission. “Very well, I’ll explain. The cloth is to make sure she isn’t given any surreptitious signals by her owner. She’s going to be tested for any artificial numbing of her cunt. Normally such things are not necessary. Apart from honour among gentlemen, the object of those who race women on the ‘horn’ is to watch the struggle between her weak body and her strong will, and see how long she can hold out until the former triumphs.” The girl by his side shuddered, whether in horror, or ecstasy, wasn’t clear. Perhaps both. “But this is a needle match. Morgan’s been trying to find a woman he can put up against that great Polish peasant of Folkstein’s for a long while, and now he thinks he can do it. They’ve got a hundred grand each riding on it too, but the game’s the thing, and under the circumstances it would be only human to try and get a little advantage somewhere.
You saw them feeling up the women’s arses,” he continued, “that’s to see if there was any foam padding up there to cushion the drive. Very risky trick actually because even if you can get it far enough up to escape probing fingers, they’re to be ‘figged’ for this race, and it would mean disqualification if they shat out a length of polyurethane half way round the track. That caustic they get turns their sphincters inside out, and anything inside is soon outside.
But back to the present. As you can see, she’s all opened up below, and cut off from contact above. The scrutineer is going to touch the hot iron onto the back wall of her again in a totally random fashion. His colleague has his hand on her belly and, if she’s ‘clean’ he’ll feel the involuntary spasm as she burns. If not they’ll know there’s been some monkey business.”
Listening, Madeleine thought, Sweet Heaven, not only do I get my cunt battered to a pulp, but it’s going to be burnt first. The part in question twitched nervously.
Six times, at random intervals, the woman’s belly jumped, and finally she was given the all clear, and allowed to rise. Now it was her turn, and Madeleine’s stomach lurched as Bob gave a little tug on her reins to indicate she should take up the position just vacated. The bench felt warm from the woman’s body, no doubt she had sweated with fear just as Madeleine was doing now, but the air was all too chill on her vulva as she lifted her legs, bending her knees to spread her thighs and lodge her feet in the stirrups, reminding her of her openness and vulnerability. The speculum, expanding hugely inside her vagina, was warm from the previous cunt in which it had lodged, but not as warm as the fire that suddenly ignited in her own. Six times she spasmed, as the point, hot enough to melt lead, was laid on the tender membrane that lined her tunnel and then, blessedly, it was over and she was on her feet again, her vagina still signalling distress, but the Scrutineers satisfied she had not been got at.
Mares, drivers, Stewards, Scrutineers and all, the little group moved out of the stable, to where the buggies waited by the track. Before the thongs were secured and arms put into their restraints, there was one more small formality. The Polish woman went first, as usual, placing her feet well apart and bending from the waist to touch her toes while a Steward gathered up a large sticky brown mass of caustic and thumbed it between the massive cheeks into the anus, past the sphincter, adding generously from the tray at his side, until she was well stuffed, Madeleine could assess the power of this strong and experienced opponent she was up against. Her great oiled buttocks sat atop the solid columns of the thighs. Seen like this, she seemed as large and powerful as any mare, and who could doubt her courage. Hadn’t she beaten all comers at this demanding sport for a year, and didn’t she have incentive enough, with the survival of her most intimate woman’s part at stake? This was going to be an epic battle.
As the woman danced on her toes from the effect of the potent ‘fig’ in her fundament, Madeleine bent in her turn, and received the familiar burning caustic baptism of her anus, though it seemed an even stronger prescription today, and certainly the steward stuffed her fuller than she’d ever known. This was going to burn for the full six laps.
Their thongs were drawn back tight to their waist bands, canting up their chins, and their arms secured in the buckled leather sleeves behind their backs. Before the women were allowed to mount, the Stewards inspected the shining metal stems of their impalement for analgesic substances, wiping them with a cloth soaked in surgical spirit to make doubly sure.
The Polish woman mounted first, swinging her leg easily over the pole, and settling with an audible ‘schluck’ onto the rampant stem of the horn, the easy passage of the ball up her gaping cunt testifying to the truth of Morgan’s assertion of her constant sexual arousal. Well she wasn’t exactly dry herself, thought Madeleine, watching, and swung her own shapely thigh over the pole and nudged the ball between her labia. She had forgotten the spiritous bath it had so recently, and hissed at the sudden sting in the tender membranes at the mouth of her vagina, but bent her knees and sent the cold lump of metal deep into her belly.
Sitting on her vulva, she watched the Stewards adjust the fork to her rival’s breasts, great firm udders which swung as she moved, but didn’t sag, crowned with teats like thumbs, rock hard it seemed, and dark red. Even the hardened owner of this exuberant pair flinched as the clamps were applied and tightened. The Stewards had no intention of the race being aborted because the fork had torn free of the nipples it gripped. When her own turn came, Madeleine realised why the woman had flinched. Her own breath was drawn in, a painful gasp, as the clamps were set to a strength she had not had to endure before, her fleshy nipples cruelly pinched right at their base. They felt as if they were slowly slicing through, and this was at rest: the strain would be even worse when they were racing, with the bounce of the buggy translated into even greater pressure.
Once again the Stewards stepped forward, this time to lift each foot in turn and scratch the sole with the point of a penknife to ensure no discreet extra lining had been added to give protection from the harshness of the track. The race must be run on fully bare feet, though Madeleine had no doubt that her antagonist had been as carefully prepared and hardened as herself.
Now they were under starter’s orders, and the owners tossed for starting position. Madeleine groaned as Morgan called incorrectly, and she had to take the outside position. She could do without the disadvantage this conferred. This strapping peasant was going to be difficult enough without that.
The flag went up, and then dropped. Madeleine hurled herself at the ravaging hook in her gut, regardless of the hurt, and tried desperately to snatch a lead that would enable her to cross onto the inside track before the first bend but, though she bought an early lead at the price of a cruel bruising in her guts, it was not enough to take them clear, and she had to round the bend on the outside, falling back again to her rival’s shoulder. Her only chance was to try a sustained attack all the way down the straight, but not this time, the first effort had been punishing, and she needed time to re-gather her strength. Bob seemed to sense her strategy, and made no effort to dissuade her from dropping in behind the other buggy, and following it for the rest on the first lap.
On each of the next straights she made another attack, but, though encouraged by Bob’s whip slicing into her back and flanks, could not quite snatch enough distance to move across. A lap later she tried another tack, attacking on the bend, hoping to catch her rival by surprise, and be past before she could step up her own pace in reply, but the extra distance round the curve was too much for her. Besides, the other team were no novices, and not easily caught by such a stratagem, and the big strong blonde was keeping up a punishing pace throughout.
She made a desperate try on lap five, then, as they entered the last lap, fell in behind again in a procession of two. Both women were showing signs of distress now. The continuous demanding effort, coupled with the need to inflict unceasing and unspeakable pain on their own bodies to keep going, pain in the deepest and most intimate parts of those bodies, was draining the strength of even these highly trained a
nd motivated females. As they approached the last bend, before the finishing straight, the big Polish mare was rolling slightly. Her unsteady gait took her close to clipping the inside of the curve, where constant wear had left a rough patch. Her foot hit a worn spot, causing her to stumble and, as she tried to recover her poise, the nearside wheel of the buggy hit the pot-hole. The resulting jarring blow of the horn in her belly threw her off balance, so she no longer leaned in to keep the buggy running round the curve and for a moment she held a straight course, tangential to the bend. Bob saw the chance, and brought his whip slashing down again and again on the sweating white flesh in front of him, but he was too late. Madeleine had already seen the first stumble and, anticipating the outcome - it was her home track and she knew every painful inch of it - had hurled herself into the gap as it opened, screaming with the effort, and the tearing agony in her belly. One yard, two, and their hub caps were level. The Polish woman made an equally self-lacerating lunge to get back her position, but it was too late, the hubs had passed, the home team had the right to the inside track, and held the counter attack to the start of the final straight, which they entered with a bare yard in hand.
Both women hurled their bodies at the hooks in their bellies, venting their anguish in screams of pain at every stride, their heads rolling, sweat pouring down their anguished bodies, running for pride, for honour and, in one case at least, for a gristly finger of sensitive flesh where all her sexual nerve ends came to their ultimate zenith, the hub of all her erotic life at stake.
Madeleine Page 17
