Pony-Girl Tales

by Peter Birch

  Title Page

  PONY-GIRL TALES - SUSANNA’S RUN

  By

  Peter & Penny Birch

  Publisher Information

  Digital edition converted and

  Distributed in 2011 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

  Copyright © Peter & Penny Birch

  The right of Peter & Penny Birch to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Chapter 1

  In Which We Meet the Evil Uncle.

  1985, in an England that never was, but perhaps should have been. . .

  “Go on then, smack it,” Susanna teased, dipping her back to give Jeremy the best possible view of her rounded little bottom. She knew how tempting her bum looked in skin tight jeans and hoped that her offer would bring her husband out of the black mood that he had been in all day.

  Jeremy smiled weakly but didn’t respond. She crossed the room and began to stroke his hair soothingly.

  “I wonder what the old bastard wants this time,” he said after a while. Susanna didn’t reply. The old bastard was Jeremy’s uncle, Sir Osmond Cranstone-Vine, a retired financier with a streak of malicious cunning that had made him very rich indeed and which he now mainly employed to makes his nephew’s life a misery. It wasn’t that Jeremy was weak, Susanna told herself, but more that he had been in awe of his uncle his entire life. It was Sir Osmond who had ensured that he got into one of the top public schools, Sir Osmond who had paid the bills and Sir Osmond who had hushed up the potential scandal when Jeremy was caught naked in a bath with the French master’s daughter.

  Ever since that fateful day, Jeremy had found his life directed by his uncle. He had been told which university to select, which subjects to study, even which clubs to join, until he came to dread each meeting with the old man. When Jeremy married Susanna fresh out of school, his uncle had been geniality itself, providing lavish presents and insisting on paying for the honeymoon. Since then he had been quiet, ominously quiet. Then the bomb had dropped. A letter had arrived summoning them both to Sir Osmond’s house for the weekend, a summons that Jeremy was unable to ignore. With characteristic arrogance Sir Osmond had stipulated that Susanna should wear a red dress that ended above the knee to set off her jet-black hair, a stipulation that she had only acceded to when Jeremy was on the verge of tears.

  “Oh well,” Jeremy sighed as he rose from his seat, “we may as well get it over with.”

  Susanna followed him, feeling concerned for his misery and angry at the old man. It was Jeremy’s very gentleness that had attracted to him. She had been eighteen at the time, and a model English public school girl, perfectly mannered and socially graceful yet innocent in a way only possible to someone who had spent ten years in a single sex school. Jeremy, three years her senior and a friend of her brother’s, had an easy charm and boyish good looks that had impressed her immediately and they had become engaged while she was still at school. Jeremy in turn had found her strength of character supportive, while delighting in the open pleasure she took in sex. Susanna had little experience, but she also had few inhibitions, never having had the opportunity to acquire either.

  After an hour’s drive they arrived at Sir Osmond’s ample house in rural Oxfordshire. He met them at the door, a withered, dwarfish figure in sharp contrast to his nephew. His face was the colour of fish paste, with quick, mobile eyes set in deep sockets and a broad mouth at present twisted into a calculating grin.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I see you’ve dressed as I asked, my dear, very fetching, yes, very fetching.”

  Susanna blushed, suddenly very aware of the gentle curves of her breasts and bottom as the old gnome eyed her unashamedly.

  “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, “yes, come into the study. Cognac my dear? No, no Jeremy, you wouldn’t appreciate it. Have some sweet sherry, I always keep a little in case the vicar or someone calls.”

  For a few minutes Sir Osmond asked casual questions, somehow managing to be extremely disconcerting.

  “Well,” he said finally, “to business. As you know, I am not one to beat about the bush. Have you ever heard of Pony-Girls? No? Well, essentially a suitably pretty girl is harnessed to a cart, nude of course, except for her harness and perhaps shoes. She pulls the cart, along with one or more riders. Now. . .”

  “Err. . .” Jeremy broke in.

  “Don’t interrupt,” his uncle snapped. “As I was saying, Pony-Girls can be raced, or made to go through dressage or obedience routines. I prefer racing myself, it’s so much more of a challenge. Now, there’s a fellow at my club who’s taken the sport up recently and was boasting that he could beat anyone who’d care to take the bet. Perhaps I’d had a Cognac or two too many, but I wasn’t going to let the young whippersnapper get away with it, so I accepted. Twenty-thousand pounds each, the full pot to go to the winner over a five mile odd course, steeple chase rules. Of course I know a couple of fine ponies, but they’re not really the athletic sort. So I immediately thought of you, Susanna dear. School hockey captain, long legs, firm, muscular bottom, just the ticket. . .”

  “What!” Susanna exclaimed. “I won’t do it! ”

  “Ah but I think you will,” Sir Osmond continued. “Remember Jeremy is my sole heir. Then again, I understand that cat’s homes are always in need of money. . .”

  “We don’t need your filthy money!”

  “No? Well, perhaps not, though I would have thought the prospect of becoming wealthy instead of spending your life as a wage slave would have been worth exposing your body for a while. Then again there was that distressing matter with that slip of a girl at school wasn’t there Jeremy? I’m sure the ministry would be fascinated. Watersports they call it, don’t they? ”

  “We did not!” Jeremy protested. “We were just cuddling, I didn’t even. . .”

  “No? Old Lord Farthingbridge at the department might prefer to believe the word of one of his oldest friends over that of a young employee though, wouldn’t you think? He’s a Presbyterian you know, very strict.”

  “But this is blackmail! ”

  “Really, Jeremy, accusing your kind old uncle of blackmail, that’ll never do,” Sir Osmund laughed, then his expression turned to ice and when he spoke again his tone was cold and hard. “Now listen, you’ve heard my terms. I’ll have your answer by the end of dinner and you better be sure it’s the right answer.”

  They looked at him across the breadth of the massive study table, Jeremy nervously licking his lips, Susanna wearing a rebellious pout. Sir Osmond’s features returned to their normal set of faintly amused malice.

  “But we mustn’t keep cook waiting, must we? ” he said, his pale, frog face once more all smiles. “She has prepared Langouste à mode du Pays d’Auge and it wouldn’t do to let it cool now, would it? ”

  They rose to leave, Sir Osmond favouring Susanna’s bottom with a gentle pat as they filed out and getting a look of frozen contempt in return. Dinner was a subdued affair, at least for Jeremy and Susanna. Sir Osmond prattled merrily of this and that, his conversation r
anging from descriptions of how he had brought various business rivals to ruin over the years to unabashed praise of the way Susanna’s breasts filled out the front of her gown. Eventually they reached the coffee stage, the old man leaning back in his chair and fixing his malign gaze on his two young guests.

  Jeremy gulped, steeling himself to tell his uncle to go to hell, then his resolve faltered and he stammered something about needing time to think it over. Sir Osmond didn’t reply, but his smile broadened to a contemptuous smirk. For a while there was silence, while the old man selected a twelve inch cigar from the sideboard humidor, lit it with a lighter carved from a single block of turquoise and began to smoke in a meditative fashion.

  “All right, I’ll do it,” Susanna blurted. Jeremy gasped but was silenced with a motion.

  “Good girl, good girl,” Sir Osmond purred. “I knew you’d see sense, and I must say, I look forward to the event with keen anticipation. In fact, I think a little preview might be in order. It wouldn’t do at all to find that my carefully selected pony was out of condition, would it now? ”

  Jeremy sat open mouthed, his ability to speak, let alone remonstrate, lost in front of his uncle’s unbelievable arrogance. Susanna however stood up, her face a mask of haughty dislike, only the faintest of flushes betraying the fluttering of her insides. She took a step back so that Sir Osmond could see her from shoes to hair, reached behind her for her zip and with one elegant motion let her dress slide to the floor. Her bare breasts stood out proudly, the nipples erect despite herself, the soft flesh of her midriff and the firmer muscles of her legs showing a warm gold in the candle-light. She tossed her shiny black hair back over her shoulders and stood still for inspection.

  “Come on girl, off with the panties,” Sir Osmond growled impatiently.

  A darker flush coloured Susanna’s cheeks, but she didn’t hesitate for more than an instant before easing the flimsy scrap of white lace down over her hips and letting them drop to the floor. A thick bush of black curls covered her sex, neither trimmed nor shaved for neatness. Sir Osmond nodded his approval as he admired her sleek musculature, then made a motion for her to turn around.

  Susanna obeyed, turning gracefully to display her back and bottom. The old man gave a little noise of appreciation as he admired the delicate sculpture of the muscles of her back, the length of her legs and the firm rotundity of her bottom, with a wisp of hairvisible where her buttocks met between her thighs.

  “Hmm, excellent,” the old man remarked with the air of an expert. “Yes, a fine filly. Twenty aren’t you? A good age. Yes, I think I’m on a winner here. Hmm, very well, you may dress.”

  Susanna dipped to reach for her panties, heedless of the brief glimpse of bright pink pussy flesh which Sir Osmond was treated to as she bent. As she pulled them back up she blushed again, realising that that gusset was distinctly damp and hoping that neither man had noticed her state of excitement.

  “Good,” Sir Osmond continued, drawing deeply on his cigar as Susanna ordered her dishevelled clothing and returned to her seat. “Well, now that we’re a team, let’s get some planning done. Jeremy, there’s a decanter of ‘63 on the sideboard, be a good chap and bring it over here. We should toast our little venture.”

  Despite the burning sensations of rage and shame inside him, Jeremy obeyed, handing the port to his uncle and then filling Susanna’s glass and his own with a trembling hand. His uncle seemed entirely at ease, sitting back in his chair and alternating sips of port with puffs of his cigar. He thought about what was going to happen, how casual passers-by would be treated to a view of his young wife’s naked body in bridle and harness, of how humiliating it would be for her, of how his uncle would delight in her exposure and his helplessness. A pang of guilt shot through him as he realised that there was an underlying excitement to the idea, coupled with a sense of guilty relief that it was Susanna and not him who would suffer.

  “Of course I’ll see to your training personally,” Sir Osmond broke in. “There’re some good runs locally, and I’ve harness that will fit both of you, very adaptable.”

  “Me!” Jeremy asked, aghast.

  “Of course you, you damn fool. You don’t imagine I’ll be racing at my age do you? With gout and my back? Don’t be an ass. No, you’ll be riding the cart in the race of course, but you need experience between the shafts to understand the system. Control is tricky you know, and this fellow’ll be no pushover. Rein handling for instance, you see. . .”

  Jeremy sank back into his chair in despair as his uncle began to enlarge on the technical details.

  Chapter 2

  In Which the Technicalities are Explained.

  Susanna and Jeremy rose the next morning to find Sir Osmond in a jovial mood. At breakfast he dished out large helpings of kippers and kedgeree, pointing out their nutritious properties.

  “You’ll all the energy you can get you know,” he declared expansively. “Carting’s hot work. Have another kipper, my dear. No? Then how about some orange juice? ”

  Susanna gave a cool assent, but her look of nervous excitement didn’t escape the old man’s notice. Jeremy on the other hand just looked miserable. Sir Osmond sighed to himself. Where was the boy’s spirit? At Jeremy’s age he’d have horse-whipped anybody who tried to blackmail him into some piece of sexual debauchery, or more probably gone along with the idea and quickly been running the show, taking his revenge at a later date. He speared a segment of kipper and shook his head sadly, recalling fond memories of his own, now distant, youth.

  “To work then,” he announced, draining the last inch of his coffee and getting to his feet. “Cook should have the cart ready in the stable yard by now, I’ll explain the basics to you and then we can take her out for a spin.”

  They emerged into the yard to find the cook, a large, matronly woman of middling years, making the last adjustments to the cart. It was a simple device, a seat mounted on wheels with shafts, made of wood and painted a glossy black with an intricate logo in scarlet.

  “Notice,” Sir Osmond began, “the small wheels and rough track tyres, ideal for off road racing, and independently mounted to allow it to turn on its own axis. As it is not motorised, speed is not related to wheel size. Hardwood frame, M8 specification bolts, three-quarter inch marine ply plates, damn strong. The whole caboodle comes to pieces and can be stowed in the back of a car. The harness just looks like a tangle of leather until it’s on. Come on girl, off with your clothes. What are you waiting for? ”

  “Do I have to be nude for practise?” Susanna asked doubtfully.

  “Of course,” Sir Osmond replied impatiently. “Who ever heard of a pony wearing jeans and a tee shirt? Shoes we allow on the grounds of practicality, and perhaps a pair of knickers or a bikini if a lot of people are likely to see, but always the practical minimum. Another thing, once you’re in harness, you don’t speak under any circumstances. Not that it’s too easy with a bit in your mouth in any case. Do get on with it. It’s not as if nobody’s seen you in the buff before! ”

  Susanna gave a shrug of resignation and began to undress, the cook taking each item of clothing and folding it neatly over her arm. The woman accepted the young girl stripping in company with casual cheerfulness, smiling and passing a pleasant remark on how tasteful and expensive Susanna’s knickers were as they were peeled down the girl’s legs. Sir Osmond fiddled with a complicated system of leather straps, not troubling to watch Susanna undress.

  “This,” he said, holding up a broad belt of thick, yet supple black leather, “is the waist belt. As you see, it laces at the back and these eyelets go over these pins, allowing a comfortable fit for any waist between twenty and sixty inches. This twist lock goes at the front and attaches to this strap, the pulling strap, which runs between these big eyes at the ends of the shafts, you see? That puts the brass ring at the back, above the belt and these straps go over the shoulders, like so.”

&
nbsp; Sir Osmond put Susanna in the harness as he spoke, pointing out each detail to Jeremy, who stood nodding dumbly as his naked wife was strapped up, the old man’s hands brushing against her body with a casual disregard for her sensitivities.

  “The shoulder pads slide along the straps,” his uncle continued. “Like this, and so can be adjusted for comfort. this rope then loops around like this, from the shoulder strap ring, through each shaft eye in turn and then the smaller ring at the front of the belt. That secures the pony firmly in place and means she’ll be pulling with her hips and shoulders. These wrist straps either attach behind her back or to the shaft eyes. I prefer the later. Not so visually effective perhaps, but it improves manoeuvrability with really no greater freedom of movement. The bridle fits like so; the bit, which you’ll note is leather rather than steel, in the mouth; these three straps form the headstall, one under the chin, one behind the head and one over the top; the reins dangle down the back. On the day we’ll do something better with her hair, but it’s all right for now. There, now she has full control over the cart but is otherwise helpless.”

  Sir Osmond reached out and took hold of one of Susanna’s breasts, bouncing it appreciatively in his hand and running a thumb over the nipple. Her foot shot out, connecting smartly with his shin and making him jump back.

  “Ponies can kick, of course,” he said, after a second to recover his composure. “But that is where the whip comes in handy. Cook, the whip please.”

  The cook, still beaming cheerfully, handed him a long black riding whip.

  “I say. . .” Jeremy protested as the whip cracked smartly across his wife’s bare bottom, drawing a squeak of alarm from her.