3 comments/ 149719 views/ 8 favorites Saddled By: sr71plt I was immediately suspicious. Leon was smiling today and talking nice. Just yesterday he'd popositioned me for the hundreth time and I'd turned him down for the hundreth and one times—I'd turned him down before he asked the first time—and then he'd gotten pissy and I'd given him lip back and he'd pulled back a lucrative assignment. A faded, and largely harmless, movie star gig that would have paid my rent for the rest of the month. And yet he'd called me in again today. Usually after one of these fights with my pimp, I would be left in limbo for a week or more. I decided he must be short of staff. "You ride a horse, don't you?" he asked, using his fat lips to shift his smoldering cigar from one cheek to the other. "Yes, of course," I answered, thinking that maybe that's what narrowed down the pickings to me. "Thought so. Pack your bags for the weekend." And, with that, Leon slapped an airplane ticket folder down on the coffee table. I picked it up. Destination Dulles Airport, the international airport located in northern Virginia that serviced the Washington, D.C., area. "Where from there?" I asked. "You'll be picked up. Client doesn't want to say." "And the driver will know me by . . .?" "Oh, yeah, you'll be a platinum blond." Leon was smiling. I didn't think this was all he had to say. But I stood and turned for the door. If I had to dye my hair before I had to be at the airport, I'd best get to it. "All over." Leon said. I turned, and he was grinning. Well, OK, that made sense if the hair color was a fetish of the client's. More time, though. Still Leon seemed entirely too pleased. I stood there, knowing I hadn't heard it all yet. "Except, there is to be little all over. You're to shave everything but your head and a V at the bush." "A V at the bush," I said in a deadpanned voice. "Yes, pointing to the goods." "Well, OK, I've had to do worse," I said. I took one last look at Leon before I turned and left the room. He still had a sloppy grin on his face. I still had the uneasy feeling that I didn't know everything he found amusing. But it wasn't my job to know everything. I got paid very well for doing what I did and shutting up about it. My plane was two hours late landing at Dulles, apparently because bad weather at both the Chicago and Atlanta airports, which were nowhere near was I was traveling, had the jets stacked up in holding patterns across the country. I didn't mind the extra time in the air, though. Our flight wasn't crowded, and I made friends with a distinguished-looking man sitting beside me who I'm sure I recognized from the television as in some sort of political job. We had enough time to chat that the delay earned me an extra $100, when I let him slip into one of the johns with me and give me a blow job, him sitting on the can beating his meat into a paper hand towel and me with my butt perched on the small sink and my heels dug into the floor to counteract the slight pitching of the plane. He seemed turned on by the platinum-blond V and licked it down into swirls of curly waves, so I guess that wasn't such a bad idea after all. I hadn't been standing at the baggage area for long—I didn't have more than I could put in my carry-on, but this was where I was told to stand—before I was approached by an extremely well turned out coffee with cream young guy, complete with contrasting dark brown chauffeur's livery and a big welcoming smile on his face. He was maybe three or four years younger than me and shorter than I was by a couple of inches and a little stocky—but in a solid, four hours-a-day in the gym sort of way. Bullet headed, totally bald, big hands, big feet in his slicked-up black shiny shoes. All promising. He seemed to have no question who I was. I was standing in front of the designated pillar just off to the left of the baggage belt—and there was the platinum hair that I had moussed up into slight spikes. The West Coast surfer look to go with the tan I'd worked so hard on. I struck the pose for him, and I could tell in an instant he was interested. I often found the clients barely fuckable, but I occasionally, like now, was able to develop other side prospects while on a job. That gym-muscled look, the big hands and the big feet. And the bald head. Testosterone building up somewhere. He took my bag, even though we both knew I could handle it without any huffing, and led me up the ramp to where a black Lincoln limo was parked right at the door, its engine idling, daring an airport cop to give it a ticket and find out who he or she had inconvenienced. Eric wasn't exactly chatty, but he willingly gave me his name as we nosed out of the airport spaghetti pattern of roads and onto Route 28—at least according to the signs—and headed east toward I95, the main highway running north and south on the East Coast. He didn't ask me my name, however, and he shut down when I asked him the name of the one who had sent for me. Good. Eric didn't fuck and tell. When he turned west on Route 50 before we got to the intersection with I95, he was friendly enough to tell me where we were going. "Middleburg. We'll still be in this suburban congestion for a while, but it won't be much more than half an hour now before we reach Middleburg. Five Oaks. It's just on the other side of Middleburg." Ah, information. I liked to have my bearings. At least something to process if a client was being too rough and I wanted to head for the exit. "Middleburg. Middleburg. I've heard of that before, but I don't—" "Maybe from back in the Kennedy era," Eric said. He had his eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror. He looked very interested. He obviously had been told not to say much, but he wanted to be friendly. He was assessing me just like I was assessing him. "You may be too young," he continued, "but you may have heard about Jackie Kennedy and her horse riding both when her husband was president and then for years later. They had a retreat out here in Middleburg. They ride to the hounds out here, old Southern style. The closest place to the White House that she could do that." Ah, yes, I remembered hearing that now. Horse riding. Another piece of the puzzle Leon had tossed out on the coffee table. I was riding to the hounds this weekend, maybe. I wondered if Leon had any idea what the difference was between western saddle riding in California canyons and riding to the hounds in Virginia. Well, I'd cope. I always did. "Thanks, Eric," I said. "Thanks for the information." "Don't mention it." He was giving me a big smile in the mirror. Some sort of understanding established. I had a friend here if I needed it—maybe a very friendly friend. I took the plunge. "Later, maybe, Dude?" I said and flashed him a smile. "I'd like that," Eric answered, the grin I could see in the rearview mirror going from ear to ear. After driving through Middleburg, one of those "quaint" little country towns that looked like it had barely cleared the eighteenth century and was obviously dripping in old money, we drove for maybe six more miles. The scenery was quite an attractive and calming switch from the frenetic pace and arid conditions I'd left that morning—rolling Virginia countryside of majestic oak trees, well-trimmed pasture land, and endless sweeps of white wood rail fencing set against the backdrop of bluish-shaded mountains to the west. We turned off to the south and drove not more than a half mile more before we turned right between two massive stone columns with marble eagles perched on top of each. A bronze plaque in one of the columns announced we were at Five Oaks. "The five oaks are all gone now," Eric suddenly piped up from the front seat. He hadn't spoken since we'd struck our unspoken deal. We'd both been sitting and enjoying the scenery—and at least I was contemplating what Eric had to offer under that dark brown chauffeur's livery. I grunted my acknowledgment that I'd heard what he said and appreciated the bit of conversation. He went on, "There are more like a hundred oaks now. Northern money." Another piece of proffered information. A client who was rich and on the make in the South while being carpetbagger. Grasping and probably anger issues. I sensed bondage and maybe a bit of SM. Well, with the fees we charged, we did see a bit of that. Leon knew I had my limits. But maybe that was why Leon was so nice all of a sudden after our fight and had that sloppy grin on his face when we parted. We drove for maybe another quarter mile on a freshly asphalted two-lane road running between some or all of those hundred oaks, which must have been pretty mature when they were planted, because they were quite impressive now. I heard where we were headed before I saw it. The baying of hounds. We turned a corner and there it was, a massive, stately brick building, a traditional American Georgian four over four over an English basement with wide portico held up by four hefty white columns. Newer, but still old, two-story brick wings jutted out from either flank of the antebellum center structure. And gathered on an oval lawn in front of the house was a swirl of sleek, lean horses; riders in scarlet coats and tan breeches; and an undercurrent of teeming hounds, some black, some brown, but most white with brown splotches on them. Everything was chaos and loud gossiping and obvious preparation for a fox hunt. I thought I'd stumbled onto an MGM set. I expected to see Elizabeth Taylor and Rock Hudson stride down the stairs from the portico and mount their fine fillies at any moment. I had only a glimpse of this, though, as Eric pulled the limo around the side of the house and wound his way through a sea of Mercedes and Jaguars and BMWs, many with horse trailers attached, all parked willy-nilly around under the trees at the side and back of the house. Eric pulled up to a detached five-car garage, hidden neatly behind huge boxwoods at the back corner of the house. He retrieved my bag from the trunk and ushered me, without a word, as if he sensed we now were being closely monitored, into a side door of the house. We were in a narrow, oriental-carpeted hallway that split the width of the house. From down the hall, a distant patch of light, I could hear loud conversation and the braying of a loud voice for someone to get out there and get the hunt in order and then we arrived in the broad center hallway of the center structure. The braying voice belonged to a distinguished-looking, trim, yet solidly built, handsome in a matured way man, carefully barbered hair with graying at the temples, standing at the foot of a sweeping curved staircase rising to the upper story, several paces short of a double door with wide side windows looking out onto the portico. The doors were open, and I once again saw beyond those the swirl of scarlet jackets and fine horse flesh standing in a frenetic swirl of braying hounds. The man, who obviously was in charge—who obviously was in charge no matter where he was—was alone in the foyer by the time Eric and I reached it. He turned and saw us and scowled. "You're late," he said. "Almost missed it. Eric take him to the scarlet room. Dress quickly and come down. We have a horse ready for you. You should be able to make the last trumpet." That was it. That was all he said, and then he was out the door. I didn't have much doubt this was the client and that he was the dominating type. We started up the stairs, Eric ushering me to go first. Half way up we were accosted by another equestrian hurrying down the stairs, pulling on white kid gloves, decked out like the rest, a black velvet-covered helmet already on his head. The same man who had just walked out the front door onto the portico. "You're late," he said in the same disapproving, "to be obeyed" voice. "Dress quickly and get out there." He swept by me, brushing against my sleeve. Eric, probably well accustomed to this, deftly turned to let him pass without contact. Twins. There were two of them. Another possibility for Leon's grin. Eric escorted me up the stairs and down a long transverse hallway deep into one of the wings. The silence of the house contrasted with the muted sound of the developing hunt filtering through thick brick walls. He stopped at the last door down on the hall at the back of the house, opened the door and set my carry-on inside, and then stepped back to let me enter. When I had moved through the door, it clicked behind me, and I was alone. Scarlet was a good name for the room. It certainly was scarlet—the carpet, the drapes on the windows, the bedspread and drapery on the solid mahogany four-poster canopy bed set between two windows looking into the back yard. The spines on the books in the bookcases beside the fireplace. A rich-looking oriental rug spread in front of the fireplace had a scarlet background. Even the burnished wood of the walls, and the fireplace mantel and surround were a rich red mahogany. I could see riding clothes laid out on the bed and a pair of gleaming black leather riding booths at the foot of the bed, with a black leather riding crop balanced on the toes. A riding shirt, a scarlet jacket, a black velvet-covered riding helmet, and a pair of tan breeches that flared at the hips and had leather ovals at the inner thighs—the three-quarter-length breeches that were called jodhpurs. And an athletic supporter with a sturdy cup made out of some sort of hard plastic. I walked over to the foot of the bed and looked up into the canopy frame. Just as I thought. A steel-cage structure inside the wooden frame that gave the bed stability and would take a lot of weight. And in the upper corners at the top of the pillars at the foot of the bed, leather leads and ankle restraints tucked up into the canopy. I walked around to the head of the bed as I started shedding my clothes. I saw the black leather bands around slats at the headboard and looked between the headboard and the wall. Sure enough, wrist restraints tucked down there. I opened the door of the nightstand beside the bed. Piles of condoms, tubes of lube, a collection of dildos, leather blindfolds, and gags with rubber balls for the mouth to prevent the subject from biting his tongue or pulverizing his teeth by gnashing them. Scarlet room. A very good name for it. Well, forewarned and all that. At least the fee was appropriately impressive. I dressed quickly, and all fit well—Leon obviously having given them my measurements—except that the jodhpurs were skin tight, were so low slung the top of my platinum V spilled out in curls over the waistband before I got the shirt and jacket on, and I wasn't so sure that the seams of the jodhpurs would hold under the strain of my thighs and glutes. The hunt wasn't anything to write home about. It was probably quite exciting, and I'm sure catching glimpses of the fox as she gave us a merry chase across the manicured pastures and through the sylvan glens was thrilling for those who were paying attention. But I was doing everything I could just to stay horsed and not make I fool of myself among all these avid equestrians. This wasn't anything like riding the range in the West. Luckily, no one noticed what a novice I was. And in the hour of cooling down from the blooded excitement of siccing a pack of frenzied hounds on a tiny red fox, when we were all standing around and stroking the flanks of fine horse flesh on the lawn of Five Oaks, each sipping his or her preferred form of southern comfort, I was amused to see that I had become a center of attention. Several of the women—and men—had taken a fancy to me and were floating around me, trying to solve the mystery of Bob and Bill's houseguest. I had gleaned during the hunt that my hosts were, indeed, twins named Bob and Bill and were fabulously wealthy and extremely powerful in whatever they did and, other than joining in the hunt, were reclusive and seldom in residence at Five Oaks. While I was spinning lies about my devised-on-the-fly Kentucky roots and charming the pants and panties off my admirers—or at least so it seemed they wished, as evidenced by the young beauty with the thick southern drawl who tucked a card with her telephone number in my waistband—one of the twins stood off to the aside and assessed my every move through slitted eyes. The other twin had disappeared as soon as the first riders to depart started loading their horse trailers. Eventually, the crowd was quite thin beyond a hopeful handful clinging to my elbow. At this point, the twin must have had enough, because he rudely cut through the ring around me and took me by the arm and said he wanted to show me something in the barn. I could hear the something he wanted to show me as we approached the barn, which was set off a good hundred yards from the house. When we entered the structure and my eyes adjusted to the dimness and the straw chaff floating in the air, I saw that the missing twin had a naked Eric bent over a bale of hay, topped by a horse blanket, and was riding him hard from the rear. Eric was doing a good deal of grunting and groaning and praising of the twin's performance, but I sort of had the idea that he was doing it to please and because it was expected of him. The glistening of the light sweat on Eric's undulating muscles under the onslaught of "no slouch himself" twin was a real turn on. The twin was holding Eric's cheek down on the horse blanket roughly with a hand spread out on his bald head, and Eric watched me as I entered the barn. "See you started without me, Bob," the twin who had brought me into the barn said. That cleared up for me who was who. Then Bill turned to me. "Strip off the jacket and shirt. Leave the jodhpurs and boots on." I stripped slowly, exhibition style, but I was doing so for Eric, not for the clients. Eric rewarded me by widening his eyes and smiling big as I pulled my shirt off and slitting his eyes in an obvious reverie of lust. He grunted and twitched as Bob pulled back almost full length and jammed his cock back inside the chocolate muscle man with great force. While I was slowly shedding down to the jodhpurs, Bill had more quickly stripped down and had moved deeper into the dimly lit barn. "Come over here. Now." There was no question that Bill was to be obeyed. I moved back into the barn, and my eyes opened wide in surprise. Bill was astride some sort of padded pommel horse contraption supported by a grounded center pole, like they used in gymnastics. It had a saddle strapped to the top, stirrups and all. Bill was in the saddle, completely nude. He was angled up at the back of the saddle and was pulling on his meat. His cock was long, if a bit thinnish. And it already was very hard. "Climb up, facing away from me," he commanded. I put a foot in a stirrup and swung my other leg up in front of me as gracefully as I could and over the contraption. Bill held me by the hips as I swung over, helping me to hold steady. I came down wedged in front of him in the saddle, with his long, hard cock throbbing up the small of my back. When I was saddled, Bill reached down at both sides and activated straps across my ankles in the stirrups so that I now was trapped there. Then he began to make love to me as my butt was firmly wedged against his pelvis. Big beefy, hairy arms encircled me, and he was kissing the back of my neck and running his hands all over my torso, palming at last one hand over one of my nipples and digging below my waistband and inside the supporter cup with the other hand to cover my cock and balls and bring me to the game down there. He was moving his pelvis up and down, dry fucking the small of my back with his dick. He was the client and this was kind of nice anyway, so I moaned for him and moved my body against his. And I turned my lips to his and we kissed deeply. "Raise up in the stirrups," he commanded in a hoarse voice, and I did as he directed. Saddleworth to Cannes Saddleworth to Cannes A Sequel to A Particularly Easy Pony to Please. or Training Rose part 5 We all agreed I needed to train intensively for the Grand Prix at Cannes, but maybe my idea of intensive training, eight hours a day spent actually training, say seven until twelve, with a coffee break around ten and hour and a bit for lunch and and then train till four thirty and then relax maybe see a movie before getting tacked up again and sleeping in a Pony stall at Melton Villa, that and rationing my sex and not riding my motorbike, seemed fair enough to me but no Daddy thought this was unrealistic, especially when some girls had literally been bred for Pony Girl competition. I should have realised Daddy and Tom had other ideas, but I missed the signs, "Gerald," Tom said to Daddy one morning after Tom gave me my emema, and when I was waiting for my arm clincher and gag to be removed so I could eat breakfast. Tom had actually called Daddy Gerald, Daddy only ever let his closest friends call him Gerald, Major General McNaughton was his usual favourite form of address, Lord Melton, his least favoured. "Gerald, ah Sir, I've been studying the films you sent over and." "And what?" Daddy asked in irritation. "It's Roses posture," he said, "Round shouldered." he said. "Well make her do press ups man!" Father exclaimed in exasperation. "Her head is too far forward sir." he said, "For a Pony," he squirmed suspecting he had incurred Daddy's extreme displeasure. "I know Tom, she looks lovely in a ball gown but," he said, "You've only got ten days before Cannes," "Dot, said about a posture hook," Tom suggested. Dot, Dorothy Channing, was Daddy's head groom, and a Posture hook was gross. "She can't wear a Posture Hook!" Daddy exclaimed. "Not here sir, no, but Henry Bryant will have her at Saddleworth for a reasonable fee. just for week if we like,to toughen her up sir." "It will need some organising," Father suggested. "I'll run her up there sir," Tom suggested, "In think we should make her train overnight and so maybe a mild sedative." "You are not, repeat not using my Bentley." Daddy insisted. "No sir, I thought perhaps the VW Golf?" he suggested. "That's Georgina's, oh why not, there's hardly a panel that hasn't been repaired." Daddy said dismissively. I stamped my foot angrily, he made it sound like I was a careless driver, but I was a very good driver, my instructor at the Silverstone Track day said he never saw anyone try the Complex flat in fifth before, or use the handbrake as much as I did, I was just unlucky. "You know Tom, I could never have suggested a Posture hook in a million years, you have a great future as a trainer Tom." Daddy said. And no future at all as my boyfriend I decided, although just then, cold and wet from my al fresco enema, and bound and helpless I wouldn't have cared who wanted to be my lover as long as they had seven inches of solid warm muscle. I had a dozen good reasons why it was a stupid idea but with my bit- gag in I was in no position to explain, so when they went to take me to the tack room I simply refused to move. "Rose, walk on," Daddy insisted, I stamped my foot angrily. "She's all yours," Daddy said as he stood aside and handed Tom a whip, I stared at Tom, he wouldn't dare, but he did, left and then right across my buttocks on the diagonal, ouch! it hurt, and he kept going, I decided this wasn't the best time for a show down, I'd just wait till he wanted sex! I followed Tom to the tack room, the Posture hooks were not used often, part of it, we called it the hair wrap, was like an overgrown hair curler, with nobbles which the "victim's" hair could be wrapped around and held secure, the other end was a hook in stainless steel, at least ours were, some were simple stove enamelled iron, Yuck. Both had loops on and were connected by a thick leather strap with a buckle and lots of adjustment holes that went up your back and they also had an adjustable screw fitting for "fine tuning," so that when it was tightened you had to keep your chin up and back arched, or it threatened to rip your hair out or tear your bottom. Oh yes, the hook goes up your bottom, and a very long way, it is thoroughly unpleasant to say the least and of course you can't wear clothes with it, or sit down, or see your feet, Arrggghhh! I stamped with frustration, but Dot appeared very quickly, "Fancy you with a posture hook Miss Georgina, I must get a photo!" she chortled, "I'll use that new carbon fibre one in gold to match your hair," she suggested, she meant the wrap not the hook. Oh if only I could have spoken, or freed my arms or even kicked her! but I couldn't, and I just had to stand there as she started to braid my long blonde hair around the hair wrap, damn it my hair needed a wash and shampoo not be tortured in a posture hook hair wrap. Dot did her usual neat job binding my hair securely into the wrap and then she sealed it in place with what felt like gallons of hair lacquer. "Now we'll just try the hook and then you can have your breakfast," Dot suggested, "bend over!" I tried to resist but Tom actually swatted me under my breasts, the sod, I hated him, how dare he, and before I knew I was bending over the bench. He held my shoulders as Dot manipulated the hook, it was nasty and cold and covered with slimy lube,and there was no way Dot was going to get that horrible thing into my bottom, no way in the world. It went in with a horrible cold feeling deep oh so deep inside, I shook and shuddered and tried to get away, but it was hopeless and then they made me stand upright, I stamped and shook my head but still they insisted and now Tom knew exactly where to swat me under my breast, I jumped up and Dot just hooked one end of the strap through the loop in the end of the hook and the other end to the hair wrap and started to pull it tight. It was horrible, absolutely vile, I thought they would tear my hair out or split my bottom, "You pull it tight like this first Tom" Dot was saying, "See pull it good and tight, you want the ass hole about half an inch open ideally," she was saying as I arched my back and stared at the ceiling and planned how I could slowly kill the pair of them. "That's it," she said, "Tighten the buckle and" she continued, "slip the tool off and then tighten it on the screw, Ok?" Tom agreed, the bastard, so I stood there, head well back, breasts thrust out looking completely ridiculous, "Let's get her used to it," he said. "Look at her Tom, suddenly she's got breasts!" Dot exclaimed, "Now hitch her to the cart and tke her for a run but be careful she wont be able to see thing so drive very carefully, accurately," Dot insisted. Personally I wanted my breakfast, but no they fitted the waist belt and shoulder straps and all the rest of the cart harness and led me out to the cart shed, I would have run away if only I could have seen where to go, all I could see was sky and if I tried to look down I either nearly scalped myself ripped my bottom open or both. They hitched up the cart and Tom ordered "Walk on," so I did, "Giddy up" he said soI lunged forward, his weight went back the shafts came up and we slithered to a halt with me about thee feet in the air and him on the ground still in the seat looking up at me. I could see him reflected on the Tack room window, "I suppose you think that's funny," Dot exclaimed. Actually I did. "You got to watch that one, her acceleration," Dot said seriously, "keep your weight forward and you'll be fine," then she simply grabbed the shafts and pulled me down and Tom up, so I could continue. I trotted around the grounds for about half an hour pretty aimlessly but as I never actually ran into a tree or into the lake I came to realise that maybe Tom knew a little about driving, and then it was breakfast time, and the miserable sods put me a bucket of Museli and a bowl of orange juice, in a stall, popped my gag bit out and then rushed out of the way before I could complain. You can't eat from a bucket with your hands bound behind you and a posture hook holding your head back, I tried very hard but it's impossible, believe me. Dot relented in the end, and undid the strap on the posture hook, so at least I could bend, and although it was hardly an elegant way to eat I had soon scooped every last scrap from that bucked and drained the orange juice bowl as well, I was so hungry, and that's when I realised they had spiked my orange juice, with a sedative or sleeping draft. I remember bits of the trip to Yorkshire, actually it was a good thing I was drowsy because Tom is an appalling driver, and my poor little car, she was being overtaken all the time she must have been humiliated, I hated being overtaken, ugggh! They must have dressed me for the trip and then got me tacked up before I woke because I was tacked up when I came round in the early evening, posture hook everything, except there was a new leather arm clincher of a new style I hadn't seen before. "Hey up lass, long time no see," Henry Bryant greeted me,"Oh bloody hell where yer clit ring gone?" he asked. "Oi, Warrinder, where's her bloody clit ring," "Ah she decided," he said. "Yer soft southern lump she don't bloody decide she's a bloody Pony you wazzock." Henry observed pleasantly. "Look Georgina is my girl friend as well," he said. "Bloody hell, you screw yer pony, up the ass, up the cunt any bloody which way up but you do not, repeat not fall in love with em, do you understand!" he raged. "Yes Henry, good advice but you never stuck to it did you?" Martha said as she emerged from the shadows, "I was West Yorkshire Dressage champion two years running, Aileen, Ellie they used to call me, sort of put it behind me now so I calls myself Martha, like Mother ent it, " she said, "Any road this un couldn't afford to pay me prize money so he says lets get wed, and here I am!" "Look Warrinder you might just as well bugger off down south again and come back when we're done." "I suppose," he said, "I suppose she's in good hands." and that's the last I saw of him for a week. Henry on the other hand set about fitting me with a clit ring again, he never bothered to freeze it He just banged a gold rod through with the tool circled it round nd soldered it with some hi tech cordless solder gun and it hurt like hell, "Got a comforter Martha, I reckon a three," Henry announced. "See his Lordship says you 'ent got to be fucked up the front so you can wear a bloody dildo 24/7 if that's what he bloody wants, Martha!" "Yes Henry," she replied. "I'm here," she said, "I reckon a three and a half." "Got any lube?" he asked. "You got to be joking she looks like she's got an oil pipe loose," Marth inelegantly if accurately described my state of arousal and easily slid the three and a half up my vagina, where to my surprise he connected a little strap from the blunt end to my clit ring." "Like it, one stamp for yes." Henry suggested. No I did not like it one bit, no way so I gave about a dozen stamps of disapproval to Henry's amusement, "Right cart up to moor for you young Pony, get Annie to help you Martha, I needs a beer." Henry said in his charming manner. "And try a skeleton boot." The skeleton boot had a sole for the ball of your foot and was shaped like a stiletto but had no heel, the straps were pretty minimal so it was like running barefoot in high heels, but had the big advantage that you could run over stones, I didn't really mind, it was better than long sweaty leather boots really. Martha helped me off with my trainers and on with the skeletons and then with her daughter Annie's help Martha's soon had the harness on me and they took me outside. It was nearly dark outside, and when I saw they had fitted lights to the cart I just about flipped, "Calm down!" Martha chided and gave me a few swats with the whip, "Henry knows what he is at." Did he, we must have gone up and down the track to the moor a dozen times, Henry sitting in the cart steering me because my head was so far back I couldn't have seen even if it hadn't been dark, and it wasn't too bad actually, he was very sensitive as a driver and as soon I learned to turn with the lightest touch on the reins I was fine and then he stopped me at the top of the climb. I felt fingers scrabbing at the belt on my posture hook, oh god Henry wants to fuck my bottom was my first reaction but no, he just loosened it so I could see where I was going. "That better pet," he asked, I stamped. "Right, walk on, that daft Warrinder bugger been watching for the last hour but he's buggered off now," Henry said conspiratorially, so come on let's see what you're made of," he chuckled and in the faint moonlight I saw the track stretching ahead to Eli's cottage, it looked strange, usually I had been blindfold along this stretch before but now with the moonlight and the glow from the lights of nearby towns staining the darkness it seemed somehow rather surreal. "Turn towards pub lass," Henry suggested, as we approached Eli's and then after a quarter mile he stopped me, "You know this bit," he said, "Dead straight, near on a mile," so I want you to run. I turned and stared. "All right just a moment," he said, and he climbed down and unclipped the dildo from the clit ring and pulled it out, I have never been so relieved in my life it did absolutely nothing for me, next he loosened the posture hook completely and pulled that out of me too, and he secured the hair binder to the cart harness so it didn't flop about. "That better?" he asked. I stamped, "So run girl, You ready, three two one, go!" And I ran, I was tired but the adrenalin kicked in I ran and ran galloping over the ground, "Go on lass go!" Henry shouted, as I hurtled along, the cart hardly slowing me at all, just the lack of my arms pumping slowing me fractionally. The Pub loomed from the darkness far sooner than I expected and Henry led me into the Car Park and parked the cart between a MINI and a Range Rover lashed my reins round the fence and wandered in the public bar. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me but then he reappeared with a couple of hot meat pies and some drinks on a tray. "Look lass," he said, "I want to have a chat with thee," he said, "So bloody shut up 'till I says me piece, alright?" I stamped and he undid my gag- bit. "Now look, it seems to me you're just about perfect, I ain't saying that so as I can screw you because I'll do that on the way home anyway, but the thing is." he said. "Yes?" I said awkwardly. "You any good at half marathons?" he said. "Yes, Dot often makes me run to the village, that's fourteen miles or so." "See there's one on Saturday and Harry Wallace's daughter is favourite, he's a cocky sod." "Right, and what's in it for me?" "Comfy bed, bit of bar work, no more training till Saturday, oh and best bit, I won't screw you on way home." "One condition," I suggested, "I want to get absolutely sozzled, I haven't been drunk for ages." "Good Lass, Warrinder's buggered off, Police Camera's picked him up on A1M a few minutes ago, so we're safe for a bit," he announced, "right, I'll get you some clothes." "Henry!" I protested, "Don't leave me like this!" "Oh, yes," he said and he loosened my arm clincher, my arms hurt like hell and before I realised he was gone. "Evening" I heard a voice as the chap climbed into the Range Rover, I shrank inside with humiliation. "I am not doing that for you if you get a drink drive ban Dan Keating, don't you even think about it!" his companion exclaimed and then they were gone. The food smelled good, too good, so I washed both pies down with the orange juice, liberally laced with vodka I suspected, and Henry' pint of real ale as well, suddenly I felt much better so unhitched the harness from the cart and went to find Henry. You know when you walk into a room all dressed up to the nines and you just dream that everyone will stop talking and stare? Well forget haute couture and try Northern area Pony girl tack if you want to make an entrance, you could have heard a pint glass drop, and I'm sure several did, I suppose that's when I sort of realised my mistake. "Stripper's here Clive!" some wag shouted. "It's that 'un as we had a bit back," Arthur Grimsdyke exclaimed, "Anybody lend me a tenner?" "I'm not the bloody stripper," I announced, but the warmth of the pub and the smell of stale beer and the smell tobacco smoke, yes I know it's illegal but Sergeant Wilde was there smoking his pipe in uniform, so it didn't seem to be a priority, and anyway I slumped over the nearest table. Clive the Landlord revived me with a large Vodka and Lemon in a pint glass, at least I supposed there was some Lemon I didn't remember much afterwards, except going upstairs and someone arguing over whether they could take me up the bum and the front at the same time. "Kiss me Tom I ordered," and this weasly face with a full beard kissed me, it was like being slapped in the face by a rat, yuck. "Her thought you was Warrender," Henry said faintly in the background, and I heard him say "No you can't fuck her face for a tenner you pay twenty five like everyone else," someone argued and he replied "Sergeant Wilde gets a Public service discount." The main thing was I was nice and warm, that was all that mattered, as long as they used condoms! Henry kept the Vodka coming and I suppose at some stage he took me home, it turned out they loaded me in the cart and towed it behind Sid Farnsworths quad bike with Henry hanging in to a Mudguard and then Henry pulled it the last bit. The Band of the Coldstream Guards were accompanying Status Quo in concert inside my head when I woke with the dawn, I had the mother and father of a headache, and I was so sore from the night before and I never wanted sex or Vodka ever again. "Oh you decided to join us," Martha enquired, "Had a good sleep?" I looked around bleary eyed, I was in one of the stalls at Henry's stable complex lying on the straw and almost completely naked, even my arm clincher was gone, only the hair wrap remained. "It's eight o'clock." I pointed out, hardly a lie in." "What about yesterday?" she said, "You stood up threw up, pissed yourself and went back to sleep." she explained. "Oh!" I said. "Yes," she said, "Twenty seven, Twenty eight hours, not a bad sleep." "Oh god!" I said "My training." "Henry said you're coming along real nicely and there's two hundred and fifty quid for you, that's your share of the other night," she gabbled, "Oh and can you do Thursday week for the Hunt?" "No I can't." I said, "I'll be in France." "Henry said you're to come in the house and get cleaned up when you're sober enough to walk," Martha said. "Ok," I agreed and climbed unsteadily to my feet, Martha grabbed my hands and unceremoniously pulled them around behind me and wound an elastic tie around them, "What?" I demanded. "Enema, no arguments," she said. Al fresco enema's are no fun at the best of times but I wasn't even tacked up, anyone could see it was me, and of course I had an audience, Annie and he brother Albert, and some bloke from the pub and a lorry driver doing a delivery and Martha just rams the nozzle on the hose pipe up my bum and turns the water on, whoosh. "Ahhh" I yelled and when my tummy swelled right up so I couldn't stand any more she let it go, and then did it again, it was so humiliating, but it sure woke me up and the hangover became just a secondary concern. "What a mess," Martha said as she sprayed my legs and washed the mess away, "That's what happens when you miss a day," "I'd never have believed it if I hadn't sin it with me own eyes." the Lorry driver said as he handed Henry what looked like a twenty pound note, and before I could react Martha was spraying my hair with freezing cold water.