Even Ponygirls Sometimes Get The Blues

DOUBLE HARNESSING

There was one thing all ponygirls hated, that was being harnessed-up twice in the same day. Two sessions of strapping, binding, locking and being threaded with reins; two sets of cleaning, and two sets of routine punishments. It was enough to take the spring out of a ponygirl’s stride, except that she dared not, for fear of further punishment.

Late in the afternoon, and long after the disastrous cross-country race had finished, Jessica and Debbie were relaxing in the pony quarters. Having already bathed, they sat in unashamed nakedness at the large table, polishing their leather harnesses and boots and chatting about the events of the day; the escaped ponygirl, theirs and Kate’s subsequent, totally unjustified, punishment.

They heard the call on the tannoy, “Ten minutes to harness!” Both cursed loudly.

The Masters had decided to organize a posse to round up Cavallo’s missing ponygirl. Every available ponygirl was required for duty, buckled and clipped to the shafts of their traps. Soon three pairs of Rabbit Island ponygirls were trotting away from the Lodge to the far corners of the island.

Somehow, despite their tiredness, Jessica and Debbie managed to pull their trap with their usual well-drilled and highly regulated trot. It helped that their bodies were controlled not by their own minds but by Riccardo, their driver. With his expert use of the reins and judicious application of the whipper he knew how to squeeze every last drop of effort from them. Never was the sporting cliché of giving 110% more apt.

Jessica’s leather-bound body was aching as she puffed her way up another long slope. Any slacking on her part would bring punishment, not just for her but equally to Debbie, harnessed at her left hand side. Jessica’s teeth clamped down hard onto the bridle’s rubber bit as the whipper continued its stinging assault on her red-raw buttocks.

Alongside Riccardo sat Vince, rifle in hand, his eagle-eyes scanning the horizon in search of his prey. He cared little for the view six feet ahead of him, Jessica and Debbie’s delectable strapped up bodies. After two years on Rabbit Island the sight had become over-familiar.

Vince would just as soon be riding an all-terrain quad bike, while Riccardo much preferred the eco-friendly alternative. He was happy to have left the ugly roar of engines behind him for the gentle rhythm sound of bells on the ponygirls’ boots. To him, that epitomized Rabbit Island.

He liked how his ponygirls puffed and panted and strained every sinew for him. Even though the ponygirls endured the strict bondage of their harnesses and received the constant attention of the whip, it still felt like he and the ponies were a team, loyal and committed, sharing success and failure alike.

Sometimes, particularly when he was the only rider on the pony-trap’s bench seat it seemed that Jessica and Debbie actually enjoyed their running; driven on, not just his whipping but by their own need to expend their pent-up energy. (Dr. Schmidt’s steroid and stimulant regime had much to do with that.) But at this moment it was very different, pulling two men and a heavily laden trap at the end of a long day. Jessica and Debbie wouldn’t be making any progress without Riccardo’s insistent driving. There was no willingness on their part, but neither was there any rebellion. Riccardo whipped, and somehow they responded, even though at that moment they hated him for his cruelty.

Things improved as they descended the winding trail leading to one of the beach cabins. The whipping finally ceased.as they coasted home, halting when the gravel trail turned abruptly to beach sand. Jessica and Debbie were trying to get their breath back, panting and groaning, bending forward as much as their connecting straps permitted.

The ponygirls had mixed feelings about what Riccardo did next. He unlocked the small padlocks attaching the reins to their nipple rings, and began to unthread them from the steel rings in their labia. They were staying a while, that much was obvious, and the sights and sounds of other people intimated that some were staying the night.

Clipping a chain to Jessica’s left and Debbie’s right nipple rings Riccardo led his ponygirls onto the beach. It was hard to walk in the sand wearing their thick heel-less pony-boots, so their progress was cautious and stumbling. They rounded the wooden cabin where Jessica had lived when she first came to the island.

Four other ponygirls were already corraled around a palm tree; joined by a thin chain that passed loosely through each of their nipple rings. Jessica and Debbie joined their erotic chain gang, gratefully falling to their knees amongst the exposed roots of the palm. Nods and grunts passed between them. A bit-gag doesn’t actually do much to prevent conversation, but it wasn’t permitted, as as a matter of habit they seldom bothered, knowing they could talk freely back at the pony quarters. For now they were glad to sit down and rest their tired legs.

Jessica gazed out at the warm blue sea; so inviting, the shish sound of the tide on the sand bringing back pleasant memories. She became nostalgic for those first few months on the island, when she was called a bunny; a general-purpose sex-slave and plaything. When she wasn’t required at the Lodge the so-called bunnies spent their days by themselves in the demi-paradise of this beach. They lived with hands behind them in handcuffs, and a chain connecting the cuffs to the back of a leather collar. Despite the muscle aching and sheer inconvenience of the semi-permanent bondage, that era still seemed like luxury. It was amazing, the fun that she and seven other chained girls could have when left to their own devices. Jessica learned a lot!

While the ponygirls rested, some falling asleep on top of others, activities continued around the beach cabin. A large fire was lit, and food prepared. Hunter’s Rabbit was the appropriate supper dish, everything sourced locally. Pussygirl Kate skinned the rabbits while pussygirl Lucy prepared the tomatoes, mushrooms and onions.

Both pussygirls wielded sharp kitchen knives, glinting in the late afternoon sun as they cut and chopped. It scarcely occured to them the knives could be used against their captors. There were just too many men, and most of them carried firearms; so there could only be one outcome of a pussygirl rebellion. It wouldn’t happen; they knew it and the men knew it.

The was a murmur of excitement as the news spread. Even the chained ring of ponygirls had picked up on it The missing ponygirl’s tail had been found nearby. Spots of blood had laid a trail that some hunters were currently following. They were optimistic that the escapee would soon be recaptured, trussed up in a suitably humiliating fashion, to become the focal point of the evening’s festivities. It wouldn’t just be a punishment for the escapee but would serve as a strong warning for the other ponygirls.

Darkness fell quickly, as it always did in these tropical climes. The hunters returned empty-handed and mystified. The trail of blood and her hoof prints led to the water’s edge then disappeared as if she had swam off. Despite their scouring of the coast, no further sign could be found.

The dejected hunters set to work on the six ponygirls, unlocking their circle and arranging them side-by-side. They were made to kneel, bent over a primitive low wooden bench on which their bellies rested. Pony-booted ankles were lashed to the ankles of the pony either side of her, keeping knees well apart. Their tails, still firmly plugged in their asses brushed the sand between their knees. The chain threaded through all their nipple rings was still connecting them, obliging each to stay leaning forward, least she tug on her neighbors. Jessica found the clinking, jarring movements as the small chain links passed through her nipple rings both comforting and stimulating, knowing that her sister ponygirls were the cause of the sensation. It’s good to feel... connected.

Supper was served by the light of flaming torches and several small fires. Kate and Lucy performed their waitress functions diligently, trying not to attract attention to themselves. Pretty and blonde, and the only females that weren’t bound up, it was an impossible task. Ten irritable and frustrated men ate their food, disappointed not to have captured the runaway ponygirl. On Rabbit Island there was always a woman to take out your frustrations on. Kate and Lucy, in their sexy white corset dresses, whilst serving the food, were beginning to attract lingering and lustful glances.

A distraction came when people were spotted approaching along the beach; half a dozen dark silhouettes shuffling through the sand.

“That must be dessert.” One of the men joked.

He was right, in a way. Erik, the Lodge’s slave coordinator, arrived with five naked females in tow. Each had her wrists locked behind her. A long chain to their side connected them, keeping them in an orderly line. Each woman wore a small backpack, which contained the implements of her upcoming torments.

“Did someone order five bunnies?” Erik enquired, feigning innocence.

“Mine’s the pepperoni!” Vince joked.

“Everything you need is in their back packs,” Erik explained. “A hammer and wooden stakes, clothespins, beanbags, clamps, whips, various gags, vibrators, plugs, lubricant, and lots of rope.”

He started removing the chains from his naked slaves, whilst others were already opening the backpacks, disgorging their contents onto the sand with the eagerness of kids at Christmas.

Kate and Lucy cleared away the plastic plates and cutlery, glancing across to where the newly arrived bunnies were being divested of the chains and backpacks. Each found herself in the strong grip of a man. One cuff was removed from a wrist, the backpack slipped off her shoulders, then the cuff was clicked down on her wrist again.

The bunnies were never given a moment’s freedom from bondage. It was a badge of honor to be considered a security risk; unlike the pussygirls, who had relinquished all self-respect in consorting with their captors. Weak-willed, treacherous blondes! Kate couldn’t argue with her former friends’ assessment, she felt guilty about it. However, always the pragmatist, she was happy with her role as a pussygirl and especially happy with her nursing responsibilities.

Two men were at work in a flat area of sand. The heavy clop of mallets against wooden stakes sounded like a row of tents were being laid out. To the long-suffering bunnies, that familiar sound had a different meaning; it signified they would soon be feeling the strain of outstretched limbs.

One by one the five naked bunnies were uncuffed and rearranged on the sand. First up was Rachel, the leggy, blonde Texan. Vince and another man knotted ropes around each slim wrist and ankle. Then, with a man escorting her at each elbow, she was led to the campsite-that-wasn’t.

“You know the routine, babe.” Vince said.

Rachel dropped sullenly to the sand within a rectangle of wooden stakes. Without prompting, she laid back and pointed her hands and feet towards the four corners, stretching her fingers to within six inches of the stakes. Vince and Tony fixed Rachel’s limbs to the four stakes; first tying her wrists, then pulling a leg each, towards its respective stake, hauling on the rope as if securing cargo, to leave Rachel as taut as a bowstring and struggling for breath within her flattened rib cage.

The unfairness of her treatment over the last week was eating into her soul. Why couldn’t they just treat her like the other bunnies, she lamented. If only she could be treated like an ordinary bunny it wouldn’t be so bad.

Three other bunnies soon joined Rachel and Karen in the sand. Those on either side of Rachel were fixed on the opposite direction, so their ankles tied to the same stakes as Rachel’s wrists.

Being spread-eagled between four points was not enough for what the men had in mind. Additional ropes were tied between the adjacent elbows and knees of neighboring bunnies. Any movement or struggle by one would transmit to her neighbors.

Rachel was grinding her ass into the coarse sand, unable to keep from writhing, as she acclimatized to her stretched-out limbs. There was something primeval and animalistic about being tied like this, like an insect trapped in a giant spider’s web.

In common with other residents on Rabbit Island, Rachel had a predilection for bondage and masochism long before her arrival, in fact for all her sexually-active life. Her husband, a crook masquerading as a businessman, didn’t share her tastes. He wanted a beautiful blonde trophy wife. She wanted a man to call Master; she wanted to be lashed to the bedposts and brutally taken; she wanted a leather collar. He thought she was sick in the head and resolved to be rid of her. It came as a pleasant surprise to discover how easy it was to exchange her for $150,000 in negotiable bonds. The kidnappers took care of everything after just one phone call! As the buyer requested he prepared a list of her sexual preferences (or perversions as he saw them).

Though Rachel was a slave, to be used for the gratification of others, the Rabbit Island administration ensured that a woman’s own needs (as detailed on Rachel’s list) would not be neglected. On Rabbit Island it’s amazing how often the latter coincides with the former.

Standing at the far end of the row of spread-eagled bunnies, a player lobbed his first beanbag. It traveled the full length of the pitch, and landed heavily onto Rachel’s belly. She squealed at the shock of the impact, its suddenness was far worse than the pain. The blindfold was an unnecessary cruelty. Butt unnecessary cruelties are much more fun than necessary cruelties!

Further throws followed as each player tried for a full-house - a beanbag on each of five nervous straining bellies. Once all the beanbags were thrown the players move between the bunnies, inspecting the positions. If you’ve landed on a bunny then you’re entitled to clip a clothespin onto one of her nipples.

The players moved to the other end of the row and threw again with the same objective. It resulted in clothespins being attached onto the bunny’s other nipple.

Rachel’s swollen nipples each sported a clothespin, ready for the second (and much harsher) part of the game. This time a player has to dislodge his opponent’s clothespins for the bunnies’ nipples by aiming the beanbag straight at the breast. Unlike the careful underarm lobs employed in the first stage of the game, this dislodging stage required a much more vigorous technique.

Rachel yelped as she felt a sudden and painful hit of a beanbag on the side of her breast. It missed the clothespin completely. That was bad news, as she would have to endure another attempt.

The next throw was a hit, sending the clothespin flying off another bunny’s nipple, clicking in the air. The bunny cried out with pain while the thrower gave a juvenile whoop of triumph.

For the likes of Rachel, blindfolded, nipples clamped with clothespins and stretched out on the sand, it wasn’t such a bad way of spending a couple of hours.

KATE’S EMBARRASSMENT

While further games of bunny bags took place, the non-players continued drinking beer and enjoying the view, not of the setting sun over a tropical blue sea, but of the ponygirls, six of them kneeling in a row, with their bellies resting across a low wooden bench. Riccardo attended to the campfire, toasting marshmallows, heating up the brands and regaling the visitors with interesting tales of Rabbit Island life.

“The ponies are getting restless,” someone observed. That much was true. They’d been worked hard all day, and were distressed (actually very annoyed!) to find themselves still in harness and a long way from the comfort of their pony quarters.

The row of muscular yet still feminine asses, each accessorized with their pony tail-plugs, was exercising the thoughts of several men.

“Riccardo. These ponygirls...” An Australian visitor commented, pointing towards them with a beer-bottle wielding hand, “Is it right, we’re not allowed to fuck ‘em?”

“That’s right. Not just the visitors, the same applies to all the staff. When they’re not dressed as ponies, the girls are fair game, but never when in harness. They live by rules and discipline, we don’t want to confuse the poor things, do we?”

Riccardo made the men laugh, just as he intended, though the interest of a couple of men was more physical than intellectual. That wasn’t surprising, the visual eroticism of the ponygirls was expressly designed to stimulate their desire, whilst the don’t-fuck-the-ponygirls rule ensured that there was always a sexual tension as befitted such a place as Rabbit Island.

“And what about you Riccardo? You mean you’ve never dipped into them when they’re all strapped up?” the Australian asked.

Riccardo’s pride was unmistakeable. Kate listened intently, almost jealously, as she kept a watch on the foil-covered baked potatoes in the fire. Riccardo’s descriptions made the ponygirl sound like a noble calling, unlike her own role, as a semi-consensual slut with a sideline in nursing.

“I remember you, blondie,” said the Australian. It took a moment before Kate realized he was talking to her; all pussygirls were blonde. Kate looked up from the fire into his blue eyes. Yes, it was definitely her he was talking to. Remembered her from where, she wondered? She’d hardly managed to keep a low profile in the last week. Everything she did seem to attract attention, usually of the wrong kind.

“It was that game where you had to wear the strap-on dildo,” he explained.

Kate wilted with embarrassment. Why did people have to constantly mention that!

“Yeah, that’s right. You had your hands tied behind your back and had to use the strap-on dildo on the row of girls who were bent over a rail.”

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Kate, as if she had almost forgotten one of the most embarrassing moments of her life.

“You can to redeem yourself tonight,” the Aussie guest said, with a gesture towards the conveniently presented asses of the ponygirls. He looked over towards Riccardo for approval.

Riccardo gave a latin shrug. He wasn’t aware the pussygirls were forbidden for interfering with the ponygirls. Men yes, but not pussygirls. Besides, it may provide a little amusement for the guests. They pay a lot of money to be here, after all. He consulted with Frank, who was normally a stickler for rules, and he was in favor. Before Kate knew what was happening, somebody had retrieved a strap-on dildo harness.

“Strip, bitch!” commanded Frank.

Pussygirl Lucy helped to unlace the back of Kate’s dress.

Refusal was not an option for Kate. She’d be slapped in permanent cuffs, severely punished, and dispatched to the cells in an instant. Her white dress fell slipped down her slim and tanned frame to the sand, leaving her clad in white stockings and basque, the lick of flame from the camp fire providing a seductive red and gold illumination.

Frank handed Lucy the dildo harness to be fitted around Kate’s belly. She fixed the black straps tightly around her colleague’s waist, pulling the retaining strap up between her legs, pulling tightly up the crack between Kate’s buttocks, then buckled it in the small of Kate’s back. The men meanwhile were chuckling into their beer. It was difficult to imagine a less butch woman than Kate. Nor could they imagine anyone who could look so cute with a nine inch erection protruding from her sex. “Now that’s what I call penis envy!” the Aussie joked.

Kate’s eyes flicked nervously between the men, looking for an ally. “You want me to...”

“Yep. Take your pick. You’ve six ponygirls to choose from.”

“No. Wait!” Riccardo interjected, holding up a pack of playing cards. “Let’s make this more interesting. We can each draw a card in turn. If it’s between an ace and a six, then that determines which ponygirl gets kate’s attention. The cute-ass on at the far left is the ace. Then two, there, four and so on, he said pointing a finger at each ponygirl.

“If the card drawn is red, pussygirl kate has to fuck her with the dildo. If it is a black card she spanks her. Oh, and I’m also putting some forfeit cards in the deck, just for a little fun. If you draw one of those you must do what the card says. Gentlemen. Does everyone agree?”

They cheerfully assented, chuckling and clapping their hands at the possibilities. Riccardo quickly scrawled some forfeits on a few of the cards and shuffled the deck.

He handed the deck to one of the visitors. The man turned it over and gleefully showed the card to the others. “Three of Spades!”

“OK, kate. that’s ten hits of the paddle for ponygirl debbie.” Riccardo instructed. “Off you go!”

Debbie was gasping even before the first slap. Kneeling with her ankles lashed to Jessica on one side and Diana on the other, she could do nothing to avoid Kate’s surprisingly hard strokes. The rubber bit between her teeth couldn’t silence Debbie’s angry expletives. Riccardo made a mental note to punish her ‘vocalizing’ in the morning.

The next visitor drew a card. He was the young man who’d worked on Kate in the Torture Garden. She recognized him. He was a good looking guy she thought at the time, with his neatly cut fair hair, and a nice intelligent face.

He seemed shocked. After cajoling from the other men, he read the card out loud. “Kneel down. Someone will tie your hands. You will suck somebody’s cock.”

He threw down the card, and managed a smile, even though horrified by the prospect of his impending humiliation. He knelt, and allowed his hands to be bound with a short length of leather cord. It was a derisory, escapable tie compared to the strict bondage inflicted on the bunnies. Men are such wimps, Kate thought, what’s the big deal about having your hands tied and giving someone a blow-job?

“So! Who’s it to be?” he asked nervously, waiting for one of his male companions to stand up.

Kate stepped towards him, her virile strapped-on erection leading the way. The man looked up at the vision coming towards him, dressed only in her white stockings and a sexy basque. Even her inelegant shuffle through the sand didn’t detract from the beguiling image.

“Open wide!” Kate teased, as the head of her cock bobbed towards his nervously licking lips. She liked this; a good-looking guy kneeling in the sand in front of her. It was unusual, this role reversal. She felt a delicious rush of power, particularly on noticing the nervous gulp in his throat as he gazed up at her with a mixture of adoration and fear.

Just a couple of days earlier this same man had delighted in tormenting Kate’s strung-up body in the Torture Garden. Now he adoration took an entirely different form. When his lips encircled the dildo, Kate pulled the back of his head onto it. He coughed as it struck the back of his throat.

“Suck it hard boy!” Kate commanded, before realizing her performance was putting her on dangerous ground. The base of the dildo banged insistently against her sex as the man showed a surprising degree of passion. His lips pushed hopelessly towards the unattainable goal - her sweet, shaved pussy.

Another card was drawn the pack, even while Kate’s reverse fellatio continued.

“The four of hearts,” the man announced, holding up the card for all to see. It was exactly what the men were waiting for, the reason for Kate’s strap-on dildo.

“Kate!” Riccardo said, calling her performance to the end. “Number four. Fuck her!”

Kate turned around to face the row of ponygirls’ asses and counted along from the left. Melinda, Diana, Debbie...Jessica!

Riccardo beamed. This would be fun, he thought. “Well, get on with it, kate!” He called out impatiently as the pussygirl studied her best friend’s harnessed-up body, planning her assault.

Jessica’s ass swayed and circled as Kate approached. She knelt down in the V created by Jessica’s kneeling legs, and prepared to impale her. Always a secret admirer of ponygirl harnessing, Kate ran her hands over Jessica’s body, her fingertips slipping beneath the straps and Jessica’s hot skin. The ponygirl’s hands, strapped, buckled and locked fast to the waist belt behind her, formed into useless fists by the laced up suede covers, were a particular fascination for Kate. They made a good gripping point as well, like the horn of a saddle. Kate leant fully forward so her body was in contact with Jessica’s.

“Um, sorry about this Jessi,” Kate whispered into her friend’s ear. Jessica nodded, just like ponies do, and made a sound from behind her rubber bit. Giving consent perhaps?

Kate dug her fingernails into Jessica’s buttocks, knowing how she liked it. She clawed harder, almost viciously, as if trying to draw blood. Her hands explored further, found Jessica’s breasts and squeezed with the same claw-like action. Jessica moaned; then moaned louder as Kate’s fingers played with the nipple rings. Kate pulled hard on the chain threaded through them, forgetting that it was also threaded through the neighboring ponygirls’ nipples. A chorus of irritation went up around her, much to the amusement of the rapt audience of men behind her.

Jessica wanted it, Kate was sure of that. She pulled her hips back, lifted Jessica’s tale with one hand, held the dildo with the other, then thrust it fully into Jessica’s sex. The ponygirl yelled into her bit as the top of the dildo contacted with her cervix. With her ankles tied to the ponygirl on either side of her and her nipple rings threaded with a securing chain, Jessica was powerless to resist being raped by her best friend. Her only mercy was facing into the darkness of the forest, the leather blinkers on her eyes providing a physical and emotional privacy. She could feel Kate’s warm body on her back and kisses on her shoulder and sensed her passion.

Jessica fought against her straps, frustrated that with her hands bound closed into fists, she could not even return Kate’s affection with so much as a fingertip. All she could offer was a crude and rhythm grunt every time Kate thrusted into her.

Two men suddenly stood up. They could take no more, so they ran over to join the game of bunny bags. Each quickly chose a spread-eagled bunny, dropped their shorts, and fell on top of her. The two players stood back and chuckled at the pitch invasion. Judging by the invaders’ urgency, they sensed their game wouldn’t be held up for very long.

Rachel was one of those two targets, her long cascading blonde hair, spread out on the sand, and her maternal breasts pulling one of the desperate men onto her like a magnet.

For Rachel, who’s predilection for the tug and stretch of a spread-eagle tie, there was something that made it even better still. The man duly obliged, slipping his erection slowly into her, and letting her body take the full weight of his muscular torso. When he thrusted, Rachel’s body was jolted up the sand until it was halted by the bands of rope around her ankles. She was in the middle of a tug-of-war, the man’s penis pushing, her ankles ropes restraining and resisting.

The man ejaculated. Rachel cursed him for coming to soon, leaving her hopelessly worked up, just a dozen thrusts away from her own pleasure. The game of bunny bags continued, with two highly agitated bunnies among the targets.

Kate, meanwhile, thought Jessica was responding well to her love-making, hoping also that all parties would be satisfied with her performance. Someone pulled her backwards; a hand grabbing the back of her belt. “I haven’t made her cum yet,” Kate protested, while Jessica cried out in frustration when she felt the dildo vacating her hot pussy. With her face unseen by the men, Jessica sobbed bitterly at the last-minute denial of her small pleasure.

More cards were drawn and Kate was required to paddle another ponygirl.

Caught in the middle between the victim and the perpetrator, she was trapped and bewildered, becoming her tormentors’ tool and plaything. A protest would only bring punishment more harsh than ponygirls or bunnies were likely to receive. That’s what happens when, on becoming a pussygirl, you sell your soul to the devil. Kate could tell that the ponygirls despised her; perhaps even Jessica did too, and now she despised herself.

Ponygirl Sandra’s buttocks seemed to shift nervously in anticipation, bracing herself for the first strike of the paddle. Kate dutifully delivered the blows, each producing a hollow wop and an equivalent ponygirl bit-mouthed grunt, but by then it was hurting Kate more than the ponygirl.

Another card was drawn. The man read it aloud. “Remove one of the ponygirls’ tail-plugs and lick it!” He fell backwards from his seated position onto the sand, his eyes tightly closed in horror. “No. You can’t be serious!”

“Cheer up. You get to choose which one!” said Riccardo.

The man flicked the card back to Riccardo, stood up and walked purposefully towards the row of ponygirls. Each of the ponies’ knees were spread and secured so their tails sprouted from their asses, dropping straight to the sand. They seemed so natural, like real tails, a impression reinforced by the ponygirls never being seen in public without them.

It was a tough decision, those six rumps, some reddened from the paddle, all seemed to be calling him, but he settled for number two. Diana. He liked the little wiggle of her butt, which was slimmer, and a little more delicate than the other ponies; but would that make it taste any better?

He couldn’t resist running his hands over the soft curves of her buttocks, before gripping the tail hair near the base. He gave a little tug but the tail was as firmly attached to the pony’s body as if it were her own.

Riccardo explained about the tail locking system. “There’s an air valve inside her rectum. You’ll have to deflate that first. Press your thumb on the bulb hidden at the base of the tail.”

The man did as instructed.

“Now pull it out slowly.”

The tail’s plug emerged slowly at first, then suddenly plopped free from between Diana’s trim buttocks. The other men edged closer for a better look. Diana’s fecal matter had never had so much attention.

He held up the butt-plug, three inches long, narrow and ivory in colour except for a smear of her faeces. Not wanting to dwell on it, the visitor gave it a single tentative lick with a look of undisguised disgust writ across his face. Riccardo instructed him to replace it, and still with his face contorted like a gargoyle, he screwed it back into Diana’s ass as if replacing the cork in a wine bottle. He yelled out for a beer, which he thought his bravery richly deserved.

Diana felt the reassuring touch of Bruce, her driver. He’d come over to check her tail was properly inserted. He squeezed the little bulb-pump between thumb and forefinger and shea felt its slow expansion within her rectum as it locked into place. She felt properly dressed again. After giving a paternal slap on her butt Bruce left to return to his beer and the camp fire. Diana swayed her hips and felt the familiar tickle of the ponytail hair brushing against her inner thighs. She liked the sensual feel of it, and even the buttplug itself she really didn’t mind. It’s amazing what a ponygirl can come to accept given the correct training.

Kate was tired of being the instrument of men’s sadism; beating and raping other women, while men laughed, drunk their beer and toasted their marshmallows. Being a figure of ridicule was worse than being sexually used. Her angry glare at them, hands on hips and obscenely large dildo pointing forward, merely amused them further. She glanced across to the five bunnies spread-eagled on the sand, and envied them. At least they still had some dignity!

Her ordeal ended when Doctor Schmidt, her boss, arrived on the scene. The brands in the fire were hot and ready

RABBIT BRANDING

Jessica believed Master Alex when he told her she would never be branded. When she was tied up in his bedroom for his leisurely bondage sessions, he’d said exactly that on several occasions. Piercings? yes. Tattoos? Yes, though not to large; but NOT the permanence of branding. It now seems he lied, or perhaps was not as influential as he thought, and she hoped, he was.

Vince stood up to address the gathering.

“In accordance with this morning’s committee resolution, all ponygirls on the Island are to be branded to bring them into line with other parts of our association,” he announced. “Now you can witness and participate in the rare spectacle of a complete stable of ponygirls receiving the Rabbit Island brand.”

“No!” Came a shout from one of the ponygirls. The bit in her mouth was no obstacle to basic speech. Protests from the others soon followed together with a token struggle and shake of their heads.

“I didn’t know ponies could speak.” One of the visitors joked.

“They’ll wish they hadn’t!” Bruce replied with a growl.

Melinda and Diana were first to have the small rabbit symbol seared onto the lower part of the left buttock. The acrid smell of seared flesh wafted in the air. It left them subdued and tearful, more than fifty harsh strokes would have done.

Debbie required the weight of a man standing on the back of each calf whilst another gripped her head before she would hold still enough to receive her brand.

Seeing Debbie’s protests and struggles amounting to nothing left Jessica feeling defeated even before the brander had reached her. She felt the bare knees of a man pressing hard against both ears, clamping her head as if in a vice.

“Keep still!” A man yelled, infuriated with Jessica’s last gasp resistance. There was a tense pause as the brand was reheated to its red hot state, with Jessica’s despairing whimper the only sound heard. Then she felt a scalding, searing pain in her left buttock, which turned her whimper to a muffled scream. Though she had suffered countless painful moments on Rabbit Island, no other pain carried with it such significance. Only cattle are branded, she thought, not people! Not women who have any hope or expectation of freedom.

The branding session was soon completed, though the smell of the burning and the cries of the ponygirls seemed to linger in the air. A tot of fine cognac suited the moment perfectly The branding iron was cooled, cleaned and replaced in its teak box, while six kneeling women, trussed in leather, contemplated their new status. For Jessica, Master Alex’s promises were shown to be hollow and worthless. He said that in two years she would be free, and she believed him! The burning of the brand was nothing compared to the despair that had risen within her.

There wasn’t much fun to be had from sobbing self-pitying ponygirls, so the men relocated the few yards along the beach to watch the final of the bunny bags competition.

Any sense of the erotic in a ponygirl is dissipated when one of them has to spend the night in harness. The ponygirls were eventually freed from their kneeling positions, in which they received the brand. They were moved into a circle around the same tree as earlier, and the long chain passing through all their nipple rings had its ends locked together. One small mercy was that their wrists were released from behind their backs, though they remained laced within their suede confines holding them into fists, good for sparring, but nothing else. Their bits and bridles were also removed, then blankets were laid out so the ponygirls could sleep with a degree of comfort. There was a rule stating that ponygirls were to sleep laying flat, hands free and without gags/bits etc. These conditions had thus been met.

Jessica stared forlornly at her nipples, pawing at them with her suede-mitted hands. No longer were they the sensual pleasure receptors of her youth, these had grown large, strong and supple, able to withstand being skewered by a thick metal ring without pain. She wondered how anyone could find such protrusions remotely erotic. For a ponygirl they were regarded primarily as securing and controlling points. That night her chained nipple rings were all that stood between her and freedom, yet it was enough.

The band-aid Master Alex put on her breast yesterday was starting to itch. She pawed at it with her suede-bound fist trying without success to dislodge it.

“You want me to take it off?” Debbie asked.

“Please, Debs.”

Debbie’s hands were no more able to remove the band-aid than Jessica’s. Smiling coyly, Debbie leant forward and placed her mouth over the band-aid. WIth her mouth wide open but clamped to Jessica’s breast like a limpit Debbie’s teeth gradually found a purchase into Jessica’s breast flesh. After much biting, her teeth were beneath the edge of the band-aid. Gripping an edge between her teeth Debbie pulled, taking pleasure in ripping of the band-aid. The simple pleasures of life never change, such as ripping off somebody elses band-aid!

“It’s an A,” Debbie observed, slightly surprised, “definitely an A.”

They both knew what it signified. Jessica’s eyes welled with tears. A man had carved his initial in her flesh! It was personal, just as the brand, was cruelly impersonal.

“The cut will fade, but this brand will scar me forever. We’re just cattle now.” Jessica stated morosely.

“It hasn’t changed a thing,” Debbie whispered to her.

“I know you’re right Debs, but I hate the thought of it.” Jessica whispered back. “This brand seems so final. We’ve stepped down a rung on the evolutionary ladder. I’ve kept on believing that one day I’d be free again, but this brand says that I’m wrong.” Jessica was despondent as if all hope was now lost.

It was easier for Debbie to cope. She never expected to be free. She’d seen first hand how easily sex-slaves can be transported all over the world with no chance of detection or escape. She’d long ago settled for mere survival. Working as a ponygirl on Rabbit Island had been a big improvement on her previous slave location. Two years in quite literally a dungeon in an east European castle. On Rabbit Island there were better treatment, better food, better sex, and better weather too! If she could perform well as a ponygirl, and in a man’s bed on occasions too, then she figured on being safe on Rabbit Island for the next few years. Beyond that, she tried not to contemplate. She’s only a ponygirl after all, and ponies don’t think too deeply, do they?

The six ponygirls slept in their enforced circle around the palm tree, using blankets and each other for their bedding.

Kate wasn’t sleeping so well. They’d tied her left wrist to left ankle, and right wrist to right ankle, to leave her in a kind of sitting position. The relative freedom of being tied thus, presented her as a flexible plaything, one that could be dragged, rolled, upended, and taken in any number of positions. When most of those positions had been exhausted, the men headed for the padded bedding of the adjacent beach cabin.

With the meat cooked and ready, Kate saw the men returning, though still a long way in the distance. Just enough time to cook the eggs!

Riccardo watched the gradual approach of half a dozen men, as they turned from hazy specks half a mile away, into distinct outlines. He saw they were carrying something, then realized it was a somebody. A wooden pole was supported between two men’s shoulders, one man six feet in front of the other. Slung belly-down between them with her hands and feet tied to the pole was the unmistakeable figure of the zebra-costumed ponygirl.

She didn't have much fight in her, Riccardo observed, as they came within fifty yards of the came. The men who carried and accompanied her walked in ominous silence. They lowered her body to the sand about twenty yards away from the campsite.

“We found her at the water’s edge,” Vince said to Riccardo. “She must have drowned. She didn’t stand a chance with her arms pinned behind her like that.

Kate’s nursing instinct took over as she ran to the body, but there was nothing to be done. “She’s been dead for hours.” Kate informed Lucy, who had gone pale with shock.

Nobody had an appetite for breakfast; they just drank coffee, and muttered about whether it had been suicide or an accident. Riccardo and Kate, the ones who freed her from the pony trap the previous day, took it particularly badly, finding comfort in each other in a sad embrace.

It was decided to bury the girl deep within the tropical palms. She was cut from all her bondage, the humiliating zebra suit having to be sliced carefully away from her cold flesh, so that she could rest; finally free. Only her labial padlock remained. Its staple passing through her nether lips would forever to guard her sex from penetration.

Vince untied Rachel and the other bunnies who’d spent the whole night and much of the morning staked out on the beach. He carefully tied each one’s hands behind her back, then with another rope linked the five together in a line for the long walk home. It was just a freak accident, he explained hoping to put their minds at rest; just one of those things that can happen anywhere.

Pussygirls Kate and Lucy were spared the long walk back because of vacant passenger seats on the pony traps. She was glad to be with Jessica, Kate thought, watching the rear view of her friend and Debbie straining to climb the steep track leading away from the beach. She was actually grateful that Riccardo lashed her hands to the backrest. There was a definite benefit in being tied up sometimes. It was like being granted permission not to think.

If Rabbit Island could be described in a sound, it would not be the screams of female torture, nor even the wop of a paddle on raw buttocks. No; it would be the sound that Kate was listening to as the three pairs of ponygirls trotted back to the lodge. The festive jingle of bells on the pony-boots, the crush of gravel beneath the fast-turning wheels and the ambiguous grunting of the ponygirls, which left their passengers unsure whether their groans were from pleasure and pain.

Reassuring as the sound of ponygirls was after the morning’s traumas, Riccardo and Kate knew that it was only the beginning. How could things be the same? After the discovery of armless girl and her suspected link to Rabbit Island, then Nancy’s successful escape, surely she would already have notified the relevant authorities, and now with a fatality, it all pointed to Rabbit Island’s exposed position.

“What’s going to happen now?” Kate asked Riccardo, as the ponygirls made steady pace along the scenic central plateau of the island.

He saw no reason to lie. “I don’t know. Something will happen, I’m sure of it. Who knows, you could be a free woman within a week!”

She laughed. Although not usually given to pessimism, freedom had become a distant concept to her. She stared out at the horizon, trying to remember what freedom was like. Free like those hovering birds in the distance!

To their surprise, those birds came closer, far sooner than they expected.

The deep throbbing warble of two helicopters assaulted their senses, as they flew low over the convoy of the three pony traps as if to take a closer look.

Jessica and Debbie continued to trot, not even breaking stride at the frightful mechanized cacophony of the helicopters. ‘I knew Nancy wouldn’t let us down,’ Jessica thought, ecstatic at her imminent prospects. She wanted to shout it aloud, so that Kate and Debbie could hear, but with the bit between her teeth, literally and metaphorically, she joyfully trotted towards the Lodge. And towards freedom.