Madeleine (16 page)

She was still digesting this heady mixture of praise and threat when the second heat started.
Again all three stayed close for the first lap, but then first one and then another went lame. Madeleine’s feet were already sore from the sharp fragments scattered throughout the track material, and the winner came home alone.
It didn’t require a stop-watch to deduce that Madeleine would qualify after all as the fastest second place.

A short break was called, to rest the winner of the second heat; the grooms moved among the ‘mares’ sponging them down and adjusting harness, before they were called to the line again.
Madeleine’s driver came over to where she stood in the shafts.

“I can see you’re making quite an effort, but I think we should have a little something to keep you lively,” she said, “bend over, and get your legs well apart.”

Setting her feet as wide as she could manage, and bending as low as her harness, and the backward pull on her hair would allow, she felt her spread buttocks parted by the driver’s fingers, and something soft and greasy was thrust into her anus and deep into her rectum.
At first it tingled, but then came the burn, a monstrous sensation that made her want to turn her sphincter inside out, a hot throbbing fiery furnace in her arse that made her dance on her toes, clenching and unclenching her buttock cheeks, fretting her knees against each other, as she tried to ride the caustic burn in her fundament.

“Feeling a little frisky now, are we?
Well, no time to lose, Gid up Gal,” came the order, “let’s get to that track while you’re hot to trot.”

Almost grateful to be allowed to move and work off the irritant in her behind, she moved off to take up her place alongside the other two finalists.
They all started fast, encouraged by the shouts of their drivers, reinforced by stinging cuts of the long thin switches.
Once again, for most of the first lap there was nothing in it, then Madeleine found herself alone with her rival of the first heat, the winner of the second apparently flattered by the weakness of the rest of her field.
Stride for stride they came down the back straight, and round the final curve.
Down the home straight, Madeleine’s driver flogged her unmercifully, the whip criss crossing her back and buttocks with angry red lines.
She pounded on, on feet cut and sore from the sharp cornered particles in the track, her back and backside almost raw now from the unceasing rain of blows, her arse burning and her breath coming in painful gasps.
She put everything she had into it, determined to best the long strong girl racing alongside, but her rival was just too strong and experienced for her, and held on to cross the line a bare two feet ahead, as in their first trial.

“Pity,” remarked the mannish female, who had just come close to making good her threat to skin her back, “I thought we were going to have our revenge there.
Still, you did well to run Gilda so close.
She’s good at this you know.”
Madeleine didn’t doubt it, but retained her animal dumbness.
“You’d be good yourself, with more experience.
Your owner ought to have you properly trained, you know.”

The mares were returned to the stable yard to be unhitched, watered and rubbed down.
Humiliating as it was, Madeleine was grateful for the wet sponge worked round and into her anus to remove some of the burning caustic still at work there, though the relief was only partial.
Her driver had worked much of it deep inside, and the slow leakage continued to burn even after she had been washed.
They had just eaten, ravenous after the demanding exercise, when Richard entered, carrying the black scarf she had worn on the way to the weekend ‘race meeting’.
He blindfolded her again and led her out to the car, her hands still cuffed to the belt at her waist, her chin held high by the thong in her hair.

“We’re going home now,” he said, “My lease on you is up in the morning, and I want to enjoy you one more night before I hand you back.
By the way, I’m sorry you had such a rough time.
I didn’t think you’d be driven so hard.”

Madeleine was astounded to hear him apologising for her treatment.
She had been contracted to him as a slave, and expected nothing less.
Moreover, the experience of being controlled, of being made to put out her utmost, despite fatigue and discomfort, the feeling of being driven, far from being oppressive, had been the most exhilarating of her career to date.

“Do I have permission to speak, Sir?”

“Oh, yes.
We’re outside the grounds now, and you can speak at any time, if you ask permission.”

“Then I’d like to say, there’s nothing to apologise for.
I’ve had an intensely satisfying time.
Do you think there’s any chance you might take me back, some day?”

“I don’t remember asking if you wanted an apology,” came the rather stuffy reply, “and no, there’s no chance.
I think there are limits to what a woman should be put through, and that was over the limit in my book.”

Wisely, she let the matter drop.

‘Hard Riding’

She waited as butterflies fluttered in her belly, in time with the ringing tone, then a click as the receiver at the other end was lifted.

“Morgan here.”

“Hello. This is Madeleine, I was number three on last weekend’s card.”

A long pause, then - “Yes. I remember you. Did you get my number from Richard?”

“Yes, but he didn’t give it to me. I stole it.
He didn’t tell me your name either, but you just did when you answered.
I got your number from his diary while he was in the shower. I was meant to be keeping my position on my knees but I went through his pockets instead.
Very disobedient but I wanted very much to find you. I knew it should be there somewhere, either under the day he took me to the track or the day he got the message to ring you. I was kneeling then as well but that time I was more obedient.”

“He told you the call was from me?”

“No.
Still it was obvious from later events that the call referred to you and at the time he’d asked the caller to hang on while he got a pen, so when I found a number on that page I was pretty sure, even though there was no name, and now you’ve confirmed it for me.”

“And why would you want to get in touch?
I warn you, I would be a very dangerous man to blackmail.”

“I wasn’t thinking of trying to work anything on you.
Exactly the opposite in fact. I want to put myself in your hands if you’ll have me. Last weekend was my first experience of being a ponygirl and it did something for me. I want to do it again, but this time for real. Those girls worked quite well but we weren’t driven very hard, scarcely raised a sweat between us, and nobody got whipped enough to make them strain their guts out.”

“And you want to be made to sweat, is that it?”

“I would like someone to take me and train me and when I had acquired speed and endurance, drive me faster and beyond that endurance. I’d like to be made to take on, and beat all comers, or failing that, the clock. Would you take me on and do that to me?”

“What does Richard say to that?”

“Richard won’t play. He doesn’t think a woman should be pushed that hard. It’s something that makes any
relationship out of the question. I had hoped that as he knew and understood me more he would drop his reservations and rule me more and more completely, while he, poor dear, has been hoping I think that I would ‘get over it.
He refuses point blank to send me to you for training but then, he doesn’t own me, you know.
I was only contracted to him for the week.”

“Hmmm. I’ll think about it. In the meantime you’re never to call this number again. If I think something is possible you will be contacted.”

After five days Madeleine began to feel that her gamble had failed. Several times she was on the point of ringing Jack Morgan’s number again but her common sense prevailed and she realised that if there was still a chance left that he’d agree to take her on, she’d blow it if she disobeyed his order not to ring.

The next evening the stubborn instrument sprang to life. Someone she didn’t know said quietly

“Make arrangements to be away for a minimum of three weeks beginning on the 25th. You will be contacted then.” and rang off before she could reply.

The 25th! That gave her over a week to wait. Was he testing her resolve, to see if the strain of the long wait would cause her to chicken out? If so he’d underestimated her. She spent the time getting her body fit for its coming ordeal. She stepped up her twice weekly visits to the gym to four and put herself on a rigorous regime every session and backed it with daily roadwork more akin to that of a heavyweight boxer than a weekend jogger.

Putting her freelance work on ‘hold’ presented no problem, but she approached Madame R with more misgivings.

“I’d like to take a month off, to recharge my batteries,” she said, “It’s not that I’m having second thoughts about the life, far from it, but these first six months have been very strenuous, and almost non-stop, and I’m frightened I’ll get stale.
I thought a month in the country, among horses, would do me good, and I’d come back twice as keen to get back into harness.”

Madame agreed it would be a good idea.
She pointed out that the seriously rich abandoned London to the tourists at that time of year, and in would be good timing.
Relieved to have satisfied Madame so easily, she gave herself over entirely to her preparations for the arduous sentence she had imposed on herself.

The morning of the 25th found her fit and ready, showered and packed, on a high of anticipation and, she had to admit, just a little fear of what a man like Morgan might be capable of.
He was certainly no pussy-cat like poor discarded Richard. She’d caught the look in his eye and the iron in his voice when he was addressing his pony and she’d seen the very professional equipment in his stables. That weekend may have been more symbolic and exhibitionist than serious pony-girl racing but she didn’t think it was always like that in Jack’s stable or on his track. Now she wondered how long she’d have to wait to find out just how far he was prepared to drive her. Her musings were interrupted by the phone.

“There’s a Land Rover and horse box right outside the back entrance to your flats. Strip off every last thing you’re wearing including your watch, earrings, jewellery, the lot and use the emergency stairs.
When you get to the trailer use the forward hatch. Kneel facing the post at the front of the box and put your arms round it with your wrists in the cut-outs you’ll feel behind it. Do it quick and do it now!”

For one stunned second Madeleine stared at the phone, then slammed it down and tore off her clothes, her watch, her earrings, her bracelet, her ring. Totally bare, she abandoned her carefully selected packing and slipped out of her door. Thank God, no one was in sight as she fled down the stairs and slipped into the waiting box, closing the door behind her to shut her naked body off from prying eyes.

She knelt in the thick straw covering of the floor and leaned her bare breasts against the solid timber that ran from floor to roof in the peak of the trailer. Crossing her arms behind the post she located two brackets with ‘U’ shaped cut-outs and placed her wrists in them as instructed. A second later a bolt closed each wrist restraint and she was helpless, held to the post by her own encircling arms.

The journey in the trailer seemed to take hours.
When Richard had taken her that first time she had no idea where they had gone as she’d spent the journey behind black eye pads, secured with a scarf. It had taken at least two hours then but they had been staying in the country overnight and now she was starting from the city and she could expect to be on the road for up to four hours. Why hadn’t she taken time to pee before she left?
Because she had been told to ‘do it quick and do it now’ and she had run to obey like the slave she was. But now matters were getting urgent. And soon they were getting more than urgent and then they were impossible and burning with shame she let fall a golden flood into the straw between her knees, like the mare she was.

When they arrived at last, her body was stiff from kneeling, her knees sore, and she was just thankful that the jolting and jarring had stopped.
The hatch opened and she turned her head to see a groom enter.
He carried a rope bridle which he fixed about her head and neck before pressing a catch to release her wrists from the post.
Her relief was short lived as he drew her hands behind her back and secured them there with fetters.

“Come on girl.”
Pulling on her bridle he led her from the box and across the yard into the stable she had seen on her previous visit.
He drew her into a stall and tied her bridle to a ring by the manger.

“Please. I’ve been on the road for hours. I have to go to the bathroom.”

The groom unclipped the crop he carried at his belt and struck her hard across the top of her bare thighs, twice.
She screamed at each cut.

“The first lesson you’ll have to learn is that mares don’t talk. If you’re asked a direct question you can nod or shake your head but otherwise you stay schtumm. Forget that and you’ll not only get my crop but I’ll bit and gag you too.
If you’ve got anything to do you do it in the straw like mares do.
You’ll get your stall mucked out regularly enough, but for your own comfort I suggest you use the corner furthest from where you’ll be fed and where you’ll sleep.
Sort yourself out.
I’ll be back in ten minutes with a feed.”

There wasn’t much point in holding out, she reasoned. He obviously meant just what he said, and the way she’d been treated, or rather neglected, in the box confirmed it.
No way was she going to plead with him.
She didn’t want a repeat of the agony in her thighs.
The twin tracks across their sensitive fronts throbbed and smarted and she drew in her breath at the twinge of pain when she moved her legs to cross the stall.

She felt her humiliation wash over her like a hot wave as she dropped the content of her bursting bowel onto the straw.
But her degradation was not over.
How could she clean herself with her wrists cuffed?
She soon learned the answer to that one when her groom returned with her feed, which he put on the shelf where a manger would usually be.

“Good girl. You’re learning. I’ll clean your arse for you when I muck you out after your feed.
Get on with it then and make sure it’s all eaten.
Your diet will be carefully calculated while you’re in training and I don’t want any wasted.”

The feeding shelf ran at about the height of her breasts and on it, set in wire holders which prevented them being knocked off, were two large bowls.
In one was what looked like a hot bran mash and in the other horse pellets.
She would have tackled them with energy if that was indeed what they were but she found to her surprise that the ‘bran mash’ was in fact a very pleasant puree that she guessed contained liver, lentils and gravy, while the other bowl, though it did contain some unidentifiable ‘nuts’ of some sort, also held cubes of chopped carrot, turnip and hard cabbage. Clearly someone had designed a diet for her that was going to keep her fit to race.
The only drawback was that her arms were secured and she had to endure further humiliation as she buried her mouth in the bowls to lift the food with her lips and tongue, smearing her face, and the make-up she had ill-advisedly put on that morning, in the process, and turning her long loose hair into a matted, greasy draggle.

In the corner she found a drinking bowl where, by pressing her mouth against a flap in the bottom, she could get fresh water whenever she wanted.
At least she wouldn’t go thirsty although she found she could do little to clear her sticky face.

Her groom returned and removed the bowls with an approving comment on how well she’d eaten.
Then he ‘mucked out’ her embarrassing droppings, putting down fresh straw in the corner.

“Now girl, let’s get you straightened up for evening ‘Stables’. The Boss will be along soon to see you bedded down for the night.
Stand, girl, while I wash you down.”

So saying he took a large sponge and began to wash her face with icy water from a bucket.

“Hold still, lass, or you’ll feel my crop across your crupper.
Now legs apart as far as they’ll go and lean forward and I’ll clean this shitty arse of yours.
That’s better, now lift each hoof and you’ll be washed all over.”

For a man of such rough appearance and coarse speech, he was surprisingly gentle with her, though she shied at first from his hands on her breasts and vulva, but stood her ground when he growled at her to ‘Stand’, and her humiliation was intense when she was made to bend and submit to having her soiled anus washed with the cold sponge. Still at least she was clean now - until the next time.

He oiled her feet, dried her with a rough towel and ran a comb through her long, wavy dark mane which he plaited loosely and tied with a thin leather thong.
She realised that his gentleness and skills were just what such a man would use on a mare and that was how he saw her, not as a woman.
No doubt his ways with women were rough and uncouth.
She hoped she never had to find out the hard way.

Fed and watered, washed and groomed, she stood in the deep clean straw.
She did not have to wait long before the groom got to his feet and touched his brow.

“Good evening Mr. Morgan, Sir. All present and correct as you ordered, and awaiting inspection.”

“Thank you, Robert.
Did you have any trouble with her?”

“Not really.
Had to give her a couple of touches so that she understood that mares don’t talk, but she’s been good as gold since then and beginning to find her feet I think.
Ate all her feed and stood well to be washed and groomed. This one will train well, I think.”

Morgan stepped into the stall and ran his hands over her body.
He took her shoulders from behind and pressed her back muscles with his thumbs, came round to the front and tested her deltoids.
He weighed her breasts and, when her nipples hardened under his touch, squeezed the turgid nubs between finger and thumb until she writhed and groaned but she did not pull away and kept her gaze straight ahead of her.

Taking her face in both hands, he pulled open her mouth and looked inside.
He thumbed back her eyelids and ran his fingers through her hair and behind her ears.