There was nothing Sir Edward enjoyed more than a long ride on a sunny summer’s day. He was blessed with a beautiful estate of more than a hundred acres of Dorset countryside, and with an equally beautiful ponygirl called Cinnamon. It was a pleasure to make full use of both at once.

He set out from the stables at noon. As always, Cinnamon was beautifully prepared by John, the stablehand, but Sir Edward still liked to check all the straps and harnesses to make sure everything was good and tight. Cinnamon’s gleaming black hoof-boots clasped onto her legs all the way up to her knees, forcing her feet into a very pleasing permanent heel-less tiptoe. Sir Edward preferred elaborate bridles – it was a display of his wealth – and Cinnamon’s head was criss-crossed by shining black leather straps and brilliant steel studs.

The baronet was part of an elite and exclusive circle of ponygirl Owners, and among men of power, wealth and influence, competition was inevitable. Certainly, Cinnamon was beautiful, well trained, slender and endowed with wonderfully large breasts, but all the others were able to afford similar specimens. Sir Edward’s claim was that he had started a fashion. Most Owners topped off their beasts with a feathered headdress. But Sir Edward had always loved Cinnamon’s long, thick red hair – it had been his inspiration for her name. His previous ponygirl’s head had been shaved, but when Cinnamon was bought three years ago it seemed a shame to deprive her of her hair.

All the same, the hair couldn’t be allowed to fly around and get messy. So Sir Edward ordered a special custom-made bridle, and forbade the stablehand from cutting Cinnamon’s beautiful locks other than small trims of her straight fringe. Once the bridle arrived, Sir Edward had Cinnamon’s now very long straight hair plaited, but not all the way to the bottom. Instead, it was pulled up through a series of small buckled straps at the back of the bridle, going all the up the back of the head to its very top. There, it passed through a silver ring and rose, held upright by black leather thongs and silver wire, into a handsome display cockade of glowing red hair. At the top of this creation, the hair splayed out into a fountain of beautiful saffron colour that the stablehand tended carefully.

The rest of Cinnamon’s tack was fairly routine. A black leather waist cincher, to keep the figure trim, a black leather single glove holding the arms together up to the elbow behind the ponygirl’s back. Blinkers prevented distraction, and a stiff collar kept the head high and focused on the road ahead. The breasts were left exposed – on the left one was the brand of the estate, and some rather handsome clamps with attached weights hung from the nipples. Sir Edward was fond of these clamps – he had bought them from an understanding Turk in Istanbul, where they were very serious indeed about ponygirl discipline. Their effect on Cinnamon was profound, and always left Sir Edward marvelling at how well the Turks understood pain. The ponygirl was of course also generously plugged fore and aft, with that equipment held in place by a sturdy – some would say unkind – chastity belt.

Sir Edward always paid particular attention to the chastity belt during his tack inspections. He would test all the straps to ensure they could not be tightened a further notch. He ensured the buttocks were properly exposed for application of the crop. Also, it was important to test the electrics. The twin plugs could both vibrate at a variety of speeds – and, if necessary, deliver a sharp electric shock as an incentive.

John hitched up the little carriage, Sir Edward gave the electrical controls a quick test buzz and zap – Cinnamon jerked delightfully – and with a quick flick of the crop they were off.

The pony did not run well. Sir Edward soon regretted lounging around in the morning and not giving Cinnamon a warm-up session. She knew the paths around the estate well, but needed continual swats of the crop and commands for her poor poise and movement. Once, Sir Edward even had to give her a shock in the rectal plug, because she had failed to pick up her pace when repeatedly commanded and cropped. He disliked doing that, as it really threw ponygirls off their stride. Also, Cinnamon had already stumbled three times, and each time was two strokes with the cane back in the stables. Sir Edward sometimes watched John deliver the punishment, and could not fault him for enthusiasm. He put a great deal of effort into each stroke, and was a well-built man against Cinnamon’s pale, slim figure. Sir Edward knew that his mount knew that she was destined for that punishment, already recorded in his riding diary. He felt somewhat sympathetic to her.

They halted after a couple of hours in a lightly wooded glade near an energetic stream that ran through the estate. Sir Edward unlinked the carriage and guided Cinnamon to a nearby tree, to which he bound her reins. He was certain to bind them high, so that there was no question that Cinnamon could come close to relaxing or sitting down. Experience told him that allowing his mount to sit or recline made them difficult and unwilling to move. With the ponygirl secured – the two plugs were set to a low vibrate to keep her occupied – he laid down a picnic mat and unloaded his lunch from the carriage.

It was a simple enough meal – cold cuts, a bit of salad, a slice of quiche, washed down with a couple of glasses of red wine. The warm morning had blossomed into a hot day, and the sunlight filtered beautifully through the trees. There was a delightful silence that Sir Edward relished. The only sounds were the rustle and rattle of leaves and branches, the chatter of the stream, and the occasional stamp, shuffle or muffled whinny from Cinnamon. There was also the occasional whine of a mosquito. But that didn’t bother him, as he had discovered a wonderful thing. Crop a ponygirl properly, good and hard, something he always took care to do, and their abused buttocks attracted mosquitoes, drawn by the scent of bruised and broken skin.

Sir Edward looked at Cinnamon, so beautiful and patient, bound to the tree. It had been three years now, and for the life of him Sir Edward could not remember her original name. Her previous owner had mentioned it to him, but it didn’t appear on any of the documentation. Why should it? Her slave registration number was enough. He didn’t even know if the name he had been given by the previous owner was her real name or his name for her. Sir Edward wondered if Cinnamon could remember her previous name.

Soon, the lunch was finished, and Sir Edward read the Sunday paper for a while. Afterwards, his thoughts turned to the long journey home, and he decided to give Cinnamon her feed. The ponygirl was untied from the tree and made to kneel before her Master, a charitable act that gave relief to her hooves, if only for a few minutes. Sir Edward unzipped himself, uncoupled the pony’s bit, and told her to proceed with her special treat, something she did with gusto.

With a grunt of satisfaction and a generous torrent of creamy semen against the back of Cinnamon’s mouth, Sir Edward indicated that lunch had been served. Without fuss, the baronet returned the bit to its rightful place after the ponygirl had swallowed her meal. Having been satisfied, Sir Edward took the reins of Cinnamon and looked into her eyes. He saw what he wanted: fear, devotion, pain, loyalty and excitement. Sir Edward noted that the mosquitoes had made quite a meal of Cinnamon’s bottom, which was a pity as it reduced the attractiveness of her poor little abused rear end. Still, he considered, the red dots would make fun spots to aim the crop at on the ride home.

The carriage was coupled up again and Sir Edward resumed his seat. Cinnamon now seemed more lively and responsive than she had on the way out – Sir Edward assumed that her semen snack and rest had given her a bit of “get up and go”. Also, the plugs were still purring away, and Sir Edward decided to leave them that way.

Cinnamon was a different animal on the return leg – graceful, swift, responsive and disciplined. Hardly a flick of the crop was needed, and about half way home Sir Edward decided to increase the vibration of the ponygirl’s plugs as a treat. This seemed to have an immediate effect – Cinnamon picked up her pace and, within the limits of her restraints, threw her head around, required her rider to pull the reins tight to keep on the path. This was not a demerit like stumbling, a bit of life in the ponygirl made a ride more interesting, even – especially – if it meant the reins and crop had to be heavily employed.

However, after a while Cinnamon seemed suddenly less responsive and began to thrash and writhe in her harnesses, stopping dead in the track. Sir Edward cropped her with renewed force, but she buckled at the knees, shook, and whinnied loudly.

Sir Edward knew the signs. He climbed down from the carriage and walked round in front of Cinnamon so that she could see him.

“Was that an unauthorised orgasm?” he asked, sternly.

Cinnamon was dripping with sweat and her wide eyes looked tired. Mournfully, she nodded yes.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed it, bitch,” Sir Edward said. “You know the penalty for an unauthorised orgasm – twelve strokes. That takes you to eighteen for today. I know you won’t enjoy that, and I know John will. So you had better be sure you behave on the way back – another misstep or stumble will take you to more than twenty strokes. Understand?”

Cinnamon nodded once. A tear tracked down her cheek. Sir Edward smiled at her, stroked her cheek, and gave her bottom a friendly slap in order to reassure her that all was well. Then, with a flick of the reins and the sharp kiss of the crop, they were off again. Sir Edward wasn’t angry with her, far from it; she was a very good ponygirl. Her resale price would be excellent in time, even as a labour or “companion” pony.

Soon, they were back at the stables, where John was waiting. Sir Edward dismounted, and gave Cinnamon a kiss on her cheek and a stroke of her red, bruised buttocks before he bade her goodnight.

“Eighteen strokes tonight, John,” Sir Edward said, walking away and not looking back. “See you both tomorrow.”

Out of sight of his employer, John turned to Cinnamon and smiled knowingly. John was employed to make sure that Cinnamon was kept clean, fed and groomed. But his pay, although fair, was not generous, and John was always keen to exploit what perks that were available. Cinnamon shivered and looked downcast. She knew her day was far from over – after punishment, the stablehand would enjoy his perks, perhaps all night.

Cinnamon longed for the next day and the return of her Owner.