Madeleine (17 page)

His hands ran down her sides from armpit to hip, gripping folds of skin along the way and then she gasped and folded as his fist drove hard into her belly.
Panting, she fought her way upright and stood once more open to his inspection.

His hands moved to her buttocks where they shaped and squeezed the firm rounds before his thumbs parted the cheeks to expose the puckered brown anus. A forefinger traced the outline of the delicate rose, before plunging though the sphincter up to the knuckle in one swift motion.

She rose on her toes momentarily, with a quick cry of pain and shock, but rallied at once, and sank back onto her heels and stood impassively as he moved the finger in her rectum.

With a grunt of approval, he transferred his attentions to the front, running his fingers through the tight, glossy curls of her dark bush, and then those fingers were parting her labia and testing the soft inner lips.
She blushed as she realised that she was wet and his searching fingertips were now coated with her juice.
He seemed pleased with his discovery, and in no hurry to move on, one hand stroking her rump as if gentling a nervous mare, the other sliding wetly over her swollen clitoris.
Did mares have clits, she wondered?

When her body began to respond with little spasms and heightened breathing, presaging an orgasm, he stopped, leaving her unsatisfied, and ran his hands down her fine legs, with their firm straight thighs, and gently curving calves.

“Up, Girl.” and obediently she raised each foot in turn to be minutely inspected. Each toe separated and flexed, each instep squeezed, each ankle articulated, each sole gently massaged and tested for sensitivity.

“And what do you think of her build, Bob?
Will she make a racer?”

“Yeah.
Good legs and haunches, real thoroughbred I’d say.
And a fine chest on her.
See how it pushes her tits out, good lungs under those boobs.
She’s not in bad condition now and a week or two’s hard work will bring her on nicely. She’s got spirit too, I can tell.
Her stillness isn’t because she’s cowed.
I’d say it’s because she wants to be here and be worked.”

“You’re right there, Bob.
Thoroughbred and willing.
Put her down for the night now, and in the morning, hitch her up and give her as much road work as you think wise, and let’s see what she’s made of. I’ll probably drop in on you some time to see how she’s making out, and we can decide on her training schedule. I had her brought down now, when we’ve nothing booked for a few weeks, so that you can give her your full attention before we have a stable full again. ‘night Bob.”

“G’night, Sir.”

Bob slapped her bottom almost affectionately.

“Settle down now, lass.
Corner by the manger would be best.
I’ve left you a good pile of straw there and you can wrap up in your blanket.
There’s more straw in the other corner too, when you need to pee or make droppings.”

She would have slept from the moment he closed and bolted the loose box door, she was so exhausted, if she’d let her need overcome her embarrassment and used the other pile of straw at once.
As it was she struggled to control her bladder for an hour or more, despite the hopelessness of the attempt, and its inevitable failure.
Once she had given in and squatted in the corner, her tired body took over and she was asleep in minutes.

Morning brought Bob again with breakfast, or should that be morning feed now?
Another kind of cereal ‘nuts’, this time with milk and sugar in the bowl.
The momentary pleasure was soon dispelled by the order to ‘make droppings’.
At first she couldn’t do it.
Her body rebelled at the humiliation, but humiliation will always eventually give way to pain and fear, as Bob proved with his crop.
When she finally squatted successfully, her stretched rump burned with six scarlet bars outshining the now fading warning against talking she had received the night before.

Her morning motion passed, the humiliation was renewed when the sponge was again applied to her anus to make all clean.

He fitted her with a bridle and secured her arms behind her, wrist to elbow, in a leather ‘muff’, fitted with elbow straps at each end.
Leaving her tethered to a ring outside her box, he mucked out and laid fresh straw.

In the covered area at the end of the row of boxes, stood one of the light buggies she’d met on her previous visit, and she was soon fitted with waist strap and harnessed to the shafts, her head pulled back by the inevitable thong woven into her hair.
Bob took his seat and they moved off, through the yard and onto the track.
Remembering her previous appearance there, she moved with a lively, high stepping gait, and circled the track a couple of times at a moderate pace.
Bob did not force her, and seemed content to let her set her own pace, while he sized up her possibilities.
At length he gave what sounded like a satisfied “Humpff” and shook the reins at her, touching her lightly with his switch, not enough to hurt, just a sting to get her attention.

“Geddup there, gal.
Let’s see what sort of a goer you are.”

She responded willingly, though her soft feet were beginning to feel the effects of the abrasive track, and struck out at her best trotting pace, throwing her weight against the buggy with its passenger, making a fast circuit, then another, and another.
By the fourth she was beginning to ‘blow’, but her driver kept her at it with more compelling cuts of the whip than the touches he’d used to start her and between pride and pain she kept up the pace.
Two more laps, and he pulled her up, panting and sweating, her back and buttocks crossed by a score of bright red lines that throbbed and stung.

“Not bad for a first outing,” her driver commented. “You’ve a long way to go, and I’ll see that you do, but you’ve got the right idea, and good meat to go with it.
We’ll make a racer of you yet.”

“Mind you,” he added, “don’t think its all going to be as easy as this morning. This afternoon we’ll go out on the road and start to build up some mileage to harden you up, as well as the sprint work you’ll be getting.”

Back in the stables she was rubbed down and given her mid-day feed.
Before putting out her bowls, Bob took care of her feet, lifting them in turn to inspect them minutely and then, when he had washed then carefully, applying a strong caustic.
At first it only tingled, warmly but then, as it penetrated into the myriad tiny cuts and abrasions left by the track, it burnt like liquid fire.
She hissed and writhed, she would have stamped her feet on the straw if he hadn’t growled at her to stand still.
As it was, she shifted her weight from foot to foot and stood, her chin still tied back at this stage, her arms behind her back, and fretted her bent knees together until the burn in her feet began to ease.

She was to get to know this treatment well over the coming days and weeks.
It was designed to harden her feet to withstand the rigours of the track, and Madeleine suspected that the strapping blonde ‘mare’, who’d defeated her twice that week-end, had the benefit of the toughening process, and could keep up her stride better as a result.
Every time she completed an exercise session, the powerful caustic was applied and, after the first few days the results began apparent.

That first afternoon she began to realise something of the extent of the enclosed estate around the house and stables.
Bob drove her for what seemed like miles, on tarmac roads, along grassy rides through the woods and, excruciatingly, back up a long, long, gravel drive which seemed to cut her feet to ribbons, and reduced her to a hobble interspersed with bursts of trotting as Bob slashed at her unprotected haunches with his wicked little whip.
It was a very distressed mare that was finally unharnessed and allowed to stand for a moment, head down, breathing still laboured, feet on fire with soreness and body stiff and aching.

Though he had driven her hard, indeed almost to collapse, it had been to test her mettle, not out of any disregard for her well-being, and she found that the care and attention she received afterwards almost made up for the harshness on the road.
Besides, that was what she was seeking when she had inveigled her way into this training.

Though day by day she was driven harder and longer, further and faster, she basked in a feeling of contentment at what she was achieving, at being cared for, however roughly, but above all, at being controlled.
She was pleased with her body, which was growing fitter and stronger every day.
The only worm in this apple of content, she didn’t count the pain and humiliations she suffered - they were part of the package, was the rising sexual tension which her mounting fitness nourished to unbearable heights.
Her strict regime, and the cuffs she wore, made it impossible for her to assuage.

Bob was not unaware of this seething pressure in her belly, the evidence was plain to see every time he groomed her, the turgid nipples, the erect little stub of her clitoris peeping from between her labia, and on those same labia, and sometimes extending well down the inside of her thighs, the sticky secretions of her hungry vagina.

He pointed out the vital signs to Morgan on one of the latter’s regular visits to inspect her progress.

“What do you think then, Bob?
Healthy sign I would have thought.”

“Yes, Sir.
She’s in fine fettle, and it shows in her juices.
I’d advise we don’t let her waste her energy by masturbation, or any other sexual release.
Keep her keyed up and she be even sharper.”

“Reckon you’re right, Bob.
OK, then.
Make sure she can’t get her hands on her clit, and keep her keen.”

Madeleine groaned, although she’d had small hope that they would let her relieve her frustrations.
What she feared was that her restraints might be tightened even further.

“Very well, Sir.
She’s cuffed already, of course, but just to be sure, I’ll strap her knees as well, in case she gets ideas of rubbing herself off on a post, or her bedding.”

Madeleine groaned even more deeply.
With her knees strapped she’d not only suffer considerable discomfort, but it would be impossible to avoid soiling herself when, as was inevitable, she voided her bowels and her bladder on the straw.
Another increment notched up in her humiliation and helplessness.

As her training progressed, she did less road work, and more laps of the track.
Morgan now came regularly to watch her progress, stop-watch in hand, or took the reins and whip himself while Bob measured her progress against the clock.
Her times were still improving, but she’d broken the two minute barrier, which they seemed to think significant and very satisfactory, and now they were putting her through two, four and even six lap bursts.

With the increasing length, she still sweated and blew, but her feet didn’t trouble her anything like as much as when she started.
The daily applications of caustic seemed to have done their work; she had grown leathery soles to the underside of her toes, and the balls of her feet.
During her second week of training they had ‘livened her up’ in the same way as her imperious female driver had prepared her for the second heat.
She had to bend while they forced burning caustic mixture between her rear cheeks and past her sphincter, making her dance and writhe.
As she stood, legs splayed, bent uncomfortably from the waist, with her wrists cuffed behind her, and her head pulled painfully back by the thong in her hair, she hoped fervently that the caustic they were so enthusiastically thumbing into her recoiling anus hadn’t the same properties as that they applied to toughen her feet, or her little crinkled dimple would become more like the wrinkled shell of a walnut than a folded rosebud.
That could prove awkward when she returned to her former life.
Most of the men that bought her seemed, inevitably, to think only of buggery once they had her bare, bent, beaten buttocks before them.

But for now her concern was her performance on the track, and her demanding trainers kept her at it twice, sometimes three times a day, extending her number of laps, occasionally interspersing her longer runs with fierce sprints over one lap only, and all the while checking her times as she pounded, sweating and panting round the course, the whip urging her on, the burning suppository making her prance in the required fashion, while her neck ached, her scalp got sorer, and her legs felt as if they would drop off.

By the end of the second week they seemed satisfied that her performance was approaching a plateau, beyond which improvement could be only slow and very limited.
One morning, after Bob had put her through the usual routine of feeding, evacuation, cleansing and grooming, she found herself standing in her harness, without being taken out to be hitched to the buggy in the usual way.

“Stand quiet there, girl,” Bob commanded, “the Master will be here in a minute, and he’s got something to say to you.”

She stood submissively enough, but felt a certain apprehension as to what the unusual departure from routine might mean.
She was not kept waiting long.