They didn’t let me in the house at all that first week. The closest I got was the flower garden, which was hard baked earth between huge clumps of weeds, threaded by the occasional leggy and pathetic-looking petunia.
Anders had unearthed an old plough from somewhere, and I stood like a patient mule while he worked out how to fasten me to it. Beneath a straw hat, chewing on my bit, I felt entirely, peacefully equine, standing there sniffing the morning air in the shade of the tall house, waiting for the one with hands to sort things out.
Once he got me going, however, my bucolic animal idyll was a thing of the past. No matter how hard I leaned into it, the plough jerked, caught, broke free and then yanked me back to a standstill. I struggled forward, taking the lash again and again down ass and thighs. The tough old weeds stung my legs as I went through them, and required inducement from my master and effort to the point of tears before I got them loose. What had seemed to be a small and manageable patch – maybe six feet by twenty –
became a vast battlefield, with me the platoon that was thinking urgently about white flags.
The second pass wasn’t much better than the first. I stopped trying to take in the entire job by eye; just stared at the ground in front of me and concentrated on getting one foot past the other, obeying signals as best I could like a good beast. By the third pass it was easier. Then my master dumped about six huge bags of topsoil all over, and changed the plough for a kind of horizontal rod with teeth, a harrow, I guess, and we went round a fourth time. By the time I’d been hosed down and fed I was barely able to keep my eyes open; I slept, exhausted through the hot midday in my stall.
When I woke and moved I groaned. Everything had stiffened up. Anders came and made me stretch, and rubbed something into my legs. By mid-afternoon I was in harness again, still groaning. Anders and Svend, both of them this time, hitched me to a different vehicle, a cart twice the length of the pony trap, with four wheels instead of two. It didn’t seem a whole lot heavier, fortunately, and I was able to pull it well enough. Gradually my aches subsided. They drove me in a leisurely way, nothing above a trot. I was getting used to Svend’s driving, maybe because he was getting better at it. And because the work of a pony was leaving me with very little time to worry.
Anyway, Svend was the easiest. The closest to my master, the one I’d had most time to get used to. The one who was neither female nor had a female in tow. And although he handled me with increasing confidence, he was still a bit of a tyro at the whole thing. A tourist, in a way. The least threat of all of them.
Anders pulled me to a stop and led me beneath some trees by the side of the road. No water was visible, though I could smell and hear it somewhere nearby. My reins got tied up to an overhanging branch like before, and then the two men were out of sight. There was the sound of chopping behind me.
I couldn’t turn much, fastened as I was, but I caught a flash of metal in the corner of my eye. After a few minutes there was a clatter of wood into the cart behind my back, and footsteps back into the trees. Another clatter; more wood. Svend appeared dragging a goodsized log; I could feel that one go in.
He went back for more. No light load, this one. I clenched my teeth around the bit, imagining the struggle that was coming and what it would cost me. I was right, too. When at last they led me back to the road, they tried riding, but even whipping me along couldn’t get me past a slow walk, so they got off and walked themselves, and I could just about manage. The uphill bits had me panting with the effort, gasping at every blow. Eventually I stood on shaky legs by a shed back behind the house, sweat dripping into stinging welts, watching peripherally as they unloaded. One armful went straight into the kitchen. A fireplace, then. I thought about the heat of the fire on my flank at home, crouching warm under my master’s legs.
But after another hose down I was back in my stall, alone again, watching the coming dusk creep up the walls. The stable and stall did have lights, of course; they turned them on when they came out to use me, and turned them off when they left.
Svend had long since been granted free use of my mouth; when he was around he took advantage of the opportunity two or three times a day. Val, too; when she spent time in Anders’ workshop, generally made use of me also, to my chagrin. Karl and Ria had been a bit more elaborate about it, but my status as household utility had already been well established by the time they were around. And of course my master satisfied himself any time he liked, in any hole that appealed to him. Giving him that kind of pleasure was my raison d’être.
So it was no hardship those evenings when the men walked into my stall. The hardship was when they left. It was very lonely there in the dark.
Sleeping alone wasn’t easy at all. I woke in the middle of the night on my pile of straw, missing the long limbs claiming me even in sleep. How was he managing without me?
***
The bed was only a double, with a creaky headboard and noisy springs, but it felt oddly large and empty without his little hunhund and her chain noises. Anders wondered how she was coping out there. There was no mistaking her eagerness when he showed up, and her bereft look, like a puppy being shut in its crate, when he turned out the light. They hadn’t been separated at night in over a year. He lay awake in the dark and felt for her against his chest, between his legs.
The room smelled foreign, a room that had never contained her. He’d mandated her current lock-up for its significance: layers of implications, most of which he enjoyed immensely. But he hadn’t counted on the resulting separation leaving such a hole in his own chest. Still, they’d both survive it.
It took him all of ten minutes, rather than five, to fall asleep. Fishing tomorrow, he thought as he drifted off.
Karl arrived, and got a weekend of good weather, which meant a chance to tour the farm in the two-wheeled cart and get the hang of driving. He liked messing about with fly fishing, too, though what little experience he had was with grayling and sea trout. On Sunday it clouded over enough that there were brook trout biting, even in the parts of the stream with no cover, and they left the pony and trap tied up for long periods while they tried pool after pool. The next morning drizzle misted the truck’s windshield during the long drive to the airport. All the way back to the farm, steady wiper noises made a background to their conversation. Karl and Ria and Anders dashed up to the porch with Ria’s bags, and then turned to look at the monotone grey sky and what had turned into a determined downpour. ‘Hot drinks by the fire, and then I’ll start dinner,’ said Anders. ‘The tour can wait.’
Ria came down in jeans and fully repaired makeup, giving judicious approval to the farmhouse. ‘But where is your little hunhund?’
‘Our little mare, so far,’ said Svend. ‘It turns out that horses live in stables; they don’t come into the house.’
‘I think it’s time the house had a dog actually,’ said Anders. ‘I’ll fetch her.’
It was a wet and shivering animal that crawled onto the porch and, after a rough towelling, had its muzzle firmly applied. The creature followed the pull of the leash through the door into the big kitchen. She looked very small down there on the floor. The kettle was steaming, and Karl was spreading honey on toasted rolls.
‘Here’s our little puppy,’ Karl said. ‘Just as juicy as ever, as you see.
Now, Anders, how can I feed her tidbits if you muzzle her like that?’
‘And how can she lick us hello?’ added Ria. ‘I want to be greeted properly. She hasn’t been biting lately, has she?’
Anders grinned. ‘All right. She can wear a bit and bridle instead, hunhund though she is, and greet you with her tongue. No tidbits, though.’
The bridled head followed the leash’s tug, and after a moment’s hesitation, a tentative tongue reached past the bit to lick the hands held out to it. The creature craned her slender neck, and took in the room for the first time through eyes framed by straps: the underside of the long, scarred wooden table, the painted cupboards and tall hutch, the familiar pans hanging on unfamiliar hooks. Dark eyes rested on a well-known cage in the corner. Boots at the back door. Windows streaked with rain. Back up to all the eyes looking down on her, and instantly down to the wide, worn floorboards between her mitts.
The world outside continued wet and unwelcoming for the rest of the evening. They built up the fire and talked, played with the hunhund, and talked some more. Svend, arguing with Karl over the ethics of carbon trading, found himself increasingly distracted by the sight of the slave upended over one of Karl’s knees, having her nipples casually tweaked. He’d thought that he had had his fill of the girl while the others were off at the airport. But each tiny squirm acted upon him like a compressor, sending vital fluids in the direction of his cock.
He had to wait his turn, though. Ria, yawning and jet-lagged, wanted to be lapped to sleep. Then Anders decided to punish the slave for some minor infraction; coincidentally there was a new crop supplied by Ria to test. The striped buttocks’ anguished clenching sent the pressure in Svend’s compressor into the red zone. At last he got the tearful woman-dog’s head between his thighs.
***
Sunshine flickered in warm trapezoids on the kitchen wall opposite the window, filtering through the flowering vines that wavered in a light wind.
A gentle honeysuckle breezed flipped the corners of newspapers and napkins.
Val sniffed and sighed. ‘Damn, I wish I could get out here more often.’
She looked down at the paper propped against her cold coffee cup. ‘I shouldn’t be reading this stuff. It just makes me mad. Here, look at this.’ She folded back the Globe she’d brought up with her, handed it to Anders and sat back in her chair with her hands laced behind her head.
Anders ran his eyes down the headlines. ‘The news always makes you mad. What’s particularly raised your ire this morning?’
She pointed. ‘Developers won another one. One of the last pieces of farmland in Vaughan this time.’
‘Shit.’
Karl forked the last piece of French toast onto his plate. He and Ria would have preferred rugbrød, but the rye at the store in town was something else altogether; a pallid foam unworthy of the name. He smiled at the small square woman across from him. ‘But you yourself like to build houses, Val.’
‘I also like to eat. And I’d prefer to eat something that hasn’t had to travel a thousand miles to get to me. Anyway, I do renovations, downtown density; not sprawl.’
‘Eating locally, is that it?’ Svend asked. ‘I’ve got some friends who are trying to do that. Nothing from further away than a hundred kilometres. No, wait; miles.”
“Either way, that seems a little extreme,’ said Ria. ‘Look at the environmental impact of all that food trucking, though.’
Ria looked glanced at the pyramid of fruit in the bowl before her. ‘Still, no oranges? No mangos?’
‘Never mind tropical fruit,’ said Svend. ‘No coffee! Imagine. They’re trying to give it up; Jordan looks like something out of Day of the Dead.’
‘It’s multinationals,’ Val said blackly. ‘The bastards. Making a fortune giving us crap food and putting small farmers out of business.’
Ria nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is why we are growing vegetables, hmm? That is all fine in theory, but you know, my last pair of jeans is now very dirty and that ancient washing machine down there is in pieces all over the floor. Is someone going to put it together again? Washing clothes on a rock in the stream is not my idea of a holiday.’
‘I have to go into town for parts before I can fix it,’ said Anders. ‘We need some shingles for the barn roof, too. I’d better do some loads at the Laundromat while I’m there, because frankly the chance of getting that thing going at all is hit or miss. Ria? Want to come do it yourself or do you trust me with your underwear?’ They both headed for the stairs. Karl settled down on the wide back porch with laptop and briefcase.
Twenty minutes later Anders was on his way to the door, keys jingling.
‘Feed the slave, someone, would you? And then walk her and chain her up in her stall if you’re not using her. I’ll be back,’ he looked at his watch,
‘early afternoon some time.’
The truck started. Val started on the crossword puzzle. Ria glanced over at the cage in the corner, where the small figure crouched. She took the red bowl from the drying rack, poured some cereal into one side, water into the other, and slid it through the cage’s slot. ‘There you go, hunhund.
Breakfast,’ she said in Danish. She unbuckled the muzzle and pulled it out from between the bars. Svend piled dishes in the sink and ran water.
The slave’s face, released from its restraint, dipped over the bowl.
Crunching noises, the clink of wet crockery, pages turning – a peaceful farm kitchen morning. When Svend turned to hang up the last frying pan, he remembered to extract the now empty bowl from the cage and wash it. Then he took an apricot from the bowl on the counter, cut it up and squatted by the cage. ‘Come, girl,’ he said in Danish, and fed her the bits one by one, squeezing a tit while he was at it. He squeezed an ass cheek next, and smiled at the sight of the butt plug. That was going to be in place for a while; no one but Anders had the keys to the belt. Svend replaced the muzzle with gentle fingers, pulled the buckle slowly to the required hole, and stood musing over the cage.
Only three weeks in this weird ménage, and he was losing awareness of the person inside the harness and bars. Never mind the business of making her submit to women. That issue seemed to apply to a walking, talking submissive. Anders’ pet was transmuting, devolving into something sweet and sub-human. An animal with human features, like something out of a fairy tale. What had been an absurd, oddly intriguing game was putting down insidious roots, like a novelty plant that escapes its pot and overruns the garden. Svend found himself overlooking, using or tending the little creature without a second thought.
This process was rather disturbing. What had become of his usual sardonic detachment? Could it be right, this depersonalization, this discounting of humanity, that allowed them to treat her in ways that humans weren’t supposed to be treated? Or was there something psychopathic going on?
He didn’t know. But the roots were spreading. He was far more immersed in this version of reality than he had been a week ago. So much so that the moments of ambiguity had become harder to take, when the slave’s eyes made contact out of a naked face, and the intelligent mouth had a look of words unspoken. Svend had come to prefer her in muzzles and bridles, when that mouth wasn’t surrounding his cock.
He unlocked the cage, clipped a lead to the slave’s collar and led her out the door. Her smooth flesh swelled temptingly between the straps of her harness. She crawled along, able to move surprisingly well on mitts and kneepads. Her ankles were linked to her belt to prevent her from straightening her legs and getting up. Svend wondered if this was really necessary. It had become hard to imagine the creature making such a move of her own volition. She gave no upward glances from her squat in the dirt.
He left her on the front porch tethered to the railing, went inside and rummaged through the paraphernalia trunk in the living room. Instead of fighting his impulses, he’d decided he might as well give in and experiment with them. Embrace the experience in its entirety, what the hell. When he returned he had a condom and the full hood and blindfold he’d been looking for. Soon he had a faceless mouth – no eyes above it, puppy or human. He slid the orifice down tightly over his cock and fucked it.
***
I pushed my chain into a back-and-forth sway, and listened to it creak.
The taste of latex lingered, interfering with the usual smells of hay and old wood and my own flesh. Leather came through pretty clearly from all the harness on my body and on the wall, or was that the scent of the leather hood lingering on my face and in my hair?
My brain had managed to climb a notch or two up from animal mode.
Shame made my toes curl, clenched my inner thighs right up to my carapaced cunt. I felt a surge around the huge plugs that my master had left me in that morning.
First there had been something nudging me awake – his foot. Then the tug at my neck, drawing me out of my basket by chain and collar, between his legs. My sleepy eyes had barely glimpsed the cool dawn light before they closed again. But painful experience had taught me to bring myself up to full awareness and not sleep on the job.
For a few minutes after he came I had dozed again, my head on his thigh. I woke to his hands stroking, murmurs in Danish that sounded like endearments. For all I knew he could have been calling me all the demeaning names in the Danish dictionary, but I responded to the tone like the animal I was, snuggled against him and was happy.
An early morning walk in the space between the two sheds. There’d been sounds of stirring above us when we returned, but no footsteps on the stairs. I’d braced on elbows and knees, moaning, just as I had done a hundred times, to have the belt removed and relocked with its planted plugs. Harness on and pulled tight, muzzle on. The smack toward the cage. And then I’d dwelt in my kennel, while long legs came and went, while hands tended to me or not. Seeing mostly chair legs, feet, the shadowy underside of the table.
Aware of those upper, inner planets circling warm around their conversation.
I was so far into outer darkness as to be barely discernable, the Pluto of this solar system, downgraded from planetary status. Pluto the pet dog, too; the one who walks on all fours and doesn’t talk.
Straw now between my curling toes. Shame at what and who I was.
Shuddering, abominable, delicious shame.
Voices outside the stable. The sound of teasing, laughter. Karl and Ria.
Coming closer. Fear: a thumping presence between my ears. Voices quieting now; going away? My disappointed body strained toward the door.
Wanting even Ria? Thoughts doubled back on themselves. How odd. I seemed to be adapting to the women somehow. Their proximity and power over me had been deeply upsetting; now, not so much. I knew they had the right to me; that was the main thing. That sense of wrongness was abating.
And they weren’t entirely unknown quantities any more. In any case, my body was so desperate to be handled that the gender of the handler had become secondary. Both genders were usually around; I could and did think of the female hands as extensions of the male ones.
Karl and Ria came in after all, and began the process of getting me sunblocked, into pony tack and between the shafts of the two-wheeled trap.
Ria made me bend, and pressed hard on the butt plug till I heard a snap; as I expected I felt the long tail brushing the backs of my calves. Karl clipped the lines from nipple rings to reins; that particular embellishment had become standard. There were the blinders and bells, even one on my nose ring, so that I jingled and chimed as I was led onto the road. And all this time, apart from some brief exchanges as they handed each other things or advised on the tightness of a girth, they were talking over my head, some conversation that had nothing to do with me.
Between the obscuring blinkers was a vertical slice of light, banded horizontally: the brown road at my feet, crossed by the green of distant trees, and topped by blue sky. The whip flicked me up to a trot and I jingled along between the shafts, shoulders doing their best with arms folded back. A lash of pain goaded me up to a run, but the pull of the bit quickly hauled me back. The pain was just gratuitous amusement, not a driving technique. I winced and danced a little as the blows fell, but trotted at the speed that the bit dictated. Reins and whip got passed back and forth a couple of times.
One driver preferred to lay lines across me, and the other was an expert at small, cruel flicks with just the tip; I couldn’t tell which was which.
Every pull at the corners of my mouth drew on nipples as well. The pain was only mild; the additional arousal was something else. My noises became guttural, long before we reached the trees. The impaling objects between my legs moved with me. I could run in them for hours, be whipped round and round the circuit and never come; Anders had long since made sure of this. I was frantic to stand and squirm, no matter how foolish and futile the behaviour. At last we were between the trees, out of the sun. They drove me off the road onto sparse grass well marked by previous wheel marks; this was a favourite spot, with grass and access to the stream. Karl tightened the reins around a branch and gave me some water from the bottle, all the while holding Ria by the waist and biting at her neck. Her hands were in his pants.
He set the bottle down and grabbed her up, and I could hear them tussling and giggling behind me. Then I caught sight of Ria in the grassy clearing beyond the light screen of scrubby growth to my right, carrying a basket.
About twenty meters away from me she set it down, and rolled out a blanket.
They were having a picnic.
A breeze filtered through the trees and cooled some of the sweat off me.
Standing and squirming against the plugs, I waited, and watched through the blinders as they lolled and ate. One step pulled my head back at an angle and drew on harnessed breasts.
A squirrel came within a couple of feet of my motionless body. I imagined little claws climbing me, and made an attempt to swish my tail, hoping to scare it. It scampered off. After a while Ria went off to the river to rinse some things, and Karl returned to get something from the trap. My feedbag. A chopped-up amalgam as usual, in a basin strapped to a tree trunk.
With my rein retied around the tree below the basin, the bit out of my mouth and the bell out of my nose, I dipped my head in. There was celery and apple and a few nuts in with the mix; not bad. A hand on my flank would have been a comfort, but Karl was gone.
When I straightened up again and no longer had the sound of my own crunching in my ears, I could hear splashes and their voices; they were out of sight down at the water. A few minutes later, Ria came through the clearing wrapped in a towel, and dumped some things into the basket. A call from Karl, an agreeing sound from her, and she came up from behind the trap, gave me a drink, shook out a little water to rinse my face, replaced the bit in my mouth and retied the reins to a branch above my head, all in about half a minute. She forgot the nose bell; no complaints from me. Then she was back in the clearing, leaving a scent behind: Jasmine, water, sunscreen, a hint of a sharp cheese, and a lot of arousal. Hers or mine?
She’d barely touched me. I arched, thrust breasts and buttocks into empty air, not even that stray breeze to caress them. Even that long, soft, slender hand with its lacquer and rings, even that mocking female glance would have been something. An acknowledgement of my presence. Even just an acknowledgement of an animal’s consciousness and suffering. They were naked now. Karl’s long back showed me its vertebrae and muscle, the hollows at the side of his buttocks. I caught sight of a white breast. Then the swell of Ria’s hips, the grip of her thighs as they rolled, off the blanket and back again. He licked, and she arched like a cat; she straddled him and held her breasts out for him to pinch. I could hear the suction of their kisses, the grunting exclamations, the words that demanded and caressed.
I soaked all this in, enthralled, my breath matched to theirs. Now Karl had his hand deep inside her and his mouth on her cunt, and she was screaming. I writhed and shimmied and jingled, and felt the pull at mouth and nipples; I had tried to move more than a step from where I was tied. My tongue worked around the bit. My insides clamped down hard on their intrusions. Insects were discovering my unprotected flesh. The two on the blanket also; they lay back, slapped at each other, laughing. Then they were rolling over and over on the grass. I caught the shine of Ria’s breast in a pocket of sunlight, Karl’s browner shoulder. Ria began a low purr, which opened out into a long, rising howl ending in an ecstatic ‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’ I shuddered; from the back of my throat, whimpering, came my own empty echo. Then she was on top of him, hands braced on his shoulders. Slowly he turned her around so that she faced his feet, and bit by bit they got to their knees, and then their feet, never losing that connection. His lean brown arm across her waist, he walked her toward the living screen dividing us, and then she had a hand around two saplings and he was holding her by the hips and fucking her from behind, their faces distorted, lost. I could smell them both now, that deep sexual bouquet. This time they both came, and then they sank to the grass below the bushes, and I couldn’t lower my head enough to see them any longer.
A long pause, and then a small ‘eek!’ and a slap. Ria rose in my field of vision, slapping away insects, scratching a mosquito bite on her butt. Karl followed her, scratching his belly and grinning.
They took the trip back rather slowly, and hardly whipped me at all. I could hear them murmuring to each other, closely entwined on the seat no doubt, in a sweet daze of fulfilment. I thought mode of transportation thoughts. Wordless, lonely, horny pony thoughts.
