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Sarah fumed! She wasn’t in pain, exactly, but she was in excruciating discomfort. For a start she was finding it hard to walk. The girth and depth of the dildo and butt-plug were uncomfortable enough, but even worse she had found that the longer the strides she took, the more she felt the strange fluttering up inside her pussy. Was the sheer size of the insertions giving her some kind of spasm? Whatever it was she didn’t like it, and she tried to take short steps to minimise it. Also, despite her original impression, the boots were killing her, crushing the bones of her feet with every step. Her mood wasn’t helped by the look on Keith/Carl’s face: more surprised amusement than concern.

The smirking Keith/Carl walked her right up to the other ponygirl, and she recognised the gear the girl was wearing as the same as her own, but did she really look like that? Did her tits really look like that?

A vision in shiny black rubber and pale flesh stood before her, high-stepping on the spot, sexual attributes emphasized by the squeezing of her garments. The girl’s back was arched, throwing her strangely insectile head back and thrusting the two great red, glossy torpedoes that were her breasts toward the great steel water tank above her head. The shiny steel rings around them were indeed strapped to her corset, by two-inch long buckles that held the rings half way along her unnaturally protruding flesh. From each taut nipple a heavy, chain rose, the cause of her arched spine, attached to a spar of the machine high above her. A looser chain led forward from between her legs.

Hands guided Sarah forward until the girl’s rubber-encased head filled her vision. Swellings covered the woman’s ears and eyes, and Sarah understood her own deafness and near-blindness. It was the other girl’s mouth that they were showing her, though. Sarah explored her own gag with her tongue and remembered that it was made of two parts – a smooth rubber gag that encased her teeth and lips and held her jaws apart, and a plug that blocked the hole. Now she saw that the plug was actually the tip of a long shaft, held there by a complicated steel harness which extended forward from the woman’s face. A woman’s hand – perhaps Trina’s – appeared and pulled down on a fine chain dangling from the end of the steel harness: in response the shaft slid into the girl’s mouth. The hand then moved toward her own face, and s he felt that shaft extending into her mouth, and suddenly she was gagging. Scared, she shook her upper body and to her relief the choking stopped. Next she felt hands pressing on her hips and shoulders, urging her to bend at the waist. Her new viewpoint allowed her to see that the woman was tethered to the machine through a wooden yoke that attached to rings on the hips of her corset. Turning and twisting, she struggled to see more of the machine. In its middle was a pool of water, and she blinked in confusion - a water feature?. The yoke holding the ponygirl seemed to be attached to some kind of crude pump, so that maybe the girl’s motion would transfer fluid to a somewhere else. Beyond that, she couldn’t understand the machine at all, and why was the girl marching like that? She was mystified.

They had finished showing her. The hands stood her up straight and turned her around, then she felt the pull on her piercings again, pulling her forward around the machine. Despite her frantic stamps and screams, they easily manoeuvred her until she felt her own hips being secured – to another yoke, she assumed. All that she could see before her was a blank plate. She felt the chain attached to her clit pulling on her flesh, then her breasts lifted, painful tension pulling at her nipples, and she found herself adopting the same back-arched posture she had seen in her partner.

A slap behind one knee surprised her. Another followed it, and another. What did they want from her? She tried to walk forward but a harder slap on her nipple made her stop with a muffled yelp. Again the slapping started behind her leg. Experimentally she lifted her leg, and at last the slapping stopped, replaced by a constant pressure that encouraged her to lift her leg higher and higher. That strange fluttering between her legs distracted her again.

Finally her leg touched a bar of some kind, one that rose as she pushed against it. For a few seconds the encouraging pressure behind her knee continued, and then it was gone. Slowly, experimentally, she dropped her leg, and felt the gag moving, extending into her throat. They were choking her again! She panicked, heaving her lungs against the blockage and throwing her weight uselessly against the yolk. Why were they slapping her leg again? She threw her leg up angrily, her knee thudding against the bar, and suddenly she could breathe again! After a second her mind found the solution: they had connected her gag to the bar. She dropped her leg again and, sure enough, after a few seconds she started choking again. She lifted her leg and held it there to let herself breathe, but after a few seconds she felt the gag extending again. In a rush, she dropped her leg and raised it again, and the choking stopped. The bar-and-gag arrangement had a time delay, dropping slowly to choke her unless she kept up a constant high-step. You bastards, she fumed. The machine was making her march on the spot! And now that she was obliged to high-step, the fluttering feeling was much more intense. It wasn’t her imagination and it wasn’t a muscle twitch. She remembered the chord that Trina had been so keen to show her, working something in the dildo. Oh, she thought, it’s a vibrator, powered by my legs! You bastards!

Her captors had given her plenty of time to work all of this out. She marched on the spot, thinking furious thoughts, feeling the subtle, inescapable vibration of the dildo with every lift of her knees.

Without warning, the blank plate in front of her spun around and began slowly retreating from her. Its flipside bore a crude painting in orange: a carrot. As the plate moved away, she felt the familiar pull on her nipples and clitoris. With a groan, she followed, high-stepping all the way, and began climbing the learning curve.

Lesson 1: The machine pulled her on relentlessly. At first she angrily resisted it, pulling back against the chains. Rage against the machine? There was no point: her only reward was pain, as she discovered that the mechanism could easily lift her off the ground by the chains through her nipples. She soon gave up resisting.

Lesson 2: She was being pulled along by her piercings, but the chains were doing more than that. At first she thought the machine was just rickety, but then she realised that it was designed to shake, transmitting vibrations directly to her erogenous zones.

Lesson 3: She could reduce the effect of the vibration by catching up with the carrot, but then the knee bar stopped working, and she choked.

Lesson 4: The ground she walked on was uneven. The thirty-foot circle she paced took her over loose gravel, hard round cobbles, up two steps and down a concrete slope. Somehow, the pull on her nipples stayed the same as she rose and descended, and the harness about her hips supported most of her weight, but tripping or staggering dropped her forward painfully onto her chains. That was her hardest lesson: only a steady pace minimised the pain. She was learning to be graceful.

Round and round she followed the carrot. A small part of her trained analytical brain worked through the mystery of the machine – that the part of it in front of her was being driven around by some kind of water-motor, while her own pulling-power – and that of her invisible partner - worked a pump lifting the same water back up to the tank over her head. She was providing the power for her own torture.

Most of her mind, though, was preoccupied with carefully placing one foot in front of the other, and with the effects the machine was having on her. Every step sent shivers up her vagina, every moment stimulated her clitoris and nipples. She knew her own body, knew that the orgasms would soon start, and still she strutted around, helpless.

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Lost in their own private world, the two prisoners had no way of measuring time. Carl and Carrie were long gone, seeking their own amusements, but Trina looked on, occasionally glancing up from her magazine, bored rigid despite the amusement provided by the writhing and the cries of her charges. After half an hour her wrist-watch beeped. She stood and stretched, and strode over to the mill. One after the other the two trainees, completely oblivious to her, pranced past. If she just stuck out a foot now…

No, perhaps not. Remembering her task, she reached above her head and turned a valve, opening it fully, and the ponygirls screamed all the louder as the training mill coaxed them into a canter.

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It was over at last!

Sarah stared at the other ponygirl’s face-mask. The eyes were invisible behind protruding goggles that were part of the mask, but she knew the woman was looking back at her.

“Mmmm mmmm?” she said. Hi! I’m Sarah, who are you?

“Mmm!” the girl moaned despondently. Sod off!

She had pale brown hair, in a long, straight ponytail that grew from the top of her mask, and a tiny mole on her right shoulder. What chance would Sarah ever have of recognising this girl, should they ever meet again?

They had been laid down together on deep straw - appropriately. Sarah’s ankles had been locked together and linked by a short chain to the small of her back. She was comfortable, but she couldn’t move an inch. She assumed the other girl was similarly tied.

The chance to rest was welcome, though. The muscles of her legs twitched with the aftermath of her exertion, and her guts twitched with the aftermath of about a thousand forced orgasms. Just lying here on the floor was nice. In future days she would look back on this as the only relaxing time of her whole day.

Was this how wild horses felt as they were being broken? She had been tricked! If they had shown her this other girl and the training mill before they had costumed her up, she would never had consented. She looked back longingly on that last moment of freedom before Trina had put the fist-gloves on her and fastened them behind her, so quickly!

Silently, she fumed.

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She had guessed how she would be roused, but when the slap to her buttock came it was still a shock. The bonds about her legs were removed and strong arms lifted her to her hooves.

Then came a treat. Craig was standing in front of her. He pulled the middle part of her gag away, then lifted a squeezy bottle to her face, and her mouth was filled with sugary-sweet water. It was delicious.

“’oo gaskarg!” she slurred. Perhaps Craig/Carl was alone with her, because she was being treated far more gently than before. He removed the chains from her piercings and she felt an arm around her waist supporting her. She was guided out of the barn rather than dragged.

”Cwaig?”

If he answered, she didn’t hear him.

“’Iss weawy hurks, Cwaig!”

The arm hugged her tightly, and she felt perversely close to grateful tears despite her continuing fury, and the fact that he kept on marching her across the yard.

The courtyard opened out onto a wide, sun-drenched lawn. For a moment they stopped, and she felt him clipping a chain to her collar. Now that he was leading her, she felt her body naturally assuming the proud posture the machine had taught her, her knees rising to perform the high-step across the grass . Sarah glimpsed tables of food and drink, weird little carriages and chariots, and perhaps thirty or forty people, easily separable into three distinct classes - ladies and gentlemen in evening dress, maids and servants, and ponygirls. None of the human ponies was dressed as extremely as she or her friend; a couple looked like they weren’t bound at all, just dressed in leather straps. Everyone, except one or two of the ponygirls who were blindfolded, turned to watch her arrival. A few people were even clapping. She felt perversely proud.

He led her to a wide spot of clear grass, then held her, gently but firmly, giving the impression that she had no say at all in whatever was going to happen next A maid was approaching her with a fistful of leather and chains: Trina, again. The girl wasted no time. Straight away Sarah felt pullings and tuggings as straps and chain were fitted to her face, nipples and clitoris, and some heavy object was attached to her waist – probably one of the carriages she had spotted. For a moment her mouth was freed as the long rod of a gag was removed, and she took a deep breath of fresh air, before it was replaced by a much simpler plug. She explored the new blockage with her tongue, and thought, be thankful for small mercies, Saz. She found that she could inhale easily through the gag, but that it blocked her exhalation completely – it was a valve, and she was mute again.

She was pulled back and forth by the weight of the carriage as somebody mounted it, and then a sharp blow landed on her buttock.

Ow! She staggered. The blow was repeated. OK, OK, I get the message! She leaned forward and, with a heave, pulled her load into motion, speeding to a canter when the whip struck again. Ahead of her was a wide plain of mown grass without a single obstacle. The cart, however big it was, didn’t seem to weigh much, but as she ran it pulled to left and right, reacting to unevenness in the ground, threatening to throw her over. Her legs reacted naturally to the changes, her mind remembering the lessons of the training mill.

Her world was a world of sensation, mostly pain. Every jarring step stabbed pain through her tethered nipples as her breasts bounced, and now that she was running over real, uneven ground, her feet were really killing her!

Perhaps it was the vibrating dildo doing its job of arousing her again, but despite all the pain, she was actually beginning to enjoy herself. The cool fresh air felt good in her lungs and on her bare flesh, and the slowly changing view in front of her was a distinct improvement over the carrot.

The grassland still stretched ahead of her, but she began to wonder, how will I know when to turn, and which way? Perhaps her uncertainty translated into hesitation, bcause a sharp crack on her behind spurred into renewed effort.

Then she found out how she was to be steered.

From nowhere there was a sharp tug on her left nipple. OW! she thought, and naturally cringed to that side. Oh, right! The reigns that would steer a horse by pulling on its head were attached to her nipple-rings! Again she fumed, and obligingly turned as a more insistent tug came, toward the wooded border of the field. More tugs encouraged her to turn more sharply. Now the tug was to her right nipple, so she turned that way.

For maybe five minutes she cantered around, veering one way or the other at the tugs she felt, until a wide sweeping turn brought her back in sight of the gathering. There was her twin, hitched up to a roman-style chariot. As she neared the crowd she saw the girl’s passenger, a slim, leather-clad woman disguised by a mask, swing a whip at her ponygirl’s rear. With a start the girl pulled it into motion, torpedo-breasts bouncing, and disappeared quickly from Sarah’s view.

Sarah’s signal to stop came as an unpleasant surprise. Both her breasts were tugged upwards by the reins, harder and harder, until eventually her sex was pulled upwards too. Oww! she screamed into her gag and fought to stop the cart, staggering to an undignified halt in front of her spectators.

Thankfully the painful pulling stopped as soon as she did. A series of tugs at one breast told her to turn the cart around, and it was as she turned shat she realised how out of breath she was. Her lungs were straining to force enough air out through her nostril holes, and she could feel her chest heaving against the restraint of the corset. Nobody seemed to object when she carefully lowered herself to her knees. Closing her eyes, she relaxed and waited.

In the silence and darkness, she let her pain and discomfort fade away. She felt the cool air shifting against her oiled skin, her body slowly recovering from its exertion, her heart and breathing slowing. She was still powerfully aroused. The feel of her bondage, the two shafts that penetrated her so deeply, the chains that pulled on her most sensitive spots, shifting with her every movement, were a constant reminder of her predicament. It was exciting.

She opened her eyes. Ahead of her, out on the vast lawn, a couple of the less extreme ponygirls were pulling carts around. Their drivers were trailing ribbons behind them, fixing them to posts every now and then. They were laying a course. So that was the point of all this: they were going to hold races.

They left her to watch for a long time, and eventually she ignored the tighness of the rubber around her knees and rested back on her haunches. Race after race was run before her, some more serious than others.

One identical pair – perhaps even twins – had enormous boobs and were not particularly constrained in identical strappy costumes. They didn’t really race at all. They just strutted around the course, showing off. They weren’t even locked to the little riderless sulkies that they towed around. Instead they just carried the cart shafts in their hands. Pathetic, Sarah thought.

The next pair were very different. They were tightly bound, hands held folded as if in prayer behind their necks, the ends of two white shafts clearly visible between their legs, but their bondage was not designed to be constricting, their leather boots were flat and ankle-length, and they were clearly in it for the race. From the start they pulled hard and fast, the muscles of their legs straining to accelerate the riders and carts. Their leather-clad passengers were just that, though, only along for the ride. There were no reins and neither man carried a whip, but they weren’t needed: the two girls were clearly very motivated. They must know something that Sarah didn’t.

The most ruthless girl was the eventual winner. Around one corner she forced her rival into the ribbon, knocking a steel pole flying. The victim kept her feet, but it was close, and the ribbon tangled in the cartwheels behind her. The setback was enough to let the other pony girl win, and Sarah heard the cheer even through her earmuffs.

Both girls were helped out of their traces, but the helpers’ reaction to the two girls was very different. The winner was ecstatic. She was supported by her driver and another man as they walked her away, a towel wrapped around her shoulders. The loser was in tears, and Sarah could see her shouting and screaming as a leash was attached to her right nipple and she was dragged off.

Shit! Sarah gulped. She had a horrible suspicion that she and her opponent were the main attraction, and that the fate of that losing ponygirl would be a giggle compared to hers if she lost.

And then, almost without warning, it was her turn. A sharp pull at her chains urged her onto her tottering boots, and she felt someone mounting the cart that was still attached to her. Was it Craig? She hoped so.

Here I go… Her heart pounded as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her body fizzed with fear and anticipation.