This story is copyrighted 2002 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This work may be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is charged for its use. Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author credit or this notice violates my copyright.
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
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