Troika
by Cobalt Jade 7/97
It was crisp February day, the sky like blue sapphire. Countess Olga
Lubamov decided to go for a ride.
She would call on her friend Sascha, she decided. He lived in town ten
minutes' ride away from her dacha. But it was winter, and the roads
were packed solid with snow. It was also after the fall of the Communist
regime, and there were no snowplows, no petrol, and no spare parts for
her 1983 Mercedes, which lay rusting in a garage at the edge of her
garden.
Luckily, she had an alternative.
She threw on her sable coat, which suited her dark brown hair and
luminous brown eyes. Her complexion was as clear and unspoiled as the
fresh white snow outside. She came from a long line of Russian
nobility--not that it counted for much these days--but generations of
foreign education and good breeding had translated into the skill to
cultivate good connections among those who ruled. Her father had been
a regional minister in this part of the Urals and she had more or less
inherited his land, and his power.
The only drawback was that it was so isolated. In winter she was
practically cut off from the world, even with television and radio
broadcasts. But the isolation also provided a way for certain regional
customs to flourish without interference from the outside world. Once
practiced in secret, the collapse of the old regime had made them
reemerge in full flower.
She pulled on her leather boots and a pair of soft leather gloves lined
with fleece, then gave orders to her man Nicholas to prepare the sleigh.
"You'll be wanting the horses, Countess?" he said with a jerk of his head
towards the barn.
The Countess noted the drip of icicles and how her breath frosted in the
cold, clear air. It was about ten degrees below freezing, but there was no
wind and the sun was warm. "No," she said. "I'm going to use the girls."
Nicholas cocked his eye at her and gave her a lascivious smile. He knew
her well. The shaggy-coated horses, descendants of Clydesdales and
Percherons, watched her with reproach from the edge of their paddock.
The Countess strode across the yard, the snow crunching under her
boots. The mountain peaks looked lavered in sugar, the forests that
covered them a soft, fine fur. Taking a key from her pocket she
unlocked the door of what had once been the dacha's guesthouse. The
interior had been gutted and divided into two sections separated by a
wide, hay-strewn aisle. Five paddocks lined either side. It looked much
like a stable, except there were no horses. One by one her ponygirls
leaned out of their stalls to stare at her over the open half-doors.
What dear, sweet creatures they were. Tatiana. Statesque Lena. Hannah.
Dunyasha and Nadia, the sisters from Volsk. Mariana. All were naked,
their bodies round and sleek with the extra fat they needed for the
winter. The Countess was not cruel, but she kept the temperature of the
stable on the chilly side. She wanted to keep her ponygirls acclimated to
the season outside.
She brought a basket of treats with her and the ponygirls became
excited when she removed the napkin. Their nostrils flared delicately at
the scent of fresh bread and blackberry jam. They weren't permitted to
talk, of course. The whip on the wall attested to that. The Countess knew
they probably whispered among themselves when she or her grooms
weren't there, but if they were caught they were punished. The groom's
visits were never routine, forcing them to keep on their toes.
She went to Mariana's stall first. The large-breasted blonde leaned over
the door to accept the jam-filled roll in her mouth. None of the
ponygirls could use their arms, which were kept imprisoned behind
them in a black leather tube drawn tight with laces. The Countess
kneaded Mariana's breasts and the rosy nipples puckered under her
hand. She would have to be milked soon. Mariana whimpered in
pleasure and tossed her head, shaking her mane of thick butter-yellow
hair.
The Countess visited Nadia next. She looked much like her sister
Dunyasha: round, petite, with a pert snub nose and a full head of thick,
black hair. The Countess had kept them in the same stall until it became
clear an unnatural attachment had formed between them. One morning
she had entered the stable to see Dunyasha leaning against the wall,
moaning, squatting with her legs spread wide while Nadia's naughty
little tongue lapped the wet nest of hair between her thighs. The
Countess had had to punish them both. It was one of the her rules that
the ponygirls always had to be at the height of unfulfilled excitement
for either herself or her guests to enjoy. Sexual contact with each other
was forbidden, unless the Countess wished it.
She had moved Dunyasha to the end of the aisle where Nadia wouldn't
see her or talk to her, and they were only together when working. The
two had pined for weeks while their backs and buttocks healed. The
Countess had nearly given in and permitted them a moment together for
solace. But no; it would only overstimulate the other ponygirls. They had
to be kept apart for the good of the herd. A cruelty, but a necessary one.
She still feel sorry for them, however, for she slipped Nadia a chocolate
cordial as she left her stall. It was a special treat, as imported chocolates
were to find in this province these days.
She visited each stall in turn, pausing to pat the ponygirls or stroke
their well-groomed manes. The last four stalls were empty; their
occupants were in the creamery.
The Countess pushed through the double doors. The ponygirls were only
allowed to use their hands and arms while working here; it kept them fit
and toned their muscles. The two Kazahkstanis, Kara and Luva, were
shackled to a churn they turned around and around in an endless circle,
churning the cream in the tub below into sweet, fresh butter.
Alexandria was busy at a smaller churn, pumping it up and down with
her hands. The churning motion must have excited her, or perhaps it
was the sight of her workmate's breasts coming into view as they
rounded the larger churn, then their buttocks as they left, for the wood
of the bench between her thighs was quite wet. If she got too excited,
the peasant women who supervised this place might smack her pussy
for its undiscipline...but not too hard.
Mikhaila knelt quietly on a another bench as a sausage-fingered
peasant milked her breasts into a metal pan. The Countess knew a black
market source for synthetic hormones and kept all her ponygirls
continuously lactating. The milk made a fine cheese which she
sometimes sold in town. She would bring Sascha a small square of it
today, rolled in dried herbs and tied with a bow.
"How is the herd today?" she asked Maria, the supervisor.
"Oh, fine, Countess," the woman drawled, her ugly, kindly face
separating into wrinkles. "Luva's got a bit of a cold, but outside of that
they're all in fine temper, a little-stir crazy from the weather. Are you
planning to take them out? It's a good day for it."
"Yes, I'm going to town. I've been cooped up too long in the house, I
think."
"You'll enjoy it." Maria grinned at her and squirted some of Mikhaila's
milk into a cup. "Try this."
This was one of life's luxuries, warm fresh milk on a winter morning.
The Countess would have wanted to take it fresh from the breast, but
that might lead to other things, and she had her trip into town to attend
to.
She gave orders to the creamery supervisors for the day--the milking
schedule, which ponygirls needed a workout or their toenails attended
to--and went back into the stable. Nicholas was waiting for her. She
looked around at all her charges, trying to decide which trio to take for
the ride.
"Mariana," she said at last. "Harness her in the center, with Nadia and
Dunyasha on either side." It would be a good combination. The sturdy
blonde in the middle, with the cute, delicate sisters--who looked
practically like twins--flanking her. The two could be together yet not
be touching. The Countess was pleased.
Another groom quickly fetched the harnesses. They were custom made
for each ponygirl of butter-soft black leather, an attractive contrast
whether against a pale Estonian like Karina or the darker, central Asian
complexions of Luva and Kara. A team of leatherworkers in Hamburg
had made the harnesses to the Countess's specifications. They would be
very surprised that they were being used on a farm instead of the
steamy backrooms of some private club. If she wanted to the Countess
could enhance her equipage with dildoes, gags, vibrators, and other
toys, but today she wanted to keep them nearly nude.
Smart slaps on the rump shooed the chosen ones out of their stalls. The
grooms laced the ponygirls' feet and legs into thigh-high black boots
which had special soles for traction on ice and snow and a warm lining
to keep their joints supple. Wide, tight belts went around each waist to
which their bound arms and wrists were buckled, and another harness
went around their shoulders. The ponygirl's breasts were snugged into
half-cups of leather that held them erect and also served as a form of
support. They would still jiggle as they trotted, but without the added
strain from bouncing freely.
A high leather collar completed the equipage, ensured the ponygirls
wouldn't be able to turn their heads. A pair of blinkers shielded their
eyes from what lay to either side and also offered protection from the
glare of the snow. They would only be able to look straight ahead,
without even a sidelong furtive glance at each other. Mariana waited
stoically as she was strapped but the sisters were restless, stamping and
tossing. They had become aroused from the grooms' handling, for both
were breathing deeply. Fortunately, a glare from the Countess was
enough to still them.
Nicholas cracked his whip, driving the three out the door and into the
snow. Though acclimated to the cold it still came as a shock, though the
fast jog forced on them soon warmed them up. The sleigh waited in an
open shed, the traces already fastened and lying before it. Silver bells
decorated the leather. Nicholas helped the Countess into the sleigh and
tucked the thick wool blankets around her. Her favorite whip waited in
the slot beside her.
Working quickly, they harnessed the ponygirls to the sleigh three
abreast in the traditional Russian troika. "When will you be back,
Countess?" Nicholas asked.
"Around sundown, I expect." That would be around four o'clock, but in
the country, they still told time by the movement of the sun. The
ponygirls stamped their feet in the snow, settling into their harnesses.
The tight straps constricted them attractively, the pale flesh squeezing
slightly over the edges. Plump mares they were, but underneath that
layer of fat they were all sturdy muscle.
The Countess snapped her whip. Three pairs of leather-sheathed legs
churned into motion; naked flesh strained against the reins. The sleigh
jerked forward, settled, jerked again as the runners found the slick ruts
left by previous trips off the farm. Another jerk, and the troika began
to glide...down the drive, past the bare fruit trees, and through the gate
to the silent, waiting road.
The team was eager to be out today. Their buttocks switched saucily from
side to side as they jogged. The Countess had a friend from Germany
tattoo her family's crest--a double-headed eagle--on the apex of each
ponygirl's left cheek to mark her ownership. She popped the whip
again and again and was rewarded with an extra burst of speed each
time. The ponygirls' hair swayed in the wind, lifted, and separated into
tendrils. Frosty breath steamed from their nostrils.
After a few minutes they settled into a moderate trot. The black trunks
of trees flew by on either side, and stinging powder flew up from the
runners of the sleigh and the ponygirls' boots. The sleigh squeaked and
sluffed below the loud jingle of the harness bells. The Countess popped
the whip idly, marking one buttock, then another. The ponygirl's skin
began to flush rosy pink with exertion and beads of sweat appeared
between their shoulderblades, but as long as they kept up the pace the
cold wouldn't hurt them.
The ponygirls came from many places. Mariana was a Pole, a
"foreigner's girl" who had come to Moscow with her provider. It hadn't
worked out and she had wound up on the farm. Nadia and Dunyasha
were peasants from a small village north of Volograd; Alexandria used to
be a shipyard worker from Odessa. They had all come to the Urals in
search of a better life, but they gotten more than they bargained for.
The Countess had connections with the local officials and they were
aware of her practices. She permitted them to use her ponygirls from
time to time, and as long as the vodka flowed and backs were slapped, the
ponygirls would stay ponygirls.
They reached the town. A few people were about, shoveling snow or
walking to church. The Countess gave them a wave, which was warmly
returned. No one thought ill of her for her eccentricities. Centuries ago
there had once been annual competitions where the boys and girls of
the town vied with each other for the honor to serve their Lord. It had
been a privilege to march in harness at the head of the gilded carriage.
After a year or so of bondage the Countess had found her ponygirls
eager to serve in the same way...even in her bed.
She steered the sleigh through the icy square to Sascha's townhouse. His
man Boris had heard her coming. Quickly he and his son ran out to
unharness the team and lead them away by the reins to the stable.
Sascha burst out of the house, Russia personified: tall, boisterous, a bear
of a man with shaggy reddish-brown hair and a thick, untrimmed
mustache. The Countess thought him attractive, though he didn't have
her bloodline. "Why Olga! I knew you were coming, but I didn't expect
you to get here so soon."
"You can thank the team for that," the Countess said, giving him a soft
kiss on the cheek.
They stabled the ponygirls, then had a fine lunch of pelmeny in beef
broth with dressed beets and black bread spread with the Countess's
special cheese. After that came coffee and vodka. From personal
experience the Countess knew a Pole could drink a Russian under the
table any day, but try telling that to Sascha!
"You are an attractive woman, Olga," he said after his second drink.
"What happened to Sergei?"
"Ah, he went back to Moscow," the Countess said with a twinge of
sadness. "To open up a coffeehouse, of all things. One with computers
and modems and hookups to the internet, he said."
"So the modern world intrudes on our provincial way of life," Sascha
said, with a mocking grimace that told her he didn't take the
pronouncement very seriously. "You could have a computer too. You
have the money and the black market connections."
"But do we have the telephone lines and reliable service to carry the
signals? I know nothing of computers, Sascha, and I don't want to. I'm
too old-fashioned, I guess."
"And I admire you for it," Sascha said, his warm brown eyes sparkling.
"I agree we don't need those things to enjoy life. Life in the country, the
simple life, should be enough for us, the same way the peasantfolk out
here have lived for centuries. I know you are a woman of particular
tastes. I will never forget the first time I saw you with your team. You
were blazingly alive, like a mistress of the hunt, a fierce wolfmaid, a
goddess."
The Countess blushed. The afternoon light made dappled patterns on the
faded rose wallpaper of the tiny parlor.
"In the West, your practices are diluted and made into fetishes, toys, no
matter how cunningly they are celebrated among the experimental.
Here they have a nobility, a purpose. It is the way things should be. You
a beautiful woman Olga. In you I see the old Russia, the old blood. I could
make you very happy."
What kind of talk of this from Sascha! Usually they 'd just met to have
lunch over a stack of month-old New York Times. They both were
bilingual. She told Sascha of the doings of the village and her farm,
while he told her about his business trips to Moscow and the West, with
particular attention paid to the uglier aspects of the post-communist
world. Olga was glad such things would not mark this village.
She had been lonely since last summer. The ponygirls were becoming a
tiring substitution for the strength and spice of hard male flesh.
Sascha suddenly kissed her, crushing her breasts in his powerful
hands, his demanding mouth a brute animal.
"Yes," she murmured. "We could be very happy, couldn't we?"
She told him to wait while she made some preparations in his bedroom,
then told him to enter. Sascha was a man of tastes both bourgeois and
country, most of them tactile: a bearskin covered the 4-poster bed his
grandfather had carved, and flabby pillows of velveteen and satin,
faded to a decadent luster, spoke eloquently of past pleasures in this
place. Mariana knelt at the foot of the bed with her head down, knees
spread wide so she couldn't stimulate her sex. For this afternoon, she
would be a slave to their whims rather than the troika's.
Sascha winked at her when he saw the obedient ponygirl. "Why, you
naughty woman. I should have known."
The Countess gave a mock pout. "She is there to enhance, not tempt.
Keep that in mind."
They shed their clothes. Not a single glance came from the ponygirl.
The Countess had chosen her because she knew how keyed up Mariana
was; she hadn't been milked in days, and she hadn't been used sexually
in weeks. In fact, the Countess had chosen her just in case dear Sascha
got amorous. He had been hinting at an affair all winter.
They laid down on the thick bearskin that covered the bed. Sascha was
just as hairy, his penis tumescent and at that stage where it was
extended fully, but not yet beginning to rise. His body was hard and
well-muscled from the physical chores he did to keep himself fit. The
Countess tapped Mariana with her crop.
On all fours, the ponygirl quickly moved over to take his penis in her
mouth and began to suck on it vigorously. Sascha's surprise soon grew
to pleasure. The Countess buried her face in his nicely furred chest,
moving her tongue in little circles like a cat's. When Sascha was
pointing magnificently--his cock reminding her of the rocket used to
launch Mir cosmonauts--she tapped Mariana to indulge her with a
similar act.
The blonde lithely crouched between her spread legs and lapped at her
pussy, sucking on her engorged clit. The Countess was already wet from
watching Sascha's pleasure. Ohhh, that was it. The ponygirl lapped
neither fast nor slow but in a steady rhythm like a machine, which was
how the Countess had trained her. She didn't want her ponygirls to
grow too excited as they gave their oral pleasure; they might forget
whom they were supposed to please. She tapped Mariana's sleek bowed
back, telling her to show some more energy.
Mariana wriggled, her mouth making soft slurping sounds. The
Countess's breathing roughened and her hips jerked from to side.
Mariana moaned in her throat, hopelessly stimulated by her mistress's
pleasure and her own swollen nipples rubbing against the fur. Her
buttocks wagged up and down, revealing the top of the Lubamov crest
with which she had been branded.
"Take me, Sascha," the Countess whispered between Mariana's slippery,
forceful strokes. "Take me now, I can't stand it anymore!"
Sascha thrust aside the ponygirl and quickly climbed on top of her. He
entered her in a long, hard thrust, then began moving his hips.
Mariana quickly retreated to the corner of the bed. She kept her eyes
demurely down, though her thighs trembled vainly with the strain of
controlling her arousal.
But what Mariana did was of no further consequence. Sascha growled
like a bear when he made love, his fingers digging into her buttocks,
thrusting her upward again and again until her breath came in knotted
gasps. In flashes she saw her troika's firm white buttocks as they trotted
in the snow, their black-sheathed legs flashing below them; she felt the
glittering sting of snow on her face, smelled again the warm pony
aroma of musk and sweetness that dripped between their legs.
She came in a series of shocks, and Sascha soon after. They spread their
legs again and Mariana quickly cleaned them, mingling their juices on
her tongue.
"For how much will you sell this one?" Sascha joked. He kept five ponies,
but they were all male. Three were out that day hauling his aged father
to another village.
"She is not for sale," the Countess said lazily. "Though perhaps I might
make you a gift of her one day. Come here, dear. Let us drink. Sascha
wants to sample the jug that cheese came from."
Among the ponygirls it was an honor and source of fierce competition
to service the mistress, but Mariana had never let it go to her head.
Shyly, she placed a hand under each breast, holding them out like a pair
of taut wineskins. The Countess noticed the minute trembling that
betrayed how excited she was. She could even see the blonde's clit
peering out from beneath her silky thatch of yellow pubic hair.
Her nipples were now wide and distended, yet very alluring. The
Countess wrapped her mouth around the left nipple and sucked. Fresh
milk squirted over her tongue. It was delicious. She gave the nipple
gentle bites as the milk kept flowing, wagging it back and forth with
her tongue. Mariana sighed in relief. The ponygirl's eyes were closed,
her mouth partly open; but it was more an expression of frustrated
ecstasy rather than bliss.
They finished drinking. After a quick warm bath for Sascha and
herself--Mariana attended them with her hands this time--they decided
it was time to let her have her reward.
Mariana grew excited, having sensed what was coming. They took her
back to the stable, where on order Sascha's grooms rolled out the
studding block. This was a low leather-covered apparatus that looked
like a vaulting horse, save there were no rungs. There was, however, a
leather covered dildo that protruded from the surface, and Mariana was
positioned on her belly so her well-moistened pussy eased over the
glistening shaft. Immediately her hips began to pump up and down on
the dildo, excited by the sex she had just seen and the long weeks of
deprivation. Her flesh smacked the leather and she began to ululate
"Ohhh...ah-ah..." in one of the few times the ponygirls were permitted to
use their voices.
Before she got too excited Boris strapped her hands to the side of the
block by her head, then doubled her legs behind her and bound her
ankles so she now straddled the block like a lover. In a another minute
she would come, but Sascha had other plans. He flipped a switch in the
base of the block and the hidden vibrator came to life, ensuring
Mariana would have dozens of orgasms, each more intense than the last.
She would be very tractable for weeks after this.
Her breasts struck the leather with meaty slaps, and her cries became
louder and coarser. Nadia and Dunyasha stared over the door to their
stall, hopelessly aroused by the sight. Sascha had only one extra stall so
the Countess had been forced to stable them together, but she had left
their collars and arm bindings on so they were tethered in opposite
corners. Sascha's two remaining male ponies were staring even harder.
The Countess couldn't see their cocks, but she knew they must be rock-
hard. Mariana was putting on quite a show.
They left the ponygirl to her workout and went back to the house,
where a fire had been stoked in the parlor. It was late afternoon and
they would pass this quiet time by reading magazines from the West,
talking, and drinking cognac.
Suddenly one of the grooms came running from the stable. "Master, the
ponies..."
They quickly ran to the stable. The two remaining male ponies,
stimulated against all reason by Mariana's pleasure, had managed to get
loose from their stalls. One had climbed on top of Mariana and was
fucking her in the ass as she bounced and howled on the dildo, her face
a grimace of mingled pain, shame, and pleasure. The other had gotten
into the sisters' stall. Dunyasha was on her back, unable to get away
because of her harness, her feet pointed above her as the male pony
fucked her in brutal, rapid strokes. Nadia, still tethered in the corner,
was moaning and rubbing herself raw on the edge of the bench.
The Countess was appalled. How could this happen? Sascha grabbed his
bullwhip, cracking it at those minding pumping, hairy buttocks. The
Countess winced. She couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the male
ponies. Sascha didn't like men, so his pony's pent-up desires, quickened
by Mariana and the sisters' presence, must have reached critical mass.
Shame on Sascha for depriving them like that!
The disobedient ponies were herded back into their stalls with many
more cracks and threats. They would be punished later. "I'm so sorry,
Olga," Sascha said. "I should have better secured their pens."
"Don't worry," she reassured him. But she knew an incident like this
severely disturbed their training because it was beyond her control.
She would need to incorporate it later into the larger pattern of
submission and punishment that kept her ponygirls obedient.
She had to leave anyway, so after effusive goodbyes from Sascha, and a
promise to receive him at her farm later in the week, the team was
reharnessed to the sleigh and she set out.
The sun was now a tropical glow behind the dark humps of the
mountains. It was much colder. The Countess worked the ponygirls
harder than she had on the trip in; they needed it to keep warm. They
increased the pace, but not without tears and other complaints. Sascha
had kept his stable too warm and that, along with the accidental sex
they'd had, had spoiled them. The Countess was forced to stop and insert
some gags in their prettily protesting mouths, along with three pairs of
ice-cold nipple clamps. The dangling weights would be a good deterrent
against further disobedience. She whipped them into motion again, and
muffled sobs and gasps kept her company all the way back to the dacha.
The dusk faded into violet, then a lightly starred blue. Her dacha came
into sight, its windows glowing warmly. She began to feel repentant. It
wasn't the girls' fault the male ponies had gotten free and raped them.
That night, she decided, she would summon the Dunyasha and Nadia to
her room. Her memories of Sascha would give the sex an extra spice.
Later, she would permit them some pleasure between themselves. It was
only fair.
It had been a good day, and it would be a good night. She snapped the
whip as they pulled in the gate. Thank god the Communist regime was
dead!
END
