Carrie's Story: An Erotic S/M Novel (16 page)

But our favorite topic of bitchy gossip was, naturally,
Stephanie, nasty little good girl princess Stephanie. Because
even Sir Harold's ponies didn't have her haughty manner,
her way of doing everything perfectly but of not being here
at all. It was as clear to Cathy as it was to me that Nuke -
Aerosmith, as I still thought of him-was pathetically
infatuated with her, and we didn't approve of that. All the
rest of us had figured out a kind of rapport with the guys
who worked for Sir Harold, an admiration for how good they were at their jobs, and a sympathetic acceptance of their
idiosyncrasies (like Frank's girl perversion). It was amazing
how much you could express with a bit in your mouth, and
how much people communicated to you, I thought. And I
remembered, with a start of recognition, Kate Clarke's telling Jonathan that if I were hers, she'd put a bit and bridle
on me. She'd been right, I thought, I had needed this training badly.

Stephanie, though, it was as though she didn't need
this training, as though she were above it. Cathy and I were
as nasty and bitchy as we could be, egging each other on to
imagine humiliations for her, humiliations she never got, of
course, because she was so prissy and perfect. If we'd been in
summer camp, we would have short-sheeted her bed by now.
Or dipped her hand in a bucket of water while she was sleeping to make her pee in her sleeping bag.

"What I would have liked to see," Cathy whispered one
night, "was her pulling a plow." It was her last night hereMadame was coming for her tomorrow. She was so excited
that she couldn't sleep, and I was so sad about her leaving
that I couldn't, either. So we both were overtired and punchy,
repeating all our old Stephanie jokes just for companionship.
But this plow stuff was news to me.

"A plow?" I whispered. "They have a farm here?"

"Well," she answered, "when Madame drove me up
here, on the road through the grounds, we passed a girl pulling a plow. They have a vegetable garden, I think, and they
grow some flowers. Anyhow, the girl, she's gone home since
then; she was all tired and muddy and everything, and, you
know, bent over. She looked terrible. Madame asked Sir Harold about it and he just rumbled, `Punishment.' And then
he looked at me and said, `For a pony who didn't behave."'

"Wow," I breathed, "it does sound terrible; it would be
perfect for her."

And we were so taken with this image, both of us, that
we didn't even hear when Phil and Nuke, both of them that
night, came through for a bed check and shined a flashlight
right at the rubber hose between my mouth and Cathy's ear.

"Well," Phil drawled, "will you look at this? Two little
ponies talking on the telephone. Or pretending to talk,
anyway, because everybody knows ponies can't talk. Why,
that's so cute, Mike, I think we'll just have to show the boss.
Get the fuck up, you two."

And while we scrambled to our feet, he and Mike
gathered up all our hardware in our arms-boots, bridles,
everything, and not forgetting our telephone. Then they each
grabbed a riding crop and began hitting us hard, on the ass,
driving us barefoot through the night, running up a path we'd
never been on to Sir Harold's house.

It was an old-fashioned house on a hill, with a porch
around it, gables and gingerbread and cupolas. There was a
light burning in an upstairs window, so it wasn't long before
Sir Harold came down to open the door, barefoot with bony,
hairy ankles and wrapped in a voluminous maroon bathrobe with a big gold crest on the pocket. He nodded as Phil
explained the situation and showed him the little bit of hose,
which he put in his pocket.

"Talking to each other," he murmured. "Shocking. Well,
boys, we've got a busy night ahead of us. Get the two-seater
out and harness these bad ponies to it. I'll be down in a few
minutes."

Phil left to get the two-seater, while Mike started getting
us into our harnesses, bridles, tails, and boots. I was scared
by the idea of a night ride-and of the fact that I doubted that
this would be our only punishment-but I was even more
afraid to look at Cathy. She was sobbing silently, huge tears
coursing down her face, and I knew that she was thinking
about Madame coming tomorrow. Sir Harold would doubtless tell her everything.

It couldn't have been more than five minutes before
Mike returned with the two-seater cart and attached us to it
snugly. Then Sir Harold floated down his front steps in shoes
and socks but still in his bathrobe, carrying a large, menacing black whip. He shot us a fearsome look, climbed into the
cart, and cracked the whip over us, pulling the reins to signal
that we head out for the path over the ridge and through the
woods, and at our fastest gallop.

And that's all that happened for the next hour. We ran
and ran, faster and harder than I could have imagined, the
whip cracking over us, both of us groaning, weeping, panting, and feeling as if this would just go on forever. Once in
a while one of us would slip-the path seemed different in
the dark and sometimes in the thickest parts of the forest
you couldn't even see the moon-and the other would have
to drag her along until she got back into the rhythm. Once
we both slipped, just about at the same time, and I thought
dimly how lucky we were that we were going slightly uphill,
so that the cart didn't just roll over us, because I didn't trust
Sir Harold to use the brake. We staggered to our feet, the
whip blows raining down on us, and started up again, and
maybe ten minutes later, Sir Harold drove us back to the ring, where Frank, Nuke, Don, and Phil were all sitting on
the fence, waiting by the light of a Coleman lantern.

"I want them back at my house in an hour," Sir Harold
said, as Don and Phil jumped down to unharness us. "You
boys can have 'em till then." And he hiked up the path to his
house on the hill, his robe billowing behind him.

They took everything off of us except our tails and
pushed us into the ring. Then, slapping our asses hard, Don
said curtly, "Run!"

I couldn't see which direction Cathy was running
in. I just started running, barefoot, in the direction the
slap seemed to be telling me to go in. And I got about halfway across when I felt a rope around me, pulling me to the
ground. I looked down at myself, puzzled, to see a rough
rope looped around my torso, and then I looked up, to see
the other end of the rope in Frank's hand. Lassoed, my god,
I didn't know these guys could do rodeo tricks. Which is what
they did for about fifteen minutes, all of them taking cracks at
roping us, pulling us down hard, reining us in.

Finally, they seemed to be tired of that one and it was
Nuke, I guess, who yelled at us, "Get down on your hands
and knees and look at us."

And when we did, in the center of the ring, he added,
"You two look disgusting." It was true, too. We were a mess,
filthy, sweaty, wet with tears and drool.

The other guys nodded, and Phil added, "If we wanted
to fuck you, we could wash you down. But that sounds a little
too much like what we do on the job every day-the boss just
throws in the fucking so's he can get away with the pitiful
wages he pays us. And you know how damn hard we work. So, no, working's not what we have in mind. We were thinking, more like, of watching."

And then they were all very quiet, waiting to see what we'd
do. And I looked at Cathy, and she looked at me, and bruised,
miserable, exhausted, and scared as we were, we had to smile a
little. I mean, these really weren't bad guys and it really wasn't
the world's worst punishment they'd cooked up for us.

"Uh, well, could we wash ourselves a little first?" I asked.
"Or, each other?"

"I guess," Frank said grudgingly, "but hurry up."

One of them threw us a rag, and we ran to a spigot near
the gate of the ring. And we got a little of the worst sweat and
crud off each other. And I kissed Cathy softly on the mouth,
and she stroked my breast a little, and then we came back,
hand in hand, to the middle of the ring.

Where we just stood, looking at each other and considering. I knew that the guys were starting to get restless, but
I figured we were entitled to think about this for a minute.
Then Cathy took a step forward and pressed her front against
mine. We were pretty much the same height and I loved
how her breasts felt against me. I started to rub, started to
paint designs on her with my own breasts, up and down and
around. She was firm and smooth-sandstone, I thought at
first, an Eskimo carving, but getting warmer and softer and
more yielding every minute.

She pushed me down to my knees and I licked the shape
of her concave belly, the ridges of her hipbones. I made
huge circles with my tongue, stopping just short of her pubic
hair, while my breasts ground into her thighs and my hands
grasped her ass.

Until finally she couldn't stand being teased by my mouth
any longer and pushed my head into her crotch. "Fuckin' A," I
heard one of the guys mutter, and I realized that they'd gotten
off the fence where they'd been sitting or lounging and were
clustered around us. Good, I thought, maybe I'll teach them
something. I mean, it wouldn't hurt things around here if they
ate a little pussy, now and again. And I dug my tongue in and
explored, tracing the shape of her labia, then settling in to
suck. I heard her moan and felt her short, sharp orgasm. Fast,
I thought. Shit, I paid too much attention to the guys and not
enough to her. I looked up at her, expecting some mild disappointment, but was surprised by her intent look, her shining
eyes. Like, I thought wildly, a vampire in the moonlight?

But no, this story does not make that wild genre switch,
it just modulates, ever so slightly, as Cathy did, pushing
me to the ground and lying down next to me. And kissing
me deeply, while her fingers opened my vulva and entered,
moved, clenched, and moved some more, and...oh my god, I
felt knuckles. My eyes flew open and I saw her green-brown
eyes and wicked smile, and I remembered that I'd admired
the muscles in her arms. Biceps, triceps-the girl was wasted
on a pony farm, she should have been pitching the World
Series. Or so I thought, when she gave me a chance to think
at all, just banging me, wide open and stuffed full, while also
never so aware of the horsetail dildo up my ass, crowding
things up even more. I came and came and it didn't seem as
though she would ever stop. I realized that I was going to
have to beg her to, which I didn't really want to do, but what
a joke, me and I'm sure also the guys thinking that they were
in for a show of some girlie lingerie sex, even if we were rolling around in the dirt, and getting this instead, and to hell with it, I'm not proud. Stop please! Cathy, beautiful Cathy,
I beg you, thank you.

"Ohhhhh," I groaned. And pulled her down and kissed
her. And she whispered, "That was new for you, wasn't it?
I'm glad it was me, then."

And then the guys were all over her. I was scared for a
minute, not knowing whether they were going to gang-bang
her or what, but it turned out they were more interested in
high-fiving her. And I couldn't imagine why she'd worry
about Madame, who, it seemed to me, would be so horny after
a week away from that genius arm that she'd care less about
a little length of hose. I mean, she might be cruel and elegant,
but she probably wasn't stupid.

Still, it looked like our hour was up, and Don and Phil
walked us up the hill to Sir Harold's, rang the bell and waited
in the hall after he'd pushed us into a little office he had. He
told us to get down on our knees in front of his desk, while he
sat on the edge of it, swinging one leg. And then he took the
little length of hose out of his pocket and just asked quietly,
"Which one of you?"

And you know that he thought it was me anyway, and
that I figured he might as well keep thinking it, because Cathy
was looking scared again of Madame, and, well, I didn't know
what Jonathan would say or think about any of this, so I figured I'd risk it. That was how I finally ended up spending the
rest of that strange night wrapped in a ragged blanket in a
tumbledown little shack next to the vegetable garden, trying
to get some sleep before I had to wake up the next morning to
pull the plow.

It was actually dark when a rooster woke me up. I stretched
and groaned. Everything hurt, especially my insides, and I
wondered if Cathy had pulverized them beyond recognition.
Cheap, I thought, at the price.

Because I was realizing that even as grubby, achy, and
unsure of what the day would bring as I was, I was downright
cheery. When you've been that massively fucked, I thought,
life just doesn't look so bad. I looked at the filthy little hut
I was lying in, the hairy, greasy rope looped around my neck
and tied to a hook in the wall, the dirt under my fingernails
and on just about every other inch of me, too, and I shook
my head in disbelief that I could actually be feeling anywhere
near good. And then I shrugged, turned over, and got another
half hour of deep, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up again, it was to some nasty kicks in the
ribs, which I realized had been probably going on for some
time. "Up, now, you lazy thing, get up ,ww!" I heard. Right,
okay, yeah, lazy thing, that's me, I thought groggily, okay,
how do you want me? I figured I'd try hands and knees,
which would take less effort than any other position I could
think of. And I guess that was right, or close enough, because
the kicks stopped.

I looked up at a heavy, round-faced woman, dressed in
overalls, work boots, and a floppy sun hat, holding a pan of
what looked like garbage. Table scraps, I realized, as she put
it in front of me. And tastier, once you got over the weird
feeling, than the Science Diet they'd been giving me in the
stables. I nosed out a little slice of salami-pepperoni, actually-and thought, it could be worse, Carrie.

I was worried that I'd start to annoy the woman if I
continued to be so cheerful. Hell, I was starting to annoy myself. But she really didn't seem interested in my mood.
She gave me some water to lap and then told me to stand up.
But I couldn't. At least not all at once. My bruised muscles
just didn't want to. They kept trying to fold back up, like
cheap lawn furniture. The woman looked on stolidly, and
when I could finally stand straight, she silently led me out of
the hut by the rope, after having picked up my bridle, harness,
and tail.