When she saw the other ponies, naked except for their straps, Angie immediately said that she was a model, an artiste, and no way was she going to show her crotch on camera. Vicky’s temper exploded, but Angie kept her cool, and stood her ground. Realising that she could not melt this ice maiden with the heat of her wrath, Vicky had to resort to negotiation; it was agreed that Angie would not strip off, and would not pull the cart, but would accept only half the agreed fee. By this time, clouds were scudding across the sky, and Vicky was desperate to get started.

Angie removed only her jacket, and mounted the cart clad in jeans and short-sleeved blouse. Vicky placed the whip and reins in her driver’s hands, and took up position behind the camera. There followed some awkward, stilted scenes, with the ponies plodding up and down a short stretch of the grassy track, Angie perched stiffly on the cart seat.

Vicky bellowed directions at her principal actress. ‘Angie, Angie, will you stop looking like a dummy? Shake the reins, swing the whip, let’s have some fucking movement!’ She was not unduly concerned, for she knew from experience that first footage is never usable, it takes a while for everyone to get into the swing of things.

Sure enough, Angie soon loosened up, and rapidly gained confidence as a driver. She began to use the whip when the ponies did not respond to her liking, much to her director’s gratification. Vicky got some fine head-on shots, the ponies’ sweaty breasts bouncing nicely as they advanced into the lens, their pained expressions mute testimony to the fact that they were being driven hard. She stood on the cart behind Angie, and filmed the welts appearing on the ponies’ backs immediately after Angie whipped them, nobody could say that was make-up. All in all, she was pleased with her morning’s work, and pleased with Angie.

At around eleven, Vicky called a break. She had brought a large flask of tea, and enough sandwiches for all of them. Telling Angie to un-harness the ponies, she went to her van to fetch lunch. Halfway back from the van, she heard screaming, and broke into a run. Rounding the office building, she found all three ponies were pulling at their straps in a frenzy; the only one of them who had had her bit removed was Carol, and it was her screams that Vicky had heard - Angie was applying the whip to her with cold ferocity.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Vicky was incredulous. ‘Angie, leave it - you’ll cut her!’ She wrenched the whip from Angie’s hand.

Angie turned to her temporary employer; she shook her head to remove a lock of hair from her forehead. ‘I took her bit out, and she was mouthy to me. So I whacked her. Nobody gives me shit - OK?’ Then she returned to Carol, and brutally refitted the bit. She was cool as a cucumber when she turned back to Vicky. ‘They’ll be OK without lunch. Let’s you and me eat together, then we’ll carry on.’

Something in Angie’s tone excited Vicky, she instantly agreed. Angie advanced on her, kissed her lightly, and fondled her breasts. ‘You put our lunch out Vicky, and I’ll fix these fuckers so they can’t go anywhere. Oh, and Vicky -’

‘Yes Angie?’

‘I’ll be bringing the whip.’

Vicky’s stomach turned over, and her mouth was as dry as parchment. Shocked, frightened, and excited, she turned towards the office, clutching the lunch hamper. She wondered if Angie would beat her before or after having sex, and she wondered what she would be expected to do; she decided that she would improvise with her fingers and tongue. As she rounded the corner of the building, she turned her head to look at Angie, to reassure herself that this was really happening. This was actually when Angie slipped over the event horizon, and was gone, but Vicky merely assumed that the line of ponies was blocking her sight, and proceeded into the building.

Once inside, Vicky forgot all about lunch. She tore her clothes off, and fingered herself urgently. She knew that she would be readily brought to climax, and she hoped that she could do the same for Angie. Crazy fantasies slipped across her mind; they would move in together, grow old together, buy tweed skirts and sensible shoes together. She was unhinged by the sudden passion that had seized her, and achingly hungry for the experience of another woman. Minutes passed, no more than ten or fifteen, and there was no sign of Angie. Suspicion waxed as ardour waned, lust became irritation, became anger. Vicky threw her clothes on almost as fast as she had taken them off, and then she stormed out of the building.

Of course, she found the ponies exactly where she had left them; their erstwhile driver was nowhere to be seen. Vicky studied each of the ponies’ faces; trying to decide which one she could talk to. She decided that Michelle was the most scared looking, and removed her bit.

As soon as she was able, Michelle began to speak. ‘Please, Vicky, please let me go-’ Vicky cut her off with a slap across the face. ‘Shut up. Where’s Angie?’

‘She left as soon as you went away. Please Vicky-’ Michelle was starting to blubber now.

‘Shut up. Which way did she go?’

‘She went along the path by the lake. Please Vicky-’

Another slap silenced the girl, and then Vicky refitted her bit. Pacing up and down, she tried to think things through. Who was Angie? And what was her game? Vicky was irate that the girl had fooled her so easily, had sent her away on the promise of some hanky-panky. She was tempted to cut her losses, to pack up and get the hell out of there. But she only had about forty minutes on tape; she needed at least eighty. A drink would help, so she locked the ponies in the security cage, and motored up to The Three Pigeons in her van.

After three large Gin and Tonics, a name came into her head; Carter Fell. She fished her mobile phone out of her handbag.

Carter Takes The Reins

When she had finished her story, Vicky fell silent.

‘So,’ I said. ‘Angie never really was a pony.’

Vicky made no reply, I continued. ‘And you spun me the vanishing pony line to keep me interested?’

Vicky smiled ruefully. ‘It’s an old storyteller’s trick, Carter. You should know.’

‘Vicky, you must have thought about this. Who would bother to play along for half a day, and then disappear? We’re both thinking the same thing, aren’t we Vicky?’

‘Maybe we are Carter, and maybe we aren’t. But I need to get this video to the duplicator, or I won’t be paying next month’s rent. Will you stay another hour, and we’ll get it finished? You can have a drive.’

Well, a horse’s head on my pillow is an offer I can easily refuse, but I might never get another chance to drive a team of ponygirls. ‘OK Vicky, when do I get my drive?’

‘When we’ve finished Carter, when we’ve finished.’

We had completed a full circuit of the lake, and were coming up to the spur. Vicky turned the ponies onto the spur, and cracked the whip over them. ‘Trot sluts! Let’s see some speed!’

In all truth, it was more of a fast stumble than a trot, but we were definitely going faster. The track started to rise, and the ponies began to struggle, I could hear Carol breathing like Darth Vader. Now Vicky let them feel the whip on their backs, just flicks really, she did not draw the lash back over her shoulder. It was enough to keep the cart moving though, and in a few minutes we reached the top of the track. Vicky halted the cart about fifty yards from the entrance gate, beyond which I could see traffic flashing past. Her face was slightly flushed; I realised that using the whip had aroused her, and my erection had returned. She had to dismount to get the cart turned around, then she took us back to the camera at a modest walk.

We both jumped down from the cart, and Vicky gave me my instructions on how to use the camera. ‘Just leave it on auto-everything, keep us in frame, and don’t zoom in and out while it’s running, that makes people sick.’ And that was it; I was now a fully trained cameraman. I put my eye to the viewfinder, and pressed the Play button, only to see a snowstorm. I held Rewind for a few seconds, and then released it. Vicky’s final shot from the morning was played.

The now-familiar ponygirls advanced towards the camera in black-and-white. They looked just as strained and frightened as I had been seeing them. Behind them, eyeing the camera in curiously detached way, I at last saw Angie. Knowing, as I did, that she had just been whipping the ponies along, the lack of emotion on her placid face was almost shocking. Vicky had not told me how pretty she was, and I sorely regretted that she was fully clothed. Ponies, cart, and Angie swept past the camera, and then the snowstorm was back. The tape remaining counter was flashing in a corner of the viewfinder; there were only ten minutes of tape left.

‘Vicky,’ I hollered, ‘We need another tape here.’

Vicky frowned. ‘Oh bollocks, I’ll have to go to the office.’ And she jogged away.

I looked at the ponies; I looked at the cart. I looked at the whip, which was on the seat. Seconds later I was on board. It would be impossible to adequately describe the feeling of power that possessed me as I picked up the whip and the reins. Possibly the ponies sensed the danger to the skin on their backs, for they shot off when I just shook the reins. I steered them through the cluttered area behind the office, and across the clearing. For I had a yen to tackle the rough track up to the road, not for me was the tameness of the grassy track.

As I turned the ponies onto the track, I heard Vicky calling to me. ‘I knew you would, you bastard! Don’t fucking kill them!’

Vicky is very dear to me, but I do wish she could stop swearing. Steering carefully between the deep ruts, I urged the ponies up the slope with threats and whip-cracks. Eventually, the threats and cracks were not enough, and the cart slowed almost to a stop. At this point, the real me bubbled gleefully to the surface; I whipped those girls, and I could not hear their cries for the blood rushing in my ears. The effect was remarkable, it was if the whip had given the ponies fresh legs and lungs; speed was regained, and we swiftly reached the point where I had planned to turn, just out of sight of the entrance. I had to dismount for this awkward manoeuvre; not having mastered reversing, I could not perform a three-point turn.

Perhaps I had been drunk with power, but leading the ponies through the turn sobered me up, for I could see what I had done to them. Stella had a nasty gash on the side of her face, Michelle had deep welts on her shoulders and chest, as had Carol. I resolved to take them back down the track at a sensible pace, and to salve their wounds with hard cash when the day was over. But then something happened to destroy my good intentions. As I resumed my seat on the cart, I felt someone watching from the side of the track; I turned my head, and found myself looking at a woman’s face. I knew that face; it was Angie. She had reappeared, and most distressingly, she was now wearing a police uniform.

The Ending

Maybe I’m like most guys, I do like to see a pretty girl in uniform, especially a police uniform; the crisp white blouse, the pleated skirt, and the dark stockings - oooh! But not under those circumstances. Angie looked at me; I looked at Angie. She glanced quickly up the track; I followed her eyes, to see a Range Rover making cautious progress towards us. It was a white Range Rover, with a large orange stripe along the side and blue lights on the top. So, Angie had brought reinforcements. There were two options for me; surrender or flight. It was an easy choice to make; I gave the ponies a savage swipe with the whip, they squealed, and set off at the gallop down the slope.

Was Angie going to chase after me? I looked back over my shoulder; she was stood at the side of the track, waving the Range Rover on urgently. As it passed her, she tore a door open and leapt in, I could see her stood up in the back, shouting at the driver. The swivelling blue lights came on, and the siren started its deafening whooping. I turned to my beasts again, they were slowing after their initial spurt; I applied righteous correction. Above the noise of the siren, I could hear the ponies shrieking round their bits. Again and again I whipped them, with the powerful assistance of gravity, and with the irresistible urge of the torturing lash, we got up to a good speed, certainly faster than I would have dared run on that dangerous surface. But I cared nothing for the ponies’ ankles, or their legs, or the skin on their backs. When I looked around again, the Range Rover was slowly gaining. It was lurching badly in the ruts, and no doubt the occupants were having a very rough ride, but there was no way I could pull away from it.

My plan, if I had a plan, was simply to reach my car and attempt to drive up the grassy track to the other exit. I decided to take a short cut. Pulling back hard on the reins, I brought the cart to a halt, and then turned the ponies to face the left-hand rut. I jumped to the ground, then went to the front of the ponies. The police vehicle was only yards away now; I seized the leather trace that connected the ponies’ heads, and leapt across the rut. Having no choice but to follow or just about have their heads yanked off, the ponies leapt after me, and the cart bounced across behind them. Ahead I could see the buildings in the loading area, about sixty yards away, with a sea of tall nettles in between. Will barelegged girls run through nettles? They will if you whip them hard enough. I jumped up onto the cart, and commenced to flay their shoulders; the cart shot forward, and the chase was on again.

Through the nettles we flew, I realised that I was having the time of my life, and I wanted it to never end. But just looking ahead, I could see that the end was very close. The clearing was buzzing with the boys in blue, a transit van with riot grilles was blocking my proposed exit up the easy track, there was nowhere for me to go. I was not about to give up though, and I flogged the ponies on, we emerged from the nettles into the thick of the police raid, they were everywhere. Behind me, the driver of the Ranger Rover had killed the siren; I could hear its engine revving as it stormed along in low gear, so close that I fancied I could feel the heat of the engine. Straight ahead was a cluster of astonished coppers; two of them lunged at the ponies’ traces, as if trying to stop a runaway horse. I heaved the reins left, and then right, successfully evading their grasp, all the while lashing the ponies like a thing possessed; like I said, I was having a good time.

As I raced past the site office, I saw Vicky up on the roof.  It looked like half the Thames Valley Constabulary had surrounded the tiny building, she was shouting down at them; ‘What’s the charge? What’s the charge?’ Seeing me hurtle by in a passable re-enactment of the chariot race from Ben-Hur, she jumped up and down with delight and shouted at me ‘CARTER FELL, YOU ARE A TRULY GREAT MAN’. I raised a hand to acknowledge her praise; that was a mistake, the whip jerked back and its tip caught me in my right eye. It’s funny, but when anyone gets a good poke in the eye, they always clap a hand to it, as if pressure is a sure cure for eye injury. I howled in pain, applied the obligatory firm hand to the wounded organ, and of course I let go of the reins.

The ponies were already starting to slow, from the effects of exhaustion. As soon as I ceased tormenting them with the whip, and the reins went slack, they started to slow somewhat. But they had not been pulled to a halt, so they kept going. And they had not been turned left or right, so straight ahead they went, towards the lake. It was an interesting demonstration of obedience; I sincerely believe that I could have driven those ponies into the fires of hell.

A tubby policeman, who had been staring at the ponies in disbelief, now roused himself to shout ‘Oi you! Come here!’

I am sure he was shouting at me, but the ponies heard, and they turned sharply towards him. I had been about to hop off the cart to avoid a soaking, so my weight was off-centre; as the ponies made their sudden turn, the cart began to topple. I found myself struggling to stay upright as the cart leaned over at a crazy angle, then I jumped off it, and landed on the edge of the bank. The laws of physics now conspired against me; momentum took me forward, gravity took me down.

I rolled over and over, down the bank, and into the shallow water at the edge of the lake. I had taken my hand away from my face now, for a few moments I lay there like a soggy Cyclops, gazing up at the sky with my one good eye, the wounded one was completely closed.  I heard splashing footsteps, and then Angie appeared above me, staring down contemptuously. My bad eye hurt like hell, and I was winded from my fall, but I am dedicated to my calling, so I did not miss the chance to peer up her skirt.

‘You Sir,’ Said Angie, ‘are a sick fucking pervert.’

‘And you Officer,’ I replied, ‘Are a damn fine piece of pussy.’

* * * * * *

My legal team, actually it’s just Bernie Finestein, is going to base my defence around the dubious notion that what consenting adults do in private is not a matter for the law, and that the police action infringes the ponygirls’ employment rights. He’s slightly concerned about the assault charges; apparently the legal precedent is that people cannot consent to being beaten. Vicky is blissfully unconcerned about the proceedings, and is revelling in the publicity. She arrived at the preliminary hearing in a hired limo, like a movie star, and posed with a whip for the photographers. I skulked in with a coat over my head. You will not be surprised to learn that the tape Vicky shot has disappeared, and that Angie is denying that she touched the ponygirls with the whip.

If I do get a prison sentence, I’ll rent my flat out, and use my time away to write a sequel to the Kern stories. At the moment I’m keeping a very low profile, but when the time is right I plan to do some more pony driving. And I know just the pony for the job; after all, Vicky owes me a very big favour. And she’s still better than a bowl of soup.

END