The Exposition of Modified Women

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The Exposition of Modified Women, Part 8 - The Speed Demon

by Benfan

 

 

 

Out of darkness a deep red glow appeared, growing slowly brighter and lightening in hue until it finally exploded into the blazing orange and golden yellows of a spectacular desert sunrise.  Below the natural light show dark ranks of rugged mountains receded into the distance; at their feet a featureless white plain reflected a hint of the dazzling colors above.

"Ooooh, it's pretty!"

"Shhh!"

A rectangular shape appeared on the plain, like a dark brick with edges of silver that caught and reflected the fiery sunrise.  It was moving, gliding surreally across the white field at a speed that the lack of landmarks made difficult to judge.

"Are they spacemen?  I don't like spacemen, they're ugly."

"I said hush, Candy.  If you can't keep quiet you can't watch the movie."

Mark was sitting in a black tent that served as a theater, at one end of the Expo livestock paddock.  In his eagerness he had arrived a bit early for the pony parade, when most of the ponies and their handlers were either resting or just beginning their preparations behind closed tent flaps and stall doors.  To fill the time before things got more interesting he'd ducked into the little tent-theater, where a short film was being presented that documented one Society member's recent efforts to set a new world standard for female-powered speed.

The voices behind Mark were those of an Expo attendee and his bimbo, who'd entered the tent just before the lights had gone down.  They'd joined an audience of a dozen or so who filled the little temporary theater about halfway to capacity.  The man was middleaged, well-groomed and sharply dressed; the companion he pulled along by the hand was a busty blonde dream - or maybe, depending on one's taste, a nightmare - in pink.  Her tight long-sleeved minidress, with its hem just below her butt and a plunging neckline that stretched over boobs the size and shape of volleyballs...bloated collagen lips...long, painted fingernails...the high platform heels that made the bimbo look as tall as her not-diminutive escort: all were the same eye-stinging shade of hottest pink.  Even her towering mass of bleached-blonde curls was streaked with pink highlights.  The only other color she wore was white, in the form of big cheap plastic hoops that rattled around her wrists and dangled from her ears like Christmas ornaments.  A wide belt of white vinyl hung loose about her hourglass waist, and white ruffled socks blossomed at her ankles.

The image on the screen at the front of the theater swept closer to the dark rectangle that slid across the dry lakebed, captured evidently by a helicopter camera.  Swooping around and above the gliding apparition revealed its true form: what was rectangular in side-view appeared from above like a pointed teardrop, with sharp vertical edges front and rear.  The entire craft was of bright aluminum.  From the side at close range the bottoms of four large wheels could be seen protruding below the vehicle's sheer sides.

"Where are the ponies?  I thought there would be ponies."

"OK, Candy, I warned you.  I guess I have to give you something to keep you quiet.  Down here now..."

"Again daddy?  Oh, goody!  You're so good to...Gluk.......sssslurrrp."

Mark sighed in relief that the bimbo's squeaky, high-pitched voice had been silenced.  Now the only noise in the theater was a low, steady mechanical sound, like the spinning of a great, well-greased wheel somewhere behind the curtains or maybe outside in the paddock.

The image of the weird vehicle faded to black, and the familiar face of the famous tycoon, adventurer, and ponygirl aficionado Pritchard Brandon appeared on the screen.  He stood in an expansive shop filled with power tools and large metal frames.

"Hello!" the flaxen-haired mogul began brightly, while the image zoomed in slowly.  "Thanks for taking a moment away from the Expo to join me.  I hope to meet each of you personally out in the paddock, but unfortunately the venue for this year's show is too small for me to bring along the XX4, the amazing vehicle you've just seen and which now holds all recognized records for feminine speed and endurance.  So instead, with the help of some talented people I've put together this little film, so that you can all share a bit of the excitement my team and I experienced as this project developed, and eventually succeeded beyond our most optimistic projections.  But let's start at the beginning..."  He turned as the camera angle shifted.

"You may have heard that I made a little money in airlines, but my favorite mode of transportation uses a different sort of power.  From my earliest years I've fancied the notion of women in harness, and as fortune has smiled upon me I've been able to indulge my special interest in more and more elaborate fashion.  At the start, like most pony-fanciers, I began with consensual playmates and the enjoyment of our little games was mutual..."

The image of Brandon faded out, to be replaced by video of women in pony harness.  The footage had been processed to run at faster than normal speed, and a bit jerkily, affecting a nostalgic style that recalled old newsreels.  The first clips featured a brown haired girl, prettier-than-average and with a soft looking body, who wore a few simple leather straps over her clothes.  Her costumes were most often blue jeans and T-shirts, though in one scene she wore shorts and a bikini top, in which she seemed a bit shy.  Under the playful, teasing whip of a very young Pritchard Brandon she was shown marching across a grassy field, high-stepping in a circle, or drawing her playmate down a paved path in a little red wagon hitched to her belt.

The next girl featured was a lean blonde, who appeared more often in revealing costumes. sometimes made of leather.  Her harnesses were more elaborate, as well as restricting: unlike the earlier model the blonde often performed with hands bound and sometimes with a black bit across her teeth.  She felt young Brandon's whip more often, too.  The clips showed him pressing her to throw her weight into her harness and drag him along, in a modified garden cart now, at ever-greater speeds.

"First ponies, like the first of anything wonderful, always bring back fond memories.  But while these girls will always have a special place in my heart, I soon found our little games tiresome.  In play as in work I demand performance, from myself and anyone on my team.  I don't see much of a point in doing something unless my goal is to be the best, whether it means my companies offering the best service and return on investment, or my ponies' performance at show or on the track."

The third pony in the video was a tall and athletic brunette.  The small leather triangles that concealed her C-cup breasts and pubic area were integreated into her carefully fitted harness, which was reinforced at the joints with shiny studs and plates.  Her bit was of bright silver, and she wore blinders to keep her attention focused on the course before her.  The strong-legged female drew a proper pony-cart, attached by two long, slender bars to either side of her wide belt.  Brandon rode in the cart's single seat, between a pair of tall, skinny bicycle wheels.  The screen showed a few clips of the two on parade at the casual meets that were often held out in the countryside, where the girl stepped proudly in her high-heeled boots while Brandon flashed his winning smile and waved to the crowd.

Then there were clips of them racing, where the pony-driver's teeth showed instead between lips drawn thin in an expression that revealed his inner intensity and competitive drive.  He laid into the brunette's toned bottom with sharp cracks of his whip, as she strained forward and crossed the finish lines always well ahead of her nearest pursuers.  This sequence ended with the scene of a trophy presentation, where Brandon stood on a table excitedly pumping his first-place cup above his head.  His pretty pony - still in harness and bit with arms bound tight behind her - stood beside the table with eyes downcast, wet and exhausted.

"As my interest in the sport grew more serious, and I strived for ever greater speed and greater margins of victory, it became difficult to find ponies who matched my enthusiasm.  Several times I encountered women who possessed all the natural qualities to be fine racers, and who at the outset expressed interest in forming a team.  But after I'd invested a week or a month in training they would too often make up apologies, or come up lame with mysterious leg injuries that caused no swelling, or in one or two cases simply disappear."

"I chafed at the time I was wasting with these faint-hearted volunteers when there were races and glory to be won, and decided to explore a different course.  I'd become aware through some of my fellow pony-fanciers of our Society, and with their sponsorship was duly tested and initiated.  Through our network of mutual friends I gained access to a large supply of fit young women well-suited to the rigorous course of training I was developing - and the terms of their service allowed me to invest the necessary time and effort in full-time training without the worry that they might run off just before a major race."

The video ran at normal speed now, as the documentary approached the present.  The audience watched a more mature Pritchard Brandon engaged in training a variety of well-built women. who toiled mostly naked under his busy whip.  These ran the feminine spectrum from blonde to brunette, and blushing white to darkest African brown.  But they were always strictly bound, often leashed or hobbled, and sometimes blindfolded or masked and helmeted.  When their faces were exposed these women did not always radiate beauty.  Some at least looked to have been chosen with no eye for their faces, but only for their powerful quads and glutes.

Mark wondered what the women behind the masks looked like, while he watched as on the screen Brandon encouraged one of his amazons to get up and complete a traditional strength-building exercise.  She'd collapsed while dragging a sled weighted with a stack of hay bales across the soft earth of Brandon's paddock, and his whip could not convince her to rise again.  Finally from a belt holster he produced an electric cattle prod, which produced the desired response.

"Of course I was just a beginner again, as the Society counts among its membership many skilled and dedicated ponymasters, some of whom have inherited the hobby through past generations.  My first races under Society rules were far more competitive than the old country-club matches, where I'd enjoyed success to the point of boredom.  I'm sure my experience was quite like moving from the junior leagues in other sports up to the elites."

The screen now displayed exciting footage of a dusty break-neck contest, far different from the genteel processions shown in the earlier clips.  Four ponies and their drivers vied for position on a narrow dirt oval, whips flickering, bare breasts bouncing, and feathered headpieces pushed back by the wind of their speed.  Brandon could be spotted under his helmet and goggles by the shoulder-length yellow locks that fluttered behind him in the breeze.  He drove a great black pony that glistened in the sunlight, with hair in a hundred skinny braids that trailed behind her shoulders, legs carved from trunks of ebony and an ass like twin chiseled boulders of obsidian.

In accordance with Society rules the ponies all wore hoof-boots, their toes perched on hard rubber "hooves" shod with steel and their heels high off the ground.  Their arms were bound behind them, and they ran naked except for harness and bridle.  Beyond what was required by rule, the details of their tack varied.  Brandon's black beauty had her arms bound forearm-to-forearm across her back, above a flowing tail of sable, and sported a pair of tall white feathers above her ears.  Her unfettered breasts, firm chocolate handfuls, bobbed violently as she strained forward in her harness, swinging her shoulders so that her whole body worked with her stride.  Two of the more buxom racers had wide straps cinched around the bases of their tits, so that their boobs looked like mushrooms sprouting from their chests.  This was the only form of breast support that the ancient rules allowed.

"But by this time I had met with some success in business, as well as at the pony track, and I possessed the resources as well as dedication to make my stable one of the foremost on the Society roll.  I managed a victory in my first season, and by my third year on the tour captured the Society championship for single carts.  Mr. Parker, from Texas, bested me the following year but after that my stable carried me to two championships consecutively."

After several laps around the dry track the four ponies had become covered in dust.  The billowing clouds of powder adhered to skin soaked with sweat that was rung from their bodies by the afternoon sun, so that all exposed flesh, black or white, was slowly turning to yellowish brown.

Brandon had been in first place for a lap when a towering blonde daughter of viking gods pulled alongside him on the backstretch, blue feathers fluttering from her brow.  Brandon spotted the challenge and rose to half-standing in the footwell of his little cart, shifting its balance forward to give his pony better traction.  He cracked the reins and lashed his long whip against the tight-muscled buttocks that churned before him.  His dark charger obeyed, digging into the packed dirt with her steel-cleated hooves and pulling out in front once more.

As they approached the turn the blonde's driver tried the inside, but Brandon steered to his left, shutting him out.  Around the turn and past the post, where a white flag fluttered: one lap to go.  Going into the far turn the tall blonde's driver tried the outside again, and Brandon forced him wide.

The crowd was on its feet, bellowing with one voice as the ponies flew down the backstretch, legs pumping and tits bouncing, spitting froth past their bits while their hooves pounded against the earth!

Suddenly a third entrant made a late charge, a red-feathered brunette of shorter stature than the leaders but with thighs as big around as her belted waist.  Along the rail she darted, bound boobs bobbing as she drew a white cart in which her driver stood at full height and swung his whip against her broad bottom with all his strength.  Focused on the outside challenge Brandon was late to recognize this new threat, not spying the speeding red feathers until the leaders approached the final turn.

Dropping to one knee in his footwell he pulled back on the left rein, turning his pony's black-maned head.  His lean steed cut hard into the turn, right in front of the onrushing brunette.  Red-feathers was blinkered and only saw Brandon's cart at the last moment, as his spinning wheel passed almost beneath her chin.  Startled, she pulled up suddenly and turned into the rail, bouncing her hip off the low barrier...somehow she kept her hooves under her but the white cart tipped up on one wheel and pitched her standing driver headlong into the dirt.

Approaching the turn from the outside the blue-feathered Norse thoroughbred was running nearly blind.  Her gray eyes caked with dust, she almost trampled the fallen man.  Spotting the prone figure through the clouds of dust her own driver pulled her reins sharply back and to the right.  At the last moment the harnessed valkyrie turned back outside, avoiding disaster, but the sudden strong pull on her bit brought her blonde head up and broke her stride.

By the time she worked back up to speed the fourth pony - an impressively built but underachieving redhead who'd trailed the field throughout - had slipped by to claim second place for her green-feathered stable.  Behind the tall Scandinavian the game, stocky, red-feathered brunette hobbled at last across the line, lame on her left side and with her white cart empty.

All behind Pritchard Brandon, who had stood in his cart and pumped his fist in victory as he rolled past the checkered flag, oblivious to the chaos behind him.  While he threw aside his helmet and waved to the crowd a white-harnessed pony drew a wheeled litter across the track behind him, toward the scene of the crash.

 

[...to be continued]