Chapter One – The Caravan

Sarak crept every inch closer, his hands were placed slowly on the ground before him, testing what was beneath his palm and fingers before transferring body weight. Then slowly raising the other hand he repeated the manoeuvrer, hand forward, test, place and bring knee into the spot from whence his hand had come. For almost an hour now he had crept forward on the encampment of this Masan, for almost an hour he had hardly made an iota of noise as he slithered slowly towards the picket line to the south of that camp. And there, attached to the picket line were the seven tired and bedraggled ponygirls.

Sarak was a thief, a trader, a pirate, a pillager and always an opportunist. He had been in the town of Daroc, spending the monies from his last trade, that of three fine cows he had earlier stolen and dragged across the deserts to this flea hole of a town. He had received three gold pieces for each cow, from the local butcher who had almost immediately butchered and sold them, thus removing from any following Kings Soldiers any evidence of the dismal trade.

Three gold pieces had been enough for a week of food, board and wild women, and Sarak had had his few women, his many feeds and now as always was lying in the gutter, the morning after, still half drunk, still in dirty wine and food stained clothes, and of course weeks of growth upon his face. He heard the whips of a trader entering the town square and heard the clip clop of pacing ponies as the caravan wound past his drunken and lice ridden body to come to a stop in the centre of the square, alongside the water troughs.

Looking up through bloodshot and swollen eyes, Sarak viewed the sight of seven ponygirls in caravan, all carrying backpacks of trading wares, and all standing with heads bowed, heaving bosoms, and sweat drenched bodies. The caravan leader was a Masan, standing fully seven feet in his long flowing robes, his right hand holding the lead reins connected to the lead ponygirl, and then leading off to all the other ponygirls. His left hand held a long whip which he cracked to the ground and the seven ponies all dropped to their knees, nearly all falling forwards with the weight of the backpacks and the depths of their own fatigue.

The Masan walked down the line of the ponygirls removing the backpacks attached to their arms securely tied behind them, and as he passed each one he cuffed them alongside their heads, abusing each one for her tardiness and weakness of spirit, for he had meant to have reached this town of Daroc earlier than this, for now it was approaching noon and being the hottest part of the day, he would not be able to spread his wares to the townsfolk to peruse and purchase. Leaving the ponygirls where they had fallen, the Masan strode across the square entering the tavern behind Sarak, looking for some wine and food for himself, and yet with no thought nor care for his ponies, lying in their humbled and fatigued nakedness in the centre of the square.

Sarak, still dazed at the sight of the seven ponygirls slowly got to his knees and then his feet, staggering slightly as he slowly walked across the square, braving the almost forty degree heat of the scalding sunshine. He noticed that the ponygirls were all bound with arms behind them, chest harness across and around their breasts lifting them and forcing them forward, a leather belt down, around and through their legs, chafing against their thighs and yet holding the butt plug and tail in place. The headgear ranged from a full ball mouth gag, to a metal bit, surmounted by a full head harness complete with plume. Bells attached to rings through their nipples completed their outfits, soiled with days of walking and trotting, soiled with their own body excretions, sweat and saliva stains apparent everywhere.

As he continued across towards the ponygirls he noticed their boots were worn and in need of being reshod, the harness was in need of cleaning and repair, the ponygirls themselves in need of pasturing, feeding and a goodly rest stop. But at this time they were more in need of water, and the closeness to the water troughs, and yet their inability to move, was causing distress amongst the ponies, for they were whimpering past their respective gags and their eyes were rolling in despair. Sarak went to the water trough, and taking a ladle of water approached each of the ponies in turn allowing them but just a short sip of the cool clear water, for too much too soon would hurt these sweet and beautiful creatures.

Sarak was returning to the trough for another ladle full of water, when the pain of the whip wrapping around his neck registered a split second before the noise of the whip reached his ears. Jerked from his feet he tumbled backwards to land in the dust, spinning quickly away from the whip he came to his knees as the boot of the Masan tribesman, connected with his chin, and that was all he remembered until he awoke later. Sarak dragged himself from the knockout and the sleep to be greeted by the wife of the tavern owner, a plumpish woman, a great cook, and now an adequate nurse. With a bemused look upon his face he listened to the tale of woe that had befallen himself, he heard how the Masan had continued to kick him until he was completely unconscious, how he had whipped all the Masan ponygirls until their skin ran in red rivulets of blood, dripping into the sands of the square, and how he had reloaded the backpacks, sworn at all the townsfolk, and departed with the weeping and pained ponygirls.

After three days of recuperation in the bed, Sarak managed to lift himself and stand with the help of his nurse and her nineteen-year-old daughter. All through his recuperation he had been bathed and pampered alternatively by both women, spoon fed, washed down in all areas, shaved, for he lay naked beneath the sheet, and when the girl’s administrations had reached his manhood, and in fact when the tavern masters’ wife had done the same, he reacted with an erection that both women had played with, however the wife had taken no advantage, yet the daughter had slipped into his bed every night since his arrival, mounting him whilst he lay there, slipping his erect and upright penis deep into herself as she seated herself, riding him to both his and her climaxes. Another two days of strength building of his muscles, another two days of being taken by the nineteen year old, another two days of feeding on the lovely fare from the tavern, and he was ready to leave. The tavern owner had given him an old pair of his leather breeches, a clean yet white shirt for his journey, along with a bag of food, a few silver coins and a short yet sharp dagger, held in a leather sheath, attached to the belt holding up his breeches.

Sarak was now ready. He had decided in his wisdom that he wanted the backpacks he had seen for his own trading, the ponygirls also for trading or use, and to this end he had made an agreement with the tavern keeper that the first and full backpack would be his as payment for his recovery, and the small belongings he now owned. Looking down upon the townsfolk, from his elevated height of about six feet, and looking down into the eyes of the daughter, the wife and the tavern keeper, for none stood taller than five foot, he realised why there had been no fight with the Masan, who powerfully built and towering at least two feet over the heads of the tallest townsfolk, looked and acted like a giant amongst midgets. Sarak was taller than the townsfolk as he came from the land far to the south and across the deepest deserts, he came from Tormina, a land of flowing rivers, green fields and ice capped mountains. A land he had left three years earlier at the age of eighteen, to find his fortune in the other lands available for travel.

The first four days and nights of travel, following the tracks and the spoor of the ponygirls, was taken mostly at a run, eating up the miles they had travelled in a short time. The next two nights he had watched from a great distance as they moved out, marched, and camped for the following night. Sarak ate sparingly from the knapsack provided by the tavern, augmenting his fare with a few wild hens he had managed to spear with a stick he had whittled the first evening, nearly twelve feet of dead straight wood blackened and hardened at the tip over a small fire in his evening wait. He noticed as he followed that the ponygirls were now in very poor condition, occasionally one would trip and fall, only to be whipped by the Masan until she arose and they could all continue with their march northwards. The Masan was heading towards his homeland, taking with him the ponygirls, for there were no women in the lands of the Masan, all females were bred specifically for this life and this sole purpose of being a ponygirl. They received no tutoring in Masan life, just training in carriage and duties, few learnt to speak, fewer managed to escape, and those that did were hunted down and killed as a future deterrent.

The Masan people were a cruel race, this man a definite advocate of this cruelty, and now Sarak was preparing to take on this particular large and nasty trader and caravan owner in an attempt to rob him of his wealth and his ponies, for his own benefit and financial future. Sarak almost lost his deal with himself on the first night out from the town, for in his own stupidity he had allowed a hungry and mangy wolf to creep up on him whilst he slept, and it was only that fatal cough the wolf made as he leapt, that had awoken Sarak from his sleep, and as he spun out from under the wolfs leap, he drew the knife, and before the wolf could recover and turn again, Sarak was on his back, pulling his head back, slicing the jugular with the fine bladed edge.

The wolf’s skin had been taken and cleaned, hanging over his back, towards the sun as he travelled, curing itself as he went. But now as he moved forwards slowly through the night, slowly towards the line of ponygirls, slowly towards the campfire, he wore the skin over his shoulders, the wolf’s head crowning his, and only a very careful scrutineer would not have said this was a wolf stalking his prey. The Masan twitched in his sleep, pulling his cover closer about him as he sat before the fire. The wolf crept ever closer, never intending to do anything, but check out the campsite from a closer perspective, getting to know the mind set of the Masan, and to formulate a plan for the next day or the next. It was however the very skin that hid him, that became his undoing, for as he approached the line of ponygirls, the third from the end woke from her sleep, stretched herself to her full six feet, and proceeded to urinate, and whilst in the midst of this task, her eyes caught the eyes of Sarak, her eyes caught the sight of the wolf skin, and her sensitive nose caught also the smell of the wolf.

The ponygirl panicked, her shod feet stamped as she raised her head and woke the other ponygirls with a loud and reverberant neigh. The ponygirls woken with fright moved quickly, and although they were tied securely to the picket line, they moved around, their breasts bouncing, their bells ringing loudly. The Masan sprung to his feet to investigate the ruckus, and although he marched around kicking the grass and the small trees he found no sign of the man nor the wolf, for Sarak had instantly also disappeared into the night. Sarak sat on a high rock watching as the Masan whipped again the ponygirls forcing them to their knees and the sleeping pose. Watched as he also built up the fire for his own comfort, stamping around looking into the night for whatever had startled his ponies.

Sarak stared back, feeling a growing hatred for this Masan, as he began to devise a plan to outwit the Masan and steal his possessions. Maybe Sarak would have to kill to achieve this, maybe not, but Sarak wanted the Masan gone, and he wanted the trophies in the backpacks before him and he also wanted the ponygirls. Tomorrow was going to be another fine and hot day.