by Penny Birch
‘Ow!’ I squealed, the stroke creating real pain across my already heavily punished bottom. ‘Stop, Henry! Red! Red! Red! I’ve come!’
‘Sorry,’ he remarked, ‘I thought you were right at the peak.’
‘No,’ I managed, letting my body collapse into the welcoming cool of the wet mud. ‘That was … that was something else. Thank you, Henry. Thank you for teaching me.’
I trailed off, completely exhausted by my experience and really not feeling up to playing pony-girls at all.
‘You don’t really want to harness me up now, do you?’ I asked.
‘No, no, I was just teasing,’ he answered. ‘I wouldn’t really deprive you of an orgasm and, besides, it’s time for lunch.’
‘Good,’ I sighed. ‘My bottom is burning all over. Is it all right?’
‘It’s not bleeding, if that’s what you mean,’ he answered. ‘You took a good forty strokes, though, and you shouldn’t expect to sit down comfortably for quite a while. Still, you’ll find that the ache brings pleasant memories and I’ll enjoy watching your beautiful bottom all the more while we train this afternoon. For now I’ll get the hose so that you can wash yourself before coming into the house, then I’ll make lunch while you clean up properly. I’d advise putting some antiseptic cream on your bottom, too. It’s not really wise to rub a freshly caned bottom in the mud.’
‘Good idea. I will,’ I answered, climbing unsteadily to my feet.
‘Oh, and one other thing,’ Henry said as he reached the hose reel. ‘Remember that if you put yourself in a position where escaping punishment relies on being perfectly behaved, you’ll never, ever get away with it. The pleasure of seeing your face when you realise it’s all been in vain is just too great.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ I said, promising myself to make good use of the same technique when I got my hands on Ginny. I had genuinely been in a sulk when I found out that I was going to get caned, and the emotion had added a delicious extra layer to the whole experience.
Saturday lunch was something of a ritual with Henry and consisted of a spread of delicious things like quail’s eggs, York ham carved from the bone, cherry tomatoes and ripe cheeses, all washed down with a dry, delicate pink wine that he favoured. I took mine sitting on a cushion, an act which reminded me of what we’d been up to despite Henry calling a break in our play so that he could concentrate on lunch. Personally I’d have been happy to stay naked and act as his maid but, as always, he insisted on doing the preparation and serving himself.
By the time I’d finished I was in a happy, sleepy mood; feeling naughty but not very energetic. Henry of course hadn’t come, but I couldn’t imagine that he had really been indifferent to playing with me and wasn’t at all surprised when he asked very politely if I’d mind taking his cock in my mouth. I got on my knees without hesitation, giving him a leisurely suck while he sipped his wine. It felt naughty and rude but really quite a natural thing to be doing and I suffered none of the qualms of the night before. He took me by the hair when he was about to come and I swallowed obediently, tolerating the slimy, salty sensation of his come for the sake of his pleasure.
We sat, talked and sipped wine for a long time after that, only deciding to continue my training when the heat had begun to fade from the day. Most of the conversation had revolved around how to get the best out of the fantasy and so, when the time came, I was already pretty excited at the prospect of being put in harness. Henry had explained how it generally took more time and care to get someone who normally preferred to dominate into a submissive role. That had been the idea of the morning’s activities – or at least partially.
The sheer complexity and technicality of it all fascinated me almost as much as the sexual potential. There seemed to be a term for everything, either adapted from the world of horses and carriages, borrowed from the language of sexual deviancy, or just made up. Beforehand I hadn’t even known the use of the words dominant and submissive to describe people who enjoy giving and taking respectively. These seemed to be very basic while, on a more detailed level, I had learnt that the thing I had whipped Miss Campbell with was technically a quirt, that a switch was a different implement of punishment but also someone who enjoyed both domination and submission, and even that the almost unimaginably dirty act of peeing on someone for erotic pleasure was called either urolagnia or watersports. Henry also had a pretty good idea of what makes girls excited; at least dirty-minded girls and from a perspective that was both dominant and male.
He was certainly right about one thing – since having my bottom whipped I’d been much more pliable and eager to be told what to do. This was just as well as, when we went over to the stables, I got my first taste of really being under someone else’s physical and mental control. As before I stripped to my boots, only now feeling a good deal less self-conscious about it. He put me in the bridle first. This was a sort of cage made of leather straps that buckled into place to secure my head with a leather bit in between my teeth and a set of reins hanging down my back. Just wearing it was enough to set me shivering again and when he had fixed the upper strap to my hair with my red ribbon, I pushed the bit out with my tongue to ask Henry to fetch a mirror from the house. All I got was a smack on the back of my thighs for talking with the bit in my mouth, which he had already told me was forbidden.
‘One more word and I’ll cane your thighs,’ he remarked casually.
I shut up, waiting while he fixed the rest of the harness on to me. First there was a belt that encircled my waist, clinching me in very tightly so that my chest was forced out and my hips somehow seemed wider. Leather wrist-cuffs followed, designed to clip on to the shafts of the cart but also to fasten together. Henry pulled my arms behind my back and locked the cuffs, leaving me unable to protect myself except with my feet. Matching ankle-cuffs took care of that, hobbling me so that all I could do was stand there waiting for my legs to be released. The feeling of helplessness was really strong, and combined with my sense of being on display and the tingling ache of my recent whipping to produce an extraordinarily intense sexual awareness. Henry heightened this further by coming round in front of me and taking a leisurely feel of my breasts about which I could do absolutely nothing. He felt them exactly as he wanted to, weighing and kneading them in his hands, rubbing my nipples erect with his thumbs, and then going back behind me to bounce them as if testing a pair of melons for quality.
After a full minute of this I badly wanted to touch myself but, of course, I couldn’t. Instead I whimpered and shook my head in the hope that he would be merciful. He wasn’t, and instead laughed, slapping my thighs again just for the hell of it. He threw my reins over a ring set in the wall, which I knew meant that I wasn’t to move; not that I had the choice.
I was left squirming my thighs together to try and get some friction to my clitty, while Henry opened the upper half of the split-level doors nearest me and then went outside. The cart was where I had left it, drying in the sun along with the other pieces of newly painted gear. He dabbed his finger on the underside of the seat and looked at it, shaking his head sadly. I could see the green mark and knew that the paint was still wet, which presumably meant no pony-carting until the next day. Henry shook his head and gave the fiat tyre an exasperated kick, then walked out of my range of vision towards the opposite stable block.
There was nothing I could do but wait. For all I knew he’d gone off to have his afternoon nap while the paint dried. He usually went to his room after lunch, but today had had me suck him off and had then sat drinking and talking with me. The amount of wine I’d drunk was something I was beginning to regret, not because of the mild buzz I was getting from the alcohol, but because my bladder was beginning to feel full. My waist belt made it worse, constricting my tummy and pressing on my bladder. It only had a couple of settings and had obviously been custom-built for Jean, who was a fair bit smaller than me.
By the time Henry reappeared I was beginning to wriggle – not with sexual frustration but with the
need to pee. He hadn’t retired to bed but had put on work overalls and was carrying a great armful of equipment. I tried to get his attention but didn’t dare push the bit out for fear of getting my thighs caned. My bottom was aching and sore and he had already explained that a whacking on the thighs was a good deal more painful and not nearly as sexy. ‘Bums for caprice, thighs for correction,’ he had said, and I didn’t want to dispute his dictum, especially if the forty cane strokes across my poor behind had merely counted as caprice.
I was about to call yellow and ask to have my ankles and wrists unfastened long enough for me to relieve myself when Henry went back inside. He had set up a pair of blow heaters which were aimed at the underside of the cart, with an extension lead trailing back towards the kitchen door.
‘Just nipping into Hertford for a repair kit,’ I heard him call from outside my range of vision.
‘Hey!’ I called, frantically trying to get the bit far enough out of my mouth to shout properly.
It was too late. Even as I called I heard the door of his Land Rover slam. A moment later the engine started. I was alone, in bondage, and badly in need of a pee.
Henry’s departure did more than merely add to my frustration at the prospect of wetting myself. It also made me feel far more vulnerable. I began to realise how safe it felt to have Henry around. Not only was he big and solid physically, but he owned the land and everyone who came to the farm deferred to him. It wasn’t likely that any of the farm workers would visit him on a Saturday. If there was a crisis they would always phone first.
Now it was different. Henry wasn’t there to fend off callers and there was just a chance someone might come by. I had met his workers, mostly coarse, earthy country boys. If any of them found me harnessed up and obviously involved in some sort of kinky game it seemed very unlikely that they would hold themselves back. All they’d have to do was tip me over into a kneeling position or roll me on to my back with my legs up and they’d have unrestricted access to my virgin fanny. Maybe there’d be more than one and they’d take turns, putting their cocks in me one by one until I was sore and dripping sperm from my open, soggy vagina. Ginny had once said that if she was too wet and open men sometimes expected to put it up her bottom, not that she had let anyone. I wouldn’t have the choice, and I could easily see a man preferring the tightness of my anal ring to putting his cock into a vagina already wet with my juice and his friend’s sperm. I’d always had a thing about my anus, finding the idea of men wanting to put their cocks up it even more alarming than the idea of having my virginity taken. It was a dirty thing to do as well; unbelievably so.
I tried to calm myself, realising that I was almost certainly getting in a fuss over nothing. Nevertheless I shuffled along until I could see only a small angle of the yard and the big field beyond it. If my fears of molestation were groundless, then my fears of wetting myself certainly weren’t. The strain was becoming unbearable and, before long, I was having to stamp my feet up and down to stop it happening. My ears were strained for the sound of Henry’s car and my fanny was clenched tight as hard as I could manage. I heard a sound in the distance – a car engine. Relief flooded through me, only to fade as the sound passed, leaving me sobbing in frustration. I bent forward a little because it eased the pressure, sticking my bottom out as – for the third time that day – tears of frustration began to well up in my eyes.
Then it just happened. There was a damp feeling between my thighs. I squeezed desperately but it was already trickling down my legs, warm and wet on my skin. I’d wet myself – a realisation that filled me with embarrassment. For a moment I managed to control my stream, creating a sharp pain in my tummy. It was too much for me and I let go. My pee sprayed out from between my tightly closed thighs, splashing on the floor behind me and running down my legs and into my boots. I made a last despairing effort to control myself and then gave up, filling my boots to the ankles and making a huge puddle on the floor beneath me. Despite the shame of what I’d done, the feeling of relief was exquisite. As the gush slowed to a normal stream and then a damp trickle I found myself sighing in pleasure.
I was only crying a little but I’d done it and now it was too late. Henry was going to see me standing in my own puddle and, when he did, he was bound to want to put me through some new and humiliating punishment; painful too. It would probably be my thighs. A thought that made me shiver. At that moment I heard the sound of another car. This one came down the drive, and after a moment of panic thinking it might be someone else, I heard Henry’s deep voice calling out to me.
He came into the stable to check up on me, glancing first at my tear stained face and then at the puddle on the floor.
‘Axe you all right?’ he asked, sounding desperately apologetic.
‘I suppose so,’ I answered weakly. ‘I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help it.’
‘No, no,’ he insisted. ‘I should be apologising, not you. I should have realised you’d need to pee after all that wine. Shall I release you, or would you just like a hug?’
It was that question that broke down any final reserve I might have had about submitting myself to Henry. He didn’t dismiss my accident as trivial and demand that we got on with it, nor did he assume that as I was a bit upset I necessarily wanted to stop playing. Instead he gave me the choice. I asked for a hug and he immediately put his arms around me, stroking my hair and soothing me without any regard for his boots and overalls getting wet with my pee.
‘I used to love making Jean wet herself,’ he said as he finally stepped away, ‘and I admit I was going to ask how you felt about it …’
He trailed off, evidently hoping for a response.
‘I’d do it again if you wanted,’ I answered, not entirely sure about my own feelings but with a lot of my embarrassment taken away by his response. ‘Can I be a pony-girl now please?’
‘Of course,’ he responded. ‘As soon as I’ve fixed the puncture and as long as the paint’s dry.’
When he had unfastened my ankles he took my reins and led me out into the yard. A brief hose down cleaned my legs and feet and there I was – stark naked but for my harness and waiting to be put through my paces. It felt glorious; the ache in my bottom and the memory of everything else we’d done during the day combining to take me so far out of myself that I really did feel as if I was owned and under Henry’s orders.
He tied my reins to a ring and went to hammer one of the posts into the ground in the centre of the yard. This done, he picked up a long coil of rope and attached one end to my bridle. Walking me behind him with the rope thrown over his shoulder, he went to the post and attached the other end of the rope to a groove near the top. It was obviously an exercise post, designed to warm me up.
‘Run round until I’m ready for you,’ he ordered as he walked clear. ‘And I want to see smart neat steps: walk, trot and high-step as I explained to you. Five laps of each.’
I set off, trying to remember the way I was supposed to walk. He had explained, but I hadn’t expected to be told to do it without him there to instruct me and I couldn’t remember exactly what I was supposed to do. Instead I did my best to imitate the straight-legged gait of a walking horse. This earnt a murmur of approval from Henry and then a smack on my legs for trying to be clever.
He went to fix the cart, leaving me to my warm-up. I completed the five laps of each gait, trotting and high-stepping to the best of my ability, relishing the feeling of being under orders but wishing I could see myself from Henry’s position. When I stopped, my thigh muscles were a little warm and my breathing a little deeper. I was pretty fit, yet Henry looked as if he weighed a good twenty stone and the prospect of pulling him in the cart made me think that I was going to get a good workout.
When he had finished repairing the cart he pronounced the paint dry and began to peel off his overalls. Underneath, to my surprise, he was in full riding gear, lacking only the traditional pink coat. He did look magnificent – every inch the master – and I felt a flush of pride in being h
is pony-girl. He had also secreted a riding crop somewhere, which he was now tapping against one highly polished boot as he walked towards me. I gave a little whinny, now thoroughly in my role. Henry smiled and stopped to admire his prize.
‘You are beautiful, Amber,’ he said, and I could tell that he really meant it.
‘Stamp once if I may photograph you,’ he continued. ‘It would be nice to have a record of your first time as a pony-girl.’
I stamped, eager to record the moment. He walked back to the house and returned with a camera, taking several shots of me from different angles before he was satisfied. He concentrated on my head and full-length views, finishing with a couple of close-ups of my welted bottom. Only then did he untie me and lead me over to the cart.
I found myself trembling hard as he took my wrist-cuffs from behind my back and fixed them to the eyes at the ends of the shafts. It was now fixed to me, something I was obliged to pull if I wanted to move, exactly like a draft animal shackled to its load, which was what I was.
‘Kneel,’ Henry ordered sharply, waiting until I had knelt down in the dust of the yard before climbing over the shaft and settling himself into the seat.
‘Rise,’ he commanded, ‘then walk on.’
I stood up, expecting the strain of at least a proportion of Henry’s not inconsiderable weight. To my surprise it was no great effort, and, when his crop tapped lightly against my right buttock in the walk signal he had told me about, I started off without difficulty.
He walked me around the yard at first, allowing me to get used to responding to the feel of the bit in my mouth and the way it tugged to change my direction. The feeling was truly extraordinary. All the human freedoms that we take for granted had been denied me. I was naked, casually naked as if it was of no consequence whatever that the most intimate areas of my body were on show. I was forbidden to speak, I was attached to a cart which it was my job to pull, and my least movements were being dictated by my master.
