“And now a special treat for you all,” the loud speaker announced, “we have another novice to present.” My heart began to race. Mr. Trune was once more besides me and he unfastened the leash from my collar, only to replace it with a much longer one of soft rope. He was carrying a horse whip in his other hand.
“I expect you to do exactly as you are told.” he said, “Since you were late you missed the training session I gave the other two novices earlier, before their presentation. Mrs. Hurst mentioned you needing a firm hand, well I can reassure you that if you are disobedient then I will certainly apply the correction that you need. I do not expect to be shamed by a shoddy display from a untrained filly with poor timekeeping.” I paled at his harsh words. I knew that if I didn’t try my best then he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to use the whip to correct me.
“Come along,” he said as he led me through a gap in the rope fence and into the paddock.
“She’s a complete novice,” announced the public address system, “so this is her very first training session. As usual, Francis Trune, will walk her through her paces. Lets have a round of applause for ‘Isabelle’.”
My insides were churning. I supposed I could make a break for it and run, but where could I possibly go? However, if I allowed this man to ‘walk me through my paces’ I would be demonstrating that I was a willing ponygirl.
Mr. Trune walked me to the centre of the paddock which had been cleared of the dressage course. He took a quick bow. He played out the leash and took up position facing me about three or four metres away.
“Now you will walk around me in a clockwise direction,” he announced loudly so that not only I could hear him but the spectators too. I nervously followed his instruction and started to walk around him.
“Keep the rope tight,” was accented by a lash of the whip, expertly applied with a flick of the wrist, across my buttocks. I made sure that I edged outwards slightly so that the rope remained tight as I continued my circuit. The whip wasn’t especially painful, but I certainly didn’t want him to continue to use it on me.
“Now, raise you knees as you walk so that they come up to be level with your hip.” I tried to obey, but was quickly rewarded with another flick of the whip, “higher!” This was followed quickly by, “I said higher,” and the whip landed more firmly. I was now raising my knees very high as I pranced, and that seemed to satisfy him.
I managed to settle into a rhythm and was pleased that the whip didn’t make contact again.
After a few circuits, he made me change direction and go the other way around him.
“Keep your chin up and look straight ahead, not at your feet,” another flick of the whip. I was confident enough now that when I looked straight ahead I didn’t feel that I was going to twist my ankle and fall sprawling onto the grass. Now that I was looking ahead I was almost surprised to see the gathered people watching my training. I’d been so focused on what I was doing to avoid the whip that I’d forgotten that I was on display. It immediately brought a flush of embarrassment and I hesitated for a moment. The whip though soon had me walking again.
Half way around the circle, I stopped again and was once more spurred into action by a firm smack of the whip. This time my hesitation was because I saw the group from RS Systems in the spectators all watching me including Mr. Hanson and Mr. Stirling. I suddenly felt immense humiliation. They were all standing there drinking champagne, watching me prance around with Mr. Trune guiding me with his nasty whip, and they were clearly chatting and commenting about me. That made my heart pound in my chest. I wondered what they were saying and I knew I couldn’t possible go and work with them now. It would be bad enough talking with them when I was released from this bondage and returned to them later, let alone in the office next week.
“Now trot.” A quick succession of light strokes of the whip got me to break into a jog and I soon stopped worrying about next week. I had enough trouble placing one foot in front of the other, keeping my knees up and maintaining the pace he was setting for me. The pace made my breasts bounce on my chest and the awful bells chime as they jerked from side to side. I was just thankful that my breasts weren’t any larger otherwise it would have been very painful.
He made me increase my pace a couple of times until I was almost running and beginning to pant heavily around the bit, my flared nostrils no longer sufficient to suck in enough air. Then to my great relief he said “And walk.”
Even though I was quite tired now, he still insisted that I continue to prance, raising my knees as I walked.
The training session continued for what felt like an hour, but in hindsight it was probably only about fifteen minutes. I was made to change direction a few times and trot a couple more times. I was exhausted when at last he said, “stop,” and stood there panting. I hardly registered the applauds as I was led back out of the paddock. In fact I was just having difficulty walking let alone being able to take notice of my surroundings.
I was relieved when we finally stopped and I could get my breath back, then grateful when Mr. Trune held a bottle of water to my mouth. He squeezed it slowly and steadily, squirting the cool and refreshing liquid past my bit. I gulped it down realising that I was very thirsty. It was embarrassing to think that I had to rely on him to give me water, in my bondage I couldn’t do anything for myself, and this was further emphasised to me when he withdrew it leaving me still wanting more.