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Leaning against the wall of the barn’s central aisle, Émilie performed the ancient signal strength dance with her mobile in hand. Arm higher — zero bars. Turn to the right — null. Stretching to the left — why was she even trying?
Vahrenfeld was the largest ponygirl stable in private ownership; four separate barn buildings around a central coral hub, surrounded by tracks, trails, meadows and 600 square kilometres of wooded glens. And apparently not a single radio mast. The handlers’ quarters and the administrative area had Wi-Fi hotspots to satellite connections, but of course nobody could have been bothered to hand the password down to her. In vain Émilie had tried out the cardinal points of the cross-like structure arrangement. Now standing at the southern gate of the southern barn again she was running out of options and time. Her broom was waiting. Sliding her phone into the thigh pocket of her stable-issued cargo trousers Émilie shuffled back to her menial morning routine.
The southern barn was home to the phase II ponies — broken in, yet not fully trained. Eastern barn was the worst. All those fidgety fillies. The senior mares had their boxes in the west. The northern barn, then, was reserved for long-term ponygirls. But no matter how well they were dressaged, all of them dragged in dirt. So all of their aisles needed sweeping, and somebody had done a half-arsed job of it yesterday evening.
A light breeze through the two open main gates was keeping the air inside the barn fresh. If so inclined, Émilie could clean from one end to the other without breaking a sweat. But still she was lingering somewhere halfway, fumbling with her brush and dustpan, as the first team of handlers arrived. Clip-clop sounds of metal on not-yet swept stone heralded another day of training. One of the blokes, leading a tall brunette pony, suddenly stopped in his tracks.
“Be a peach and hold her.”
The handler shoved the reins into Émilie’s hand and turned to jog back the way he’d come.
“Ehm…”
“Just for a second, I forgot my …” he shouted over his shoulder and was out of the side door before he finished his sentence with a word Émilie interpreted as “gloves”.
“Sure…” she answered to herself as her eyes insecurely followed the reins up.
The ponygirl at their other end glared down at Émilie with open condescendence. Her beautiful face, framed and parted by the bridle, was limited in its ability to express emotions due to the deep-seated bit in her mouth. But that stare from between the blinkers indicated considerable indignation from being hold by a lowly barnling.
“Howdy.”
Hitched to a sulky with a bitey whip behind them they were all about grace, obedience and endurance. But Émilie did not buy into that crap one bit. Those jades knew exactly with whom they could play coy.
“You are Somersault, right?”
The mare first raised one, then the other knee high to perform a small double-step forwards, gaze unwavering. Her horse-shoed pony boots created hollow clonks on the barn floor.
“Whoa! Stay! Good pony!”
Involuntarily Émilie took a slightly larger step backwards.
Maybe she had to pull at the reins to establish dominance. It didn’t help that she needed to keep her head tilted in order to look at her charge. Not being the tallest lass to begin with, she was additionally disadvantaged by Somersault’s hoof boots which stretched the pony’s feet en pointe upon the thick hoof sections. Émilie had once tried on a pair for fun, then had immediately landed on her nose for even more fun. They looked hot as hell, but were a nightmare to wear.
Somersault, it seemed, was not experiencing such problems as she advanced again, and even more briskly so. Émilie’s retreat was fiendishly hampered by her cleaning tools as she stumbled over her dustpan. With a squeal she sought hold at the wall, partly leaning against, partly slipping down the vertical surface, clinging to the reins to no effect. Next to her the broom tilted over and hit the ground. The vibrating sound of it assisted with drawing attention to the display of slightly compromised body control.
Émilie hurried to restore her composure.
“You did that because I’m not a pony, right? Bloody racist.”
She was positive Somersault would be sneering if not for her bit.
“Oi, what you are doing?! You just had to hold her!”
The returned hander took the reins away from her and tended to his thoroughbred. Of course that nag was now innocence on hooves again.
“Did the weird girl upset you?”
Somersault nickered and gave a small toss of her head. Glancing sourly at Émilie, the handler started off, his ponygirl tiptoe-prancing behind him.
Émilie made a dismissing gesture.
“Eh, whatever…”
Being dissed by overpriced pets who spend half the day strutting about with a tail stuck up their bums. Way to go, Em!
When not not receiving a signal or riling up the ponies, the aspects of Émilie’s occupation were summarised as bahis firmaları those of a “stable assistant”, one of about a dozen. But everyone just called them barnlings. Everyone mean on, at least. So, well, everyone. Maybe except that beef-cakey head-handler who had come over from Foxfield Stables last month and who was leading his lucky mare out of the gate right now. Émilie hated how the cargos dangled down her legs, but on his bottom they did a fantastic job to outline just the right—
“Ouah!”
A sharp sting exploded in the back of her thigh, gaining even more stinginess as it raced up the muscle. Wheeling round, Émilie recognised the impact’s origin as Miss Vahrenfeld’s trusty riding crop.
“Good morning, ma’am!” she greeted the stable owner.
“Did you do what I’d told you yesterday?”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” declared Émilie with maximum confidence to obviate any follow-up questions.
“And?”
She kept her “mission accomplished” face.
“Everything’s fine!”
The owner kept her warpath face.
“Five minutes ago I walked past the coral gates, and they still looked distinctively un-fine to me.”
Émilie made an elaborated, yet in Vahrenfeld’s case futile attempt to laugh it off.
“Oh, that…! I thought you were talking about the… other thing… I did this morning.”
“You did not do any other thing this morning. Or any thing. Not this morning, not yesterday morning, not Wednesday afternoon. It may come as a surprise to you and your professional self-assessment, but it is not my function to micro-manage every task around here. Nonetheless I specifically asked you to look after the latches. A social experiment, if you will.”
Her vocal undercurrent suggested that the result of said experiment had been neither satisfactory nor unexpected. Émilie had developed a keen ear for those nuances.
“This is not the first time I have received complains about you, nor is it the first time I have observed the reasons for those complains myself. Were laziness and the ability to day-dream required in the job description?
“No, ma’am,” Émilie remembered meekly.
That was so unfair! She wasn’t lazy, just differently busy. And Beef-Cake should not be allowed to show off his glutes!
“Ask yourself whether you are in the right place in regards to your set of skills, whether you really want to be a productive part of the stable.”
“Yes, I want that, ma’am!” She couldn’t risk losing this job. If she had any options at all, she would sure as shite not be slaving away out in the sticks.
“Then act like it. Consider yourself warned, girl.”
Vahrenfeld was as much a fan of making true to her word as she was of crop-assisted discipline, so Émilie decided to consider herself warned indeed. The stable owner turned on her riding boot’s heel to affairs worthy of her attention. Only now did Émilie dare rub her whipped leg. That’s a colourful wheal right there! The pain had wedged into her flesh even seconds after the actual lash. How much must the crop sting-burn on bare skin, she wondered.
Behind her another source of clip-clopping closed in.
“Move it, imp!”
Émilie hurried to make way for another glorious creature. This time it was an auburn-haired Ukrainian breed, perfect cheekbones accentuated by her facial tack. She, too, followed her rude handler by means of pretentious high-stepping.
“Never mind me, just cleaning up behind you folks.”
Her non-judgemental statement was met with human scorn from one end of the reins and equine disregard at the other. To underline her system-relevant position, Émilie grabbed her broom again, yet was widely ignored by staff and beasts alike as she skimped her way up the aisle. Done with sweeping, she stowed the tools away and went to see which task she would be bullied into next. Émilie felt her new-found enthusiasm further diminishing when checking the large whiteboard near the corral-side entrance as she should have done at the beginning of her shift. Her name filled the second slot of a column titled with a stern-drawn T. She had been put on tail duty for the upcoming batch of ponies to be driven today.
“Great, just great. You stuck-up horsies better make yourselves some warm thoughts.”
The barn’s own tack room filled a small side wing, and it was here that Émilie geared up for her delicate mission. Following a list of names, she selected the ponies’ individual rear attachments from a strictly organised rack. Each one consisted of a pear-shaped bulb that would lock in a certain spot of the anatomy, and of the visible part made from long strands of artificial hair colour-matched to the pony’s mane. Row after row the bulbous plugs sat in notches so the lavish tails would dangle down freely and without the risk of matting or knotting up.
Unlike with the hoof boots Émilie had refrained from giving these items a try as well.
Sixteen combed and oiled tails found their temporary places on a workshop trolley, together with additional kaçak iddaa stuff she knew she would be needing. Back in the barn the sixteen harnessed ponygirls had already been secured to the tailing rail at the front wall by their handlers. Whilst the blokes were having a smoke outside it was show time for Émilie. Donning a first pair of latex gloves she approached the first pony. Scheherazade tried to glance up from her bent-over position, silvery lines of saliva running from her bitted lips. With her blinkers installed and the reins taut between her shanks and the floor hook she couldn’t see much more than Émilie’s work boots and stylish cargos. Some phase II ponies still acted a little nervous when it came to being tailed, especially by a person they did not know well.
Émilie held a finger under the lubricant dispenser on the trolley and gave the handle two generous pumpings. As designated tail girl she had to make sure that each pony was sufficiently lubed up. Dry-tailing was a hard no at the Vahrenfeld Stables. Some more progressive competitors, however, as well as numerous shady new money owners had far less qualms in that department. A dry, maybe even gritted plug up a filly’s fundament worked wonders either as a means of discipline or of constructing a reason to punish them for poor gait.
Free of such hardships, Scheherazade displayed a bit of a drama queen attitude at the cool touch of the goo. She tensed up and jolted with a gasp, but the broad belt across her midriff kept her pinned to the rail. Émilie circled her finger along the delicate opening’s perimeter, coating it with a first layer of lubrication and checking for soreness at the same time. The sphincter was slightly swollen from the morning enema, but showed no distress otherwise. The pony bucked in earnest as Émilie probed her boldly up to the second joint.
“Knock it off.”
They never made such a fuss when having their bums played with by Handsome Handler no. 1 or Handsome Handler no. 2, or have their tack last-minute-checked by Barnmaster Beefcake. But getting fingered by a barnling was of course an insult to their pride.
After some wiggling to spread the lube and loosen her first customer up, Émilie yanked her finger out with a satisfying plop. She could vaguely comprehend how some people would find this aspect of the job sexy, and it definitely wasn’t as gross as she’d initially thought. Still, the art of digital rectal preparation wouldn’t find mention in her CV.
From the orderly line on the trolley she took the first tail, its fluffy strands coal black as Scheherazade’s natural hair. They emerged from the insertable part in a right angle, and Émilie made sure to hold the bulb with the strands flowing upwards from it.
The dispenser squished again, and she gave the surface a generous coating. Placing the tip against the ponygirl’s anus, she put controlled pressure on the plug’s base plate. Scheherazade had overcome her silly reservation, now even showing a coy willingness to getting tailed. As the plug dilated her with its increasing girth, she supressed a moan, yet did nothing to fight the intrusion.
To their right Scrambler mewled out a series of whimpers around her bit. The redmane’s impatience had often been discussed around the handlers. Without a daily stint of gallop to de-energise her she was utterly pesky.
Émilie ignored her best she could and concentrated on the task at slippery hands. The steady progress up Scheherazade’s derrière was sped up once the thickest portion had passed her sphincter. Another nudge, and the eager ring of muscles pulled the last centimetre in by itself and snapped in place around the stem. The latter action never failed to elicit a distinctive squeal from the tailee, and sure enough Émilie was rewarded with it now, too. Quickly she buckled the crotch strap in place, thus securing the plug by means of a retainer ring. Through it the full bundle of strands rose up only to fall in a graceful arch.
Nothing says pedigree like good tail carriage — it sounded like something Miss Vahrenfeld would preach.
Changing her gloves Émilie took a side step, pulling the cart with her, and grabbed the first red tail.
“Next!”
Scrambler quit her annoying noises only when feeling her plug being nocked into her anal dimple. Even Émilie had enough restraint to not simply punch the tapered object into the ginger ponygirl. But a tad more vigour was surely in order, and Scrambler, too, gave a squeaky confirmation of being properly tailed.
“Happy now?”
She had to wait bent over the rail just as long as the rest of the batch, but maybe doing so with her bunghole stretched and filled rendered it more interesting.
Next was Hayabusa, followed by Peppermint.
Needless to say that their appendices matched their respective hair colours, too. In Peppermint’s case her tail even sported the same ice-blue highlights incorporated in her mane. Unlike the external parts, the sixteen rectal inserts were identical. For phase II ponies the kaçak bahis standard tail size was “medium”, manifesting in a diameter of four centimetres at the widest section and seven centimetres of length, not including the stem, base plate and the angled strand socket. Émilie had no intention to experience how “medium” that size actually felt. Better than “large”, she reckoned. In the northern barn she’d seen a bespoke type for one of the long-term mares, its twenty-five centimetres of circumference ridiculing even the rare XL category.
Sparkle and Sweet Spot both had particularly tight tail holes and struggled to accommodate the compulsory size, but curvy Cupcake could definitely be gape-trained up to a customised model of suitable dimensions. As Émilie understood, it was a current trend in overseas markets to max out a pony’s capacity. Made their trot more swaggery or something like that.
A tail of rich burgundy colour found its place in the rear of busty Byzantium, and the second copper-red one soon adorned lithesome Leitmóitíf. Running out of alliterations, Émilie discarded her ninth set of gloves and put on a fresh pair for Cinnamon. Who came up with all those utterly silly or utterly pretentious names? Not that she was inclined in the slightest, but if she were to have a pony of her own, she would name it something cool like Roadrunner or Thunderhoof — and certainly not spare the whip. With her mind semi-absent she placed her finger against the target orifice and pressed in. Cinnamon reared up in a wild contortion, and fierce pain fired through Émilie’s shin as a horse-shoed hoof kicked into it. The barn assistant howled and tried to steady herself against the trolley whilst skipping on her good leg.
“What did you do that for?!”
She hunched awkwardly to rub the residual agony from her bone and got her question answered the moment she looked at her gloved hand and the striking lack of lube on it. So Cinnamon didn’t like to be dry-fingered. Fair enough.
“Great job on the hobbling, mates!” she shouted in the direction of the gate.
Even stage II ponies were required to have their legs secured for tailing. Wait till Miss Vahrenfeld learnt about it! Still nursing her shin, Émilie picked up the tail that had bounced off the cart. Now with slippery gel on her glove and the bulb she made another attempt. She had wised up enough to approach Cinnamon from the side this time, keeping herself out of the danger zone. That glorified critter couldn’t be too sore, and after some mandatory bitching she accepted both finger and tail.
Amaretto also fell into the “eager” category. She trembled in excitement under Émilie’s ministration, her ring of muscles gripping the invading digit snuggly. The pony also held up against the rubber stopper — not out of resistance, but to draw out the experience of being filled in the sodomitic way.
“Feeling pervy today, huh?” Émilie threw in rhetorically as she tightened Amaretto’s understrap.
Not that ponygirls trying to gain pleasure from whatever they could was breaking news. Incentives for those oft-quoted qualities grace, obedience and endurance traditionally came in form of whip, curb bit and English bearing rein. And whenever not in harness, ponies were sure to find No-O belts between their legs, as sexual release was widely considered to render them slow. Maybe that’s the reason they were so mean all the time.
Although minding her lube supply and angle of approach, she was pretty much on autopilot again when dealing with Carnival and Dilly-Dally. The latter always seemed a bit too conscious of her tail, resulting in some un-horsey clenching and bum-shifting. Émilie trusted her handler would take care of that. How such care-taking might look like could be admired on Absinth. Her thighs and rear were all but lacerated with whip marks from a spontaneous evening stroll. The high-end equine in her custom-made steampunky tack was one of Miss V’s private ponies, so nothing less was to be expected.
“Hang in there, love…”
Absinth was one of the few Émilie pitied to a certain degree, and she put some actual effort in tailing her as gently as possible.
The second to last one, Bliss, got it quick and dirty again as further up the line the first handlers arrived to take their charges to the sulky lot. Émilie had to make haste, since the incident with Cinnamon had cost her precious time. (That her low-slung level of motivation might also play a part she took generously out of consideration.) Hurrying over to the last spot at the beam, she wrenched a fresh pair of gloves onto her hands and fetched Safran’s tail from the cart. And stalled. As the final pony’s name hinted, her mane glowed with the luxurious red of saffron. Whereas the colour of the tail in her ill-gloved hand could rightly be described as, well, cinnamon.
Distracted by pain and anger immediately after the blow to her shin, Émilie had grabbed the wrong tail for the kicking pony!
“Oh, crap!”
Her stomach dropped a few notches, and her brain engaged damage control mode. Right on clue Cinnamon’s handler stepped through the gate. Of course he would! As he strolled along the beam, Émilie bolted towards his destination, ignoring the mad throbbing in her leg.
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