Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (14 page)

Aerosmith undid all the straps and buckles that attached
her to the cart and then began rubbing her down with a soft
cloth. When she was dry, he stroked her ear a little, crooning
gently to her, "Easy, easy, goo-ood girl," much as Sir Harold
had done to me in the van. She seemed to need it a lot less
than I had, though. Her breathing had quieted down and
evened out, and she looked calm and serene-well, bored,
actually. Aerosmith patted her breast-she looked off somewhere into the middle distance-and he sighed softly, took
her reins, and led her down a path to some barnlike buildings,
downhill from us. They disappeared into one of them.

Meanwhile, Sir Harold went to talk to the driver, a Mr.
Finch, I gathered. Though Mr. Finch clearly had had the
time of his life cracking the whip over Stephanie's bouncing
ass, you could see that the experience wouldn't be complete for him if he couldn't find anything to complain about. Still,
all he could come up with was a small squeak in one of the
wheels and his wish that the weather were not quite so hot.
Sir Harold nodded sympathetically, with the easy confidence
of a tradesman who has utter faith in his product. He opened
a small compartment at the back of the cart and pulled out
an oilcan, oiling the offending wheel until the squeak was
entirely gone, then putting the oilcan back.

The cart, I could see upon closer inspection, was no
glorified wheelbarrow. Though I figured that its body was
actually made of some kind of light fiberglass, it was covered
with a molded wood veneer and painted a glossy black with
red and gold detailing. The spokes of the wheels were also
gold, and the seat was soft dark red leather. There was a little
brake apparatus over one of the wheels, I realized-otherwise, it would have run Stephanie over when she'd stopped so
short. It was skillfully and practically designed, but it looked
like a tiny fantasy coach, reminding me of fairy tales.

Sir Harold was telling 'Ir. Finch that in the future, if he
heard a squeak, he should use the oilcan himself. Each cart, not
to speak of each pony of course, he repeated a few times, got a
thorough going-over between rides, but you never knew.

"It's a tough job," he sighed, with some relish, "old carts,
new ponies, always something needing my attention. Like that
one over there, by the fence, fresh and green and unbroken.
Took her on as a special favor to her master, nice boy from
the old days. She'll be all right, but she'll take some work.
You get to know the signals in my line of business. Nice body
but likes to think too much. Not like that little Stephanie, who
responds to the slightest tug, and you just lay the whip on for
the pleasure of seeing the pretty marks."

Speaking of Stephanie made Mr. Finch remember that
he'd also paid to be blown by her and that she'd probably be
cleaned up, groomed, and ready for him in the stable by now.
He shook hands with Sir Harold and hurried down the path.

Sir Harold gave me a long look. It was the first time I'd
been alone with him, and I realized that he frightened me
intensely. He was onto me, I thought. He knew that, at least at
first, I wouldn't be good at this, that I need words, not strokes
or slaps, to make me obey. He wouldn't tell me anything
directly-nothing meaningful, anyhow-but he'd managed,
through his little speech to Mr. Finch, to communicate all this
to me. I returned his look solemnly, trying to communicate
that I understood what I'd have to work to overcome, and he
nodded briefly, so I guess he was satisfied.

"Frank," he now yelled, to one of the guys in the ring,
"take this new one, name's Carrie, down to the stable. Put her
next to Cathy, feed her, and give her a nap. We'll start training her this afternoon."

Frank was tall, rawboned, freckled, quiet, friendly.
I guessed they'd all be friendly. He picked up my reins and
slapped my ass. "Nice girl," he said briefly, "come on."

We walked down the path at a good clip and entered the
barnlike building I'd seen Aerosmith lead Stephanie into earlier. It was a stable, divided into stalls on both sides of a center
aisle, with straw heaped on the floor. It didn't look special
in any way-I mean, I don't think it had been built for girls
being treated like horses. I think it had, at one time, actually
held horses. Maybe the only modification was that the door
to each stall was) ust high enough so that it came up to your
neck. And they must have cleaned it out with great care when
they'd converted it. It didn't actually smell like a stable, but it did smell, a little-of straw, and of, well, of flesh, I guess. I
counted seven stalls on each side.

We passed a stall where I could see Mr. Finch's shoulders and the back of his gray-blond head and hear his moans.
I could also see a chain attached to the stall's back wall, trailing down the wall and onto the ground. The chain was moving
rhythmically, and I knew, even though I couldn't see her, that
attached to its other end, in the straw on the floor of the stall,
was Stephanie on her knees with Mr. Finch in her mouth. And
I realized that part of me was glad she was having to blow this
unpleasant guy-gorgeous snooty perfect little bitch. Dumb,
Carrie, I thought. Before you're out of here, you'll probably
have to do a lot worse. But I couldn't help what I felt.

Frank let me into a stall and quickly took off my tail and
bridle, as well as my collar and cuffs, which I'd been wearing
all morning and which came from Jonathan's house. He hung
the tail, with its straps and dildo, on a hook on the wall and
then took all the other hardware somewhere else. I wondered
why he'd taken the bridle. Then he came back, took off my
boots, slapped my ass again, and nodded to the door of the
stable. I followed him out and he led me a little further down
the path to an outhouse, a regular one, only rather large, with
room for maybe a dozen people and no seats, just holes in the
floor to squat over. It was quite clean for an outhouse, which
is to say, just a few flies.

When I'd finished there, he led me back into my stall and
put a loose chain collar around my neck, hooking it to a long
chain attached to the wall at the back of the stall, like the one
I'd seen in Stephanie's. Whistling as he did all these chores,
he went out again and returned with a pan of food and a little
trough of water, both of which he attached to the top of the door of the stall, so I could eat and drink standing up (and of
course not using my hands), facing the stable's center aisle.
The food was a grain and vegetable mixture, tasting vaguely
of oats, but formed into little pellets like breakfast cereal.
Science Diet, I thought, specially balanced for girl ponies.
The only pieces of the food that I actually recognized were
the cubes of raw carrot and celery mixed in with the kibbles
and bits. I hadn't realized how dehumanizing it would be to
eat food that had been prepared entirely for its nutritional
value. I didn't want to do it, but I was hungry and figured that
I'd better. And when Frank came back holding a large, perfect green apple, it looked so appealing to me that I ate it out
of his hand and, after he'd tossed the core, licked his sticky
fingers clean. He stroked my head, to dry his hand, and then
my face, and it frightened me that I was beginning to feel a
kind of affection for him.

Then he came into the stall, stroked my ass, crooned to
me that I was a good girl and needed some rest, and pointed to
the pile of straw with some blankets on it. I crawled between
the blankets and fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was a lot busier in there. There were lots
of girls in the stalls. I guessed they'd given me an early lunch,
because I was new, and I'd been asleep when the rest of
them had come back. And now they-we-were all getting
out again. The stable guys were busy bridling and harnessing.

Pretty soon one of them, one I hadn't seen before, came
in to get me ready.

"Back to work with you," he sang out, "up, up, thatta
girl," as I stumbled to my feet and rubbed my eyes. He reat tached my tail, first regreasing the dildo. Then he put a
different bridle on me. It looked the same as the first, but
the bit was cold metal. I guess the first one had just been
for practice. He took off the chain collar and put a harness
arrangement around my torso. It buckled over my shoulders
and ended in a new, stiff, collar. There were also matching
cuffs, which he hooked together behind my back, up a little
above my waist, so they wouldn't be in the way of the tail.
Then he put on my boots again, attached some reins to the
bridle, and led me out of the stall.

As the business of the afternoon unfolded, I figured
out that there were four guys working fourteen girls in the
stables. There were Frank and Aerosmith, whose name was
really Mike, and two others, Don and Phil. The four worked
well together, yelling questions and answers to each other,
sharing tasks. And they were fast. I mean, putting all the
hardware on us was no loving B&D ritual; it was a job they
were paid to do, like sweeping out the stable and greasing the
wheels of the carts. It probably took Phil about as long to do
up all the straps and buckles and laces on me as it has for me
to describe him doing it. And this included a once-over, after
he finished, a general straightening and tightening of everything, until I felt almost corsetted. Leading me out of the stall,
he went along the center aisle, stall by stall, and gathered up
a bunch of other girls' reins in his hand. So there were four of
us that he was briskly leading down the path back to the ring,
the midafternoon sun making everything look lovely, golden,
and pastoral.

Walking fast to keep up and trying to find a comfortable
way to rest my tongue against the bit took a lot of my attention. So it took me a minute to notice that one of the other girls Phil was leading was gorgeous Stephanie, just floating
along, her tail bobbing. I tried to make eye contact with her,
and when she clearly, if subtly, refused, I felt myself involuntarily rolling my eyes and sighing behind my bit. I doubt that
I was audible, but my body language must have been expressive enough, because the girl on my other side bumped her
hip against me, and when I looked at her, she nodded toward
Stephanie and did a perfect matching eye-roll.

I would have smiled at her, if the bit had let me, and I
guess she could tell that. As we hurried along, I got a chance
to look at her. She had short, curly blond hair, a pointed chin
and high cheekbones under the straps of her bridle, very firm
conical breasts that her harness caused to jut way out, and
great, lithe muscles under lovely suntanned skin. Cathy, I
guessed. And she looked familiar. Now where had I...well,
the body remembers, even if the mind is overwhelmed by new
rules and concepts. Involuntarily, I found my eyes moving to
her thighs, searching for the marks. And yes, there they were,
very light, almost, but not quite, healed and still unmistakable, those evenly spaced marks. I remembered her mistress
from the dressage show and Cathy's worshipful look. I was
glad, though, that worshipful as she'd been there, she clearly
had a sense of humor. Even if all we could do was roll our
eyes at each other, I was glad she was here.

By this time we, and the groups of ponies led by the other
guys, had all reached the ring. Sir Harold was there, supervising busily, and the guys were really hopping. Some of the
ponies were being harnessed to carts - I noticed there was a
two-seater, to be pulled by two ponies harnessed together,
and even an elaborate little open coach, to be pulled by two
pairs, one in front of the other. I would have been fascinated to watch the intricacies of the harnessing arrangements, as
the nicely dressed folks waiting to drive were doing, but
Frank led Cathy and me into the ring, with a sharp tug on
our reins.

He led us to a corner where there was a sort of maypole arrangement with chains maybe ten feet long dangling
from the top. A circular path had been paced into the ground
around it. Looping our reins behind our backs, he attached a
chain to each of our collars. Then he positioned us carefully at
points in the circle around the pole, Cathy at twelve noon, me
at three o'clock, both of our chains standing tautly out from
the pole. Loudly but curtly, he barked out, "Walk!"

And we did. I tried to copy Cathy exactly, her speed, her
posture, and I was careful to keep the distance between us
constant and the chain taut. You would think it would be a
piece of cake, and I actually thought I was doing very well,
but damned if Frank's riding crop didn't keep falling on my
calves, or my ass or shoulders, almost every time I passed
him. "Head up!" he'd shout. "Tits out! Knees higher!" and
damned if he wasn't always right, too. Cathy's head would
be held higher, I'd realize after the fact, her body more complexly and elegantly displayed than mine. Drooling behind
my bit, I put everything into trying to get this together.

I must have improved somewhat, because we advanced
to trotting and cantering (I guessed goose-stepping was part
of the advanced course). And I felt like I was really improving when, as the afternoon wore on, the times I didn't get hit
started to outnumber the times I did, even though Frank was
barking out his commands with great frequency, making us
change gaits almost in midstep. I could relax a little, I realized, just enough to realize how painful and difficult this really was. The muscles in my legs ached, and my back and my belly
too, from holding myself up so perfectly straight as I circled
around and around. And the accumulated bruises and welts
from the riding crop began to hurt more and more. Dusty,
salty sweat was dripping into my eyes, I was panting, and a
little drool was running out of the corners of my mouth.

Finally we stopped, and Frank wiped the sweat off us
while we cooled down. It had been hours, I realized, hours of
painful, monotonous walk-trot-canter. The weather was still
warm, but the sun was a lot lower in the sky than it had been
when we'd started.