by Anneke Jacob
- provided by the author for use on SirJeff's Ponygirls.
- an excerpt from the book "As She's Told". Available at Pink Flamingo Publications, www.pinkflamingo.com.
- do not use without the author's and publisher's permissions.
About the book:
Take two caring, thoughtful individuals with some highly unusual sexuality, let their paths cross, and watch how far their obsession takes them. That’s the essence of this story about an intense bdsm relationship: extreme, loving, creative, steeped in imagination, embedded in the real world. What emerges is a passionate, private sexual reality, in which the balance of power tips only one way.
Maia and Anders relationship is one of total power exchange, without games, negotiations or safewords. As time goes on, Anders keeps his slave increasingly “like an animal on a very short tether.” The intensification of Maia’s enslavement is balanced by the pair’s affection and sense of humour, and by the real world of work and friends. Some of these friends become integrated into the ménage one way and another, and help Anders create the setting in which Maia’s uttermost subjection can flower.
Excerpt:
Anders got the kitchen under control, and then went to finish unpacking in the stable. Bridles and chains and crops and harness, all hung on the stable wall for his slave to contemplate when she had nothing else to do. Something of a cliché, Anders admitted to himself, but very handy. And, let’s face it, cliché or not, it worked. His slave was taking it all in, wide-eyed, and her breathing was more than audible.
“All right, girl,” he said finally in Danish, unlocking her chain and tugging. “Up.”
By summer’s end she would know a few more words in his native tongue. Like a well-educated Danish horse.
The sky outside was almost cloudless. Water came first, then a thorough application of SPF-60 sunblock. It took time to get her protected to his satisfaction. Then he took up thick, flexible straps for her waist and torso and cinched them tight, squeezing the pliant flesh between them. Bulging breasts and erect nipples urgently offered themselves. He turned her around and strapped her arms tightly to her back. Then came the lower part of the harness, designed to harmonize with the chastity belt, closely outlining her belly and buttocks, carefully designed for her hipbones to take the pull of the shafts. Anders wanted no pressure on internal organs; at least, nothing beyond what the harness already inflicted.
A change of bridle now, pulling the thick U-shaped bit deep into her mouth. A rubbery surface that wouldn’t harm her teeth. Straps over the bridge of her nose and then up. A strap under her chin. The reins went through rings at her jaw, so that she would feel the pull in her mouth whether she was led or driven. A basic turnout; he’d play with variations as time went on.
The shadows of her throat pulsed faintly blue below the hard collar. Lightly Anders stroked that delicate hollow, and then his fingertips descended to trace the contours of her breasts, and she arched, already trembling. “You want your bells, don’t you?” he crooned in Danish, dangling them up above her like a treat, as if her breasts were begging for them.
She leaned on his back as he got her feet covered and laced into her boots. The harnessed body jingled and wriggled deliciously against him. Straightening up, he yanked her upright by the reins, forcing her to stretch to her full height and to tip her head back.
“Behave, hunhund.” Brown, liquid eyes stared up at him. The pink tongue struggled beneath the bit that pressed it. Anders could feel the excited energy radiating off of her, out of the visible range but well into the infrared.
The light pony trap waited by the big double doors. Anders backed his slave between the shafts, lifted them to her hips and fastened the pins. He didn’t have to lift far. There were a couple of vertical supports fastened to the shafts behind her, with little wheels that would only reach the ground if she tripped. He wouldn’t sacrifice the manoeuvrability and lightness of no more than two large wheels, but trained or not, he wasn’t about to risk the kinds of injuries his slave would get if she fell forward with no hands to protect her.
When he was done, he stood back and drank in what he had wrought. At the pure perverted beauty of pony and vehicle in just proportions, his creature so taut and upright that even her trembling nipple bells were silent. He ducked beneath a shaft and slowly pulled the straps holding her arms a notch tighter, making her arch her back and thrust her breasts just that much further. A check rein, perhaps? Later, maybe.
Anders stepped out into the hot afternoon sunshine and looked around. The quiet was incredible. Crickets somewhere close. A tiny, very distant whine, probably of a chainsaw. No cars, no people. Even the squirrels were in siesta.
He took his slave by the bridle and brought her forward, trap and all, then took up the whip and the reins and got in. Behind his mare at last. The rear view was something to savour; framed in the convergence of the shafts, from the firmly-planted boots, up the taut thighs, to the oval buttocks outlined by straps, already marked and waiting tensely for more pain. Those helpless paws, fixed even more helplessly between their little wings of shoulder blades. The enforced curves of her form, outlined in a slight sheen of sweat.
Anders gave the reins a shake and clicked his tongue, and she started forward. Hours of practice had conditioned her to that sound at least. At first she had to lean into the harness, but once she had momentum going she seemed to have no trouble. He drew on the left-hand rein and steered her onto the track that bordered the fields. Then he flicked her with the whip and said, in Danish, “Trot.” Having been trained so far in English the girl was at a loss; she lifted her knees higher and continued to walk. Anders flicked her harder and said the word again, louder. She leapt at the sting, and hesitantly picked up the pace. Again he whipped her, both sides this time, shook her reins and said the unfamiliar word. Her flesh jumped and her pain was audible, but now she was trotting. “Good girl,” he said, and she heard the intonation and settled into the gait.
Trot, walk, trot; the rhythmic sounds of small boots and nipple bells, under the friction of wheels. She had already been trained past some of the awkwardness of constrained arms and shoulders, and at home Anders had begun to see some grace, some economy of movement developing. But the pull and push at her hips was a new element; it altered her centre of gravity, and now again she was hesitating, losing her rhythm, confused. He tried to apply the whip as he had done so often, expert flicks to direct and control, but he had never before done this from a moving cart, especially not one that jolted behind a pony in disarray. He missed his mark, and further bewildered her. It was like trying to manage a clutch in a car that was jolting because you were doing such a lousy job of managing the clutch.
So he pulled her to a stop. She stood, back arched, panting, her smooth skin shining with sweat. Anders yanked the reins back just a little as a signal of displeasure, and then held them firmly while he laid a couple of hard stripes across both cheeks. Her open-mouthed squeals came back to him, and the reins trembled. Carefully he signalled another start. This time when she made the first error he was quicker to get her back into order before she could spoil his aim. He could see that he was going to have to do some learning himself.
Not so easy, this horsemanship. After all, how many times had he been on or behind a horse? A couple of trail rides when they went to Algonquin Park one winter. Janne had been the one interested in horses, really, and the rest of the family had gone along. A cart ride or two with a lot of others when he was what? Eight or nine, at some summer camp. A few pony rides at fairs as a small child. That was about it. No wonder he was better at getting engines to go. This was a very different matter, using a live creature to make your wheels go round.
They were past both fields now, and entering welcome shade beneath the trees. Drawing on the reins, he slowed her to a walk to let his eyes adjust. The green shadows were rich with the scents of living sap, moving water, a sharp tang of pine; Anders took a deep breath. Then he yanked his slave’s head over to the right and punished her; she’d been trying to follow the leftward curve of the road without direction from him. ‘Never let the horse decide for itself which way it wants to go, or how fast. It must know from the outset that the decision rests with you.’ Anders had perused a couple of horse-training manuals in preparation for the summer.
A whimper and a dancing step or two and she walked as the reins directed, onto a deep grassy verge. Anders got out and drew her forward beneath a tree, then looped the reins round a low branch. Taking a bucket from the cart, he walked to the stream, half-filled it and brought it back to gave her a drink. Water trickled down her dusty breasts already spotted with saliva, making streaks of mud. He squeezed them anyway. “There now,” he murmured in Danish, “my pretty thing. What a gorgeous pony you make. Just your back view as you pull the cart is almost more than I can bear.”
Her eyes half closed as she offered her breasts to him, swaying forward, head tipped back by the pull of the rein above her head, her boots still firmly planted at the spot where they had been told to stop. Anders stroked over the striped buttocks to the enclosed vulva and felt her go rigid; his presence there, even on the other side of metal, was making her shake. And he hadn’t even included the dildos. His eyes danced.
He strolled back to the stream, rinsed his hands, and stood for a while watching the light play on the surface. It was rocky just here, and the shallow stream rippled and snagged, swirled in little eddies and caught up with itself before sweeping round the bend. Pretty. Was that a fish? He looked closely, walked a little upstream and then back, spying two more; just minnows. Not much to catch here, but there was a deeper pool further on. Anders returned to his vehicle and got underway again.
Something about the curve ahead, the approaching dazzle where the trees ended, something about the motion of his slave and the cart: a moment of déjà vu. Had he dreamt it? Dappled light on a naked haunch, the humus smell of generations of old leaves, the living reins across his palms, their weight against his fingers. Was it only imagination? A year or more of preparation and planning. Years more of wanting just this: to reduce a woman to the simplest level of physical being, the motive power. Feed calories in. Maintain animal mass, and fuel acceleration, which together equal force.
A mechanical thing then, an engine; pure physics? No, a sensitive, sentient engine, responsive to the slightest twitch of the reins. Processing his signals through a filter of love and fear.
The glare when we emerged from the trees hit me right in the face. I squinted blindly against the sun, concentrating on lifting my knees, and on obeying the slight pull against one corner of my mouth. When I could see again the road was straight; the reins shook against my jaw, and a new word came from behind me. I was already trotting; did this mean ‘run?’ A flick at my ass confirmed it; I ran. Another flick: faster. I tried to go all out, but the reins told me otherwise; gratefully I settled into a moderate pace. A dip in the road had me trying to outrun the cart, and panting up the other side. A blow; no slowing down now. The moderate pace was feeling like the 100-metre dash.
Sweat was running down my neck. My head was pulled back in the reins grip, slowing me. Lungs like bellows. Down to a walk. A flick at my thighs. No shambling! Tired legs lifted their boots and set them down where they belonged. The reins and the bit said Yes. Good girl. I walked. Happy.
So happy.
That glow lasted for hours, through supper at my trough, through the long evening, light fading into dusk, with only my chain and pile of straw for company. He’d been pleased with me. Despite mistakes, I’d felt his deep approval, seen it when he unharnessed me, known it in the touch of his fingers against my scalp as I knelt with him in my mouth, and in the astonishing size and urgency of his erection. I was a good vessel, and as a mare I could please him. This pony thing wasn’t going to be beyond me. In fact I fit precisely into the confinement of harness and shafts. Like a round peg designed and trimmed for its round hole, both engineered to within a hair’s breadth. ‘We’re all suitable to our calling,’ as the rag-and-bone man had said in A Christmas Carol. ‘We’re well matched.’
The bridle was off and was hanging invisibly above me somewhere on the dark wall, but I felt the bit’s absence against the vulnerable nerves it had pressed; something missing. What was it they said about horses? ‘A mouth like a glove.’ The glove wanted its owner, wanted to be occupied and commanded.
Tomorrow. He’ll take you out again tomorrow. The promise made wet insides squeeze. I rolled onto my belly, one mitt crammed between my thighs up against metal, imagining it as gauze. Breath caught and held. Swollen nipples rubbed and pricked against the rough blanket.
Only seven weeks since the last time. A real meltdown blow-out for our one-year anniversary. On our way home from the business at the bank, he’d promised to play me like his violin, and my god, he’d kept his promise. This celebratory event had consisted of hours of the most harrowing, drawn-out, agonizing torment imaginable. With, incidentally, full ironic musical commentary and analogies, and some actual music as accompaniment. He’d strung me up as if in catgut, drawn lines on my skin with whipcord and his tongue. Orchestrated my moans and screams. Moved me forward, rolled me back. Teasingly slow movements, little side melodies.
I could still feel the near-crescendos of the piece: the ache of my limbs, stretched as if I were the strings themselves, the whips and teeth and fingers and tongue playing me to desperate unresolved rhythms. Like those classical pieces with one near-ending after another, each approaching finale promising to be the real one, except that the final chord of the final phrase rises in pitch instead of descending, and on it goes….
And then the real climax. Climaxes. Resonances so violent they shattered flesh and bone, dissolved connective tissue and coherence, and devolved me down into formless ooze.
How greedy of me to want more.
At last I released the breath I’d been holding, and lay inert against the straw, nefarious hand still outside the keep, defeated as always. Curses! Foiled again!
I was unable to conjure up another occasion before Christmas that would call for gift-giving. Something told me the summer was going to be one long protracted tease. Unless the August civic holiday inspired him to a generous festival mood; not likely.
Full dark now at last. We were barely past midsummer; it would be ten o’clock or so. I could pick out subtle variations in the darkness. No moon; perhaps just starlight. Cricket noises, the rustle of straw when I moved. Occasionally the sound of a deep voice in the distance, a door opening and closing. Windows were open over at the house. The heat had lifted, finally. I rolled myself in the blanket.
A voice from the house: Svend. Tomorrow, would he be – ? Probably. Bound to be, sooner or later. Holding the reins. The others? Karl, Ria, undoubtedly. Even Val. I shrank into a ball.
That close, charged circuit between me and my master was one thing. A bizarre and blissful thing. No shame. Joy.
But the others? These strangers from outside the circle.
How to bear it. The reflection of myself in their eyes.
Copyright 2008, by Anneke Jacob